Title: From the Other River Bank
Author: Dwimordene /dwimmer_laik@yahoo.com
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir
Rating: R

Summary: Gondor on the brink of war is a political
crucible. Those who would dwell in it must learn never
to blink, even when old loyalties are in doubt and
faith in the most basic relationships is shaken.

Disclaimer: All of the significant characters belong
to Tolkien, as does every brick of Minas Tirith.

Warning: Emotional abuse by a third party, incestuous
pairing (see below), angsty drama

Authors Note: There's a long note in the front and
back of this story. I suggest that if you're fearful,
you read those first and then decide whether you want
to read the rest. I will say this isn't about sex, and
hopefully you'll understand why I say that if you do
read the story. The title is from German "Er ist vom
anderen Ufer" meaning "he is from the *other* river
bank," i.e., he's gay.


1. Love Thy Brother 
 
"Er ist vom Anderen Ufer"--He is gay. 
 
*****

Boromir, heir to the stewardship of Gondor, stood pressed into an alcove 
along the hall that led up to his father's study and war room, and he 
brooded on rumor and suspicion of trouble. Not long ago he had stood 
upon the bridge of Osgiliath and watched the Shadow sweep over his men, 
driving them all like sheep before a pack of wolves. And for all their speed 
in that rout, the collapse of the bridge still killed many. Four of us left 
alive from the thirty or fifty upon that span of stone, and we four forever 
haunted by that ugly vision. Curse Mordor and all its works unto the last 
days of Middle-earth! He felt his lips peel back in a silent snarl as the 
horror of that memory washed over him once again, and the guilt that 
accompanied it was poisonous. Shall I ever forgive myself truly, that it was 
my order that felled that bridge, even knowing we would not–could not–
cross it in time to save ourselves? It had been but three days since the 
attack, and the accusing, suffering faces of drowned soldiers tormented his 
dreams. And they will for long, that I know. I suppose I must learn to 
welcome them, and I am not a stranger to shame! 

Drawing a deep breath, he made himself relax, muscle by taut muscle, and 
he pulled his cloak more closely about himself as he glanced up the 
hallway. In point of fact, he had not come hither to this place to relive the 
misfortune of the Osgiliath garrison; rather, what brought him was trouble 
of a different kind, one that touched closer to home. Intuition long ago 
developed had told him that Faramir would not let the matter of the new 
law lie, and so he had come to wait for his brother to emerge from yet 
another fruitless argument with their father. 

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

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

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


There had been some further elaboration of instances in which the law 
could be temporarily suspended (namely, a single provision stating that 
under guard or with a captain's consent, a stranger might go to Minas 
Tirith to present himself to the Steward and beg to receive freedom to 
walk within Gondor's borders unmolested), but clearly it had been written 
'with an eye to finality,' as Faramir had so eloquently put it earlier that 
day. Whether his younger brother would retain that eloquence in the face 
of Denethor's doubtless steadfast opposition remained to be seen, but 
Boromir did not have high hopes for either father or brother. He had seen 
this sort of argument before, and likened the effect to a knight riding at 
full tilt into a brick wall. The wall would, in all likelihood, still stand, but 
the same could not be said for the rider, and he had resigned himself to the 
fact that Faramir seemed bent upon self-destruction in that respect. 

Not that I disagree with him in principle, Boromir thought darkly, and I 
can well understand why the matter touches him most closely. For 
Faramir's command in Ithilien dealt most often with incursions, but though 
Ithilien lay under the shadows, still it was home to many innocent 
creatures. As Faramir was not one to squander lives if there was the least 
doubt as to their allegiance, he resented the burden that the new law placed 
upon his company in terms of both the labor involved and in terms of 
moral responsibility. 

And so he waited now, wondering whether Faramir still held forth or 
whether the meeting had yet degenerated into a paternal tongue-lashing. 
As his own mood was none too sunny at the moment, Boromir was not 
certain if he wished his brother to continue to stand firm or cave quickly 
and thereby end his own vigil sooner. But he grimaced slightly at the 
selfish flavor of the latter wish, knowing that Faramir would feel the 
worse if he felt that he had not fought hard enough before surrendering. I 
should be ashamed in any case, he thought, gritting his teeth. This is a 
disgrace to us all, that those two are at each other's throats, and I know 
well that it is not Faramir's fault! 

But even that did not approach the true reason for his sense of shame. 
When he had first realized that he loved his brother—loved him as a man 
and not simply fraternally—he had made certain that he wandered the 
halls outside the Steward's study, as if he were going about some minor bit 
of business that happened to put him in Faramir's path at just the right—or 
wrong, depending upon how one chose to look at it—moment. It had been 
vital then that he be able to pretend that he did not come for the sole 
purpose of offering a supportive shoulder for Faramir. But with time, he 
had realized that such efforts were futile and demeaning to his own sense 
of honor, which shrank from such contrived "coincidences." 

And yet for years, for more than half of my life now, I have lived on 
contrivance. A fine sense of honor indeed! Faramir would laugh me to 
scorn if he knew but the half of it… assuming he did not flee in disgust. 
Boromir sighed inwardly, rubbing a hand tiredly over his eyes, for the day 
had been long already. Yet if fatigue could not keep him from this silent 
surveillance, neither could it erase his perennial doubts. Should I leave? 
Faramir does not truly need me as he did when we were both still 
children. He has the strength and the wisdom to stand alone now, and I 
ought not to undermine that by my too quick support. But again, as it had 
been for many years now, it was not so much a question of Faramir's need 
as it was of his own. He needed to see his brother, to see him through his 
trials at least even if he could not be present for many of his triumphs. 

I need to feel needed… or rather, wanted in some way, Boromir admitted 
guiltily. When they had both been much younger, it had been easy to 
satisfy that basic longing, for Faramir had truly needed his support until he 
learned the measure of his own worth. Since that time, Boromir had 
watched over him most often from a distance, through letters and chance 
encounters, and the rumors upon which all men depended who spent long 
months afield in an armed camp. The disastrous defense of Osgiliath had 
marked one of the few times that he and Faramir had jointly commanded a 
battle, and despite the disturbing events of that summer's eve, he had 
relished having his younger brother about. And Faramir, too, had been 
glad to see him, which gave him much cause for relief. 

For ever he worried that despite his precautions, despite how very 
carefully he tread where his brother was concerned, Faramir would by 
some means divine his secret. Like as not, he would simply read it in my 
eyes. He and Father are alike in that uncanny ability to read what is in 
another's heart. But thus far, neither had uncovered his hidden core, and 
that was largely because in all other matters, Boromir was the soul of 
forthright and even blunt honesty, giving father and brother no reason to 
ever seek further of him than what he chose to reveal.

For if Faramir ever discovered how very dependent Boromir was upon 
their rare meetings, and even more so upon arguments like the one taking 
place now, he would be justly appalled. Boromir was not proud of that, for 
he knew that their father could wound Faramir more deeply than any 
enemy and for that he hated him. But buried within that anger towards his 
father was a seed of gratitude as well, for in those rare moments of utter 
vulnerability when Faramir was most in need, Boromir's love found its 
most complete expression. Beyond that, he was forced to keep a certain 
distance, and brotherly affection, however deep, fell short of what his 
heart felt. 

And so I must thank Denethor in the end for wounding the one I love most! 
Because Faramir turns ever to me afterwards, and that I would not lose. 
Valar help me, what perversity is that? How can I love him and wish him 
to be hurt at the same time? And he is my brother and a man besides! 
Boromir chewed on his lip as he mulled over the familiar, anguished 
complaints once again. In the end, he simply closed his eyes in pain for his 
own weakness, for even self-loathing could not overpower need.

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

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

"Your pardon, brother, that was thoughtless!"

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

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

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

Boromir let his brother into his room, closing the door firmly behind them 
once he had dismissed the page waiting within. As was his wont, Faramir 
went immediately to the window that looked out onto the tiered gardens 
that marched down each level of the city on the eastern side. "Ironic, is it 
not, that beauty arranged with such care should look straight into the 
mouth of evil?" Faramir had once said, and shaken his head as he glanced 
at his brother. "All the defiance of Gondor can be found in a single shoot 
of grass that grows in the soil below, and who knows but that the splendor 
of those gardens owes much to the very darkness which it opposes!" 

To which reflections, Boromir had simply nodded, thinking that his 
brother had a very peculiar manner of looking at things. A veritable 
treasure trove of riddles, word plays and ragged bits of lore from the Valar 
only knew what language or age of the world, was Faramir—obsessed 
with words even as a child, always with a pointed turn of phrase, and 
never able to hold himself to a single layer of meaning when a 
conversation wandered into the theoretical. Which only makes his 
blindness to my own double-barbed words and actions the more painfully 
ironic! That aside, Boromir freely confessed himself dazzled by his 
brother's intellect, but that same brilliance could easily become a liability. 
Faramir was prone to overthink things, or so it seemed to him, and he 
worried that one day that ability to explore deeply conflicting lines of 
reason would paralyze him when swift judgment was most needed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I shall not, have no fear!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you for listening, even if you should not," Faramir said anyway, 
giving his brother's shoulders a final squeeze. And then he went quietly 
out, leaving Boromir to stare after him. Once the door had shut, and his 
footsteps had receded into the distance, Boromir sighed softly and sank 
down onto a chair, wondering how it was that someone so ignorant could 
come so very close to the truth without ever realizing it. I ought not to 
listen indeed! I ought to keep as much distance as possible between us, 
except that such a break would be too obvious and would only draw him 
after me seeking a reason for it. And then I doubt not that he would 
discover all that I keep hidden. The irony of it! I may touch him as much 
as I please as his brother, but he does not know what feeling lies beneath 
fraternal gestures! Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and 
cradle his head in his hands, he grimaced, as the contemptuous voice of 
self-loathing mocked him and his dishonest passion. 

More than dishonest, unnatural! No one born to the rarified heights of 
Gondor's social elite could possibly be ignorant of the fact that there 
existed—and had always existed—a small number of men who, though 
respectably married, preferred each other to their wives or to women in 
general. But Boromir, though he had always known of the phenomenon of 
homosexuality, was not one of the few who believed that love was its own 
justification. That he loved not only another man, but his own brother, by 
turns frightened and appalled him. But his fears could not change what he 
felt, and as he had tried without success to ignore his feelings, he had 
learned to disguise them. Deception might come hard to Boromir, but in 
matters of the heart, he was of necessity an adept liar. 

In fact, his careful disguise was the more secure for the fact that he 
despised that small group who would not deny their sexuality. They were 
rare, for those who had power enough to protect themselves were usually 
quite discreet and cautious. But occasionally, there would emerge one or 
two men who, being born to privilege and heedless of the opprobrium of 
others, did as they pleased without fear of the legal consequences. But 
Boromir found such abuse of power disgusting, and even had he not, he 
loved Faramir too well to risk besmirching his honor along with his own. 

There is a price to pay for every desire, he mused. That I know well, for 
Denethor dinned it into my unwilling ears for years. And the price of being 
allowed to live—and love— in peace is silence. There was, therefore, a 
certain perverse comfort to be derived even from his utter frustration: for, 
as traditional wisdom told it, every sin deserves its shame, and Boromir 
was not insensitive to such logic. It did not help him now, with the 
memory of Faramir's voice and body so very close, but later it would. 
Faramir wishes he could halt his dreams. If he only knew what trouble 
mine cause me! Boromir thought ruefully, shaking his head again. Of 
course, should Faramir ever learn of the very vivid role he played in 
Boromir's dreams, he would feel both disgusted and betrayed. But Faramir 
never would, and so long as he paid for them in the morning, Boromir was 
willing to enjoy them at night. 

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



2. Honor Thy Father 
 


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And the riders? You saw them?"

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

"But they were Men?" Denethor prompted. 

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

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

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

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

"What are they now?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


***


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

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

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

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

"Good day," the other replied somewhat absently. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Not so," Faramir said, sounding amused. 

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


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

A birth of light that while it lasts

Doth in peace all worry cast:

A pain that heals, a whisper loud, yet when its sparkèd

Glory is past then doth man learn its nature true

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

Is within the darkness bound.

For in that dark doth love endure: the lover gone

It blooms anew."


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

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

"Silvaríel of Arnor," his brother replied. 

"A woman?" 

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

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

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

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

"In truth, it matters not. But whenever I think of Father, I recall this 
poem." Faramir shook his head, sitting up straighter as his gaze slipped 
right to where stood the Citadel. "It gives me hope that perhaps one 
day…."

"Perhaps one day pain truly will heal?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

And neither have I wings to fly

Give me a boat that will carry two

And both shall row… my love and I!"*





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

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


3. Speaking in Obscurity 
 

 

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

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

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

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

"Mmm? Why do you ask?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Is that why you read Silvaríel?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Faramir--"

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

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

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

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

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

"What of me?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



4. Ambiguity 
 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what question is that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


5. Ties That Bind 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, my lord?" Faramir asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And still, the discussion went on….

***

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I cannot!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


6. Regret 
 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seek for the Sword that was Broken/In Imladris it dwells! 

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

***

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

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

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

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


7. Torn 
 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Father?"

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

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

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

"I would, sir," Boromir replied steadily. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I had no choice…."

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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


***

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

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

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

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

I love you! 

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

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

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

I only hope that it comes not too late… for either of us!



8. A Father's Shadow 
 

 

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

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

To Denethor, twenty-sixth in the line of the Stewards of Gondor, Lord of 
Minas Tirith. Regarding the matter of the Shadow Riders, so says Théoden 
son of Thengel, King of Rohan:

Report of the fell riders has come north through the Eastfold. We are 
aware of the danger and shall take what measures we may to secure 
Rohan against what threat nine riders may make. Such as they are, they 
remain a less urgent trouble than the bands of orcs that cross through 
Anórien, though we shall send word should they return through our land.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what is Imladris?" Húrin asked. 

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No… I … I meant it not thus…."

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

"Thank you," Boromir breathed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


 

******

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



9. Come Undone 
 

***********

And so I come now to the edge, to the nighttime of my soul:

Stretched upon the door of death, I would deny its dreams,

And turn my face up to the light that streams from depths unseen;

Ah, wakefulness is endless now within this sleeping lull,

Where blind eyes see the clearer and fear doth lose its thrill.

Let me touch now mortal sickness that my love shall learn its toll.

And on the edge of deep desire, shall I fall now? Yes, I will!

--Silvaríel of Arnor

***********

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And has it helped, her poetry?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir."

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

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

"You advised him in this?"

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

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

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

"Did he stay long?"

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

"Do you love him?"

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

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

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

"And he knows this?"

"Yes…."

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

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

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

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

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

"I have done nothing!"

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

"This is our affair–"

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

"Not everything," Boromir protested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10. Foundering 
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"See who?"

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

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

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

"And what is your father?"

"A guard, sir!" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And when does Beregond's relief arrive?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I would never bother anyone…."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


11. My Brother's Keeper 
 

 

Boromir set the book down on the table–slammed it down, really, and was 
angry with his own lack of control. After Denethor had left him to his 
misery last night, he had needed hours to crawl and grope his way back to 
something approaching composure. His dreams had been predictably 
horrific, though he remembered little of them, save waking to a feeling of 
stark terror and a racing pulse. The morning had seen him excluded from 
council—Verethon had told him the steward wanted him to see to his own 
preparations for the journey, and while Boromir had been relieved that he 
would not have to face the tension of the council, the dismissal had hurt. 
After that inauspicious start, the day had deteriorated from there. 
Everything—from the obvious worry that hung wraith-like over the city to 
the most minor and niggling details of mundanity—grated upon his 
already strained nerves 'til the very fabric of existence seemed a vast and 
intricate machine with but one purpose: to torture him. To run hither and 
thither, overseeing on the one hand the preparations his father had set in 
motion, and on the other the responsibilities that he would have to leave to 
others, had frustrated him beyond belief, and the ream of correspondence 
that he had then had to write in order to be certain that all went as required 
as concerned Osgiliath had stretched his patience dangerously thin. And 
for all that he knew it was absurd, he could not help but feel that every 
person he encountered somehow knew his secret, and he had had to fight 
the urge to flinch each time he met another's eyes. He wanted to scream at 
the ghost-self he had become, wanted to vomit, to purge this world from 
his being, but he could not be rid of himself. Considering the violence of 
those feelings, that he had managed to get through the day at all without 
exploding was a triumph of self-discipline, but Boromir felt no satisfaction 
at the victory. What does it matter, when discipline cannot dictate what I 
feel in my very blood whenever I see Faramir? 

For all his agonized self-loathing, Boromir, like most men in his 
circumstances, had managed to achieve a truce with himself long ago, else 
he would have been driven mad. And though the most recent crisis with 
Faramir had come dangerously close to sending him plummeting back 
down into the abyss of doubt and panic that had claimed him when first he 
realized the ways of his heart, he had slowly begun to come to terms with 
the changed situation. Faramir's anxieties and newfound wariness of him, 
his painful and abortive overtures—all of these things might hurt, but 
Boromir had been learning to accept them, and to begin to hope for a new 
(and more honest) peace between himself and his brother. But Denethor 
had shattered that fragile self-reconciliation, leaving him adrift in agonized 
doubt. His father's ruthless denunciation, even if carried out in private, had 
rubbed his face in the shamefulness of his desire, exposing him at last to 
the direct and unrelenting scorn that homosexuality woke in most others. 
For the first time, he had been forced to look his lust in the face and truly 
see it, rather than allowing it to pass as felt but unexamined and 
suppressed in his daily life. And he had been disgusted… but even disgust 
could not break him from the grip of his own passions. In the end, 
Denethor's impassioned tirade had done naught to ease either his love or 
his lust for his brother; rather, it seemed almost to have inflamed it. Why 
that should be, I know not! Perversity, perhaps, and have I ever fully 
appreciated the difference between "pervert" and "perverse" before? 
People look to me for strength, for leadership in time of war, but none 
know the rot that lies beneath, save two! I have no choice but to continue 
the path that I have always walked, and pretend that I have still pride 
enough to carry a city, but I know better! I know better, and still I hate 
myself for such doubt!

With the weight of such humiliation, of such profound self-alienation, 
riding on his shoulders, it was therefore little surprise that his temper was 
orc-foul, and evidently so in spite of his efforts to disguise it. Those whom 
he had encountered as he went about the necessary tasks to prepare for a 
long journey had sensed his mood and walked on eggshells around him, 
which did nothing to help him. Not that he would have accepted any offers 
of help, for it simply was not in his nature to speak his pain to others. But 
pain has never cut like this before! He had suffered injury to within an 
inch of his life against the Haradrim, seen comrades and friends die 
screaming on the battlefield, and had had to hold a child amid the bloody 
wreckage of her village. I lied to her, he remembered. I told her she was 
safe, that she would one day see her parents again. And Valar help me, I 
laid her down in death when she bled out in my arms. That had been one 
of the worst days he had ever endured, and he had never thought to see it 
surpassed unless (or until) Minas Tirith and Gondor fell to Mordor. But 
that was before I saw the look in Faramir's eyes when he learned the truth 
of what I felt for him under the guise of brotherly love. And before I 
learned the truth of Father's dislike of Faramir—before I learned how 
very much my father's son I am! Boromir bowed his head and probed at 
the sore spot in his mouth where he had bitten through his lip the night 
before. Salty warmth spilled over his tongue and he grimaced again as he 
made himself return to the task of packing. 

In truth, save for one or two things, he had nearly everything he would 
need, and was in fact simply shifting items about: from table to desk to 
shelf, from shelf to chest to bed, and from bed to backpack or saddlebags, 
and the process repeated itself with some variations and in reverse just to 
keep his mind occupied. He could not justify taking Silvaríel with him, but 
he was not quite certain what to do with the book. His esquire would 
return it to he library, but for some reason, Boromir could not seem to 
decide where to leave it so that the lad would see it and realize what to do 
with it. This is ridiculous! he told himself, even as he turned back to 
rummaging pointlessly in one of the saddlebags. 

"You leave tomorrow, I hear," a voice from behind him startled him badly, 
and Boromir rounded on the intruder fiercely even though he immediately 
identified him. Faramir, however, gazed back without flinching from the 
doorway, where he leaned against hands braced to either side of the 
doorframe. "I hope you did not think to present me with another fait 
accompli, Boromir." He must have come in only recently, for I was just in 
the antechamber. Curse it all, I did not hear the doors!

"You might have knocked," Boromir replied rather huffily, reluctant to 
begin a conversation that could have but one object. More, in light of his 
newly reborn shame, he feared the possibility of reconciliation. Better for 
us both if Faramir is kept at a distance. I should never have encouraged 
him to try to settle matters between us; I should have let him drift away! 
Never mind that it would have broken his heart to do so, for there were 
worse things than even a soul in torment, after all. Surely there are…!

"I might have," Faramir admitted easily, and quirked a skeptical brow at 
him. "Had I thought you would answer, I might well have knocked."

"Well, we shall never learn now what I might have done, shall we?" 
Boromir shot back, deliberately echoing his brother's condemnation earlier 
that week. 

"As to that, perhaps it is better thus. Certainly your…discretion… helped 
me in the end," Faramir replied, adroitly turning that bitter jibe against 
itself, transforming it into something positive. And although Boromir 
silently cursed his brother's quick mind and glib tongue, he could not help 
but feel a certain relief to learn that Faramir had apparently made peace 
with Boromir's rather underhanded dealings. "Have you any plan at all to 
find Imladris?"

"What matter is it to you? Denethor gave me the task and the time table," 
Boromir grunted, turning back to his imaginary packing in order to spare 
himself the sight of his brother. Standing there against the light that spilled 
in from the other room, his brother's slender, wiry form was all too clearly 
silhouetted, and Boromir felt his jaw muscles ache from constantly gritting 
his teeth. For if he had always been ashamed of his too-interested love of 
Faramir, never before had he blamed his brother for the temptation he 
presented. Although if I am honest, I suppose I still do not blame him. But 
if he did not exist, would I even know what I am? Would I know the depths 
of my own twisted nature? And unbidden, Denethor's voice replied in his 
mind: Blood always tells! So perhaps it would not have mattered, and he 
would have fixed upon another, but his heart scoffed at the very notion 
even as it bled for wanting. 

"So I perceive, and a few discreet inquiries revealed the hour of your 
departure, even," Faramir replied, pausing ere he added significantly, "I 
could wish that others would trust me more, for I had a difficult time 
convincing anyone to speak with me on the matter." A pause, then, 
"Family most of all." Another pause, but as Boromir did not leap to fill the 
conversational void, Faramir, after a few moments, continued, "What did 
Denethor do to you, Boromir?" And this time, Boromir stiffened, pausing 
for just that split second too long. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and 
struggled for composure as he finished tying his bags shut by feel alone. 
Then, slowly, he straightened and considered what answer he might make. 
It was not an easy task, for Faramir's presence proved a disturbing 
distraction. He could feel his brother's intensity, feel the gravity of his 
concern and anger all along his body. It was like heat, like sunlight, and 
when Faramir shifted positions, he felt it, as if they were somehow 
connected across the space between them. "You cannot keep this within 
you, Boromir. Or have you forgotten your own words? Some secrets can 
kill, and I do not doubt that this is one of them."

"Why then, should I expose you to it?" Boromir demanded, turning once 
more as he changed tactics somewhat, striving (and failing, he suspected) 
for a reasonable tone. If anger and resentment do not drive him forth, let 
us try logic… such as it is!

"Because," Faramir replied, letting his arms drop to his sides as he moved 
out of the doorway, approaching slowly. And now it was his turn to turn 
Boromir's words back against their author, "I am your brother, and 
whatever has happened between us, I cannot see you suffer like this!"

"Sometimes pain is deserved," Boromir growled automatically, and 
instantly regretted the rejoinder, for his brother's eyes narrowed as he ran 
through the implications of that statement. 

"Sometimes it is," the other agreed. "But not always, and there comes a 
point when even good intentions cannot justify inflicting it on another. 
One does not punish orcs, after all, for they are irredeemable; neither 
should a father break his child's bones for a broken tea cup. Whereby does 
such harshness profit either child or family?"

"You draw a false comparison," Boromir grated. 

"And you speak now but to counter me. You believe your own words not 
at all, and were I to tell you that it was summer, you would say it was 
winter," Faramir responded. 

"Those were games we played as children, Faramir!" Boromir retorted, 
trying desperately to displace the focus of this conversation even a little. 
Alas, Faramir was not one to be led astray by a false trail.

"And as a child, you used to trust me better. I know that I have given you 
little reason to think that I trust you still, but believe that I do. In this 
moment, I do, and I would have that faith returned!" His brother spoke in 
a low, urgent voice, his advance bringing him well within arm's reach, and 
Boromir felt his defenses beginning to succumb to sheer proximity if 
naught else. "Will you not speak to me about this? What said our father to 
you that has changed you so?"

"Faramir!" the older man half-groaned, exasperated on the one hand, but 
also suddenly fearful. Fearful of what, precisely, he was not certain—of 
being too close to the other, of hoping too much, of disappointment, of 
having been seen as vulnerable. Perhaps he feared himself, and certainly 
he feared to reveal what Denethor had said and done last night. For 
whatever else he is, Denethor is still our father and lord. Faramir must 
never come to lose his respect for the steward of the city, even if he fears 
and despises him as a father! Boromir glared at the other, hoping that that 
clear sign of displeasure would convince his brother to leave off 
questioning. Faramir stood his ground, though, with worried grey eyes 
fixed upon Boromir's face. His brother laid a hand upon his shoulder, 
gripping firmly in a gesture of comfort as well as encouragement, and 
Boromir sucked in a surprised breath. 

"Will you not speak?"

"No," Boromir replied with as much force as he could muster. 

"You will never be rid of me," Faramir said with quiet certainty. "I told 
you that once, but I would have you believe it this time."

"Valar help me…! Faramir, this does not concern you!" Boromir said 
desperately.

"Insofar as my brother is the heir to the stewardship, and my father is the 
steward of the realm, what troubles you is my concern, as a captain of 
Gondor if nothing else!" Before which statement Boromir flinched 
somewhat, unsettled by how closely Faramir's reasoning echoed 
Denethor's—but to such different purpose! Faramir now grabbed him by 
the shoulders and gave him a slight shake as if to try to jar him out of his 
silence. "I know Father's ways better than any other in matters of his 
displeasure. Can you deny that he cut deeply, or that he abuses the power 
that he has over you?"

"I think you do not understand," Boromir hissed, closing his eyes once 
more, struggling against himself. The frightened, crippled part of him that 
bore the imprint of Denethor's handling violently resisted speech. But the 
part that could not for all the world lose Faramir's affection entirely—
especially when he knew what Faramir must be enduring to stand before 
him thus—cried out for release, craving what comfort a confession might 
bring. "I have not the words for this, even if I wished…."

"Try, Boromir," the other insisted. Curse it all! And honestly, he did try, 
for as he had realized long ago, it was not in him to refuse his brother 
anything, save only what he deemed harmful to him. As this is! But such 
was the tone of the other's voice and his own need that for a moment, he 
nearly overcame the almost atavistic terror that washed through him.

Almost. "I cannot!" he finally managed. "I may not!"

Faramir's mouth tightened, and he took a step backward, releasing his 
brother then; and Boromir winced in spite of himself, feeling abandoned, 
though he supposed he ought to rejoice if that refusal had alienated his 
brother so. Mayhap he shall now leave… ! But his brother remained, 
watching him, and after awhile, Faramir sighed softly as he dropped his 
eyes. Glancing about, as if in search of inspiration, Faramir crossed the 
short distance to the window by the bed and gazed out at the night. 
Boromir folded his arms across his chest, as if to hold a confession in, and 
he listened as Faramir's voice drifted gently but seriously from the window 
embrasure. "Well, if you will say naught, let me be your tongue for a time, 
as you suggested earlier today. I have given much thought to this matter 
since last we spoke, so tell me when I begin to stray." Faramir drew a deep 
breath, seeming to gird himself for the effort, and Boromir listened in 
silence as his brother's words fell hard upon his ears. "Denethor knows the 
truth of your… that you are from the other river bank, as they say," the 
other hedged euphemistically, but Boromir still flinched to hear it come 
frankly from his brother's lips. "I know not for how long, but let us say 
that he suspected you long before I did. Speak if I stray!" Faramir 
interrupted himself to glance sharply at Boromir.

"Go on," Boromir said quietly, in a subdued manner, unwilling to tell his 
brother that Denethor had suspected Faramir for far longer than he had 
ever doubted Boromir. Besides, he is right in the main: whether for long 
or for short, Father knew the truth without ever having to ask. I suppose 
like recognizes like when forced to it.

"What he might have said to you, I can only guess, but I know well what it 
is to be flayed by his words. It used to destroy me each time I had to face 
him, and it costs me much still to resist collapse, even after many years of 
practice. Sometimes I have not the strength, even as I lacked it this 
morning in council, and afterwards when I could not approach Denethor." 
Faramir's voice grew harder at that, and Boromir could hear the self-
contempt in it ere his brother took another breath to calm himself. When 
he had regained a measure of control, he continued, "You who have had 
his love could not stand before him, and I doubt not that he sought to 
break you." Faramir glanced at him over his shoulder, and there was much 
sympathy in his face as he said softly, "That much I read from your 
manner, and yet I cannot say whether he succeeded. This afternoon, you 
struck me as much changed. How badly are you hurt?" And with that 
question, the pressure of those eyes, at once similar and utterly dissimilar 
to his father's, mounted, and grew almost unbearable. Boromir felt his 
breathing catch slightly, as if the other probed an injury, feeling for the 
point that would cause him to cry out in pain. "Did he break you, 
Boromir?" 

"I…." Denethor's elder son felt his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth 
as he struggled with himself to remain silent. But Faramir would not let 
him go, and as his brother turned from the window and slowly advanced 
once more, a number of conflicting emotions rose up in response, boiling 
about the wounded part of his soul. On the one hand, he desperately 
wanted to keep his secrets, and there was no small anger directed at 
Faramir for pushing him so hard; on the other, he knew that his brother 
was right, that he could not hold this within himself. Not all of it at least! 
Between the two extremes, Boromir felt torn, and could not seem to 
decide whether there was enough of himself left to even answer Faramir's 
question. 

"Did he, brother?" 

"Faramir, do not torture me thus, curse you!" Boromir snarled, alarmed by 
the pleading in his tone, for it cost him much to beg and even more to 
curse his brother.

"Then answer me, and thereby end this inquisition," Faramir replied, 
refusing to allow him to escape. And when he still said naught, his brother 
frowned, and a sort of dread seemed to creep into his lancing regard. 
"Boromir…?"

"He said I must redeem myself!" The words came out flatly, harshly, and 
all in a rush, as if some limit had been reached and breached with but the 
speaking of his name. Boromir closed his eyes against the chaotic surge of 
emotion, and felt himself swept away by the current of his own anguish. 
"For all that I know, he has known for years, and waited for me to weaken 
enough…." He broke off, unable to finish. Shaking his head violently as if 
to rid himself of the memory, he demanded bitterly, "What more is there 
to say? You have wondered why he despised you so? To dissuade me 
from loving you, I think, for he saw too clearly where my heart lay! That 
is why he chose me to find Imladris, and not you. It is not for any logic 
that you or I might present him, but to part us. To give me a chance at 
redemption… a chance to forget you!" 

"And did he persuade you in that?" Faramir asked urgently, once more 
gripping his brother's shoulders, unable to refrain from the gesture for he 
sensed the other's need of support. 

Boromir swallowed hard as everything seemed to come to a head. He 
stared wordlessly at Faramir for a long moment, at a face and spirit he had 
loved all the days of his life in one fashion or another. And he wondered, 
Why are you so close in this moment, and yet so far? Do you even know 
the pain your touch, so innocent of all harmful intention, can cause? 
Deliberately, he caught his brother's hands in his and drew them from his 
shoulders, squeezing tightly, as he replied wearily, "No… to my shame, no 
he could not!" 

Something like a smile tugged at Faramir's lips and he nodded slowly. 
"Then you remain Boromir. After what I saw today, I feared it might be 
otherwise."

"You surprise me," Boromir replied, searching his brother's face for sign 
of wavering and finding none. "I doubt not that your words are kindly 
meant, but Faramir, can you speak them without pain?" Boromir 
demanded. "Would you not wish that I not look to you?"

"I would not have you turn away at least. Boromir, you know that I cannot 
love you as you would wish," his brother replied. "But neither can I 
abandon you; for even as I cannot dictate your heart, I ought not to let 
your love dictate my own."

"As simple as that?"

"As simple as that, and the more complicated for being so simple!" At 
which, Boromir gave an exaggerated sigh and shook his head, and the 
slight smile that curved his lips was a real one, for all that the pain 
remained.

"Your logic, as always, remains impenetrable!" He glanced down at the 
hands he still held, wondering what on earth he would do now that 
Faramir was not pulling away from him. Nothing suggested itself as an 
obvious solution, yet he could not seem to relinquish his grip, feeling his 
brother's physical hold on him as a steadying influence. Closing his eyes, 
he shook his head and his let his posture slip somewhat as, of a sudden, all 
the day's tension seemed to dissipate at once, as sometimes happened after 
a hard-fought battle. "Valar, I am tired!"

"Then sleep, Boromir, for you need the rest," Faramir advised. 

"I doubt that I could!" Which was an admission that implied more than the 
a stranger might think, for both brothers had learned early on to take what 
rest they could whenever they could, war being the uncertain but 
exhausting endeavor that it was. Faramir's recent insomnia was therefore 
the more remarkable, indicative of the potency of that dream, and 
Boromir's current doubts were equally cause for worry. 

"You must!" Faramir replied, eliciting a snort of subdued laughter from 
his brother.

"Must I?" He squeezed Faramir's hands in his a moment, opening his eyes 
to gaze at his brother again. "You are not my father!"

"Fortunately," Faramir replied dryly.

"Quite. But you are no less my tormentor, Faramir," Boromir said 
seriously, deciding that he might as well address what lay still unresolved 
between them. For otherwise, I may never have another chance to do so, 
and certainly I shall not rest unless I have at least tried to make him see 
what I see! "I know you mean well to come here, and think not that I am 
not grateful to you for your pains. But come a few hours, or even a few 
minutes, and I fear you may flee once more! Your head, as ever, would 
rule your heart, but in this I cannot trust your logic above your feelings, 
love," he said very deliberately, watching Faramir's reaction to the 
endearment. His brother blinked, then frowned, and Boromir could not be 
certain but he thought the hands within his trembled a bit. "See?"

Faramir's brow knit as he considered this, and after a few moments' 
thought, he sighed softly and raised his eyes once more to Boromir's. "You 
may be right, brother, but earlier today, I would not have dreamt of 
coming here, nor of chasing after you on a crowded street when you 
wished to avoid me."

Something about that admission touched on memory, dislodging and 
nudging words to the fore of Boromir's mind, and he closed his eyes once 
more as he murmured, "'Let me touch now mortal sickness that my love 
shall learn its toll!' Your Silvaríel knew well the darkness of our desires, 
Faramir! But to which side shall we fall, you and I? I cannot live with this 
uncertainty… this wavering… on your part, though I understand it well 
enough. If you cannot learn to love me fully—not as a lover but only as 
you did before—then seek me no more. Let me find what peace I can 
alone!"

Faramir bit his lip, considering his brother's request. Or rather, his plea! 
And he is right to make it, for it is not fair to him that I am so… so 
inconstant. Alas that intuition spoke truly, for I know not whether I have 
the strength to grant his wish… and mine! "I would regain what once we 
had," he said slowly. "For in truth, I miss you… more than you might 
think possible. But I know not how to prove myself to you, Boromir, or 
even to myself, if I am honest!" Faramir replied, seeming weary now in 
his turn. His brother gave a slight shrug, as if in surrender to the 
uncertainty of the moment. "Know, though, that I would gladly return to 
what we had, if only you would satisfy me as to one point first, brother."

"And what point is that?"

"If we could between us devise a test that would convince you of my 
sincerity in this matter, would you wish for me to succeed? Or would you 
have me keep my distance? For in spite of your words, it is clear to me 
that you also are in doubt over this."

And Boromir, hearing that, frowned, realizing uncomfortably that Faramir 
did indeed have a point. Would I wish him to prove that he can love me in 
spite of my love? Would it not be better to learn to live without it? Without 
even the hope of it? In one way, it would be so much easier if Faramir 
could not bring himself to overlook Boromir's quite ardent desire for him, 
for at least then there could be no confusion on Boromir's part. But for 
years, I have thought there was no hope, and that did not ease my longing! 
Why must you ask me such questions, Faramir? "Once, I would have said 
'yes' without hesitation," he replied at length, and felt more than saw 
Faramir wince at the qualifier. "After last night—indeed, after this 
week!—and in spite of our father's scorn, I would still say 'yes,' but more 
cautiously." Boromir released Faramir's hands. But he risked reaching up 
to gently tug at a lock of hair that fell into Faramir's face, in imitation of 
his brother' s habit, ere he added, "For Denethor has made me see too 
much to love you freely and without pain. I fear it is my sentence that if I 
cannot surrender my passion, then nothing that comes of it shall ever be 
free of shame. And perhaps it is better thus, for even were you to desire 
me, I could never let you have so unworthy a lover as myself!" 

"I see," Faramir replied, considering this in silence for a short while. "I 
think you shall not be the only one to burn the midnight oil, brother!"

"Well, had I the luxury, I would do so. But as you advise, I shall try to 
rest, for I leave at dawn and know not how long the journey shall be," 
Boromir sighed softly. He turned and went to the bed, gathering the two 
travel sacks that lay there to set them down on the floor beneath the 
window. 

"Would you have me stay?" Faramir asked suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?" Boromir turned quickly, a perplexed look on his 
face, for his brother could not possibly mean that the way that it sounded.

"I said, would you have me stay? There is a chair in the other room I could 
use…."

A chair… of course! "And what would you do?" Boromir asked, relieved 
but curious.

For answer, Faramir crossed to the desk and picked up the book that 
Boromir had borrowed. "Your citation brought something to mind."

"Ah," Boromir paused, considering the request a moment. He could not 
fathom his brother's motives at the moment, but he recognized the tone: 
Faramir had caught on some idea and would not be content until he had 
explored it further. More, he wanted, for some reason unknown to 
Boromir, to remain and to refuse him would likely hurt him badly. Well, 
and what matter is it if he stays to one who sleeps? For despite my earlier 
words, I feel a need of it desperately, and shall not stay awake for long. 
"You are welcome to remain if you wish, and you know well where I keep 
everything."

"But would you wish me to stay?" Faramir asked, emphasizing the 
pronoun.

"I have always wished you to stay," Boromir responded, and was mildly 
surprised when that comment elicited naught but a nod. "What of Father? 
If he catches you here—"

"Let him!" Faramir cut him off, and his tone was uncharacteristically 
sharp. Boromir nodded slightly, accepting the other's defiance even as he 
shuddered at the thought of that confrontation. May it never occur! he 
prayed briefly to whatever power might hear a reprobate's plea. 

"Well, then, I wish you a good night. May you find what you seek."

"Good night, Boromir," Faramir obediently left for the antechamber, 
closing the door behind him. And Boromir stood there and wondered 
whether he ought to bar the door for safety's sake. But what good would 
that do? It would not keep me here! But such considerations were merely 
the workings of a tired and dispirited soul, struggling to find a way 
through inner divisions without surrendering too much of his own 
essential matter. Matter which, as the course of fortune ran, had been 
shaped by that conflict, and in some deep sense knew not how to live 
without it. Considerations about the status of the door were therefore 
merely specious: Faramir was safe from him, and in truth, there was 
something oddly reassuring about the idea of him keeping watch just 
beyond the door. When we were children, I remember he used to come to 
me whenever he had nightmares. He could not sleep alone. And now, 
thirty years later, our places are reversed! Though of course, Faramir 
would never now join him in bed, as he had when they were ten and five. 
Stop that! he ordered himself. Sleep now, since that is your purpose. 
Sleep! And let the morning bring what it may, for this is my last night in 
Minas Tirith for a time, and it will be long ere I lie in safety again.

***

As the night wore on in the other room, Faramir sat tucked up in the high-
backed chair near the hearth, and though he did read, his attention was not 
focused. The words washed over him, sweeping through him like the tide 
only to withdraw again after a time, retreating from the shores of his mind. 
For though he sought one line among the multitude of Silvaríel's works, in 
truth he had come here to try once more to enter his brother's mind. The 
book provided a common point from which to begin, at least, and that was 
much tonight. This room, as Boromir had indicated with his passing 
remark, was intimately known to Faramir: surrounded by his brother's 
possessions, his arrangements, his tastes, it was easier for him to try to 
think as his brother did. I have always loved him, and he has always loved 
me… that is the constant in our lives, and now that it has been shaken…! 
Faramir had always assumed before that Boromir, although quick-witted 
and not wholly unreflective, was not given to internal scrutiny, being 
generally confident in himself and his abilities. But having learned the 
extent of his brother's life-long struggle to hide his sexuality from others, 
Faramir had now doubts about his assumptions. Clearly, Boromir would 
have suffered doubt about himself, and would have had many 
opportunities to question his own motivations. Certainly, he still remained 
far more comfortable on the field than in the council, but rather than being 
simply a product of a less contemplative disposition, Faramir now 
wondered whether a part of that stated preference had not been carefully 
devised as a sort of camouflage. Or perhaps it is more basic than that, 
even, he thought. Perhaps it is the one place where he need not restrain 
himself, where his actions require no words and are their own 
justification. And perhaps that was not as simple as it seemed, Faramir 
thought with a slight smile for his own complicated ways. 

With a soft sigh, he rose, carefully leaving the book open upon a stand, 
and made a circuit of the room. Boromir's tastes were less varied than his 
own, and also less subtle. He kept a number of small carvings from 
various regions of Gondor, and the tapestries on the walls were for color 
as much as to help keep out the chill of winter days. There were fewer 
books, and most of them had to do with military history rather than 
philosophy or art; there was a small collection of weaponry upon one wall, 
and Faramir knew that in addition to employing them decoratively, 
Boromir could wield any of them to deadly effect. I suppose I could as 
well if pressed to it, but not with half the artistry, Faramir decided as he 
turned back to the book shelf, atop which sat a small, intricately carved 
box. The curling patterns of raised wood and the inlay of different types of 
bark to create an almost flame-like impression bore the stamp of the same 
craftsmanship that the carpet on Faramir's floor did. And why should they 
not, for they came of the same place. It had been Finduilas' once, and was 
one of the things that she had brought with her out of Dol Amroth to 
remind herself of her home. The box had gone back to Imrahil upon her 
death, and the brothers' uncle had in turn gifted it to Boromir when he had 
turned sixteen, as a remembrance of the sister that Imrahil had loved. It 
was therefore doubly a gift, and it was the only keep-sake that Boromir 
had of his mother. Why this one item, and not any others? It was a 
question that he could ask of almost anything in this room. Boromir was 
not much of a collector, Faramir realized suddenly, for all that certain 
types of objects were repeated throughout the décor. For whereas others 
who collected carvings would stay with a particular theme or style or 
artisan, Boromir did not. One example of any given period or style seemed 
to be enough for him; the same might be said of the books on the shelves 
or the weapons, none of which were of the same type. Just one…. One 
box, one book of poetry, one city to call home… one love… just one… just 
one…. 

Just once! The words he had sought earlier came suddenly to him, and 
Faramir pondered their significance as he stood gazing at the closed door 
that led to his brother's sleeping chamber. Just once. He could imagine 
Boromir asleep within, and who knew what dreams might visit him 
tonight? What dreams had he last night, I wonder? Faramir thought with a 
shiver. I would see him at peace! But can I bring myself to do what I think 
is needed? Ever he sought to stand before me, to shield me when I was 
threatened… weak…. From him I learned honor, and also the meaning of 
courage. We keep each other, and always have, and I would not lose that, 
either through Father's intervention or my own actions. What constituted 
the right course in this singular situation, Faramir could not be certain, for 
no feat of reasoning could lead him from the tangled skein of conflicted 
allegiances and emotions. Whatever I decide, I must not act half-heartedly, 
for that would be cruel. Whence comes conviction, though? Whence comes 
courage enough not to flinch? Closing his eyes, Faramir blew out a sigh 
and after a few moments he reopened them. In the end, the well-spring of 
his strength had its roots in many places, but in time of crisis, he knew 
whither he always turned: towards his brother. With that thought firmly in 
mind, he blew out the candle by which he had read and stalked across the 
room. Silent as a hawk on the wing, he opened the door, and slipped inside 
his brother's chambers….


12. Bread for the Journey 

Consciousness burrowed through dusty oblivion, insisting that he wake, 
and Boromir gave a soft, sleepy grunt, acknowledging the proddings of his 
body's time sense. Dawn would come soon, and though in his somnolent 
state he could not quite remember why, he knew he needed to arise. But as 
he lay there, letting awareness percolate slowly but steadily through the 
screen of his dreaming mind, he felt a slight shiver work its way down his 
spine. It was a feeling he had had before, and all too often, it had that 
flavor of warning to it that demanded instant reaction. Today it was not 
threatening so much as weighty, but still, Boromir jerked suddenly and 
fully awake to the certainty that he was being watched. But I am still in 
Minas Tirith! He had slept half-curled on his side, head laid on the pillow 
that he cradled in the crook of one arm. So, as he now swiftly pushed 
himself up onto an elbow, he was for a moment blinded by the mass of his 
long hair that tumbled into his face. With a shake of his head and the aid 
of one hand, he dragged the unruly strands from his eyes and squinted into 
the dimness of the room. He needed but a few moments to discover the 
source of his unease, and Boromir felt his cheeks heat in the darkness. 
"Faramir… why are you here?"

"Good morrow to you as well," Faramir replied from where he stood 
leaning back against the wall, hands pressed flat behind him. 

"Mmm." Boromir could not for the life of him think of a more intelligent 
reply, and he shook his head again in an attempt to rouse himself to clearer 
thoughts. "Varda's stars!" he swore softly, feeling his startled 
embarrassment begin to spawn other, unwelcome emotions. Why has he 
come, and how long has he stood there? he wondered. I should have 
barred that door after all! For he was acutely aware of the fact that he 
wore nothing beneath the sheets (it was too hot!), and given the strained 
relationship that he and Faramir had endured for a week now, he felt his 
brother's presence as an intrusion. For I know not what he intends, nor 
how to act! What does he want? And how do I rid myself of him long 
enough to dress? Such were the considerations that raced through his 
mind, and fear threaded his pulse—an anxious anticipation and 
wonderment at Faramir's motives. Letting his hair once more act as a 
screen, he rubbed at his eyes; the whole scene seemed almost unreal, 
dream-like, and he wondered if perhaps he might wake soon…. As if to 
reassure him of the reality of the moment, an uneven, soft mass struck 
him, glancing off his shoulders and head, coming unraveled as it came to 
rest atop him.

"Father expects you gone shortly, I should think," Faramir said, offering 
the barest of smiles and ignoring the glare that his brother shot him from 
beneath the shirt and trousers that now draped him. "Best that you not dare 
his wrath with so trivial a thing as tardiness." His brother then pushed 
himself away from the wall and wandered deliberately to the other side of 
the room, there to examine some unimportant item. Boromir was not one 
to waste the privacy Faramir had just granted him, and he hurriedly drew 
the underdrawers on, then the trousers, standing quickly to pull them up. 
The shirt followed swiftly, and, breaking with his usual routine, he 
snatched his belt from the trunk beside his bed and hastily buckled it 
before he sat down to pull his boots on. Safely attired, if not quite fully 
dressed, he turned to consider his brother's back as he began collecting the 
rest of his clothing: mail, overtunic, jerkin, sword-belt, and cloak. The 
chain mail went on first over the shirt, and though it was an awkward 
affair to struggle into the garment, Boromir had worn it too often to get 
caught in it, and he quickly settled it, adjusting the thin leather padding 
that lined the shoulder region. It was a poor concession to a very relative 
measure of comfort, but after so many years of sleeping in the stuff when 
necessary, Boromir scarcely heeded the weight. And Faramir, hearing the 
telltale chink! turned slowly from his contemplation of a candle to watch 
him once more. 

It was a strange feeling that that quiet scrutiny aroused, and Boromir 
fought with the sensation that he stood exposed. Somehow, it felt indecent 
to face his brother when he still had not all of his clothes on, even if they 
had often seen each other in less than this. How truth known in full doth 
change things! Boromir would have given much to know what thoughts 
passed through Faramir's mind at that moment, but he could not ask, for 
fear of what he might discover. There was something in that clear-eyed 
gaze that whispered of intimate familiarity with all that Boromir was, and 
more, of some weighty pronouncement yet untold. Boromir felt himself 
examined, touched upon and turned about, taken apart by the mind behind 
those eyes, seen through and through; and it struck him of a sudden that 
what he felt now was likely close kin to his brother's discomfort under 
Boromir's too ardent gaze. Oddly, the thought seemed to calm him 
somewhat, though he knew not why it should, and he returned Faramir's 
stare as steadily as he could whilst he continued to dress himself.

"How shall you go, Boromir? Through Rohan to the Gap, or northward 
first, to try to find a way through the high passes on this side of the 
mountains?" Faramir asked, breaking the silence. 

"Through Rohan and the Gap. The region between Mirkwood and the 
mountains is little known, but the maps give the land a treacherous 
reputation," Boromir replied, fastening the clips and ties that held the 
jerkin shut. "Eriador is at least said to be flatter." 

"I see. And is there aught that I may do to help in the time left? Return 
books?" A pause, then, "Give your farewells to our father?"

"Never jest about that!" Boromir said, rather more sharply than he had 
really intended. With a shake of his head, he sighed. "And I do not ask that 
of you, for I fear our father would but resent the messenger the more." 
Boromir paused, half-expecting Faramir to respond, but his brother said 
naught, only nodded thoughtfully. Cocking his head at the other as he 
finished with the jerkin, Boromir decided that tact was wasted at this late 
hour. "Why came you here this morning?" he asked bluntly, buckling his 
sword-belt on.

"To see you," Faramir replied, eliciting a rather perplexed look from 
Boromir. "To watch you dream, and see you once more without a wall 
between us. To relearn the reasons that I fear you not." 

"You were here all night?"

"Much of it," the other admitted. Once within his brother's room, Faramir 
had spent the night pacing slowly and silently, pausing now and again to 
watch his brother for long spells. It had been many years since he had had 
the opportunity to observe Boromir like that—since Faramir had been ten, 
or even younger, for Boromir had soon moved into another room. And 
later, he had been assigned to the various companies, of course, and was 
rarely at home. But I remember watching him when my dreams banished 
all rest, he thought. More, that peculiar habit of youth had remained with 
him throughout his life. Faramir rarely slept through the night, for even 
had he not the watch to supervise at times, he found it helpful to watch 
others sleep. A commander could learn much of those who served him by 
such nocturnal observation: the troubles of the day tended to show in faces 
no longer concerned to guard themselves, and in the insomnia of some, 
while others slept like dead things as if fearful to wake. Whereas by day, a 
man's pride refused to admit to limits, by night Faramir found it easy to 
judge who could be pushed further, and who hovered close to collapse. 
Sometimes men would come out of their nightmares and, finding Faramir 
awake, would even speak to him about them, for his own reputation as a 
dreamer was an abiding one. Over the long years, in fact, the idiosyncrasy 
had become something of a company tradition, and only the newcomers 
were surprised to learn that their captain served as counselor at need. But 
after a few months or years, even the wariest eventually sought him out, 
for all knew that his discretion was absolute and that he would not laugh at 
the images that came to the sleeping mind. For his part, Faramir treasured 
such encounters; they were a way of knowing another, one that required 
only a willingness to watch first and then to listen, and it helped Faramir 
to better understand the needs of his flock of soldiers. 

As for Boromir, Faramir had been relieved that his brother had slept 
soundly last night, although to one accustomed to gauge the mood of 
dreamers, there had been an edge of uneasiness to his repose that was 
telling. I know not if he shall ever truly be free of this, nor how the events 
of the past ten days shall shape his path from now until the end, Faramir 
thought worriedly. What pride he has, I fear, may cover over a despair of 
self, and who knows whether it always has? That brashness that others 
saw in him, that willingness to stand ever in the path of destruction… 
might it not be a way of inviting death? And if so, then after this week, I 
doubt not that his control may slip. He may misjudge the danger that he is 
to himself, thinking that he knows already the worst. But brother mine, you 
have not even begun to plumb those depths, for you have a good heart and 
I think in one sense you know not the meaning of the word, 'worst.' For 
what you see as the worst of yourself is born of love, and not merely of 
lust. Such were the thoughts that had come to him during the course of the 
night as he had kept watch, and he wondered how long he had harbored 
the seeds of his doubts and observations, for they had come forth fully 
formed, with no hesitation, as if in some secret recess of his soul he had 
long tended them. I only wish I knew the depths to which I could sink, for 
then I might know whence come such thoughts. For one must carry 
darkness within one to understand it fully! 

How to convey all that to Boromir was a problem he still had not solved, 
and Faramir felt a touch of desperation himself. His brother was not one to 
put much stock in theory, but there was only so much that Faramir could 
do, and still he could not be certain whether what he would do would do 
more good than harm. Boromir was watching him now, with that look in 
his eyes that said he knew not what passed through his younger brother's 
mind, but knew nonetheless that it was serious. After a moment longer, 
Boromir asked, "You say… 'reasons that you fear me not.' What mean you 
by that?"

"That I needed to remember them, and that I have. Last night, you said 
that if we could find some way to prove my commitment, that perhaps we 
might have a chance regain what we lost."

"Yes…." Boromir replied cautiously, and wondered at his brother's words. 
Has he truly spent the night thinking of that? It was a possibility, for 
Faramir was tenacious and not one to leave an idea half thought-out. Still, 
he could not imagine what test they might make of his brother's heart. 

"We neglected, however, to say aught of you, Boromir," Faramir 
continued, arching a brow at him. "Beneath and behind all your words, 
you also fear to love me, and that anxiety remains with you, even in sleep. 
Is that not so?"

Boromir frowned, scrutinizing his brother's face, seeking some sign of 
whither he would go with this inquiry, but Faramir had his mask in place, 
confounding his efforts. "I fear to hurt you, Faramir… to… to dirty you, 
somehow," he replied, painfully and looked away as he spoke. Not that 
that helped overmuch, for Faramir simply moved with him, intent upon 
remaining in his field of vision. 

"But that is a part of how you love me, and much though you or I might 
wish it, can you begin to untangle what is now firmly bound together?" 
Faramir asked rhetorically, for they both knew the answer. "So, if you 
cannot learn to tame that fear, then we shall never truly be reconciled, any 
more than if I fail to tame mine. We have learned too well to despise 
ourselves, Boromir. That is Father's true legacy to us both!" the younger 
man said bitterly. 

"The case is different, though! I should not love you thus, Faramir. Father 
was correct in that at least!" Boromir protested, unable to fathom that his 
brother now seemed to defend what had repulsed—indeed, what must still 
repulse—him. 

"But you do, and if Father could not bleed that out of you with his words, 
then nothing shall! You know that, or why else have you so carefully 
hidden your desire for so long? And if you have spent so long learning to 
hold it in check, then what matters it now that I know your secret? Why, 
indeed, should I fear that you love me?" Faramir asked, and watched as 
Boromir seemed to rock back on his heels a bit before the intensity of that 
sharp inquiry. "Why should you fear to love me, knowing that you will 
never act upon what you feel?"

"Perhaps because I am not so certain of myself as you seem to think!" 
Boromir managed hoarsely, shaking his head. "Do you know how hard it 
is to have you so near? To touch you or to stand at your side? To listen to 
you read poetry? I dream of you, Faramir!" 

"And I have dreamt of you as well," his brother replied, which sent a 
ripple of shock through Boromir. "What of that?"

"Not as I dream of you, I think," Boromir challenged. 

"I dreamt that you lay with me, and touched me… as you would have 
touched your lover," Faramir responded, watching his brother's 
incredulous reaction. "And though I found no pleasure in that dream, 
neither has it sullied me, as you put it."

"Valar, I do not need to hear this!" Boromir murmured, folding his arms 
across his chest as he turned away, overwhelmed by a number of 
conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he could not accept what Faramir 
now told him, for such revelations and considerations only muddied 
already dark waters further. On the other, there was such sincerity in his 
brother's manner that he could not doubt that what he said now came from 
the conjunction of heart and head, mind and soul, and he was truly glad 
that Faramir at least seemed to have made peace with Boromir's unnatural 
passion. And in amid relief and confusion, there was a sort of desperate 
hope, a flutter of desirous anticipation that yearned to make itself felt, to 
break free for a moment of the shackles Boromir had set upon it. No! I 
may not allow that! But as Faramir came once more to stand before him, 
he realized that it might not be a question of "may" but only of "can": Can 
I hold this within me if he continues on as he does? To which the answer 
came back resoundingly: I know not! 

"If you would not have me turn from you, then do not hide from me, 
Boromir!" Faramir said, seeming almost angry with him. "You said that 
you would have me learn to love you once more, but how can I do so if by 
your actions and words you tell me that you find nothing of worth in 
yourself? I have never wanted to pity you, Boromir, but you shall drive me 
to it if you will not face me!" That stang something to life, and Boromir 
frowned as he jerked his glance up to his brother's face once more and his 
spine stiffened. "Better!" Faramir murmured. "Now tell me: what do you 
want of me? If I can give it, I shall."

"And if you cannot?" Boromir queried, cocking a brow at the other. "What 
then?"

"If I cannot, I shall tell you and let you judge whether I have failed the 
test," the other replied. 

What do I want of him? What a question! The innumerable fantasies that 
the mind could spin out in an instant assailed him, but he irritably brushed 
them aside. Fantasy I have had, and dreams as well, but he asks not after 
those! What would I have of him, here and now, in waking life where 
dreams should have no hold? That was a far more difficult decision to 
make, and for a moment, Boromir despaired of finding an answer. I must 
leave, and soon! Who knows but that all of Gondor depends upon the 
words of that rhyme, and yet I stand here and waver over so simple a 
question! It seemed a gross injustice to all concerned, and certainly it 
ought to be beneath him to hesitate like this when he knew that duty lay 
just outside his doorstep. But he was held to his spot by the look on 
Faramir's face, by the steadiness in those grey eyes that nevertheless 
seemed fierce. Boromir blinked, recognizing in that ferocity a 
protectiveness that he was not accustomed to see directed towards him. 
Almost always before, it had been he who had protected Faramir, and 
certainly he had few peers to whom to turn for shelter. None, in fact, for it 
is not my place to let others defend me, he thought, and felt a sort of sigh 
escape him as, without quite intending it, he reached out and traced the 
line of his brother's face from temple to chin with a gentle fingers. "For 
years, I feared you would scorn me if ever you discovered my desire. And 
here you stand, willing to give me whatever I wish… save one thing 
only!" He smiled, dropping his hand to his brother's shoulder. "I shall not 
ask you for that. How could I, after our words last night? I should be 
content with what I have."

"Are you, though?" Faramir asked, suspicious of the subjunctive. 

"Will you never cease to ask me questions?"

"Only when I have my answer!" Boromir considered his brother another 
long moment, still not quite able to believe that they could even discuss 
this at all. And it may be our last discussion for a long while! I would not 
end it on an ill note, but neither would I end it with uncertainty. That 
would be a torment indeed, the long road with naught but doubt to return 
to in the end. In the mean time…. A long journey alone….

"I would have something to remember you by," Boromir said at last, and 
then gave a slight smile. "And I would have you choose it, whatever it is." 
Now let us see what he says! 

Faramir frowned slightly, but in consideration, rather than in 
disconcertion, it seemed. And it seemed to Boromir, as he watched his 
brother's eyes flick over his face, that the other was not surprised, either. 
As if he expected me to somehow turn him aside thus, he thought, and 
wondered suddenly if he had been outmaneuvered. And if so, how badly? 
All night he has had to think of this…! But Boromir had not known 
himself what he would do, so how could Faramir possibly anticipate him? 
To which the nagging voice of reason replied, He knows you too well! 
How many times have you seen it? He and Father are alike in their ability 
to know a man's heart better than its owner knows it. 

"I shall return your book for you," Faramir said then, and Boromir 
blinked, thrown off by the non sequitur. "But before I do, tell me, do you 
recall this one: 'But once, my love, for life is swift! and death doth steal 
the days…'?"

"'Taste my love but once, my love, and kiss me once for always,'" Boromir 
finished the quotation and found himself staring once more at Faramir. It 
was certainly a poem that had caught his eye, and further proof of his 
brother's uncanny ability to judge him. And although he was almost 
certain that he knew the other's intent, a part of him simply could not 
believe it. "Faramir…?" he asked, trailing off, awaiting something more 
solid than a half-suggestive poetical reference.

"So… kiss me once, brother. One time, as you would… and so remember 
me," Faramir replied softly, coming to stand close, and try as he might, 
Boromir could detect no play in his voice. He is in earnest! Words 
crowded on the tip of his tongue—exclamations, questions, confusion—
but the look in the other's eyes stilled them all. If I do this… shall I be able 
to stop there? Just one kiss… at once everything I could ask for, and yet so 
much less than I would wish! Almost as much a temptation as a 
satisfaction! In the end, though, whatever his doubts, it was not really a 
decision, nor even a question: he would kiss him. So, although incredulity 
still held his heartbeat suspended, Boromir reached out with one hand and 
drew a fingertip down Faramir's body, til he settled first one hand and then 
the other just above his brother's hips. His brother's eyes followed the 
caress, but he did not prevent it, and so Boromir leaned slowly forward. 
Still Faramir did not flinch, nor draw away even when his brother paused, 
as if to give him the chance to do so. And since he did not, Boromir did 
kiss him, very carefully: just a light kiss on the mouth as if to test the 
other's resolve. Or my own! But neither of the brothers wavered. Warmth 
seemed to flood through Boromir as his heart remembered to beat once 
more, and his eyes closed of their own accord as he risked a little more 
pressure, a little more insistence, deepening the kiss. He could feel the 
rasp of the other's beard against his own, and Faramir hesitated only a 
second before he yielded to the flick of his brother's tongue against his 
lips, opening his mouth slightly. As Boromir reached up then to catch 
hold—gently, mindful of the bruises—of his brother's face with both 
hands, he felt Faramir clutch his arms as if to steady himself, and to his 
delight, he felt the other begin now to return the kiss rather than simply 
allow it. 

Never before had Boromir been so aware of another in all his infinite 
particularity, or of the pleasure that could come of such visceral 
knowledge. Faramir was too tall for Boromir to draw him against him as 
they kissed, and he could not be certain in any case whether the other 
would be receptive to such an embrace. But as ever, Boromir was very 
conscious of the contours of the lean, wiry body that hovered tantalizingly 
close. Faramir's scent filled his nostrils, filled his mouth so that he could 
taste him with every breath; the texture of his skin beneath Boromir's 
callused hands proved an unexpectedly sensual tactile stimulus; and the 
feel of his pulse throbbing against Boromir's fingertips measured out 
moments of eternity—a subtle vibration that stirred the two of them, and 
set them to resonate with each other it seemed. Faramir accidentally drew 
his tongue across Boromir's lower lip, reopening that cut, but though the 
younger man tensed somewhat, he did not withdraw at the taste of blood. 
For his part, Boromir felt the slight sting only added another dimension of 
feeling to the moment: after all the pain of the past ten days (or indeed, of 
the past twenty years of silent, hopeless adoration) the hurt seemed not 
unfitting. It felt right, and perhaps his brother sensed that; it was, after all, 
his blood as well—the blood of the stewards of Gondor, shed so often for 
others and now, just once, shed solely for and by one beloved. Just one 
kiss…! For Boromir doubted not that his brother meant what he had said: 
there would be no other time, and any kiss subsequent to this must never 
be as between lovers. So small a gesture, and yet the measure of all that 
Boromir held dear. But once indeed, my love!

He felt one of the hands on his arms free itself to touch his face, a caress 
as careful as the mouth that responded to his need, and more hesitant at 
that, but there and real. There was a certain curiosity in that touch, as well, 
and he felt a pang as Faramir's fingertips gently explored the curve of a 
cheekbone, then drifted back to push a long strand of dark hair behind 
Boromir's ear ere they wandered down the side of his neck and came to 
rest eventually on his chest, just over his heart. He recognized that touch, 
remembered it with painful clarity, but somehow, the gesture was 
transformed when Faramir did it, becoming a sign and seal of forgiveness 
rather than a memory of shame. He knew not what alchemy his brother 
practiced, but whatever it was, it struck something deep, and Boromir gave 
a whimper (there was no other word for it) as he eased back from his 
brother at last and more abruptly than he might wish. 

Shaky, overwhelmed, and uncertain whether he stood now on the verge of 
tears or laughter, he gazed at the other whose face he still held gently 
cupped in his hands. Faramir's eyes remained closed, and his breathing 
was none too steady either… and he had never been more beautiful to 
Boromir. After a moment, his brother ran his tongue along his lips and 
swallowed hard, opening his eyes to gaze into his brother's. Obsidian, they 
seemed, for there was but a thin ring of grey to distinguish iris from pupil, 
and Boromir tenderly brushed a dark lock from the other's face and ran his 
fingers back through his brother's hair. "Can you forgive me?" For what, 
he did not say, nor could he have said had he been asked, but it seemed not 
to matter.

"I forgave you yesterday," Faramir replied simply, managing a slight 
smile. And there was something so very endearing in the expression that 
accompanied those words that Boromir automatically started to lean 
forward again. But this time his brother did step away, if only slightly, and 
the hand on his chest pressed harder to hold him back. "Once, and for 
always," he reminded him, but there was no reproof in his voice. In fact, 
Boromir fancied he heard a touch of remorse, but quickly dismissed the 
idea. 

"Romantic!" he growled instead, chucking him under the chin ere he 
released his brother fully, forcing himself to put the moment behind him.

"Terribly, I suspect," Faramir agreed with a self-conscious laugh, folding 
his arms across his chest. But then he sobered and said, "Be careful, 
Boromir! For Gondor needs you here to lead her. And," he added, 
exhaling slowly, "I need you as well."

Boromir only nodded, unable to formulate a response past the sudden 
constriction of his throat, and he berated himself for the lapse in his self-
control. Going to the window, he stooped and retrieved his baggage, 
slinging his pack over one shoulder and his horn over the other. Faramir 
came and took the saddle bags, twining the straps about his left wrist and 
hand, and for a moment, they stood, watching each other. Then Boromir 
smiled, and clapped his brother on the shoulder as he said softly, "I will 
remember," and meant more than just Faramir's latest words.

"So shall I!" his brother responded, and then led the way out of the 
door….

***

… as Denethor turned away from the palantír and felt the fissures in the 
ice of his self-control widen. Leaning his head in his hand, he bitterly 
cursed fate even as he strove to suppress the disgust that welled up within 
him. And so they have decided, it seems! Well that Boromir shall be gone, 
but I doubt that that shall change aught! He had not been able to hear 
what his sons had said to each other—the Seeing Stones were precisely 
that, unless two stones were aligned to permit their users to 
communicate—but the sentiments seemed damnably clear. A brief 
moment he wondered whether he ought not to have sent Faramir after all, 
but when he had made his decision, it had seemed that Faramir was the 
safer of the two. And in truth, if the journey is hard, Boromir is better 
suited to it. Whatever my fears, Gondor must have answers if it is to 
survive! Even in his despairing disappointment, the needs of the realm 
came first, before any personal consideration. But that did not mean that 
Denethor would ever forget that intimate scene. I have fought for so long 
to hold back the darkness, and yet it pervades our very bodies! Curse you 
both for weaklings and worthless! But there was naught that he could do 
without rousing suspicion as to the source of his knowledge. And given 
that it was Faramir who remained, there was also the remote—but not 
incalculable—possibility that he might realize the steward's own guilt. 

And so I say nothing, and since I shall need Faramir to serve in his 
brother's stead, I can make certain he has no time to fall any further. As 
for Boromir… at least I can depend upon his loyalty to Gondor to drive 
him back to me when the errand is done! Ah, my son, alas for the blood in 
your veins! With a soft sigh, Denethor stood and veiled the palantír once 
more, and as he went slowly down the stairs, he could not help but feel 
that he descended into the muck and grime of a world in chaos. Laugh if 
you will, Sauron, at this tragedy of a family! However tainted, we can still 
stand, and stand we shall! To the last throw… yes, though we have no 
hope left, whatever the fools below may say, we continue to the last toss of 
the die!

***

Faramir tightened the straps that held the saddle-bags in place and gave 
the mare's neck an affectionate slap. The roan whickered at him, butting 
him gently in the stomach with her nose, hoping for a treat most likely. 
"Naught today, lass," he murmured, stroking the animal's long face. It had 
been a long and quiet walk down to the Second Circle, both of them 
preoccupied and a little uncertain of themselves. For his part, the taste of 
his brother's mouth and blood still lingered, and Faramir had let that flavor 
roll about his tongue, wondering what to make of what they had shared. 
He had not expected to enjoy it, not really, but for all that he still felt no 
attraction to his brother, it would be a lie to say that he had felt nothing in 
his brother's arms. For I do love him, and however disconcerting it might 
be to be the object of my brother's very passionate attention, I suppose in 
the end that I am curious enough—and possessive enough!—to want to 
know what he is like in love. Faramir had tried to make his own kiss 
everything he would have wanted to share with his brother, though that 
fell short of what Boromir might want. But I did not flinch, and I shall 
cherish the memory. My first kiss—the first that has ever meant aught, he 
thought, and smiled slightly at how strange that sounded. But for all that, I 
think I am glad that it was he who gave it me, though I know not why I 
should feel thus. Perhaps because it was his brother, someone he knew and 
trusted, which might be much more than he could say of any woman his 
father might choose for him to marry. Romantic! Boromir had accused, 
and Faramir was rather surprised that it had never occurred to him to see 
himself thus. I had no reason to do so, he thought. Another thing to think 
about, assuming I have the time….

Boromir grunted then, giving the cinch a sharp tug and nodding his 
satisfaction as he slung his shield across his back. So the quest for Imladris 
begins, and though it had to end in parting, I wish I were going as well! 
For now that the moment drew nigh, he was stricken with the feeling that 
he had to say all, and he bit his tongue against the temptation to babble on 
like an idiot. His brother joined him at the mare's head, lead rein in one 
hand, and he, too, gave the horse's nose a pat, but his eyes were on 
Faramir. "Can you face Denethor?" Boromir asked, rather abruptly. 

"If I must, then I shall. And since I must, you need not fear overmuch," 
Faramir replied by way of reassurance, and possibly with more confidence 
than he felt. Boromir nodded, apparently satisfied with his answer. 

"Tell him then…." his brother paused, seeming to marshal his thoughts, 
trying to pick just the right words. "Tell him I have gone. And tell him… 
tell him I shall not forget Gondor's need. In that he may always rely on 
me." Faramir did not miss the unspoken implications, nor the regret and 
hurt that still clung to those words, but he said naught, only nodded in his 
turn. The sun was creeping now over the gloom of the Ephel Duath, and in 
the courtyard without, shadows sprang up as the light stole over the city. 
Few people as yet were about, and the stable yard was still quiet as 
Boromir glanced over his shoulder at that lighted square, hesitating. 
"Faramir," he began as he turned back, and then could say no further. For 
Faramir, in that brief space, stepped around the horse and without asking 
or warning, caught his brother's head to still him and kissed him again: 
once on the mouth, a swift but not insubstantial kiss, and then another, 
more lingering one on the forehead. Farewell it was, after the custom of 
Gondor, but more than that. A promise of chaste love, and if it was not 
that of one who would share Boromir's every touch, it was still more than 
mere fraternal affection. For though we are brothers, we are somehow 
more than that. I know not what to call it, and perhaps it is unique in all 
the world—I know not! Nor do I care! Faramir thought.

"Strength for the journey," he said softly, even a bit shyly. "Be at peace, 
Boromir!"

Boromir blinked swiftly, and a look of wonderment crossed his face as he 
risked a quick caress of his brother's cheek. "Beg nothing from him," he 
murmured. "Nothing! And so let Denethor learn the measure of your 
worth!"

"I shall not."

"Good. Come then, if you will, for I can tarry no longer." Faramir walked 
his brother out of the stables, through the great gates that led to the first 
circle. From there, it was not a long distance, compared to the rest of the 
walk, to the gates of the First Circle and the fields of the Pelennor. 
Boromir swung up into the saddle, and the mare snorted, eager to be off, 
but the steward's heir held her steady a moment longer. "Wish me luck!"

"Good luck!" Faramir replied obediently. Boromir gave him a quick smile, 
and then tugged the reins to turn the horse. 

"Ha! Go!" And horse and rider were off, heading north-west to the 
Anórien gate and seeming to try to out-race the rising sun. Faramir heaved 
a soft sigh, and tried to ignore the dread that came to sit upon his chest. I 
shall see him again… of that I am certain, so why this fear? Tearing his 
eyes from the west, he turned now to the tower that rose glittering in the 
dawn's light. Put it aside, Faramir, you have work to do, and it is only just 
begun! And as he resolutely began the long march upwards, from over the 
fields came the clear sound of a horn, and he smiled as others answered 
from the walls.

Farewell, brother!

********

But once, my love, for life is swift! And death doth steal the days!

Taste my love but once, my love, and kiss me once for always!

The tale is told, the dance is done, the web is now unspun.

Time lays low the mountains high and cleaves now two from one.

But soft, my love, my silent love, and speechless though I be,

Forsake me not but once my love, dim not thy memory!

And yet my tongue grows weary now, and cannot shape thy name,

Forsake me not still, o my love, and on my lips at last remain!

--Silvaríel of Arnor



13. Note to My Readers

Note to my readers:

"From the Other River Bank" is my first foray into the slash genre; 
whether it is my last, I do not know at this point. But in either case, I didn't 
write it without some fairly specific goals in mind. One of them I 
mentioned in the Author's Note, but I thought I'd share my motivations 
with you, as well as clarify a point that's come up (always very politely, 
for which I thank you all) a number of times in reviews and e-mails. 
As I said in the Author's Note, one of the main reasons for writing this 
story was to infuse (carefully and not without trepidation) a convincing 
backdrop for a homosexual relationship into LoTR while still respecting 
the integrity of the canon, both in characterization and chronological 
detail. That's why I haven't labeled this an AU: I don't want it to be an 
outright AU or to be judged as such. I aimed for a solid "missing scenes" 
story that would be a plausible set up for the events of LoTR, but from a 
standpoint dealing with homosexuality. Whether I have succeeded or not 
is up to the individual reader to decide; I'd like to think I've taken my best 
shot, and though I may continue to tweak some of the details (references 
to Saruman had to be redone, for example, when I realized Saruman's 
treachery was revealed six days after Boromir had already left Minas 
Tirith. Oops!), on the whole, I doubt the story will undergo major 
revisions. 

Slash writing interests me primarily because it reminds me that 
heterosexuality is not the only way to love someone else, and especially 
with male-male relationships, it opens a whole range of feeling and 
interaction that is normally suppressed for fear of misinterpretation. Since 
slash by its nature is an interpretation (and only an interpretation, as may 
be said of all other fanfic), that inhibition is removed. Slash to me is also a 
very political form of writing, and not because of any desire (or lack 
thereof) on the part of its authors to make it political. It simply is thus 
because what it is dictates where it stands in relationship to the so-called 
norm, i.e., heterosexual pairings. To me, that makes it a perfect match for 
LoTR, where the characters are not heroes because they want to be, but 
because who they are dictates their responsibilities at a given point in 
time. In this particular story, I might also borrow the phrase "the personal 
is political" to describe some of what happens in Gondor's capital. 
Granted, all of this is my own opinion and you are not obligated to share it 
in any way; but since it is my opinion, I can't see this story having a point 
if I'm not perfectly frank with you about it. It's an internal standard of 
consistency between author and work, if you will. I think slash, given its 
position in fanfic, deserves to be taken very very seriously on a number of 
levels, and I hope I've done this much maligned genre justice with "From 
the Other River Bank." 

Other reasons for this story's existence are a bit less weighty. Personally, I 
like a challenge, but not just any off-the-wall challenge. I could easily 
come up with a tale where Aragorn smokes pot (funny how all the movie-
goers seem to twitter at references to "weed" and "leaf") and dreams about 
having sex with Boromir. I could have Boromir make love to Faramir after 
the bridge of Osgiliath collapsed out of sheer gratitude for being alive. I 
could have Legolas make out with Treebeard, and how's that for a weird 
pairing? The ultimate expression of an Elf's love of the trees! But that's not 
really a challenge, since it's just me letting my imagination wander off the 
deep end. Maybe someone else could make that work, but that would then 
properly be someone else's task and not mine. And then, of course, there's 
the absolute dearth of Faramir stories out there, which is really a shame 
because he's so eminently writeable. Put him together with Boromir and 
it's killing two birds with one stone, since neither of them get the attention 
they deserve. Stick Denethor in there as well, and you've essentially shot a 
whole flock of birds, given that Denethor isn't all that popular in any sense 
of the word. 

Finally, I get asked/get comments about the fact that I wrote about incest. 
For the record, I did not write an "incest story." No, I'm not related to Bill 
Clinton, either. Honestly, when I began this, the idea was not: "Let's write 
a story about brothers who fall in love with each other." Boromir and 
Faramir coincidentally are related to each other in a very integral way, but 
the deeply affectionate bond that they seem to have enjoyed strikes me as 
quite singular: it's undeniably related to and grown out of their 
brotherhood, but somewhere along the way, I think it transcends the ties of 
blood and fraternity even while remaining based in them. The only other 
story I can think of where I find this to be the case is "Advantages of 
Mortality," a very brief exploration of Elladan and Elrohir. I owe Amy 
Fortuna a huge debt of retrospective gratitude for proving with that story 
that not only was LOTR slash possible, but that it could be done well, 
tastefully, and believably. "From the Other River Bank" wasn't even a 
glimmer in my eye at that point, but once I started writing it, it helped to 
have in the back of my mind another brother/brother pairing that (in my 
opinion at least) worked beautifully and gave me a benchmark for my own 
work.

I also owe ElizChris, Gayle M, Hildegard Holmes and Caerulea many 
thanks for their critiques and wonderful correspondence. They doubtless 
will recognize this "Note" as having sprung from our e-mail 
conversations, and I hope they will forgive me for using the material that 
came out of those (very fruitful) exchanges.

Thanks for letting me write! 

--Dwimordene