Boromir's Journey Home Amon Hen to Minas Tirith

Written bymajorbee
You can read the original here:
All credit goes to the author

Chapter One -- Amon Hen

"Run!"

The tremendous thudding impact of a second arrow staggered Boromir, shattering his left shoulder and near-blinding him with blazing agony. He gasped and shook sweat from his eyes. He was not aware of falling, but found he was down again on his knees. Another towering thickly muscled Urukhai was almost on top of him, snarling bloodlust. Boromir’s left arm hung limp and useless from the broken shoulder. Forcing a breathless battle-cry, he lunged, holding his sword one-handed and plunging hard into enemy flesh. He pulled it free with shuddering effort, and felt the deeply embedded arrows tear further through the muscles of side and shoulder. Somehow he stumbled back to his feet and felled another monstrous Uruk. He turned a little, checked that Merry and Pippin were behind him, retreating uphill.

He no longer had breath to call for help on the horn. Still the Uruk-hai came at him, their crude savage blades hacking and swinging from all directions. Merry and Pippin threw stones, slowing some, and jumped in to finish an enemy with their daggers as he hacked it down. He could barely breathe, the pain tightening his chest, robbing him of air as he strained to keep fighting. Beneath the leather gauntlet his hand was slippery with sweat and he struggled to maintain his one handed grip on the sword hilt. Desperately, he lunged, drove it forward and slashed back again and again. The ground, the sky, the trees, whirled and he shook his head dizzily. It was difficult to keep his balance. His legs were weakening, his heart beating frantically, blood roaring in his ears and his throat burning. No one came to his aid and he feared all were dead.

Thud! A third arrow. He reeled back, gave a grunting cry of shocked agony, and his legs went out from under him. His knees slammed into the thick leaf litter and earth. His fingers still clutched the sword but its weight was beyond him. Dazed, barely conscious, he forced away the darkness that edged his vision. Sweat streamed into his eyes. The evil black fletching of the third arrow almost touched his chin. Its thick shaft protruded from his chest, very close to his heart. Splintered ribs grated and stabbed with every attempt at breathing. He gasped, choked, but could not draw a full breath. He lifted his head. Merry and Pippin were standing staring at him with shock and horror filling their eyes. Run! He gulped, laboured for air, but could not voice the word. For a long moment he held their eyes, silently begging them to run. He had failed, yet they would not leave him. The enemy crashed through undergrowth and dry leaves, coming closer, ready to claim them.

Shouting wordless defiance, Merry and Pippin charged the enemy, creatures ten times their size. They seek to protect me! Boromir struggled, but could not so much as lift his arm let alone get back to his feet. The flaring agony of his wounds was all consuming. He was utterly helpless and the enemy ignored him, trotting past as if he were already dead. Two of the monsters swept Merry and Pippin easily from their feet, contemptuous of their punching and kicking small arms and legs. Boromir saw that they called to him still as they were hauled away.

It was over. He could fight no more. Something moved ahead of him – the archer coming closer, coming for the kill. It was all Boromir could do to remain slumped on his knees. With the last of his strength he lifted his eyes, gave his killer a steady, calm regard. Pain threatened to tear consciousness from him. His other friends must be dead, and the two he most sought to protect, his little ones were taken to torture. Despairing, crushed by breathless agony, he could find little defiance. The Uruk-hai archer’s eyes were cold yellow pits, satisfied, full of bloodlust, its pointed teeth bared in a savage slash of triumph. Boromir did not flinch as the creature nocked another arrow, prepared to finish him. All he could think, all he could see, was Merry and Pippin’s horror as they were captured, taken from him by this seemingly unending tide of Orcs.

Now, only Boromir and the Uruk remained. In the sudden silence, the strain and creak of the bowstring was plainly heard. The Uruk was enjoying this, taking his time, further torturing him with his defeat, his helplessness. Then, a blur of movement, a shout, and someone rammed full force into the Uruk. Aragorn! One of the Fellowship at least was still alive and fighting. Relief flooded him with darkness and he toppled to lie on his side in the soft, dry leaf litter. He clung tenaciously to consciousness. He must send Aragorn after Merry and Pippin.

Faintly, he heard thuds, strains, grunts and gasps of pain as man and Uruk battled. The enemy was far heavier and of greater reach. Am I Gondor’s Captain, or a feeble old woman? Get up curse it! Distract the Uruk if nothing else!

Gritting his teeth over blinding pain, Boromir reached for his sword, and using it as a prop, managed to heave himself to his knees. Sweat poured into his eyes, and it was impossible to draw a full breath. Somehow, he lifted his head and squinted dizzily toward the battle. He saw the Uruk hit Aragorn a savage blow that sent the man reeling to fall to his back. The Uruk bent and pulled something -- Aragorn’s blade? -- from its thigh and threw it at the man. Aragorn’s sword was ready, deflecting the knife with a ringing of metal on metal. Then he was up and charging back into the fight. Boromir got one foot under him, pushed and staggered upright with a tearing cry of pain. The Uruk heard him, turned a little. Aragorn had seen him too, but continued forward, driving the sword with all his weight. Boromir’s sight went completely black and something hit him a solid thud in the back, knocking the last of the breath from his lungs. Groggily, he realized he had fallen; it was the ground that had hit him, not another arrow.

There was silence, then the quick light steps he knew so well, hurrying toward him. Aragorn leaned over him, gasping, blood about his mouth, eyes keen and grave. Reaching urgently toward him, Boromir said, “They took the little ones.”

“Be still,” Aragorn said and frowned anxiously at the embedded arrows.

Boromir felt the man’s sure hands move to check the ugly wounds. Frustrated, he shook his head weakly, and then remembering with a jolt of fear, asked, “Frodo. Where is Frodo?”

“I let him go,” Aragorn said tersely, eyes still on his work.

“Go? Where?”

“Mordor.”

Shocked, Boromir drew a sharp breath and the pain of it forced a low, anguished groan. He grasped Aragorn’s arm and the man looked up, met his eyes. "I tried to take the Ring from him. I see its evil now, too late. I drove Frodo to this, to act in reckless haste."

“Not so. He had already made his choice.” There was something in Aragorn’s expression, a depth of concern and understanding that warmed Boromir even though he felt undeserving of it. “And the Ring could not bring you to harm him.”

“It may have had he not escaped me,” Boromir said, overcome by an agony of shame and guilt far worse than any wound. “Forgive me. I have failed you all.” Boromir held his friend’s eyes, braced to see anger or worse, pity.

Instead, Aragorn almost looked surprised, reinforcing his sincerity as he said, “No, Boromir.” He squeezed Boromir’s arm and added insistently, “You fought bravely. You have kept your honour.” He paused, waiting to see those words register. “I am sorry I gave naught but angry words for your concerns last night. Do not allow the Ring’s deceit to steal away your faith in yourself. “ Aragorn turned his head and, following his gaze, Boromir saw that Gimli and Legolas were nearby, had heard. “Hold true, as we hold true to you.”

As Boromir’s faltering gaze met theirs both Elf and Dwarf nodded emphatic agreement. They were ready, seemed willing to forgive his moment of madness where he had dared not hope. Such faith, such undying friendship, brought a new kind of pain to Boromir’s heart, a warm, keen pang of affection and pride that stung his eyes with tears. Profound relief sent a great heavy wave of exhaustion rolling over him and his awareness wavered, darkness closing about him. Weary, hurting, he closed his eyes and the image, the horror returned. “Merry and Pippin are lost,” he whispered brokenly. “And Frodo faces Mordor alone.”

Again he felt Aragorn’s strong fingers close tight about his wrist, as certain and reassuring as his reply. “Merry and Pippin will be found. And Frodo is not alone -- Sam is with him.”

“Sam?” Boromir blinked and squinted up into the sunlight that haloed Aragorn’s dark hair. “But--?”

“Legolas heard his shouts as he ran to Frodo in the boat.”

Boromir started a little and bit down as a jolt of agony robbed him of his voice. Then, recovering, he gasped, “Two? Unaided against Mordor?”

“It is the only way, I fear,” Aragorn said softly. “And as I believe Gandalf intended.” Boromir wanted to say more but gave over as Aragorn leaned closer and urged, “Let us concern ourselves with you now. No more talk – you are sorely wounded.” He turned slightly, called, “Gimli! I will need water, and my pack. Legolas!”

Gimli ran downslope toward the river. Impossibly silent and smooth despite the dry leaves, Legolas came to Boromir’s side, sitting back on his heels to grip his arm above the leather guard. There was a bruise dark on Legolas’ brow and his eyes shone with unshed tears. “I feared you dead.”

“No,” Boromir whispered, pain and pressure mounting in his chest. “It will take more than a few orc pin-sticks to do that.”

Legolas’ anxious expression melted to a faint smile. “That, I see.” He squeezed Boromir’s arm, then turned to Aragorn. “You would have me aid the healing? Make him sleep?”

“No!” Boromir started up, grunted over the pain. Firm hands eased him back. “Leave me! Find the little ones!”

Aragorn bent closer still, his intent piercing grey-blue eyes drawing a wavering Boromir to fuller awareness. A firm, wonderfully warm hand cupped his cold jaw and cheek. “Hear me, Boromir. They were taken alive for a purpose. For Saruman. And this I swear, he shall not have them. We will find them long before Orcs can run all the way to Isengard. And they dare not kill them.”

Darkness and trees and sky were spinning drunkenly overhead. Boromir closed his eyes. “There are worse fates than death. Go. I beg you, leave me who failed them.”

“Failed?” There was such honest amazement in Aragorn’s voice that Boromir opened his eyes again. “You call this failed?” He swept an arm behind him to indicate the heaped Orc carcasses all about the glade. “You fought on, wounded, when others would long since have given over. It was done with great honour.”

“Honour?” Boromir grunted. It was so hard to breathe. “Did not save them.”

“Here,” Gimli said breathlessly, arriving with waterskin and pack. “How fares he?”

“Too stubborn by half. He would have us leave him.”

“What?” Gimli rumbled. “Never!”

Legolas said softly, “Fear for the little ones torments him.”

Boromir opened his mouth to drive home that point, but suddenly, Legolas’ strong, warm hands were at his face, gently cradling it. His fingertips traced the cheeks, and his thumbs gently touched the eyelids. Boromir did not want to close his eyes, but could not resist the gentle easing of those steady hands. Legolas chanted something, whispered elfish words, and of a sudden, Boromir felt the terrible agony of his wounds melting away. Until that moment he had not realized the full burden of that pain. The release of it drew a sighing breath from him, and with it too, went all the fear, all the tension. As from a distance, he could feel pressure at his chest, hands grasping something there. He could not remember. It was all a dream. He was sleeping. Even the dream faded. He relaxed, soothing, warm... . Sleep.

Gimli let out a breath of relief, seeing the pain at last leave the Man’s shockingly pale face. He bent again to his rummaging in the pack, searching for what would be needed to tend the wounds.

“My thanks, Legolas,” Aragorn said. “I feared he would fight to remain awake and would suffer for it.”

“His care for the hobbits is deep,” Legolas said worriedly. “But his wounds drain him deeper still. He has little strength left.”

“He has lost much blood,” Aragorn agreed grimly. He turned to Gimli. “I will need athelas, wound dressings, and the --.”

Knowing well what must be done, Gimli held the small, wrapped knife ready. Nodding thanks, Aragorn first lifted the water skin and washed the filth and gore of battle from his hands. “I did not know such ease could be given,” Gimli said gratefully, leaving off his hunt for bandages to look up at Legolas. “I do not wish to see him suffer further as we remove these arrows. So many.” He shook his head. “If only we could have reached him sooner.”

Aragorn unwrapped the razor-edged knife and leaned down to Boromir, his jaw set in grim determination. “Gimli,” he said, “move closer. I will need you to hold him firm. Legolas cannot keep him asleep much longer, and I would have done before he wakes.”

Gimli hurried behind Boromir and bent to take a firm grip on each shoulder. I remember his hand on my shoulder when I wept at my cousin’s tomb. And the strength of his grip as he held me back outside Moria. A kind, good man. Now so weak, so pale. Curse the Orcs! Gimli watched Legolas who still sat, eyes closed, murmuring something that was barely audible, his hands gently caressing the wounded man’s face. At least the pain is gone. Boromir looks so peaceful. If not for the blood and those ugly arrows I could think he was only sleeping. If his lung has been pierced our efforts may be in vain. Tears stung Gimli’s eyes, and he said gruffly, “What after? We cannot leave him.”

Aragorn cut through the leather surcoat that clung about the arrows then pulled aside the bloodied silk tunic. With Boromir’s bare flesh revealed, the runnels of staining red blood leaking from about savagely barbed, thick black shafts looked far worse. “No. I would ask you stay with him, Gimli, if you would. Go with him in the boat to Osgiliath.”

Gimli lifted his head sharply. Me? Aragorn has the skill at healing, surely. But, he also is the best tracker among us. And he knows the western shore. “Of course, I will stay. I am not much for cross-country runs. I will serve better here.“

“My thanks. Now, help me get this heavy surcoat and mail sleeves off him. I have slipped it free of the arrows.”

The terrible, seeping wounds about arrows in chest, side, and shoulder were bared completely, and Gimli tightened his grip. Aragorn picked up the blade again and began to cautiously cut into the flesh and bone about the shaft embedded in broken ribs dangerously close to the heart. Gimli grimaced and looked away. Thank the Valar he sleeps! A sharp tug and the first arrow came free. Boromir stirred and moaned, but only faintly. Gimli glanced up at Legolas, saw sweat beading the Elf’s brow and dripping from his face. He blinked in surprise. He could not recall ever having seen an Elf look so drained, so -- human.

“Hold him tight,” Aragorn said softly. The second arrow and clinging bone splinters were carefully cut from the badly torn shoulder wound. How had the Man fought on? Aragorn dug as gently as possible in the wound, searching for and removing any poisoned arrow fragments. Even beneath the sleep-spell there was pain and Boromir struggled briefly but did not waken. Aragorn soon had the last arrow cut from the thick muscle of the man’s side. He sat back on his heels, drew athelas from the leather pouch, and chewed the leaves, making a paste, which he applied to each of the wounds in turn. As Aragorn’s skilled fingers pressed last into the bleeding and broken shoulder, Legolas gasped like a man drowning, and swayed. Aragorn flung out a hand to steady him. Legolas’ eyes opened but showed no focus. He leaned back on his braced arms, panting.

“Legolas?” Gimli said, frowning up at him. Boromir shuddered and lifted his head and shoulders, groaning, “Merry! Pippin! No!” He rolled part way to his side, and for a moment, Gimli thought he would pull free of his grip.

Aragorn lay a firm hand to the man’s brow, forcing his head down as he commanded, “Boromir! You must be still! Hear me?”

The Orcs have them! I must get up! A firm, but sticky hand on his brow urged Boromir down and he heard Aragorn’s voice, the words cutting through the fog in his mind. Too late, they’re gone. Memory flooded back, and with it pain the like of which he had never known. A groan slipped through his parted lips, and he bit down, stifling more. He’d been wounded several times before, but never so badly. It was as if someone had set fire to his chest then weighted him with slabs of stone. And his shoulder blazed such agony that it brought cold sweat to his brow. He could breathe, but only shallowly. He opened his eyes, then squinted and blinked until his sight sharpened into focus. Aragorn was bent close over him, his dark brows drawn down, eyes seeking sign of recognition. Finding it, he let go. Boromir lifted his head a little and glanced down. He saw with relief that the ugly black-fletched, thick arrow shafts were gone from his body. Aragorn had cut away his clothing and removed chain mail and leather to leave his shoulders and arms bare. Only a few tattered remains of crimson brocade under-tunic still clung wetly to his bloodied chest.

Boromir let his head drop into the soft leaves, and said, “It is done?”

“All but the bandaging,” Aragorn gave him a quick, relieved smile. “There was not as much damage to the blood vessels as I feared. Several ribs are shattered, as is your shoulder. But the arrows did not pierce the lung or gut.”

“Oh,” Boromir said his voice thin with light-headedness. “Good.”

Panting, unsteady, Legolas moved to look down at him. “You will soon heal,” he said wryly, “-- if we can judge by the strength of -- your will. It is something fierce, indeed.”

Boromir frowned, wondering at both the words and the breathlessness, “What?”

Legolas shook his head and settled back on his heels. “I will explain -- later.”

Aragorn gently lay a padded bandage to the raw wound punched and torn in Boromir’s side, and said, “Can you sit forward a little if we help you, Boromir? Carefully now! There is not too much bleeding, do not start it again!”

Boromir nodded, and, cautioned by the urgent concern in Aragorn’s voice, obeyed. Agonising pain flared hot and high and he was glad of the strength in Gimli and Aragorn’s hands. Dizzy, sweating, he leaned back heavily against Gimli’s broad chest. Aragorn dug into the pack and came up with more of the rolled, white cloth the Elves had supplied them. Aragorn’s hands were steady and quick as he wound the bandages again and again about stomach, chest and shoulder. Boromir had many times found a light word to reassure his own wounded men and their companions. Now, he found he was too sick with pain to make jokes about using up the entire supply of bandaging. He concentrated instead on watching Legolas who had recovered from whatever weakness had taken him. The Elf got smoothly to his feet and made a trip to the river and back, returning with a bedroll and Boromir’s shield.

Boromir nodded thanks. He could see his sword lying by his side, but there was no sign of his horn. “Your horn is lost,” Legolas said, as if reading the thought, “I put an arrow in the back of the Orc who had taken it.” He looked a little embarrassed as he explained, “Both Orc and horn then fell in the river and were swept away.”

Boromir tried to reply over the pain as Aragorn continued torturing him with the bandaging. “Better that --” he gasped, “ than Gondor’s horn a trophy for Orcs.”

“True,” Legolas said. He bent and began preparing the bedroll at Boromir’s back.

“There,” Aragorn said, tying off the final knot to lean back and frown at his handiwork. “That should hold your ribs and shoulder secure, but you must be careful – broken bones can slice through blood vessels. You must stay as still as possible.”

Boromir snorted, and was immediately pleased to find the wrapping did make breathing a little easier. “You’ve bound me as tight as a pig for market. I won’t escape.” He lifted his eyes to give Aragorn a warmly grateful but wry regard.

“Good,” Aragorn smiled faintly in return and gripped his right shoulder for a moment before taking him by the arms and carefully easing him back, Gimli supporting him from behind.

Utterly exhausted, Boromir lay back on the bedroll, pleased and touched when he found Legolas had made a pillow from his folded leather tunic. Suddenly aware of intense thirst, he asked, “Is there any water? I would drink an ocean.”

“Here,” Aragorn said, leaning aside to pick up the water skin. He slid his free hand beneath Boromir’s sweat-dampened hair and held his head as eagerly, Boromir took the open rim in his mouth. “Slowly,” Aragorn warned. Boromir made no attempt to gulp the wonderfully soothing water despite the desperate thirst caused by both blood loss and his exertions in battle. He knew only too well that too much water too soon could cause further bleeding.

Boromir swallowed twice, then hoarse with weariness said, “My thanks. Now please, go! Give chase.” He shivered, cold through to the bone. He could not stop shaking even though it increased the pain of his wounds.

“Soon. Here, you are cold.” Legolas covered him warmly, first with a blanket then the weatherproof cloak.

Boromir clamped his jaw hard in an effort to control the shivering. The bedroll protected him from the damp ground and the woollen blanket cocooned him in warmth. The late afternoon sunshine had almost seemed hot when he’d gone in search of firewood. It seemed impossible it had been the same day, so much had changed so fast. All the hobbits, his friends, were gone. Sam and Frodo could surely not survive Mordor. And Merry and Pippin – he squeezed his eyes shut over that pain. What horrors did they endure even now while he lay here amid gentle caring hands? “Please,” he begged. “Every moment brings them nearer torment and death.”

Aragorn gripped Boromir’s arm and he looked up into determined, knowing blue eyes. “Legolas and I have many times travelled the lands of the western shore. There is a way through the southeast plains of Rohan that intersects with the Orcs’ route. It will give us half a day or more on their pace. They fear the Rohirrim. We will catch them up, and quickly.”

Boromir nodded thanks but said nothing. Bringing prisoners back alive does not mean they may not be maimed -- especially should they try to escape. And Merry and Pippin will. I know it.

Aragorn got to his feet and said, “Rest. We must get you back onto the river. Gimli will stay with you.”

“Surely he would prefer to join the hunt?”

The Dwarf leaned forward into Boromir’s line of sight to rumble, “You have outstripped my score by far too many, this day, my friend. I would be with you to have you see it leveled -- and bettered!”

Boromir stared up at him, wondering that even blunt, brutally frank Gimli should be so ready to help him rather than curse his folly. “Then, I thank you, Gimli.” He closed his eyes and tried to will himself to feel more warmth than cold. When next he looked up he caught sight of a swiftly running Aragorn who was just disappearing through the trees and rocks that lined the shore closest to the falls. Instinctively, he reached for the sword that lay at his side, then grunted with the pain it caused him. Hearing that small sound of distress, Legolas turned quickly to him. “Aragorn has found more of the enemy?” Boromir asked.

Legolas’ fine brows lifted in surprise. “No, no! He goes only to make preparations for your journey.”

“Oh. Good.” Boromir let go the sword. Then, remembering they were to travel by water, he looked up at Gimli and asked, “What of the boat? You are no sailor, and neither of us can best Rauros.”

Gimli grunted amusement. “I am sure you recall the many times Legolas assured us that nothing could ever sink an Elf-crafted boat?”

“But -- Rauros!” Boromir turned to eye Legolas. “Well?”

“Nothing can sink an elvan boat, not even Rauros. But that is not to say that you and Gimli would survive!”

Boromir was too tired to do more than mumble fervent agreement. “So we walk.”

“No.” Legolas knelt and lay a gentle hand to his arm. “I will wait a while, then send an empty boat over the falls. It will survive undamaged, and Aragorn will bring it again to shore. You will travel by water, not on foot, to Osgiliath.”

“What? The current will be deep and swift below the falls. How can Aragorn --?”

“He has his bow and an arrow to which a line is attached.” Legolas shook his head and smiled wryly. “I wanted to do the target shooting, but Aragorn assures me even he can’t miss hitting a boat!”

“Not to mention,” Gimli said dryly, “You used all your arrows on the enemy.”

“True,” Legolas smiled at the Dwarf. “But that can easily be remedied when next I go uphill.”

Boromir didn’t want to think about arrows being cut from flesh, even enemy flesh right now. He still wasn’t clear on what exactly Aragorn planned for the boat. But with his mind wearied and his body weakened, he had neither the patience nor the strength to get to the bottom of the riddle. Hurting, exhausted, he could be glad only that he was not required to do any running. He closed his eyes and tried to will the pain to lessen. Gimli and Legolas moved away from him a little way to exchange soft words. Yet not soft enough that he could not hear.

“I fear Boromir’s concerns for Merry and Pippin may yet prove true,” Legolas said.

“Aye,” Gimli agreed sorrowfully. “Saruman’s orders are no guarantee of staying Orc tempers -- or hunger.”

Legolas gave a sighing sound full of pain. “The White Wizard will not take them alive to his dungeons, this I swear.” Boromir’s stomach churned at the image, though it was no surprise, only as he had expected.

The friends stood together a moment, silent and grim, then Gimli said, “I’ll make a fire and steep the athelas Aragorn left for that purpose.” He gathered kindling and piled it close to Boromir to give him the added warmth. Finding Boromir watching him, he gave a wry smile, “I fear no matter what Aragorn says, you and I know well his herbs can’t equal a good malt brew in the belly! But, I suppose some hot teat might help stop your shivering, at least.”

Boromir nodded thanks, but found his teeth were chattering too much to say anything for the moment. He could not understand why he was still shivering when he was so warmly covered. But, deep in his veins, he could swear ice was gathering and spreading further with each beat of his heart.

“Here. This should have that water boiling quickly.” Boromir started a little as Legolas materialised as suddenly and silently as ever to add wood to the now cheerful blaze Gimli was tending. The Elf peered up at the sky then said, “Aragorn should soon reach the foot of Rauros’ Stairs. I will tow one of the boats out into the current and send it over the falls.”

“Be careful you don’t follow after it!” Gimli teased, then bent to add athelas leaves to the water can he’d placed on the fire. The clean fresh scent that rose with the steam brought immediate easing of pain, and Boromir found himself wanting to draw deeper breaths despite his wounded chest. The hot tea would be even better.

Gimli sat quietly by the wounded man and poked at the small fire with a stick. About him the tree shadows grew longer against the lowering sun that haloed Legolas’ still form where he stood studying the lake. The Elf had reported the boat safely on its way but that was some time ago. Had Aragorn been able to secure it or had the booming mountain of water destroyed it? It was eerily quiet in the glade now. Insects buzzed about the heaped Uruk carcasses. So many! Gimli shook his head in wondering admiration – that must have been some fight! He cast a proud glance at Boromir’s pale face; eased by the athelas, the Man had blessedly found sleep. There was a sudden snapping of undergrowth and Gimli started up, standing and grabbing his axe. But it was only Aragorn returning, startling Boromir awake as he arrived at a run, his bow slung at his back. “That was clever thinking, Legolas,” Aragorn said a little breathlessly. “The boat awaits below, secured by my arrow and Gimli’s line.”

“And your shot,” Legolas said with a smile and lay a hand to his friend’s shoulder as the Man bent over a little to catch his breath. “I wish I could have seen that. It is not often one sees a ranger hunt a boat.”

“You didn’t?” Boromir queried, lifting his head a little to look at him in surprise.

Aragorn knelt, his keen eyes quickly studying Boromir’s face as a Healer might look at his patient. “I did,” he said with a half-laugh. “My first boat-kill.” His smile faded as he noted Boromir still shivered slightly and was unable even to hold his head up without it wearying him and bringing pain. “Once we have you safely aboard, we part ways for a time.” He pulled the blanket higher about Boromir’s bare shoulders and got back to his feet to cast a thoughtful glance at the saplings that stood about the glade. “Now we put Gimli’s axe to work.”

Boromir groaned frustration. “I need no bier. I can walk -- only give me your shoulder.”

Aragorn’s jaw dropped in astonishment at the very idea. “Your wounds are deep, I will not have them torn further. Take rest, Boromir, I beg you. It is a long journey to Osgiliath, and you will need all and more of your strength.” Seeing Boromir’s scowl, he added, “Nor will Merry and Pippin forgive me if you are not fit to face their chatter when next you meet.”

That earned a grudging smile as Boromir dared imagine such a moment might yet come to pass. “’True enough they can talk a man to old age in a day.”

It was a matter of less than an hour before they had the litter ready. The freshly hewn saplings were secured with rope and laid with what soft materials they had. They carried it closer to find Boromir, exhausted beyond pain, and eased by the athelas, was sleeping. Gimli watched as Aragorn knelt and lay a hand to the man’s brow then cast a worried frown up at his friends.

“I am glad of his sleep,” he said gravely. “And the cold has left him, yet now he burns. It is too soon for so much fever to be caused by his wounds alone.” He reached out and carefully collected one of the blood-sticky arrows he had cut from the man’s flesh. He examined the cruelly barbed arrowhead closely, then ran a finger carefully over its ugly black tip. He held the finger up to the light and they could all see the faint sheen of green glowing from the staining blood, an unnatural sickly light. “This is a new evil. Saruman!” He spat the name as vehemently as any curse.

Legolas sighed heavily and nodded. “It was not the battle against Boromir’s will alone that so wearied me,” he admitted sadly. “I felt some -- shadow. There is poison. I had hoped it may all have been cut away with the arrows.”

“We can hope. Most was removed, and the athelas should overcome the remainder. Yet I fear Saruman plans a lingering death for many wounded who might otherwise have been saved, and such in its turn will bring despair to all.” Letting out his breath with an angry grunt, Aragorn climbed quickly to his feet to take Legolas’ shoulder in one hand, and Gimli’s the other. “Our care will see that Saruman’s foul poison does not take Boromir, and our hunt will free Merry and Pippin. We will see our friends reunited in Minas Tirith. Now, we needs make all haste.”

Gently, they moved the wounded man onto the padded litter. Boromir did not stir, and they were glad of it. The less the strain placed upon him, the better his chances for overcoming the poison. Sleep would protect him a little from the necessary jolting of carriage on such a crude litter. It would not be an easy feat to carry him down the steep, ancient Stairs. The stone steps had long ago been hewn into the cliff face about Rauros by those who sought access from the south to The Seat of Seeing. Long since left untended, they were slick with moss, ferns and the constant mist of the waterfall. Aragorn was very glad that the sure-footed, lean but powerful Legolas would be in the lead. Still, they took the added precaution of gently but firmly roping Boromir to the bier lest he be taken from their grasp by the growing incline.

Finally, breathless and weary, they stepped down from the last of the Stairs and eased the heavy litter down to soft grass of the riverbank. The elven boat bobbed gently on the swirling silver water and had been well secured by Aragorn, the line knotted tight about a massive moss-covered log. Night was falling and they were guided for the most part only by the flickering torch Gimli carried behind them. They released the ropes, then without moving Boromir from the litter, lifted him one last time to move him into the boat. He was as comfortable as they could make him, cradled by the narrow makeshift bed, and sheltered from river spray by the elvan craft’s high wooden walls. Last, they transferred the gear they had carried, including Boromir’s shield and sword.

Night was closing fast. Spray and whirls of thick white fog drifted down from Rauros’ unceasing fall. The coolness roused Boromir who woke to gaze about himself in momentary confusion, then settle back again. “All is ready?” he said, somewhat woozily turning to regard the boat in which he now lay. “That was swift and well done.”

“I am glad that we have managed to satisfy your hunger for haste, my friend,“ Aragorn said wryly, and bent down to him. Again, he lay a hand to Boromir’s brow. “Perhaps it is Rauros’ cool touch, but the fever seems less.” He made one final check of the bandaging by the dim light of a single torch. Then, seeming satisfied with what he found, he looked up to ask, “How fare you?”

“I did not think to live to see the closing of this day,” Boromir said. “I will make no complaint.”

“As is ever your way,” Aragorn said intently. He stood and turned back to collect the last of the packs left on the riverbank.

“Nor did I think to have you here with us when I saw you fallen,” Legolas put in softly. “The many leagues ahead would then have been far the heavier for the burden of a grieving heart.”

“Elves,” Gimli grunted, sharing a swift glance with Boromir as he gave over the torch and took his place on the piled packs behind him in the boat, “Ever full of gloomy poetry.”

Boromir laughed, then gasped with a reminder of pain. When he had recovered his breath, he looked up and said, “At least my fair nursemaid for the journey will spare me such, you think, Legolas?”

“Indeed.” Legolas gave a slight, teasing smile and added, “Should we survive the coming battles, we must then brave the questions of the song makers.” Boromir looked so appalled and at a loss for words, that Legolas shook his head in wry amusement. He reached down and grasped Boromir’s bare hand in farewell. “Perhaps they will not dare pester the Steward’s son.”

“I would tell them of Merry and Pippin,” Boromir said softly. “They tried to protect me, at the last.” Tears suddenly misted his eyes, and he blinked them angrily away.

Gimli looked up to where Aragorn stood straight and tall, studying the mighty Anduin that swept ever southward to the sea. The Ranger’s dark brows were lowered in thought, but his eyes were full of light, gleaming with the gold red flares flickering from Legolas’ torch. The tree-rimmed sky was black as velvet behind him and about his head bright silver stars appeared. He stood silent and still, making Gimli wonder at his thoughts. Minas Tirith holds his birthright.

“We will return Merry and Pippin safely,” Aragorn said, the words little more than a whisper, yet resolute. Abruptly, as if a decision had been made, he turned and looked down at Boromir, holding the man’s gaze. “Then, together we will defend Minas Tirith. I know not what strength lies in my blood, but this I swear. I will not let the White City fall. Nor our people fail.”

“Our people?” A smile touched Boromir’s pale lips and his eyes lit with hope. He drew a great breath of relief and joy and repeated: “Our people!” He reached up his bare right arm and Aragorn bent to take it firmly in a warrior’s grip. “I will await your coming,” Boromir said, sure and eager. “And I will stand at your side. My brother. My captain. My king.”

Aragorn inhaled sharply, then said in a rough whisper, “You do me great honour, Boromir.” He gave a firm, nodding salute. “We meet again in the White City.” With that he released Boromir’s arm and turned about to collect the last pack. He found something else there on the damp moss, almost hidden by the ferns and long grass. Gimli craned forward a little and saw that it was Boromir’s leather vambraces the man held so thoughtfully. In the flickering torchlight, the White Tree gleamed wetly, etched in relief along their length. Aragorn stared at the tree a long moment before turning to hold them out to his wounded friend. “Here I almost overlooked them in the shadows. These are yours.”

Boromir too, had caught that moment’s hesitation, that thoughtful gaze fixed on the White Tree, symbol of Gondor. Of Gondor’s long enduring hope. And here stood that hope at last, full of life and vigour. Gimli watched keenly as Boromir met Aragorn’s eyes. “I would have you wear them, Aragorn. I will have no need until I can again wield a sword. “

“But --” Aragorn began. Then reading Boromir’s eyes, his expression changed, his eyes widening. He nodded and began immediately buckling them about his forearms.

Boromir let out a soft sigh and smiled. “Gondor’s king should carry Gondor’s seal on his sword-arm.”

“Indeed,” Aragorn said softly. “And I thank you.”

Boromir nodded and settled wearily back against the padded litter. Aragorn collected the last pack and bent to place it in the now limited space remaining. “I would have you give my greeting to your father, but --”

“I understand.” Boromir replied, and Gimli recalled it had not been so long ago when the man had voiced his father’s opinion. Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king. Admittedly, Boromir had at the time been stung by Aragorn’s earlier refusal to reveal his true identity when they had spoken privately. Gimli knew that because he had later heard Aragorn taking Legolas to task and defending Boromir’s reaction. Now, the Steward’s son met Aragorn’s eyes and said calmly, “Leave my father’s temper to me as I leave Merry and Pippin’s return in your sure hands.”

“I will, and gladly.” Aragorn smiled wryly as he grasped the boat’s prow, then pushed her out onto the burgeoning river. “Safe journey, Gimli, Boromir. Come, Legolas. We hunt Orc!” Together the two friends turned and strode up the bank, disappearing swiftly into the misty shadows billowing about Rauros’ ghostly white veil.

“Gimli!” Boromir said urgently, “Steady the boat. I’m ..” He pushed up awkwardly on one elbow, threw himself against the boat’s wooden side, hung his head over and was violently sick. Again. Sweating, shaking with fever and thoroughly miserable, he collapsed back onto the litter. All he could recall of the first night on the river was feeling so cold and ill that he thought he must shake the boat apart with his shivering. And now, he burned. The irony of it would amuse him in any other circumstance.

He was thankful his friends had thought to lay his thick cloak and more blankets beneath him. It made a softer bed to ease a little the fiery torment that any movement brought to his wounds. And the blanket ends were long enough to wrap about him along with his other coverings when, rather than burn, he felt he would freeze. Aragorn had insisted on giving up his own bedroll to make a larger bolstering pillow which made it less a distance to lift himself to lean from the boat. The leather of Boromir’s surcoat was spread uppermost on the coverings to protect him further from the river spray. The lengths to which his friends had gone to ensure every possible means of seeing to his care was a constant and humbling reminder of how very much they valued him. The ever-growing love and loyalty that bound The Fellowship throughout long days of perilous journeying had profoundly affected Boromir. And never more so than at Amon Hen. The agony of despair he had suffered in feeling he had failed them was far greater than any he would previously have believed possible. Then after his wounding, as they refused to abandon him, awed and humbled, he understood at last that their love had never been in doubt.

The Fellowship had been further tested at Amon Hen and through it forged a source of strength that would never fail.

“Here,” Gimli said, and Boromir felt the cool, soothing touch of a wet cloth at his face. The Dwarf had proven to have a surprisingly gentle touch. Again, he moistened Boromir’s mouth and wiped away the sour sickness. Boromir had not known much of Dwarves, and had thought them capable only as miners and axemen. That view had expanded much since his travels from Rivendell. Now, Gimli had not only quickly learned at least the basics of directing the boat against the mighty river’s twisting, he could take time to care for a wounded Man.

“Better?” Gimli asked, and the single word carried a weight of worry Boromir had never heard from him before. He didn’t want to know how bad he must look to cause such anxiety.

“Some,” Boromir said, mustering as much strength as possible in his voice. He heard the familiar sound as Gimli lay the oar aside to bend carefully and rinse the washcloth in the stream. Then, those wonderfully gentle hands placed the cool, damp material softly over Boromir’s brow and eyes, partially blocking out the stinging glare of the noonday sun. It seemed an unnaturally warm day, the sky a startlingly beautiful clear blue high above them. They’d seen no sign of anything moving on the riverbanks, and heard no more than the occasional, reassuring song of a small bird.

“You slept little last night,” Gimli said. “Rest. The sun is high and the day will be long.”

Boromir snorted bitterly. “Rest? I have done naught else while your labours continue.” He felt Gimli’s small but incredibly strong hands carefully ease up one edge of the bandage about his broken shoulder to check for bleeding. It was the only wound the Dwarf could safely reach without upsetting his balance in the boat. “Well?” Boromir asked, and wondered bleakly if the wound could possibly look as bad as it felt.

“All this tossing about is not helping,” Gimli said in his typically acerbic manner.

“Never have I known wounds to cause stomach sickness such as this,” Boromir said wearily. Gimli grunted and said nothing. They both knew only too well that most Orc arrows carried at least some poison. The healers were familiar with that and had devised treatment for it. But Boromir’s suffering now was different. Saruman had provided more potent poison to coat the weapons of his newly created Uruk-hai. Nonetheless, Boromir was determined it would not take his life. There was too much to do, too much for him to make right after The Ring had so seduced him. It still shamed him to think of that awful moment. Of the fear he’d brought to Frodo’s eyes.

Irritated by the gloomy path of his thoughts, Boromir lifted his good arm and snatched away the cloth from his brow and eyes. Already it was dry and warm. Painfully, he craned his head a little until he could see the river’s brown-green current, then looking up, compared that pace with the seeming movement of the rocky, forested embankment some distance away. “How far do you think we’ve come since Rauros?” he asked, glancing up at the Dwarf’s heavily bearded face.

Gimli grunted, thought a moment, then said, “I am no judge of distances over water. But, perhaps, ten leagues.”

The Dwarf looked down at him; their eyes meeting and Boromir could see the weariness there. “It is you who must rest,” Boromir said, repeating an argument he’d made as he’d wakened at first light to find Gimli had made no attempt to pull ashore and sleep during the night. “You cannot go on --”

“I can, and I will,” Gimli cut him off gruffly. “We Dwarves excel in trials of endurance and can long outlast a man’s need of sleep.”

“Oh?” Boromir smiled. “I will give you that Dwarves can better any man when it comes to delving in the earth, mining for gems.”

“Indeed! But there you speak of comparing crafts. I compare the merits of the body.”

“The body?” Boromir urged when no more was said. He was beginning to feel nauseous again. Lying here with nothing to do other than watch the sky or trees gave no distraction from growing pain and discomfort. He could have hoped for a more talkative travel companion. The Hobbits now -- An immediate image came to him of Merry and Pippin’s bright faces and endless chatter. They had a way of keeping up a non -stop conversation, the one ending the other’s phrases as if they were of one mind. At first he’d found it surprising, then amusing, then -- touching, as he realised how deep a friendship bound the two. He exhaled irritably, chasing his thoughts away again from unwanted memory of the horrors of his failure during yesterday’s battle. He could not bear to think what the two friends might be suffering at this moment. He prayed fervently that Aragorn was right, that they would be left unharmed, and Man and Elf would soon see them free.

“The body of a Dwarf, being smaller --” Gimli elaborated suddenly, making Boromir wonder if the Dwarf too needed distraction from the same torments. Gimli’s fondness for the Hobbits could not be any the less than his own. Dwarf and Hobbits had, after all, at the least; both endured the Men’s teasing about their limits during the journey. Boromir still vividly recalled Gimli’s “No one tosses a Dwarf!” when they’d made to cross the broken bridge in Moria.

“Much smaller,” Boromir put in, smiling at the memory.

“ -- needs far less than a Man’s to keep it working,” Gimli continued with smooth dignity.

“Except maybe for beer?” Boromir teased.

“Beer!” Gimli exclaimed with a wealth of feeling. “What I wouldn’t give for a good malt brew right now! Foaming from the tankard, cooled by the cellars, Ahh -- “ he sighed, then grunted amusement. “Perhaps you are right, friend, a Dwarf’s need for beer far exceeds that of a mere Man.”

Boromir chuckled, glad of the easing of his darker mood. “I’ll settle for some more water,” he said, aware suddenly of just how badly the fever had parched his mouth and throat. Gimli had left a water skin where he could easily reach it, and he did so now, taking a careful swallow, then another. Even so little tended to make his stomach heave. He’d never noticed the movement of the boat as they’d journeyed south to Parth Galen. Since his wounding, the lack of firm ground beneath him seemed to increase the nausea. “Tell me aught else Dwarves do better than Men,” he said, adding teasingly, “or is it too short a list?” Satisfaction with his pun faded as he grunted over the pain caused by putting down the water skin and easing his shoulders down again.

“Beards,” Gimli announced from above him. “Some say that...”

Boromir listened gratefully, absorbing the soothing cadence of the words rather than the meaning, the fever climbing again, draining his strength still further and claiming ever more of his attention. He drifted off, slipping from stupor to clear awareness and back, until he barely knew the difference, and the sun sank lower in the sky.

Then, suddenly, Gimli said sharply, “White water ahead! Hold on, lad! Hold tight!”

Groggily, Boromir tried to do so. His arm seemed incredibly heavy and his grip as he fumbled for the boat rim was hopelessly weak. He could hear the hiss and roar of rough water but had not the strength to prop himself up and dared not upset Gimli’s fierce concentration in any case. Then he felt a surging, rapid current grab the boat and it rocked and pitched downward only to climb again just as steeply. As it plunged down again, Boromir could plainly see high rolling swells of dark green water edged with white foam, rolling about them. He prayed Legolas was right about the quality of elvan river-craft. He knew he did not have the strength to save himself, let alone save Gimli who could not swim. He glanced up at the Dwarf, saw terror and equal measure determination lining the swarthy, heavy-browed eyes. Gimli tried steering but the oar was almost ripped from his hands by the power of the hungry rapids. He pulled the oar hurriedly inside the boat, then grabbed hard to either side of the boat rim and held on for dear life. Gimli yelled something that was probably ‘hold hard!” but Boromir couldn’t be sure over the tremendous roar of the angry river.

Then came a sudden thud and an unnerving scraping as wood met rock. The jolt pitched Gimli forward as Boromir himself slid further toward the prow. Somehow Gimli stopped himself from being thrown down and atop the wounded Man. They were flung first one way then the other, and Boromir’s face twisted up with the pain as raw wounds were savagely pounded. The litter lurched alarmingly as the boat tilted, threatening to go over on its side completely. A small wave washed over them, clearing Boromir’s head as the pain made him woozy. Then, cursing loudly, Gimli gripped the oar and shoved it hard against the protruding rock. Abruptly, the boat jumped free. It spun in a dizzying circle, then arrowed straight once more, taken by the burgeoning current to race at heart-stopping speed deeper into the rapids. The entire performance was repeated two or three times, with Gimli quickly picking up the trick of fending them off from the rocks.

Finally came blessed silence as they shot clear into smooth water once more. Boromir could hear Gimli gasping for breath as he himself gulped back cries of pain. The Dwarf’s gnarled hand gripped Boromir’s good shoulder and he exclaimed with a relieved laugh, “We’re through, laddie! We’re through! There’s league upon league of clear water ahead.”

“Good,” Boromir smiled faintly up at him. Then without further ado, he leaned hard to one side and emptied his stomach into the river. After that, he remembered little, darkness taking him in waves that crested with burning fever and pain.

When next he opened his eyes, day was quickly fading to night and a soft rain fell. He realised he had been shivering violently for some time, drenched by the rapids, and now the chill of the changing weather. Gimli’s voice came to him as at a vast distance, though he could plainly feel the limited, wondrous warmth of the Dwarf’s heavily bearded body close behind him. With a start, Boromir understood that Gimli had been speaking to him for a long time now, on and off for hour after hour, without Boromir’s full cognizance.

“Must get you warm and dry,” he had said over and over. “If I can only find a likely spot. Curse these foul cliffs!”

“Wh-where are we?” Boromir said, having to swallow before he could find his voice over impossibly parched lips and tongue. “Is it safe to put to shore?”

Gimli gasped a sharp breath and leaned down to blink at him in joyful surprise. “You wake!” he exclaimed, a broad grin lighting his bearded face in the gloom. “I feared the fever would take you.”

“How long?” Boromir asked.

“This is our third night on the river. You were delirious a full day.”

“Third?” But Boromir could hear the truth of it in the rasping of utter exhaustion in his friend’s voice.

“Aye. I dared not stop yesterday. The walls of rock climbed unbroken on shore at either side. I thought they would never cease imprisoning us. There were naught but the stars overhead by night to tell me we still lived and had not entered some other more perilous realm.”

“I remember it not.”

Gimli shook his head. “You burned something fearsome. You tossed and muttered and I feared --” He drew a gulping, almost sobbing breath and Boromir realized with astonishment that Gimli was near weeping. The Dwarf lifted an arm and wiped his face brusquely, grunting and coughing as he tried to make it seem only the rain was misting his eyes.

Boromir shuddered again, feeling the sharp bite of bone deep cold gnawing at him. “My thanks, friend,” he said over chattering teeth. “You have kept watch and saved us both.”

Gimli’s hand settled on Boromir’s brow, and Boromir blinked surprise -- his brow burned beneath the Dwarf’s cold hand though he felt near frozen solid.

“The fever lingers,” Gimli said wearily. “Not as high, but embers can as soon be stoked to new flame if given fuel. And this night would bring such fuel aplenty. The cliffs are long gone behind. The shore opens out yet is very rough. We must find shelter! If only Legolas were here. His elvan eyes would soon pierce this evil gloom.”

Boromir managed to get a hand under him and dizzily propped his upper body against the Dwarf’s knees. He waited for his head to stop spinning, then said, “We must surely have entered Ithilien. I know it well; there will be places to beach a boat. I will watch this bank, you the other.”

“Good man. You think then we are not too many more days from Osgiliath?”

“Two, perhaps three. No more.”

The boat rounded a long sweeping curve, as dark night descended swiftly and the rain became heavier, soaking and chill. “There!” Boromir said. “Unless it be fever tricks -- I see a pale glimmering. A sandy bank?”

“I see it also,” Gimli said, relief thick in his voice. “We can stay out here no longer. The boat settles lower, and I do not recall our good Elf friend supplying any wisdom concerning sinking under the weight should we be unable to draw the hides to keep out stormwater.” With that, the Dwarf set to his oar-work, grunting over the strain but gradually winning the battle to turn the boat away from the current. Obediently, the little craft nosed toward the paler colour in the gathering gloom. Moments later, there was a muffled thump and the boat slid up onto dry sand. Behind the bank was an impenetrable wall of dark trees, and far off, the vague outline of rounded hills framed the dark clouded sky.

“Well done, my friend!” Boromir said, giving Gimli’s leg a pat before collapsing back to the litter.

“We’re not clear just yet,” Gimli said, grunting as he climbed stiffly out of the boat. He pulled the weatherproof hide from its storage space in the prow and pulled it up, fixing it tight to the clasps at the sides. Now at least Boromir’s lower body was protected from the drenching rain that sought to fill the hollows beneath the litter-bed. “I must haul the boat higher if the rising river is not to drag her out while we sleep.”

“How?” Boromir said, frowning. But he need not have worried. It seemed the line Aragorn had fixed to the boat was still in place, solidly attached to the prow by the arrow sunk deep into its planks. Gimli wiped rainwater from his face and picked up his axe and took his bearings. He grabbed the line and walked to the nearest tree, a tall solid pine. Then, using his axe as a winch, he slowly hauled the boat further up the sandbank until he was satisfied that even should it rain all night, the river should not reach them.

Boromir could not have moved to go ashore, he had barely the strength to sit up without aid. Nor would his wounded body hold him even could he stand. Only the arrow wounds warmed him now, burning and throbbing with a never-ending torment and he felt so impossibly cold that he could almost welcome their inner fire. Rain continued to pour down, and though they were on solid ground at last, there was no sheltering his head and shoulders from the sodden chill. Boromir was not so foolish as to think he had much chance of surviving such conditions in his present state.

Having tied off the boat, Gimli hefted his axe over his shoulder once more, and disappeared into the bordering pine trees. Boromir started up a little at the sound of the axe biting into the tree trunks. The chop-thud would surely be heard some distance even over the rain. He wondered what the Dwarf was doing, and prayed that his estimate was right and they were relatively safe within the borders of Ithilien. His father’s orders had set scouts to patrol these woods on the borders of Osgiliath, and clean out the enemy. Still, the men of Gondor had been ambushed by Orcs and by Southrons along these very banks. Impatient, shuddering with cold, and annoyed at his own helplessness, he waited, his right hand gripping his sword hilt.

Then, it seemed a veritable forest began moving toward him. He squinted, looked closer and could just make out Gimli’s stout form dragging several pine saplings toward the boat. The Dwarf seemed rather pleased with himself. “A good axe will always save the day,” he announced. “I’ll have a shelter for us in no time. And a nice warm fire.” Boromir opened his mouth to mention the dangers of being seen, but Gimli over rode him with a curt, “Either you have warmth and shelter this night, or you perish.”

Boromir nodded, and tried a smile over his chattering teeth. “Th-then it is well I have a Dwarf friend and his axe at my side.”

Gimli gripped his arm and shook it slightly by way of thanks and encouragement. He set to work in earnest, first making a three-pronged frame that stood wide above the head of the boat then another at its foot with a lodge pole joining the two. Next he bundled the thickly needled pine boughs against the frame, sometimes weaving them a little, until finally he had created a tightly thatched tent that covered the entire length of the boat and also protected a small bordering area of sand. In the furthest end of the green tent Gimli left a small gap above and the rain that entered there trickled smoothly onto the sand from the oiled leather hide that was tied down over the forward section of the boat. In the front end a narrow opening was the tent’s door. Inside, there was space enough on the wet sand beneath the tent to build a small rock-encircled campfire. Boromir was more than impressed when at last Gimli entered and stood back to examine his handiwork and give a satisfied grunt. “Not much,” he said, “But it will keep out the rain and will hide a fire from all but Elvan eyes.”

Before Boromir could find suitable words of gratitude the Dwarf disappeared again to return shortly after with firewood. Shivering and shaking, Boromir watched eagerly as Gimli struck the flint stone and flame licked at the kindling of the makeshift hearth in the sand, its fire neatly sheltered from the rain by the thatched tent. Blessed warmth began seeping about the shelter, thin tendrils of smoke escaping up and out through the pine bough roof. “Fire,” Gimli announced, looking up at the Man, “Another of those Dwarven talents you must add to your list.”

Boromir managed a shuddering laugh. “For this I will be ever grateful.”

Gimli marched off again to collect and carry more firewood to their shelter, ensuring a supply for the long wet night. “Fortune led us to this place,” he said as at last he settled down to enjoy the fruits of his labours. “Up the bank a little way, there is a rock overhang with a dead tree beneath. Enough dry wood for an army.”

“Let us hope this is a sign that all our fortunes change for the better,” Boromir said tiredly. “I pray that this night also finds our friends safe and warm.”

“Aye, lad,” Gimli said. They both watched wearily entranced for long moments as sparks spiraled up and the bright flames leaped and danced, cheering their hearts as much as it warmed their flesh. Sleep began to weigh heavily at Boromir’s eyes, but Gimli bustled about, putting a pot on the fire and heating water, then turning to strip Boromir of wet coverings and hang them to dry. Then, to top all the wonders, Gimli pulled his own elvan cloak from inside his pack where it had remained protected and dry, and bent to wrap it snugly about Boromir’s upper body. Its soothing warm touch was a balm that was matched only by the steaming athelas tea Gimli held to his lips.

Boromir gave him a sincere smile. “Never could I have hoped for better care while wounded and in the wild. I am in your debt.”

“Not so. But if you will believe it, then repay me by making a sound recovery. I dare not face the wrath of our hobbit friends, or indeed of Aragorn and Legolas should I not deliver you safely to Minas Tirith.”

Boromir lay his hand over the small gnarled fingers about the cup held to his lips, and said, “This I swear – Gimli Son of Glóin will ever be welcome in the White City, and will ever be held in honoured memory by my people.”

“You should eat something, if you can,” Gimli said gruffly, and turned away hurriedly. “There has been naught in your stomach but water for three days. Perhaps some of this endless supply of lembas?”

Warm and succored against all chance, Boromir soon drifted to sleep. The herbal tea and the warmth eased his wounds, and the soft hiss of rain was now something pleasant rather than threatening as it pattered upon the pine thatch.

1. Fangorn Forest.

Sunlight gleamed on green leaves and laced the branches of the old gnarled trees, bringing gladness to Pippin’s heart after the awful gloom and hostile feel of the part of Fangorn Forest they had first entered. But then he supposed the trees there would only naturally be less friendly since they were on the border where Orcs and Men were most likely to cut down their friends for timber or firewood. Here, deep in the heart of the forest close by Treebeard’s home of Welling Hall, the trees seemed more relaxed, or at least asleep and less likely to threaten violence.

Though Merry insisted he didn’t need it after a wonderfully restful night’s sleep, Pippin wrapped a supporting arm about him as they made their way over twisted roots and mossy rocks. Ahead they could hear a stream playing in the dappled shade at the edge of the glade. Maybe Merry didn’t need the assistance, but after the horror of fearing his friend might die, hurt and bleeding and tied to an Orc’s back where Pippin could not help him --- well, truth be told, Pippin just didn’t want to stop hugging him for his own reassurance. Nothing, other than Frodo’s wounding on Weathertop had scared him more. Boromir’s desperate fight at Amon Hen was in a whole other category of grief and terror, so bad that whenever the thought crossed his mind, Pippin did his best to push it far back where he needn’t examine it. He had just the two friends, Merry and Gandalf for company right now and he’d concentrate on that miracle for preference. Gandalf was alive! And if Gandalf could be alive, then surely Boromir – but Gandalf wasn’t human…. No don’t think about Boromir. Don’t --

“Sit down there,” he said to Merry. “On that rock ledge that hangs out over the water and let me take a look at that cut on your head.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Merry repeated, but moved to obey nonetheless, sitting down on the thick moss cushion atop the rock and dangling his feet into the cool water.

“Well, it looks like it must. You’ve got dried blood all over your forehead and some in your hair, too.”

“Have I?” Merry lifted a hand and winced as he probed the gash.

“Don’t touch it!”

Merry half turned, sighed heavily and folded his arms to give Pippin an all too familiar look of exasperation. “You’re going to touch it, so why can’t I?”

“Well, because –“ Pippin had to think about it a moment, then he smiled and said, “You can’t see what you’re doing.” He squatted down and washed his hands thoroughly in the fast-running stream then stood again to add victoriously, “And your hands are dirty.”

“No they’re not!” But as Pippin leaned over him to better examine the bloodied cut, Merry hastily turned his palms up to examine them then quickly tuck them out of sight. Indeed his hands were very dirty. Traveling with the Orcs hadn’t helped. And before that – well, he didn’t want to think about before that.

But flashing images filled his mind regardless – the dark liquid coating his sword as he pulled it back out of the Uruk he’d just stabbed and the terrible feeling of savage pleasure that it was one less for Boromir to fight, wounded as he was. There was a sickening thud and a shocked grunting cry of pain from the Man. Merry swung about to see a third arrow embedded in his friend’s chest, this one dangerously close to the heart. Boromir had fallen to his knees again and blood streamed about the arrows from the holes in his leather tunic. Merry looked up from them to meet his friend’s eyes and saw the same knowledge – Boromir could fight no more. He gasped, trying desperately to say something. And though Merry knew what it was he would not, could not leave him. Run! Boromir begged silently. Instead, Merry looked to Pippin, and knew that as ever they were of one mind. They would sooner die fighting then abandon their terribly hurt friend. Together, shouting wordless defiance, he and Pippin charged the enemy. That was the last thing Merry remembered until he had heard Pippin saying something about him needing medicine. He could hardly credit that Pippin dared challenge their monstrous captors. For him, to help him. Tears stung Merry’s eyes at the memory of it.

“See, I told you it must hurt!” Pippin declared, misinterpreting the moisture that had filmed Merry’s eyes.

“No, no, it’s all right, really. I was just --- thinking, remembering.”

Insert Illustrations by Gonzai

Pippin held his eyes a moment, his own gaze darkening and he suddenly looked impossibly much older, more mature. He said nothing but nodded and returned to work, carefully parting Merry’s hair away from the wound. Then he asked, “Do your wrists hurt? Mine do.” He pushed back his sleeves to show the marks where the ropes had burned.

Merry frowned. Pippin’s wrists were raw almost to the point of bleeding. “I don’t think mine are as bad as yours.” He checked. “No, they’re not. What were you doing?”

Pippin stared at him. “What was I doing! What do you think I was doing? I was trying to get free so I could –“ His voice broke and he looked away suddenly, but not before Merry had seen the gleam of tears in his eyes.

“So you could help me, I know, Pip. Thanks.” He patted his friend’s arm and Pippin nodded but still didn’t look back at him.

“You near scared me to death,” he said hoarsely. “A whole night and most of the next day and still you hadn’t moved. I started to think that maybe – “ He gulped air, swallowed hard and finished, “Well, I don’t want to remember it.”

Merry pulled Pippin closer and wrapped an arm about his shoulders to hug him quickly. “I’m sorry Pip. It must have been awful for you. At least I was out of it.”

Pippin nodded but seemed incapable of speech for the moment. He untied the scarf from his throat, bent and dipped one end in the water. “What are you doing?” Merry asked.

“There’s nothing else around here to wash that wound,” Pippin said and finally turned back, his expression returned to normal as he regarded Merry with a typical I-don’t-believe-I-have–to-tell-you-that-look.

“It’s not a wound,” Merry said. “It’s a scratch.”

“Oh?” Pippin straightened up to challenge. “I suppose you can see it?” He put a hand beneath Merry’s chin and said, “Tilt your head back.” He dabbed at the cut with the wet scarf.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry.” He dabbed more carefully.

“Here!” Merry said in surprise.

“Here what?”

“It’s stopped hurting! Just like that!”

“I thought you said –“ Pippin paused, blinked and leaned to look more closely at the area he was cleaning. “That’s odd.”

“What’s odd?”

“I could swear the wound’s getting smaller. It is! And it’s closing over!” He stared from the wet scarf to the stream.

Merry too regarded the sun-dappled water. “Treebeard said the water would make us feel better.”

“That it’s special,” Pippin finished. “Huh.” There was a long silence, then Pippin said softly, “I wish –“

“Me too.”

Pippin met his eyes then looked hastily away again. “Do you think he could still be alive?”

Merry swallowed hard, again seeing the thick-shafted arrows embedded in Boromir’s chest, side and shoulder. “I don’t know, Pippin. I hope so. But –“

“Gandalf seems to think there’s hope.”

“He never said it straight out,” Merry cautioned. “And he didn’t’ see – he didn’t see how badly hurt Boromir was.”

“No. But, I mean, if Gandalf could survive falling all that way with a Balrog fighting him, anything’s possible. Isn’t it?”

“He’s a wizard, Pip. An Istari. He’s already hundreds of years old, maybe more. He couldn’t have survived if he was human.”

“Oh. Well. I know but it’s easy to forget sometimes. Or, I mean, it was. But when we first saw him all shining and glowing so bright – it hurt my eyes. That was sort of scary until I realized it was him.” He snorted. “Then I didn’t believe it!”

“Me either. I thought I was dreaming.”

“What do you suppose he’s planning now? He and Treebeard have been gone ages.”

“Maybe he’s found Aragorn and – the others. He said he was sure they were following us.” Pippin nodded and looked so sad, sharing the thought that there was no possibility of Boromir being with them, that Merry squeezed his arm and said brightly, “That was very clever of you, Pip, to drop your Elven brooch. That’s how you hurt your wrists. Here, you should soak them in the water.”

“I already did when I was soaking the scarf.” Pippin shoved his sleeves back again and turned his wrists over. “Huh. Look at that.” He held his arms for Merry’s inspection. All trace of the injury was gone.

Merry stared. “That water really is good!” He paused then voiced what they both were thinking. “It could help Boromir.”

Pippin nodded and said in a near whisper. “If he’s still alive, maybe we can take some to him. Only we’re days away from that lake now. I don’t think I could stand it if – if he’s dead.”

Merry sighed and nodded. “It’s not so much dying,” he said in a broken whisper, “I mean, Boromir’s a warrior. But, it’s that well –“

“I know. I thought about it all that first night. I didn’t want the Orcs to have captured him hurt like that. I tried to figure if any of them had stayed behind. I didn’t think they had, by what they were all saying. So then I tried to imagine how Boromir might have got away from them. And –“ He sighed. “I couldn’t see how he could unless he was dead and they left him. Or maybe –“

“Aragorn and the others could have saved him?”

“Exactly. That’s what I’m hoping. I don’t think I want to hear about it when we see them if that’s not what happened. It was horrible, Merry, so horrible us being dragged away like that, leaving Boromir alone and hurt so badly, maybe dying. I hope if he did die that he didn’t die alone.”

Merry nodded and they fell silent again for a few moments. Then he said, “Aragorn is a good healer. Remember how he helped Frodo? And he learned from Elrond, he said.”

Pippin sighed and dared to look into Merry’s eyes, searching for agreement as he said, “I don’t think those first two arrows would kill him.”

Merry couldn’t hide the truth and read it in Pippin’s eyes too. They’d both seen how dangerously close to the heart the third arrow had struck.

“Merry?” Merry read in his friend’s gaze the horror he didn’t want to voice but knew he could no longer bear in silence. “When Boromir blew the horn, no one came. What if they’re all --?”

Merry flinched and looked away to where the bright sun played on the rippling water and reflected up on to the green of the overhanging leaves. So much like his favourite fishing hole on the Brandywine. Just like The Shire, so peaceful and quiet. At least this spot. “The way the sun shines through the leaves and onto the water here,” he said, “it’s a bit like being back by The Brandywine on a summer’s day.”

“It is.” Pippin blew out a breath and they sat in silence watching the water. “I guess we can only wait. And hope.” Again the silence stretched out broken only by the cheerful sound of the stream gurgling and bubbling as it raced over rocks and sand. “So,” Pippin said at last. “Do you suppose there’s any food around here? I’m hungry.”

“Me too. I wonder what Ents eat?”

“I don’t know,” Pippin said glumly. “Probably nothing we’d like. Worms and mud and moss. I suppose we’ll soon find out. Treebeard said he’s calling all his friends together for that meeting, what did he call it?”

“Ent meet. No, Ent moot.”

“Right. Well he said they could talk a long time, so they’ll need food won’t they?”

“I thought you’d be hungry,” A familiar and cheerful voice said behind them. “So, I –“

“Gandalf!” They turned and jumped up to greet him. He smiled and went to his knees to put down a fern wrapped bundle. He looked like the old Gandalf again. Glad as much as anything to be taken from their dark thoughts, they hugged him.

“Here!” Gandalf chuckled. “What’s all this? I thought you’d be excited about the food but not so much as to earn such wonderful hugs!”

“It’s not the food,” Merry sniffed. “It’s you.”

“Me?” Gandalf smiled and stroked their hair.

“Yes,” Pippin elaborated. “When we first saw you it was such a shock. The good kind, but still a shock. And you looked so different. Then while you were gone just now, it sort of sunk in and we can really believe it.”

“And we’re so happy to have you back!” Merry concluded. “So very , very glad. It seems like hope and sunlight and laughter and all good things are back again.” He paused and added truthfully, frowning a little. “Or almost all.”

Gandalf nodded then looked at Pippin who had suddenly gone quiet and unsmiling. “Pippin?”

“I’m sorry, Gandalf. What?”

“You’ve changed your mind and you’re sorry I’m back?” Gandalf joked.

“No, of course not!” Pippin’s head jerked up and he lost his deeply introspective expression to a smile as he read the mischief in the wizard’s eyes. “It’s just that, I was remembering how it was all my fault. I made all that noise in the mines. Otherwise you could have been with us all this time and then everything might be different. Maybe you could have saved him, maybe Boromir wouldn’t have been hurt and we all wouldn’t be scattered all over. Even if we do get back together…. Boromir’s probably ---“ Pippin’s voice broke to sobbing. “He was so badly hurt, Gandalf.”

“My dear, Pippin.” Gandalf drew him into his embrace and folded his arms about him warmly as he placed a gentle kiss to Pippin’s head. “My dearest Pippin. It is I who am sorry. I have caused you this pain. Boromir was right.”

“What?” Pippin sniffed hugely. Gandalf wiped tears from his face with a large handkerchief he produced from seemingly nowhere.

“In the darkness of Moria,” Gandalf said soothingly, “Boromir took me to task for the way I spoke to you.”

“But --- there wasn’t time after – after I woke the Goblins.”

Gandalf snorted. “Which is as well for me! Boromir gave me quite a few sharp words as it was. And that only because of what I’d said to you by Moria’s door. I don’t like to imagine what he’d have said after – well, after the way I spoke to you at Balin’s tomb.”

Merry, watching, felt his eyes widen in wonder. “Boromir dared speak to you about Pippin?”

“He did.” Gandalf turned with a wink and a fond smile. “Though I would not call it speaking, more like shouting and pointing an accusing finger. He was not happy, and he was right to feel so on your behalf, Pippin.”

“He wanted to help me?”

“He did. I rather think my moments of bad temper with you reminded him -- You see, his father is not kind to Faramir, and Boromir feels most protective of his younger brother. Even though Faramir is now a man, it must be ingrained in Boromir. He looked after Faramir when their mother died and Faramir was no more than, oh, four or five I’d think.”

“But Boromir said he’s only five years older than Faramir,” Merry pointed out.

“That is true,” Gandalf nodded. “He took on much responsibility though he was yet a boy himself.” He frowned and nodded again. “I remember it well.”

“You knew them all those years ago?” Pippin drew back to ask.

“I did, on and off. Now that I think back on it, when their mother died, Boromir changed.”

“Changed?” Pippin asked and Merry could hear his own eagerness for any tales of their much-loved friend.

Gandalf grunted and his eyes were distant with memory. “He reminded me much of you, Merry, before his mother’s death.” He smiled and looked down at Merry to take any sting out of the words. “Full of adventure and ever in mischief of one sort or another, usually with Faramir and a gang of friends trailing along.”

When he fell silent, Pippin prompted, “But after his mother died he was different?”

“Yes.” Gandalf looked down to meet Pippin’s eyes. “He was only a boy in years, but he became a man that day. I never saw the boy again – unless possibly when Boromir had occasion to greet Faramir on return from military duty. They were always so happy to see one another.” He paused and there was a grim silence at the doubt of such a future reunion. “I had forgotten how much responsibility Boromir took on so young. And the frequency of the need to shield Faramir from their father’s temper.”

Sadness flooded back into Pippin’s eyes. “Boromir always wanted to protect us, Merry and me, from everything. That’s what he did back by the lake. He wouldn’t have been so badly hurt if he had stayed away and not come to help us.”

“If it’s any comfort, Pippin, Merry, my heart tells me Boromir is alive.”

“Yes!” Merry exclaimed.

“Comfort?” Pippin smiled. “Indeed it is! Thank you, Gandalf!”

“Now,” Gandalf added hastily, “I cannot know he is alive. I cannot be absolutely certain. Remember, all I have is a feeling.”

“That’s enough for us!” Merry declared. Gandalf gave him a look and he tried to reclaim a solemn expression. “But we won’t pin our hopes on it if you don’t think we should.”

“Hope is always a good thing. It keeps us going.”

“Still,” Pippin said. “I think we’ve earned a little celebration. Boromir would be proud to know we’ve escaped, and I’d love to see the look on his face when he finds out you’re alive again, Gandalf!”

Gandalf grunted dry amusement. “That would indeed be worth seeing. Boromir is ever the pragmatist.”

Pippin frowned. “The what?”

Merry elbowed him. “It means he doesn’t believe in magic and such.”

“Something like that!” Gandalf chuckled. “Now, I thought you two were hungry?”

“We are! I can’t remember the last time we ate.” Merry’s stomach rumbled agreement.

“Good then you should enjoy this food. And I have some news to add to our celebration – your clever road sign has borne fruit, Master Took. Indeed, leaving that brooch was both clever and very brave. “ He winked. “Do remind me of that should I lose my temper with you again.”

“Borne fruit?” Merry prompted impatiently.

“Yes. I believe Aragorn is about to enter Fangorn in search of you both. I go now to speak with him.”

“Aragorn! But he’ll have news about Boromir, and Frodo and Sam! We will come with you.”

“I am afraid you cannot. Treebeard carried you many many leagues across the forest while you slept. Even for me to reach the far border of Fangorn will require extraordinary means. Means that would not allow me to carry you if I am to move so quickly. And time is of the essence. I am needed in Edoras.” He stood but smiled down at them to add reassuringly. “I will give your greetings, and at the first opportunity after Edoras, I will return to you with news.” He looked about sharply and said in a grim tone, “I really must go now.”

It seemed to Merry then that the sun suddenly burst through the tree canopy with such dazzling brightness that he was forced to close his eyes and turn away. When the sun had gone, so too had Gandalf.

2. Helms Deep

“Then I will die as one of them!”

Aragorn regretted shouting at Legolas. He had not realized just how much his temper was frayed by exhaustion. And by his raw and chaotic emotional state. During the three days’ hunt for Merry and Pippin he had thought of little else but the need to find them, for the sake of The Fellowship and his own desire to see them safe and also to fulfill his promise to Boromir. To make something come right after his failure to better lead The Fellowship at Amon Hen. Where Boromir had named him King. Aragorn sighed heavily and studied the chain mail coat that lay before him, readied by one of Théoden’s aides. Théoden was King of Rohan, and since his recovery from Saruman’s evil possession, he had behaved as a true leader of Men.

Aragorn had no such experience, having lived with Rangers who were much more an informal group else they could not survive in their style of hidden living and sudden, often unplanned battle. There was no time to wait for an officer’s orders, each man among a Ranger group was expected to be completely self-reliant and to make snap decisions alone. Rangers did not carry the responsibility for defending an entire kingdom, as Théoden now sought to defend his people. And there were so many to defend, women and children gathered below in the caverns, no doubt terrified of the night ahead. And rightly so.

Aragorn pressed his lips together and shook his head – You are right, Legolas. Ten thousand against three hundred? What chance can we possibly have?

Aragorn pulled the chain mail over his head then girded his sword belt about his hips once more. As he lifted the scabbard and withdrew the sword to check it slid freely, the candle light reflected from the engraved emblem on his vambraces. The White Tree of Gondor gleamed and shone as if alive. Not his vambraces but Boromir’s.

I do not know what strength lies in my blood. But this I swear, I will not let the White City fall nor our people fail.

He smiled grimly at the memory of his oath and traced a forefinger over the beautifully etched Tree. “Forgive me, Boromir, my friend,” he whispered. “If I die tonight you must defend Minas Tirith without me. I know you will understand my oath was for all Men. If you were here you too would fight despite the odds.” His smile eased at the image.“For you are never one to turn from a fight.”Boromir’s defiance at Amon Hen, the triumph of his fighting on despite crippling wounds, would give hope and inspiration to all who faced this night of desperate battle if they too had been privileged to witness it.

They say we won’t last the night. They say we are all going to die. The high-pitched voice of one far too young to be expected to face such horror returned again to Aragorn. He had done what he could to bolster the boy’s spirits and had taken and tested his weapon. This is a good sword. There is always hope.

He would never forget the look in the boy’s eyes – he regarded Aragorn as the embodiment of that hope. He trusts me not to abandon him. And I will not! I could only wish I had given others such hope when it was so sorely needed.

It is long since we had any hope. Such were Boromir’s solemn words to Aragorn in the glade of Lothlorien.

And I gave not a word in return but left him to wonder where hope might yet be found. Aragorn replaced Narsil in its scabbard with an angry sharp hiss of steel over leather. Elessar. Hope. Let none ever again seek hope in vain!

Aragorn started a little as Legolas entered the room without so much as a whisper of sound. Only Aragorn had such a preternatural awareness of his long-time friend’s presence. Legolas came around to stand before him.

“Forgive me,” he said quietly, holding Aragorn’s gaze. “It was wrong of me to despair.”

Aragorn’s chest and throat tightened with an upsurge of emotion. He sought words but found none that could possibly express how much he valued Legolas’ undying loyalty and affection. He hoped Legolas would read that in his eyes. He lay a hand to his friend’s shoulder, squeezed and thought, My dear friend, it is I should ask your forgiveness. For it is easy to despair when none would give hope.

Insert Illustration by Kim Kincaid

Now, holding Legolas’ gaze and seeing the light return to his eyes as Aragorn regarded him with pride and love, Aragorn felt hope circle back to flood his veins with confidence. We are bound by love, we of The Fellowship, and we will know victory for there is no greater power!

There came the sound of Elven trumpets outside in the closing night. Help was at hand, and hope had been rewarded.

3. Henneth Annûn

Insert Illustration by Gonzai

“Spies! Now wait just a minute!” Sam folded his arms over his chest and glared at the young Ranger captain. He and Frodo had been tied and blindfolded and dragged here against their will and now to add insult to injury they were being labeled spies!

“If you are not spies then who are you?” the man asked in a voice that was firm but also soft and reasonable. For some reason he could not name, Sam felt no fear that this Ranger would harm them. Perhaps it was that he resembled Boromir. More practically, the captain had been at pains to ensure his men handled them gently. They had passed Sam from hand to hand beneath the waterfall without so much as giving him a bruise or a pinch. Nonetheless, Sam’s mouth was dry with fear as he listened to Frodo’s reply. One false move and –

“You were friend to Boromir?” The young captain had reacted to no other name. Now he sounded sharply interested.

“Yes,” Frodo said. Then added hesitantly, “At least for my own part.”

“It would grieve you then to learn that he is dead?”

Sam’s heart lurched and there was equal shock and dismay in Frodo’s, “Dead? How? When?” He watched the captain closely, hoping that not all their companions too had been killed. Merry and Pippin, Sam thought. Please, no. They were only trying to help Frodo get away.

“I had hoped you would tell me,” Faramir said. He continued on to explain that Boromir’s horn had been found, “cloven in two.” That was shocking enough, far more was the young captain’s choked confession. “He was my brother.”

“But –“ Sam said. “If you only found the horn… that’s no proof. I mean, he might still be alive!” He turned to Frodo to read his expression, hopeful of some similar belief.

“There were so many enemy, Sam,” Frodo said sadly. “And Boromir was alone, separated from the rest of us.”

“It is true, then.” Faramir swallowed hard and tears traced down his face. “It is as father says.” He lifted his head and explained, “I did not believe my brother dead --- not at first. I sent word to our father that we had found the horn and I feared Boromir badly wounded or lost, but that my heart told me he lives.” Grief overcame him again and he looked away, “But the Steward has further proof that – that his son, my brother, did not survive.”

“What proof?” Sam said skeptically. “He can’t have any! I mean…” He blushed as Faramir eyed him curiously for his forthrightness. “Well, he’s in Minas Tirith and that’s so far away.”

“You are right, Samwise,” Faramir agreed. He frowned thoughtfully, and added almost to himself. “You are right he is far away.”

Exhausted, Faramir found sleep quickly but was soon tossing and turning with dark dreams. A strange and fell voice, cold and sibilant came to him, promising his brother’s life, if only --- Faramir mumbled in his sleep and begged the answer to the riddle. The dream changed and he smiled and relaxed for he was again in sight of Boromir. His brother was in full metal-plate armour and was laughing as he strode toward Faramir amid the ruins of Osgiliath. They embraced and joked about Boromir’s victory speech. It was a good dream and a better memory. “No, don’t go!” He cried out as the image faded, pulling sharply back and away from him into a great wall of shadow. That shadow suddenly raced forward and engulfed Faramir in a chill so deep that he shivered beneath his rough blanket. The shadows parted and Faramir saw the mighty Anduin, swathed in mist. An Elven boat drifted downstream toward him. Feeling a great dread Faramir waded deeper into the cold, swirling water. In the boat his brother lay dead.

“No!” he screamed and came awake, sitting up and covered in cold sweat. “No,” he moaned again and buried his face in his hands lest the men about him see his distress. They were sleeping, or pretending to sleep about him in the cold and shadowy cavern. Rangers slept lightly, they would have heard his cries.

“Captain Faramir?”

Faramir jumped and turned slightly to see the officer of the watch looking down at him somewhat warily. Faramir nodded and tilted his head to indicate they would move some distance away to avoid waking those about them, or at least waking them completely. Faramir gathered up his gauntlets and cloak, stood and left the hollow that was the sleep quarters. “What news?”

“We have found the other one. It swims in the forbidden pool.”

“Good,” Faramir said. “Wake the one named Frodo and bring him with us. He denies the creature travels with him. Let us test that denial.”

End chapter three

Chapter Four -- Cair Andros.

Boromir woke the next morning to the roaring hiss of thunderous rain. He was alone, but not for long. A very wet and disgruntled Gimli pushed aside saturated thatching about the sagging door and returned into the shelter. Water was running in torrents across what had been their hearth fire last night, and looked ready to erode the sandy bank on which the boat was tied. Boromir could barely hear Gimli’s report for the background roar of the downpour. Gimli repeated, “We won’t be going back on the river anytime soon. This looks to be flood rain. It’s turned the river into a whitewater deluge. I must haul us up further into the woods or we’ll be swept away.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Boromir asked. “If you prop me up I think I could walk –“

Gimli shook his head. “You can help by staying where you are.” He gave a wryly-sympathetic smile for Boromir’s responding scowl. “And you’ll help even more if you can manage to stay dry.”

“How?” Boromir said glumly. Water was already leaking through the thatch to drip onto his head and shoulders. The least movement of the precarious construction would immediately see him soaked from head to toe. It would be like being suddenly immersed beneath a waterfall, the noise of the rain was near deafening.

Gimli held up a hand to indicate he had an idea. He went to the waist of the boat and lifted the edge of the hide cover, then he shouted, “I trust these things are designed to come all the way up. Wouldn’t make much sense otherwise. But you never know with Elves!”

Boromir had to agree that a boat cover incapable of completely blocking out the weather wouldn’t be much use. Yet they needn’t have worried – the cover did indeed reach all the way from stern to prow. “Duck down, laddie,” Gimli said. “I’m going to tie this down over the top of you.”

“A fine big heavy package I’ll make,” Boromir grumbled, but obeyed.

“You’ve done fine work to fight off that fever,” Gimli said. “I’ll not see it undone by this cursed weather.”

Boromir felt nonetheless useless as he lay back in the now dark space beneath the hide and waited as Gimli labored to winch the laden boat further and further up the bank. He stopped once, but only to resecure the line to another tree and begin again. Boromir grew impatient when the routine was repeated a third time. Surely they were well clear of the river by now? But all his misgivings were lost to a surprised smile as at last the boat halted and Gimli pulled back the cover. The roar of the rain was muted for there was now a solid rock roof above their heads. Boromir gaped and grinned then clapped Gimli on the arm. Gimli was so pleased with himself that he actually looked a little embarrassed by Boromir’s praise. “How did you find this place? It’s wonderful!”

‘I don’t know as I’d call it wonderful,” Gimli said modestly, “but it’s a good distance above the flood plain and it has a roof that won’t leak.” He turned about and surveyed their surroundings in the dim light that entered through a gap in the remains of a rock wall. “It seems to be some kind of ruin, the foundations of an ancient battlement.”

Boromir too studied the place then nodded. “Unless I miss my guess of how far we’ve come, I think it may be the old fortress of Cair Andros.” He looked back to Gimli with a smile. “Which means help should find us eventually, if the river doesn’t go down.”

“Oh?” Gimli’s bushy eyebrows lifted hopefully.

“Yes.” Boromir eased his torn shoulder carefully to the rolled blanket at his back. “The Ithilien Rangers patrol this area. – My brother is their captain general.”

As he prepared another campfire, Gimli asked more about Faramir, of whom Boromir had often spoken. After a morning meal of lembas and tea Boromir, still feeling terribly weak and exhausted, slept a while. The day stretched into a gloomy cold afternoon and the rain continued unabated, teeming down until it created a waterfall that cascaded high from the right of the ruins. Boromir did his best to hide growing pain and discomfit from wounds that throbbed and burned with increasing intensity. The bandaging was filthy with caked blood and the bleeding had not entirely stopped but seeped anew with the least movement. There was no more bandaging and little Gimli could do other than feed him the athelas tea and keep him as warm as possible.

“I fear there’s little of Aragorn’s herbs remaining,” Gimli said that night, holding the pouch to the firelight so that Boromir could see a bare handful of leaves. The dwarf’s expression was grim as he cast a keen eye at Boromir’s pain-drawn face. “I hope these ranger friends of yours show soon.”

“This weather might slow them, but they will come,” Boromir assured, and tried unsuccessfully to hide a bout of shivering. “M-Meantime we should be safe enough here. “ He nodded toward the roar of the waterfall. “It seems the r-rain has created a hiding place to rival Henneth Annûn.”

“Henneth Annûn?” Gimli moved closer and lay a hand to Boromir’s brow then grunted disappointment. “Your fever is back.”

“It’s not too bad,” Boromir said. “Window on the West, that’s what it means.” He talked on, finding that it took his mind from the pain a little, and that he enjoyed remembering those times he had stayed a while with Faramir’s men in their wilderness fortress.

“It is a long way from Osgiliath?”

“A fair distance. Two days march,” Boromir smiled wryly, “in good weather.”

Gimli sighed heavily and looked toward the entryway where falling water reflected the firelight. “Let us hope we have sunshine tomorrow. Perhaps I can hunt us up a rabbit or two.” He snorted and looked back at Boromir. “Much more of this lembas bread and we’ll both be growing pointy ears!”

Boromir slept little that night, and when he did he was haunted by feverish dreams of falling in battle, and the Ring taunting him. The fever grew worse and whenever he tried to move into a more comfortable position the jarring of his wounds woke him from whatever fitful slumber he’d found. At one point, he was aware of Gimli bending over him, and of some ease coming to him as the dwarf draped something thick and soft about him. It was a few moments before he realized that Gimli had taken the hide cover from the boat, warmed it over the fire and laid it over him as a wonderfully warm blanket that also kept out the damp mist pervading their rock-walled shelter. The shivering that had drained the last of Boromir’s reserves of strength finally faded, and he drifted to deeper sleep.

Morning brought no break in the weather and Boromir’s illness kept him only partly aware of the long dreary hours of another day passing to night. By the third day there was at last some sunshine and Boromir woke to the tantalizing aroma of rabbit stew. He squinted and sat up stiffly to see Gimli stirring the pot over the flames.

“Ahh, you’re awake at last!” he said with thinly disguised relief. “Get some of this into you, and you’ll soon be feeling better.”

Boromir found his hands shook so much with weakness that he had to allow Gimli to hold the bowl for him or risk losing the nourishment. But after he ate, he did indeed feel much stronger. “I found some more athelas,” Gimli surprised him by displaying it with a flourish. “Hard stuff to track down – but,” he winked, “it seems the rabbits find it tasty!”

The afternoon grew warm and the sunshine dried the air, only to disappoint them by lapsing into another thunderstorm at sunset. But the rain was brief and Boromir found that he was able to sleep more soundly that night.

“Who goes there?” a harsh voice commanded and Boromir started awake in alarm. There was a pause, then the same voice, somewhat surprised but no less suspicious, “What brings a Dwarf to the riverbanks of Ithillien?”

Boromir, struggling to sit up and grip his sword, heard Gimli give a typically challenging, abrasive reply. “Give me your name, captain, and ye shall have mine.” Boromir groaned, thinking, I don’t know how he managed to live beyond ten years old! On the plus side, it was apparent that this was no Orc raiding party, but rather some of Gondor’s own soldiers.

“You are bold for one who stands no higher than a child,” came the response from another man, and Boromir’s heart lifted with joyous relief. He knew that voice! Garad! “Mayhap that explains why your manners also have not grown beyond that point.”

Boromir grinned, his grip relaxing on the sword hilt, as painfully, he drew breath to shout, “Garad! Is that you out there annoying my Dwarf friend?”

“What?” the man exclaimed, startled, and one of the others said, “There is another, there under the shelter!” Boots thudded and weapons clinked as soldiers charged forward. Garad said urgently, “Boromir? I dare not hope!”

Boromir lifted a hand to shade his eyes and squinted into the bright light that haloed his friend’s face. Garad shook rainwater droplets from his hair and stared in disbelief, then his mobile

face registered pure elation. “Boromir!” Garad took a step closer and Boromir could see his friend’s face was lined by weariness and pinched with cold, but was as indefatigably cheerful as ever beneath its border of thick dark curls. On the man’s chest was a leather cuirass emblazoned with the white tree of Gondor. Never had its appearance so gladdened Boromir’s heart. And to find his good friend Garad here! They had known each other since they’d started warrior training as twelve year old cadets. Garad had joined Faramir’s Rangers two or three years ago and Boromir had been glad to have such a capable, good-humored and intelligent Captain go to his brother’s aid. Garad, Faramir had said, dared take small bands of men much further into the ever-encroaching enemy territory than did any others of his captains. And the intelligence he carried back was vital to Ithilien’s defence.

“Boromir! It is you! We feared you dead.” Garad’s delight faded into concern even as he moved to grip Boromir’s offered hand in greeting. “Not dead, but sorely wounded, I fear.”

“Naught that cannot be healed by setting my eyes on the white tower once more,” Boromir said, breathless, and was compelled to collapse back to the litter and try to cover a grimace. “What brings you so far north? How go things at home?”

“Osgiliath is under constant attack. Our scouting parties harry the enemy, and return to report any change in tactics and numbers. And of that, lately, there is much.”

“Osgiliath? Besieged?” Boromir started up then gasped over the pain of movement. “We had driven them out when I left. But, if their numbers are greatly increased, and we without reinforcements -- now it is surrounded?”

“Near so. We have means of slipping by them, and do so to attack their flanks -- but I fear we may not hold much longer. “

“This is ill news.” Boromir frowned as another thought came to him. “Why fear me dead?”

Garad crouched on his haunches by the boat and met Boromir’s concern with grave eyes. “Captain Faramir found your horn, cloven in two and floating on the river, not more than two days past. He sent it with word to your father and --”

“To my father?” Boromir gasped a shocked breath.

“Yes. But that fear will quickly be forgotten when The Steward lays eyes on you again. “ Garad flashed a smile and reached out to grasp Boromir’s shoulder with warm affection. “Your return lifts my heart and will soon lift the spirits of all Gondor.” Carefully, he moved aside the cloak covering Boromir’s bandaged chest. He grimaced dismay and said, “Alas, it does not surprise me to see it took more than one grievous wound to take you from the fighting, yet I had hoped --.” He sighed heavily. “We must get you to the healers and quickly.” He glanced up at his men and was about to give orders.

Gimli complained, “Am I a prisoner that you guard me so? Let me through!”

“Gimli!” Boromir exclaimed, then said quickly to Garad, “I owe Gimli my life, and have sworn he shall have the welcome and gratitude of Minas Tirith.“

Garad nodded at his men and they parted ranks. Gimli stepped forward to stand glowering at the captain, axe in his fists. “I thank you, Gimli. You and your axe did well to give shelter to our kinsman through the bitter weather.” Garad gave a deep, sweeping bow to the Dwarf. “You have cared well for my friend. Name any price that is mine to give and it shall be yours.”

Gimli’s annoyance gave way to a bemused grunt. “I ask no reward. It is more than enough to see Boromir home and healed.” Then, he added hopefully, “Do you brew beer in your city?”

Garad relaxed and smiled in return, “We do, indeed! And you shall have our best. There are no others with you? I did not know that Dwarves had such skill with river craft.”

Boromir exchanged a wry look with Gimli who said dryly, “I am not sure I would call it skill, good Captain, but we survived.”

“We have travelled together all the leagues from Rivendell,” Boromir said, easing back as great weariness borne of relief claimed him. He could barely believe he was safe with his own men again after all the long months of wandering. “We set out as nine. One has fallen, two continue our quest, two are prisoners, and the remainder seek to free them.”

“Your part in this quest, at the least, is done, my Captain,” Garad said. He studied the boat a moment then looked up at his second in command. “On foot to Osgiliath would be too rough, and perilous. By boat would be much faster, even if we must wait a day or two until the river has calmed. When the flood recedes I will leave the men in your safe command, Lordanur, and Boromir, Gimli and I will continue by river.” There was a huffing sound from Gimli and Garad turned to him to add quickly, “If that is to your satisfaction, Master Dwarf? It is apparent you are able to handle such matters alone. But further downstream you may be met by more challenges from Ranger patrols.” Gimli nodded acquiescence and Garad turned to look with some concern at Boromir. “We have food, medicines and bandaging. Let us see what we can do to ease you, my Captain.”

Isengard

Merry swayed a bit but managed to climb to his feet without falling, tankard of ale in one hand and pipe the other. “Welcome, my lords! To Isengard!” he greeted enthusiastically if in a somewhat slurred voice.

“Hobbits!” Pippin thought he heard Gandalf say as if that explained everything. Aragorn however, was smiling and Legolas looked equally happy. So maybe the news was good. But wait – where was Gimli? Suddenly Pippin was not so sure of happy news and his ale soured in his stomach at the thought. Had he and Merry celebrated prematurely after all? He frowned, but no, Gandalf wouldn’t be looking at them with fond exasperation if he was about to shatter their hopes. Would he?

Pippin suddenly regretted having that third tankard of ale. Or was it the fourth? And combined with Old Toby too. He didn’t seem able to think straight. But he followed Merry’s example regardless and jumped down from the ruined wall into the dirty flood water, only then remembering to discard his near empty tankard. Aragorn and Legolas, grinning with delight dismounted to greet them, arms wide. Merry and Pippin took turns with each, and Pippin was fairly sure by the time he left Aragorn’s enthusiastic hug, that all must be all right with Boromir.

Fairly sure, but --- through the haze of ale and Old Toby good cheer, he saw again Boromir falling, impaled by three Uruk arrows. How could he be?

“It gladdens my heart to see you again!” Aragorn declared. “Not least for knowing I may now keep my promise to Boromir.”

“Then – he’s alive?”

“He is,” Legolas said happily. “He was so worried about you both that it was all we could do to stop him trying to come after you himself!”

“Come after us?” Merry said. “But surely he could not walk more than a few paces.”

“He could not walk at all.” Aragorn’s smile faded. “Though I feared he would try if we tested his patience much further. It did his best to hurry us after you before first tending his wounds.”

“Us?” Pippin asked anxiously. “You do mean Gimli, too, don’t you? But where is he?”

“Gimli is unhurt,” Aragorn said quickly. “I am sorry I did not think to say so immediately. He accompanies Boromir home in one of the elven boats.”

“Oh, good!” Merry and Pippin breathed relief. Merry continued, “The three of you found Boromir before the Orcs could --- before they hurt him any more?”

Aragorn nodded. “It may please you to know I killed the archer who had thrice wounded him.”

“Good!” Pippin said with savage pleasure. “I wish I had been able to get at him with my dagger. So, Boromir will be all right?”

“Such is my hope. He was, as you know, very badly hurt.”

Pippin felt anxiety line his face once more and Legolas added, “Gimli has proven himself many times during our journeying, though I was loathe to believe it possible at the outset.”

“Really?” Gandalf put in mischievously as he left off talking with Theoden and Eomer in time to hear the comment. “We hadn’t noticed.”

Legolas sighed but finished smoothly, “If anyone can see Boromir safely home it will be Gimli.”

“Well said,” Gandalf agreed.

“That axe of his has many uses,” Legolas said. “With it he fashioned a bed on which we carried Boromir to the boat at the foot of the falls.”

Pippin nodded, at once comforted to know Boromir had been so well cared for, and also saddened by the image of his powerful warrior friend so weakened and hurt as to need to be carried.

“Do not fear, Pippin,” Aragorn bent back down to him and lay a hand to his shoulder. He smiled. “We had to be sneaky about it and carry him while he was asleep as he had argued that he would walk if he had but my shoulder to lean on!”

Pippin’s anxiety gave way to a smile. “That’s sounds like Boromir, all right!”

The ground shook and the water sloshed about Pippin’s waist as Treebeard approached to greet Gandalf as “young master Gandalf!” Merry and Pippin traded looks – just how old was Treebeard? Pippin saw a mischievous gleam in Merry’s eye and knew his friend was planning on using that title at first opportunity!

Pippin wasn’t sure how he felt about the bloodied body of the wizard impaled upon the broken wheel shaft. Nor the Man Legolas had felled from so far away. Then, he recalled it had been Saruman who sent the Uruks hunting for Frodo and Sam, with orders to take the Halflings alive and kill the others. And he could feel only that justice had at last been served. As he looked away from the dead body in the long white robes, he saw something shining from beneath the murky water. Something that had fallen out of Saruman’s wide sleeves. Pippin slid down from Aragorn’s horse and bent to pick it up despite the Man’s warning, “Pippin!”

Suddenly Pippin heard nothing from the world about him. He saw only the odd swirling red gold fire in the black stone.

“I’ll take that, my lad,” Gandalf’s voice, waking him like a dousing with cold water. He dragged his eyes from the stone, and guiltily, handed it up to the Wizard. Gandalf eyed him sharply as if he knew that there was more to Pippin’s examination of the stone than may be apparent to the others watching. All Pippin knew was that he must look at it again. Soon.

“Pippin!” Merry hissed, “What are you doing?”

“I just want to look at it again,” Pippin replied in a whisper, hoping no one would hear. But the rustling of the leaves of the bordering forest, and the running water of the ford, cloaked their voices. Everyone slept rolled in their blankets in the open space about the Ford of Isen. None dared sleep anywhere beneath the trees. Aragorn and Legolas were on watch. Gandalf seemed to be asleep with his eyes open but he didn’t twitch as Pippin swapped a large river stone for the cloth-wrapped wizard’s stone. Pippin hurried with it only a few paces before the urge to unwrap it was overwhelming. He looked deeper still and was suddenly caught. Sauron’s Eye flared outward and swallowed him. A cold cutting voice sliced into Pippin’s thoughts. And he saw something burning, a building, made of stone, and before it a dead tree. Sauron roared at him, closer, and pain lanced through Pippin’s head. He could feel the stone burning his hands. Then the stone was pulled away from him and everything went black.

‘There was no lie in Pippin’s eyes,” Gandalf told those gathered about the camp fire at the Fords of Isen. Pippin still felt dazed and his head hurt a little. Much less than his pride hurt, listening to Gandalf and realizing how foolish he had been. “ A fool he remains, but an honest fool. Nonetheless, Sauron now believes he carries the Ring. And Gondor must be warned. I will take Pippin with me to the White City, for his own safety.”

“And – and Merry?” Pippin dared speak up. “He’ll be coming with us.”

“We ride alone,” Gandalf said sternly.

Pippin’s heart sank and he looked sorrowfully at Merry who was still angry with him. And yet at the same time the image came to him of the shining white city of which Boromir had so often spoken. Boromir might be there by now! He looked down at the ground as Gandalf and Aragorn stepped aside to talk in whispers. “Here,” Merry said, relenting enough to come to his side. “I know you’ve run out.”

“The last of the Old Toby!” Pippin was happier for his friend’s apparent forgiveness than he was for the pipeweed. But they had no chance for further conversation as Gandalf returned, Shadowfax walking at his side. “How far is it to Minas Tirith?” Pippin asked as Gandalf lifted him astride the stallion’s bare back.

“Three days as the Nazgûl flies,” Gandalf said tersely. “And you better hope we don’t have one of those on our tail!”

Faramir pulled the bowstring taut and let the arrow fly. His aim was true, the bolt thudding into the fell beast’s throat. It screamed and climbed higher, wheeled away from the rampart, giant wings carrying it rapidly from the ruined city across the river toward the east. Faramir looked down to see that Frodo was falling dragged down by Sam’s timely arrival. The little gardener had prevented Frodo putting on The Ring, and saved them all. Tangled together, the two hobbits fell, Sam’s pots and pans clattering as he bounced and rolled from stone step to step. They came to a thudding halt at the bottom, slammed into the flagstones at the foot of the stairs. Faramir took a pace toward them, then froze in horror as he saw Frodo draw his sword and leap at the fallen Sam. “No!” he cried, but he doubted that even had Frodo heard him, he could have responded. For The Ring still had him in its treacherous grasp.

The sword tip pressed at Sam’s throat. Faramir moaned and closed his eyes. “It’s me! It’s your Sam!” he heard the anguished cry. He opened his eyes to see that although Frodo had not driven the blade home, its bright point still rested against Sam’s flesh. “Don’t you know your Sam?”

In the sudden silence, Faramir clearly heard Frodo’s gasping breath, his strangled cry of utter horror. Sanity returned, Frodo found himself within an inch of killing his dearest friend. Eyes wide with shock, gasping for air, Frodo fell back, opened his hand. The sword dropped to the stones and clanged loudly in the sudden silence. “I can’t do this any more, Sam,” Frodo said, completely broken, defeated. Sam staggered to his feet. He regarded his friend for a moment, tears in his eyes, then turned away to watch the Nazgul as it disappeared further to the east, its mount’s huge dark wings moving against the red murk of Mordor. “I know,” Sam said, “It’s all wrong. By rights we shouldn’t even be here.”

Faramir flinched. How much had these two already suffered, and how much had he added to their burden? I see now, he thought grimly, this is the madness, the evil The Ring would bring to us all. Friend against friend. Allies giving hindrance rather than aid. Just as Sam had said of Boromir: ‘The Ring drove your brother mad! ‘ Sharp grief tore at Faramir’s heart and he sobbed, “Boromir!” He could not bear to think of it, his loyal brother driven to insane rage by The Ring. Had he died like that? Or had sanity returned only to leave Boromir to die alone, aware of his failure, believing himself dishonoured? Faramir lifted a gloved hand to wipe the tears from his face, and the White Tree of Gondor flashed before his eyes, catching the frail afternoon light. The beloved emblem replaced the grim image and gave rise to another, clearer memory. After Boromir’s cloven horn had come to him and he feared the worst, Faramir had seen in a dream his brother lying asleep, deeply at peace, surrounded by warm firelight, green boughs and the soft hiss of rain. Which was true?

Words came to him, Sam’s voice, speaking to Frodo, and piercing the gloom of sorrowful thought, “Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it will shine out the clearer.” Listening, Faramir found Sam’s simple eloquence and truth a balm that soothed away the nightmare of moments before “But I think Mr. Frodo, I do understand, I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going because they were holding onto something.”

“What are we holding onto Sam?”

Frodo’s broken plea held Faramir enthralled. This was the question, the one that forever rang in all their minds. What was the answer? It seemed the very day itself, bruised and torn, awaited Sam’s words.

Tears streaking his bruised and dirty face, Sam turned back to his equally grief-stricken friend. He pulled Frodo to his feet, and said with utter conviction, “That there’s some good left in this world, and it’s worth fighting for!”

Yes! Faramir saw hope and purpose return in the basic, unvarnished truth, undeniable and compelling in the clarity of its wisdom. The loyalty and love that bound them all, brothers, friends, families – that was certainly a good worth fighting for. What have I done? To Faramir it seemed he was only now waking from a dark dream. Why have I brought these two far from their quest? What deceit has the Ring fed to me? It should not have come here! How could I have been so cold? Desiring my father’s love at any cost!

Faramir moved, took a step toward them, and saw the hobbits flinch and brace themselves. They were fearful of his will to hold them imprisoned. To see two small, brave hobbits backing away from him with open suspicion drove home the depth of his error. He stopped, went down on one knee, and looked intently into Frodo’s anxious eyes. “I think at last we understand one another better, Frodo Baggins.” Faramir looked up to his Second in Command and the guards who had gathered to resume the task he had assigned – to take the prisoners and The Ring to his father. He could have chosen no worse a fate for Gondor. “Release them,” he changed the order and was immediately rewarded by the light of relief that dawned in Frodo’s so very weary eyes.

“You know the laws of our country. The laws of your father,” the elderly second in command advised at Faramir’s shoulder as he got to his feet, “If you let them go, your life will be forfeit.”

“Then, it is forfeit,” Faramir said, sorrowful, but no less sure of the rightness of what he did. “Release them,” he repeated, and saw Sam push the guard’s hand from his shoulder. “Come,” he said to the hobbits, “The old sewer runs under the river, and will bring you out under cover of the woods.” He waved an arm toward an arched roof above the nearest drain. Frodo and Sam hurried forward and Gollum followed. Inside, alone with them, Faramir asked Frodo, “What road will you take when you reach the woods?”

“Gollum says there’s a path near Minas Morgul.”

Faramir stiffened in suspicion and fear. He turned, took Gollum by the throat, snarled, “Cirith Ungol? Is that what it is called?”

“No! No!” The creature said, then as Faramir’s fist tightened, Gollum admitted, “Yes!”

Faramir threw the wasted, foul smelling creature from him in disgust, and warned Frodo sharply, “They say a dark terror dwells above Minas Morgul. You cannot take that path.””

But it seemed Frodo had no other choice. Sadly, Faramir nodded, but warned again, “Be wary.”

The two hobbits moved toward the sewer mouth. As Gollum tried to follow, Faramir caught hold of him once more and threatened, “If you lead them to harm may death find you quickly!” He flung the creature from him again and Gollum scurried away, hurrying by Sam who had turned back. Faramir looked inquiringly at the little gardener who was regarding him intently. “You have shown your quality, Captain Faramir, sir,” Sam said sincerely. “The very highest. Just like your brother. I am sorry for what I said about him. I was wrong. He swore he’d let us go, too. Just now.”

Faramir thought he had misheard. “Just now?” he repeated hollowly, feeling afresh the sharp ache of raw grief. Frodo turned quickly about and stared at his friend in puzzlement.

“Oh, you fool Samwise!” the hobbit exclaimed. “I can’t believe I forgot—but with the Nazgul and all… Boromir! He’s alive! He’s here— I was just talking to him.“

“What?” Faramir said faintly, the awful hope staggered him. He flung out a hand in support against the stone wall, lest he fall.

“Boromir is alive?” Frodo asked.

“Yes!” Sam said. “I should have told you right away. He’s waiting out there, on the other side of the square with the big statue, under the colonnade. He’s wounded. I don’t know how he got here exactly, he said something about Gimli helping him.” Then Sam groaned and clutched at his head before turning to Frodo. “And there’s more, Mr. Frodo, Boromir told me about Merry and Pippin… Only, I don’t want to say it.”

Frodo said fearfully. “Don’t tell me they’re dead. I couldn’t bear it, Sam.”

“No, they’re not dead! Well, at least, Boromir says – “

Faramir could wait no longer; “I must go to my brother!” he interrupted, already moving out of the tunnel toward the daylight. “Remember—be wary of Cirith Ungol!"

All was darkness, silence, and killing cold. Then sound returned a fading thump-whoosh. As the sound became fainter, warmth seeped back into his flesh, at first the barest thread, then more and more to drown out the chill. Boromir became aware of stones pressed into his face, of his cold hand still clutching at his sword hilt. The darkness drew back and soft grey light filtered through his closed eyelids. Other, louder sounds echoed about him – bootsteps, men shouting. Where was he? What? The Nazgul!

Boromir tried to struggle back to his knees. Shivering racked his body. Though the worst of the cold had gone there was still enough to leave him feeling frozen through to the bone. Only his wounds stabbed hotly at him, and there was a warm damp, the wetness of fresh blood that had trickled to pool beneath him. With an immense effort that tore a cry from his lips, he sat up, and fell back against the pillar, gasping for breath. He lifted his head, tried desperately to see what had happened after he’d blacked out. The Nazgul was gone, that he knew without looking. But where – had he truly seen Frodo up on the ramparts? His head seemed impossibly heavy, but he looked up, his gaze sweeping across the square. Someone was pushing through the disordered soldiers, running toward him only to come to an abrupt halt. Faramir! Their eyes locked, held for a timeless moment. Boromir saw tears film his brother’s blue eyes, saw him mouthing his name.

“Can it be?” Faramir said, half-sobbing, “Can it truly be –my brother not dead, but come home!”

Sheer joy raced through Boromir’s veins, returning some strength, and he found himself grinning, calling, “Faramir! Get over here and help me up!”

Faramir uttered a cry half-torn between laughter and weeping. He ran forward, closing the gap in a few swift strides. He dropped to his knees, wrapped his arms about his brother and drew Boromir tight to his leather-armoured chest.

Boromir gasped, but cared not that the embrace brought pain to his broken ribs and shoulder. He returned it just as fiercely, letting the sword drop to lift his right arm and throw it about his brother’s shoulders. And so they sat for a moment, an age, Faramir openly weeping and Boromir fighting for control as his throat closed over his own tears. Remember this day, little brother. They had last parted, all those dark months ago, not far from this very square. How many times since then had he dreamed of this moment of reunion, longed for it, hoped for it? It seemed an eternity. He tried to tighten his embrace, but pain and weakness took their toll and he slumped down, only his brother’s strength keeping him from falling hard to the cold stones. Faramir held him easily with one arm, and the other hand came up to cradle Boromir’s cold face.

“You are hurt. And so cold. Here.” Still holding Boromir close, he reached out and hooked the litter and dragged it nearer. “Lie back. Let’s get some of these blankets about you.”

Boromir was unable to do anything other than obey; the cold and weakness were draining him so badly now that his vision wavered. Then he felt the soft padding beneath him again, more folded cloth making a pillow beneath his head.

“You’re bleeding! So many wounds!” Faramir gave an anguished cry, got to his feet and turned to the soldiers hurrying by, ”You there – bring the healer and quickly! It is the Lord Boromir needs aid!”

“My Lord, Faramir?” A startled voice replied and boots thudded closer over the cobbles. “Captain Boromir is home!”

“Hurry, soldier! He’s hurt!”

“Yes, my Lord!

“No…” Boromir said and opened his eyes despite his dizziness, eager to drink in the sight of his brother so close at last.

“You are so cold!” Faramir exclaimed worriedly. Kneeling at Boromir’s side, he collected the blankets that had fallen from the litter and pulled them back over him. Not satisfied with that, he pulled off his own cloak to add its warmth to the covers.

“Call him back. No healers.” Boromir tried to eye his brother sternly. “I’ve survived without them well enough.”

Faramir, bending to tuck the cloak tight about him, caught that expression and some of his anxiety faded into a bemused smile. “You lie here, bleeding all over me, wounded not once but….” There his voice broke, and the half laugh became a sob. He swallowed hard to steady himself, and finished, “Three wounds. And you expect me to keep the healers away from you? Brother, you have not changed. And I am glad of it. I thought you dead.”

Boromir snorted, smiled and said, “You give up on me too easily, little brother!”

“Never.” Tears ran freely down Faramir’s face. “Never.” He bent and touched warm lips to Boromir’s brow. “Welcome home, brother. Welcome home!”

Noting the stir of action drawing closer about them as more voices called for the healer and repeated the news of their Lord’s return, Boromir knew the moment of privacy would be short lived. “What of Frodo, and The Ring!” he asked urgently.

Faramir frowned and sat back a little, his eyes darkening from blue to grey. He said softly, “I know it is father’s wish that...”

Boromir caught at his brother’s leather-clad arm and tried to pull himself up. “Faramir, listen to me, you must let it go! Frodo must take it to Mordor!” He gasped over the pain.

“Steady,” Faramir urged. “You must keep still!”

“The Ring cannot save Gondor!” Boromir managed through gritted teeth.

“I know,” Faramir said with a sad smile.

Desperate, Boromir continued, unheeding. “It deceived me once, but never again. I won’t let it take you and father next!”

“Boromir,” Faramir gripped Boromir’s bare wrist. Their eyes met, and held. “The Ring is gone. I let Frodo and Sam go.”

Boromir blinked. “You did?”

“Yes. Even as we speak, the hobbits follow the sewers that will take them under the river back into Ithilien, and on to Mordor. “

Boromir gasped relief and relaxed against the padded litter. He spluttered a laugh. “I should have known,” he said. “The Ring could never hold you. You have ever been the wiser, the more clear-sighted. Like our mother.”

Faramir shook his head. “It was not so easy as all that,” he said grimly. “If I had not seen, here and now, the power of The Ring to drive all to madness…. Things may have gone differently.”

Boromir frowned, “Here? Now? What…”

The soldier returned with Faramir’s Second who reported breathlessly, “I fear Healer Felenthis was killed. The roof caved in as he was tending the wounded. Is it true that your brother --”

“Felenthis, dead! No, say it is not so.” Faramir groaned, and closed his eyes. “He refused to stay safely in Minas Tirith. He said the men needed him here.”

“He was one of our very best,” Boromir agreed sadly then had his arm shaken and his hand taken in a warm grip as Faramir’s Second, unable to restrain himself any longer, moved forward to bend and greet him joyfully.

“It is true! I had dared not hope! Welcome home, My Lord Boromir! But you are hurt?”

“Three arrow wounds, chest and shoulder,” Faramir replied grimly. “We must hurry him on his way to Minas Tirith.”

“Boromir!” A familiar deep voice called and Gimli’s short, stout form hurried toward them, Garad following. “There you are! I was turned about in all this panic. This place is a maze! Though it saddens me greatly to see such magnificent stonework undone. Fortunately, Garad found me and we have secured a small wagon for you.”

“I am sorry, Boromir,” Garad said with embarrassment. “I was told Faramir and his men were by the bridge. Most of the rangers were there, but –“

“No matter, Garad. As you see, Faramir found me soon enough! And you bring to me now the answer to my present need.” Boromir gave his dwarf friend a brief smile, nodded to Faramir, and introduced, “Gimli, Son of Glóin, meet my brother, Faramir.” To Faramir he added, “ Gimli brought me safe all the way from Rauros by boat and tended me in the wild. I owe him my life.”

Gimli gave an aggrieved sigh. “I wish you’d stop saying that, laddie. It is not quite true.”

”It is!” Boromir said indignantly. The cold returned in a vicious wave and he shuddered, was forced to drop his head to the pillow and grit his teeth over pain.

“You are looking much the worse. And you're bleeding! Ahh, you’ve torn the wounds again!” Gimli cried, “What did you do – try to fight the Nazgul single –handed?”

“No,” Boromir said, amused despite the pain, “I think my brother did that. It was your arrow, drove it off, Faramir?” His brother nodded absently, not really paying attention.

“I saw the creature,” Gimli said and he fixed Boromir with sharply questioning eyes. “More than that – I thought I saw, well – it couldn’t be, yet –“

“It was,” Boromir broke in with an excited smile. “Frodo and Sam were here, Gimli! They’re alive!” Gimli stared then cheered loudly enough to make Faramir jump. “I spoke to Sam, but had no more time before they left.” He shook his head in wondering awe. “They make for Mordor again.”

Faramir, who was too worried for his brother to notice much else, asked Garad impatiently, “Can this wagon be brought into the square or should we go to it?”

“It would be faster if we carried Boromir there,” Garad decided. “I don’t think they could get horses in here without clearing out some of this rubble.”

“Come then.” Faramir bent to pick up one end of the litter, and Garad immediately took the other. The Second gathered up Boromir’s sword and Gimli followed at the Man’s side. It was only a short distance to the wagon, though they had to wind their way through more soldiers hurrying toward the riverbank and ramparts. Several men slowed them further by insisting on welcoming their Captain-General home for themselves. By the time they reached the wagon with its waiting team of horses, Boromir was exhausted. He closed his eyes as several volunteers aided Faramir in carefully lifting the litter and sliding it smoothly onto the narrow wooden bed of the covered wagon. Gimli climbed nimbly up to move to the rear corner, leaving the only remaining space for Faramir.

“They may mount a counter-attack,” Faramir said worriedly to his Second. “I should stay and help organise the defences.“

“Your father will expect a report,” the older man said. “We will manage. Go, you have earned this time with your brother.”

Faramir sounded torn and glad at the same time. “Very well. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve seen Boromir safely home.”

Boromir heard his brother climb up beside him, and immediately his hand was taken in a warm grip. “Rest easy, brother,” Faramir said softly, “Not long now.” He leaned back to call out to the driver’s board, “Go, steady.”

The brake came free and the wagon jolted then settled quickly into a smoother ride over what remained of the well made road that went all the way to the edge of the Pelennor. There, as Boromir knew all too well from previous journeys while wounded, the ride would become rougher as the main road gave way to a narrow, deeply rutted market road. Despite the mound of blankets, he still shivered and began to wonder if the ice would ever melt from his veins. He had heard healers speak wearily of this effect on wounded men who had suffered the near presence of a Nazgul. He knew some of those men had later died, but as many had survived. Or so he thought. His brother’s bare hand settled on his brow, and Faramir said worriedly, “You shiver with cold, yet your face burns.”

“I will soon be well, little brother,” Boromir reassured. He opened his eyes to give Faramir a teasing smile. “Stop fretting – you’re worse than Gimli!”

There was an indignant huff from the corner and Gimli said, “Dwarves do not fret!” He leaned into Boromir’s line of sight to add mischievously, “That would be The Elf you’re remembering.”

Boromir snorted, but noted Faramir looked little cheered by the by-play. “Come, Faramir,” Boromir said more seriously, “You know I always recover quickly. I’ll be back fighting at your side in Osgiliath before you know it!” Faramir nodded and forced a stiff smile. “Have they attacked with catapults before?” Boromir asked. “Their strength seems far greater than when I left.”

“It is,” Faramir said darkly. ‘No matter how many we kill in Ithilien or here, ten more soon seem to appear to take their place. Southrons and Easterlings arrive to reinforce the armies of Mordor. Their numbers ever increase, while ours steadily diminish. My Second tells me five hundred men were pulled back from Osgiliath to guard the northern river.” He sighed. “And now the enemy bring siege machines within reach of the western bank. It will not be easy to hold them. ”

Boromir’s sigh echoed his brother’s. “No. Did we get the other wounded men out? How many survived the collapse that killed Felenthis?”

“Most. Poor Felenthis would have insisted on being last out, as always. There are three larger wagons following along behind us. About twenty wounded in all.”

“Twenty? Just today in Osgiliath?”

“I fear so. And I brought several wounded back with me from Ithilien.”

“How many killed?”

“Twelve in Osgiliath and I lost two, Marador and Lethrim, when we ambushed the Haradhrim close to our base at The Window.”

“They have reached so far?” Boromir said with dismay.

“Yes, and they bring with them their monstrous creatures – the Mumakil. Each is fitted out like a warship with ten or more archers in large, basket-like platforms atop their backs.”

“We cannot take such losses and continue to hold Osgiliath and the western and northern river while Sauron calls ever more armies to support him!” Boromir cursed.

“No, I fear we must soon decide where to withdraw.”

Boromir shivered again, then winced and bit back a groan as the wagon hit a rough spot in the road. “You are in pain,” Faramir said sorrowfully. He hunted about inside his leather cuirass and came up with a small metal flask. “Here.” He slipped his free hand beneath Boromir’s head. “Swallow some of this, it will help.”

“Karan’s brew?” Boromir asked hopefully.

“The very same,” Faramir smiled at his pleasure and eased him up to take the bottle rim in his mouth. Boromir swallowed, coughed a little and lay back. “Better? Warmer now?”

“Much better! Many a cold night on our way south did I wish for a drop or two of Karan’s!”

“Here, Gimli.” Faramir handed the flask to the Dwarf who took a swig before handing it back.

“That is a fine brew!” Gimli said appreciatively.

Boromir snorted. “Trust me, Faramir, Karan’s will never receive higher praise. Gimli is quite the expert. And that reminds me, Garad promised him all he can drink – in thanks for his aid to me.”

“A debt I will gladly see paid.” Faramir gave the Dwarf an intently grateful regard.

“As I keep saying,” Gimli insisted, “I did very little. But I will never say no to a beer! Or to a drop as fine as this Karan’s!”

“Good,” Faramir put away the flask and settled to rest his back against one of the wagon’s covered wall stays. “You have travelled far. Frodo said there were nine of you set out from Rivendell, but one had fallen in Moria?”

“Yes.” Boromir heaved a great sigh that made him flinch as much with emotion as with the tug of pain in his ribs. “Faramir, I dread to tell you. Our great loss grieves me all the more for his having been so dear to you.” He searched out Faramir’s eyes in the growing gloom of the wagon interior and said softly, “It was Gandalf -- Mithrandir who fell.”

Faramir drew a shocked breath. “Mithrandir! No!”

“I am sorry, little brother. He meant much to us all, and more, may yet have been the salvation of Middle Earth had he but lived.” He squeezed the hand that still held his own. “I am sorry.”

Faramir nodded and said nothing, choked by tears for several long moments. Then he asked hoarsely, “I had thought Mithrandir, one of the Istari, near immortal. He has been among us so long. How much darker our days and how worse may we fare without his guidance?”

“Indeed.” Gimli said sadly. “Things have been far the darker since his going from us.” He formed a fist and lifted it to back his curse, “May the Balrog rot forever in its deep tomb!”

“A Balrog!” Faramir gasped.

“A demon of the ancient world, Gandalf called it,” Boromir said, his voice heavy with sorrowful remembrance. “He said it was a foe beyond any of us, and he was right.”

“He gave his life to save us from the monster of Moria,” Gimli added tearfully.

“He held the bridge of Kazadum while we escaped,” Boromir explained, “Then he broke it with his staff. Gandalf turned back to us, but the Balrog snared him with its whip even as it fell. Gandalf’s death near destroyed the hobbits with grief. I had a struggle holding Frodo back.” Boromir could say no more as grief robbed him of his voice.

Gimli finished the tale. ‘Gandalf held on just long enough to say ‘Fly, you fools! Then he let go. He just let go – and fell into the chasm after the Balrog.”

Faramir asked, softly intent, “He let go of what – the ruined bridge?”

“Yes. Then, he fell,” Gimli repeated brokenly.

Boromir cocked his head; he had come to expect there was more than a simple meaning when his brother used that sharply thoughtful tone. “Faramir?”

“Foolish of me to even think it,” Faramir said and shook his head.

Boromir frowned. “To think what?”

“Mithrandir is – was – an Istari. He had powers beyond our imagining.”

Boromir began to see where his brother was leading. “Yet he did not attempt to use that power to regain the bridge.”

Gimli stared at them in disbelief. “You cannot be thinking – it was a drop into the very bowels of the earth! And even an Istari ‘s strength has its limits—he had used all he had in forcing the creature away from us.”

“True,” Boromir said. “I’m sorry, Faramir – there’s no hope he could have survived. If the fall did not kill him –“

“The Balrog would.” Faramir nodded weary agreement. “It was a foolish hope.”

Boromir said intently, “Hope is never foolish.”

Faramir smiled fondly down at him. “Indeed not – for it has returned my brother.” He bent closer to tuck in an edge of blanket, then frowned as he more clearly saw Boromir’s growing pallor and exhaustion. “Yet, still a brother who is sorely wounded. I should not have let you weary yourself with so much talk. Please, rest now. Try to sleep. The day grows late; it will be evening before we reach Minas Tirith.”

“I will sleep a while, then,” Boromir said and closed his eyes. “But you must promise to wake me at sunset.”

“Sunset?”

Boromir smiled softly. “Many long days have I dreamed of seeing again the golden light on the white walls and spires of my city.”

“I will wake you, brother,” Faramir said, “Now sleep, I beg you.” And he began ever so gently stroking Boromir’s brow and hair. “Sleep.”

Chapter Seven: News Comes to Minas Tirith.

Shadowfax galloped on and on, climbing ever higher through the streets of Minas Tirith. The first sight of the white city from atop a hill to the west had awed Pippin. He thought then that he could well understand Boromir’s often impassioned and beautiful descriptions of his home. But now, inside the walls, climbing through the sixth level, Pippin realised Minas Tirith had far exceeded the romantic imaginings he’d formed in his mind as he’d listened to Boromir. He craned eagerly around Gandalf as they entered the arched tunnel that led from the sixth to the seventh and final level. Surely, the topmost would be the most spectacular. And then he saw it, an emerald green lawn, backed by magnificent buildings. But it was a much more sombre, sparser place than he’d expected. The fountain in the centre court was pretty enough – but why would they decorate it with a dead tree? And leave guards standing about it at that?

Then, as they dismounted and Pippin jogged to keep up with Gandalf’s long strides, he remembered. “Gandalf! It’s the tree!” He had seen it in that awful evil black stone, the Palantir that had so entranced him. He had seen the tree and a courtyard of stone – and flames.

“Yes,” Gandalf replied. “The White Tree of Gondor.” As they climbed the steps he gave Pippin instruction on what he could and could not say. They were to meet Boromir’s father. Finally, Gandalf concluded, “In fact, perhaps it’s better if you don’t’ speak at all.”

Pippin nodded, more than happy to obey. He was feeling completely overwhelmed by his surroundings. And the memory of the vision reminded him of past error. He had learned his lesson – he would stay in back, remain silent and let those who knew better and had vastly more experience deal with such vital matters. Still, he was looking forward to the moment when they could relay to Denethor the good news – Boromir was on his way home, albeit severely wounded.

The guards closed the huge hall doors and the sound echoed hollowly about them as Pippin and Gandalf entered a vast mostly empty chamber with a high domed and arched roof. Despite its size and magnificent architecture, it was not quite what Pippin had expected of the Steward’s Hall in the capital of Gondor. Where were all the courtesans? Where was the hustle and bustle of all the business and the war preparations that surely must be conducted here? Other than the guards, there was no one. Just Denethor sitting alone on his throne. There were two thrones and Denethor’s, The Steward’s, stood much lower than the other. The higher throne, Boromir had said, awaited the return of the king. Pippin could not imagine Aragorn wanting to sit all the way up there on such a high, lonely and overly superior-looking throne. And how could people hear him from way up there in any case? Pippin stared, trying to take it all in – there were so many marvelous statues in black pillared alcoves to either side of the hall, and the floor had such lovely inlaid mosaic patterns. .

Then Gandalf stopped. “Hail, Denethor, Son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Gondor. I come with tidings and with counsel.” Gandalf gave a small bow and Pippin moved to stand at his side. He looked up at the hunched shouldered dark-haired man on the throne. His head was bowed over something he was cradling on his lap.

Denethor lifted his head and Pippin felt an immediate pang of heart-wrenching sympathy. Pippin well knew what it was like to imagine Boromir dead. All the long hours of his capture, before Merry had regained consciousness, and he’d been alone with his thoughts, it had been all Pippin could see – Boromir falling one final time, dreadfully wounded by not one but three arrows. Surely he must die? And die alone, surrounded by the savage enemy. That terrible grief had near consumed Pippin and only his concern for Merry had kept him going. Never would he forget the great weight that had lifted from him when they’d met Aragorn and Legolas at Isengard and been told of Boromir’s survival. Now, recalling that despair, and seeing it reflected in Boromir’s father, Pippin felt tears sting his eyes. Every line of Denethor’s face spoke of utter sorrow and hopeless grief. His eyes were red-rimmed and gleaming with unshed tears, his hair lank and unkempt, his jaw unshaven.

“Perhaps you come to explain this?” Denethor said, and he lifted the object he’d been cradling. Pippin gasped in shock. Boromir’s horn! It was sliced in two. Aragorn had not said anything of this. Could Orcs have set upon Gimli and Boromir a second time as they travelled the great river? Boromir would never let that horn from his sight. The blood ran cold in Pippin’s veins –what had happened? “Perhaps you come to explain why my son is dead?”

Pippin’s knees near went out from under him. He drew a shocked breath and swayed where he stood. Gandalf’s hand settled on his shoulder but the wizard did not look down at him. All his attention centred on Denethor. “My Lord, we have news from those who travelled with Boromir. He was severely wounded but his companions tended those wounds. One who provided that aid assures me that even now Boromir is safely on his way back to you, travelling by boat with another companion to see to his care.”

Pippin let out the breath he’d been holding. Gandalf sounded absolutely certain, his hand at Pippin’s shoulder calmly reassuring. He would know. But Denethor did not seem at all relieved, or even pleased. He stood, stooped and angry and his eyes were hard as stone as he fixed Gandalf with a sneering glare. “I know my son will not return! This is the proof!” He held out the cloven horn. “You seek as ever to deceive me, Mithrandir!”

“I do not deceive!” Gandalf snapped. “Boromir was caught in the midst of fierce battle. He fought for his very life, and for the lives of others!”

“It’s true!” Pippin cried. He stepped forward then went to one knee in homage and a gesture of humility and gratitude. “Boromir was hurt saving us, my kinsman and I. He fell defending us from many foes. There were so many Orcs. The horn could have been cut away from his side after he was wounded.” Pippin dared not look up to gauge the success of his words. The fact that he had not been interrupted was good enough. He drew a deep breath and said, “I offer you my service, such as it is, in payment of this debt.”

“Get up!” Gandalf said and nudged him with his staff. Pippin stood, eyes downcast, still afraid to judge the effect of his words.

“Take courage, My Lord,” Gandalf said. “Boromir will return home and soon. War is coming. The enemy is on your doorstep. Where are Gondor’s armies? As Steward you are charged with the defence of this city. You still have friends. You are not alone in this fight. Send word to Theoden of Rohan. Light the beacons.””

“My duty is to protect Gondor from treachery as well as from war!” Denethor took another pace forward, coming down one of the steps. Pippin almost took a backward step, driven by the force of the hatred in the man’s expression. “And you would give Gondor nothing but treachery and false hope! I have seen my son’s death! And from a more reliable source than travellers’ rumours! You think you are wise, Mithrandir. Yet for all your subtleties you have not wisdom. Do you think the eyes of the White Tower are blind? I have seen more than you know. My son is dead, or dying, and my line approaches its end. With your left hand you would use me as a shield against Mordor and with your right you seek to supplant me. I know who rides with Theoden of Rohan. Oh, yes. Word has reached my ears of this Aragorn, Son of Arathorn. And I tell you now I will not bow to this Ranger from the North. Last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship!”

“Authority is not given to you to deny the return of the King – Steward!”

“The rule of Gondor is mine, and no other’s!” Denethor was all but spitting with fury. Pippin stared at the man, aghast and disbelieving that this could be Boromir’s father.

“Come, Pippin,” Gandalf said. Together they turned and left the hall. Outside the day was bright, the air clean and cool. Pippin drew a deep breath. “He was so angry!” he said. “Why wouldn’t he believe us about Boromir?”

“Because he allows anger to rule his mind! He is blind to reason!”

“But--” Pippin had to steady himself before he could say it. “He is wrong? I mean, when I saw the horn, it made me wonder. Maybe he knows something more, maybe Boromir and Gimli have been –“

“My dear Pippin, calm yourself.” Gandalf shook his head. “I assure you that my heart tells me Boromir and Gimli are alive and not too far off returning to the city.”

Pippin exhaled hugely. “Well, that’s a relief! I trust your heart over anyone or anything else!”

Gandalf chuckled, and the sound put Pippin at last completely at ease. Inside that cold, echoing hall, he had almost begun to think something awful had happened to his friends. “I am glad to hear that I have your confidence, Master Took! Now, come along, we must find lodgings, and I know just the place. I’ve been here several times in the past, and despite Denethor’s hostility, have been made welcome. How would you like a hot bath and a large soft bed?”

“That would be wonderful! And, and food! Will there be good food?”

“The finest fare this side of Rivendell!”

/The Pelennor/

Gimli removed his helm and settled his battle-axe to a more comfortable position at his side. He sat quietly watching as Boromir gradually succumbed to his brother’s tender but insistent ministration. Boromir was soon deeply asleep, yet still Faramir continued smoothly, rhythmically stroking his brother’s brow in an open show of caring and love that moved Gimli deeply. That simple gentle touch spoke more eloquently and clearly of the source of strength that carried them all through ever more perilous days than any flowery words ever would. Each member of The Fellowship had family, and homes, he knew, yet never had it come to Gimli so keenly just how deep and valuable was that bond. This was what drove them all, kept them going no matter their war weariness – the need to protect their homes and all it meant. Of the nine, Boromir had seemed the one most driven by duty, by the hard necessities of military and political training. Yet, as they had journeyed long days together, spent many an hour on watch or sitting by the campfire, Boromir too had revealed more of his innermost heart. And in those moments he’d spoken most often of Faramir. It had been a near thing at Amon Hen – Gimli did not want to imagine Faramir’s grief if Boromir had not returned to him.

“Three arrow wounds,” Faramir said with a sad sigh as he lifted an edge of the blankets to check the bandaging. “At least the bleeding has slowed now he’s still.” He lifted his head to regard Gimli questioningly. “You fought many foes that day?”

“Aye,” Gimli said grimly. “One hundred or more. It was the fiercest battle I have ever fought.”

Faramir stared. “One hundred against… eight of you?”

“Only four of us trained warriors – the poor wee hobbits stood little chance against creatures of such cruel size and power.” He met Faramir’s wondering eyes and explained, “These were no mere Orcs who tracked us, but some new evil created by Saruman. The Uruk-hai of Isengard are larger and heavier than any man, their minds more cunning than Orcs, their armour thicker and shields more broad. They will run night and day without tiring.”

Faramir nodded. “Word had reached me from Rohan of this new enemy roaming freely to kill beneath the sun.”

Gimli sighed heavily and looked down at the blood on Boromir’s bandages. “I still wonder that any of us survived the battle at Amon Hen. Aragorn said one of the creatures fought on even after he had severed its arm and driven his sword through its guts. Only by cutting the thing’s head off did he end its attack. And I doubt not that Aragorn took more satisfaction from that one kill than all the others.” His eyes lifted again to lock with Faramir’s appalled gaze. “That was the very same monster, the archer, that had felled Boromir. Your brother would have died with a fourth arrow in his heart but for Aragorn’s most timely arrival.”

Faramir paled and drew a sharp breath. “Then I am forever indebted to him. And to you all.”

Gimli shook his head. “If only we could have reached Boromir sooner! He and Frodo had wandered from camp and we scattered to find them. But the Uruks found us first. Aragorn, Legolas and I were far from your brother, atop the hill and caught in fierce battle, when we heard Boromir’s horn. Ahh!” Gimli cried and lifted a hand to his eyes. “I hear it still, calling, pleading for help, desperate, alone but fighting yet. And us unable to reach him immediately! Nor would we ever perhaps, but that many of the Uruks were drawn away from us by the horn.”

“They ran toward the call of Gondor’s horn?”

“Aye. They knew that the horn guarded the prize they sought most urgently – ‘Find the Halflings!’ they were shouting. The Uruks could see the hobbits were not atop the hill, with us, and they knew somehow that a hobbit carried The Ring. Those who did not stay to fight us, ran to claim the prize, or so they thought, but Frodo was safely away, with Sam, close by the boats.”

“Frodo said there were two more of his kin with you. Sam spoke of Merry and Pippin? It was they who were taken captive?”

“Sadly, yes. The Ring was saved by their sacrifice. The Uruks did not know there were four hobbits among us. And finding Boromir fighting so fiercely to protect them, must have added to their certainty that this was The Ring he guarded.” Gimli sighed. “Boromir near gave his life to protect them, his ‘little ones’, as he called them. How he fought on, pierced by so many arrows…” Gimli shook his head. “Never have I witnessed so valiant a battle.”

“I can see it.” Faramir blinked, and tears fell from his eyes. ”My brother has the bravest heart and the fiercest will in defence of those he loves.”

“Yes.” Gimli’s grim expression softened suddenly into a fond smile and he looked down at his sleeping friend. “I would scarce have credited it in one such as Boromir, ever the stern warrior Captain. Yet, all the way from Rivendell to the Anduin, he fussed after Merry and Pippin like a mother hen with its chicks!”

“This too, is not new to me,” Faramir said, and again lifted his hand to stroke his brother’s pale brow. “For so he cared for me when I was but an infant. After our mother died. Since, he has ere a soft place in his heart for children.”

“The hobbits do seem childlike at first look. But they take severe umbrage to being thought of so.” Gimli snorted and looked to Faramir with a smile. “I fear poor Boromir was oft on the receiving end of a cutting remark when it seemed he might forget that. But Merry and Pippin are such rascals! They would happily use Boromir’s kind heart to win extra rations. He was forever giving over much of his share to them and trying to hide the fact from the rest of us!” He lowered his voice conspiratorially and leaned closer. “Indeed it’s become rather a sore point with Boromir that we learned that he even surrendered his warm undershirts when the hobbits pleaded the bitter cold of Caradhras.”

Faramir chuckled. “I must remember to tease him about that – sometime when I am well out of range!” Gimli grinned back at him, but Faramir’s mood abruptly darkened as he added, “And yet these two that he so loved and protected, were dragged away from him by the Uruks?”

Gimli nodded. “It tore at him badly that he had been unable to save them. Bare moments after Aragorn first reached him, he begged that we abandon him and go immediately to their rescue.”

“Is there yet hope for such a rescue?”

“Aye, I believe so. Aragorn is the finest tracker I have ever seen, and he has Legolas with him. Both have great knowledge of the lands the Uruks must cross to return to Isengard. Aragorn says he knows a shorter way that would intersect their route. If any can return Merry and Pippin, it will be Aragorn and our good Elf friend.”

“Then, this too is true!” Faramir said, in an awed whisper, and recited:

“From the ashes a fire shall be woken;

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be King!”

Gimli looked up in wonderment for the quoting of the ancient prophecy. “Aragorn has long been loath to push his claim. But there, I believe your brother has turned the tide.”

“Boromir? In what way?”

“Much of it in the friendship and trust that grew ever stronger between them during our long dark journey. And he gave final proof of the courage and honour of Men – if such were needed -- in his valiant attempt to save Merry and Pippin. Boromir gave his pledge of fealty to Aragorn after that terrible battle, and more, heard in return Aragorn’s oath of protection for Minas Tirith.”

“Aragorn is pledged to come to our aid?”

Gimli nodded. “He swore he would not let The White City fall, nor his people fail.”

Faramir drew a great breath in wonder and joy. “Then Boromir has indeed returned victorious, for he has delivered the greatest and mightiest of gifts! Our King returned in the hour of our most dire need. I am most glad of it, and yet this is a new insight to my brother where I had thought --” He paused and Gimli tilted his head expectantly until Faramir continued, “Boromir has ever been my father’s greatest and most loyal Captain, ever sought to carry out his will.”

Gimli grunted. “It is true that when Boromir first learned that Strider, the Ranger, was Aragorn son of Arathorn, and heir to the throne of Gondor, he did not react... favourably."

Faramir smiled wryly. “I fear you try for diplomatic words, friend Dwarf. I thank you, but I know well what my brother would have said in such a circumstance, for I have heard him echo our father often enough on this matter – ‘Gondor has no King. Gondor needs no King.”

“You know him well!”

Faramir looked again to his sleeping brother and resumed his stroking. “That Aragorn has won not only my brother’s loyalty but also his affection and oath, tells me much of what I have long suspected of the nature of the man I dearly hope may some day soon reclaim his crown.” He smiled fondly but a frown darkened his eyes as he said softly to Boromir, “I fear you may yet have your greatest task ahead, brother – to make our father see Aragorn as now, do you.”

Gimli snorted. “A clash of two such strong wills should be … most entertaining.”

Faramir did not smile. “My hope is it will be no worse than that, yet my heart fears otherwise.” He heaved a gusty sigh. “But that is for the days ahead, and whatever the outcome, my heart will survive, for my brother has come home at last where I dared not hope!”

Faramir pulled at a cord wrapped about one of the wagon cover stays, and then he lifted the side flap. His face and hair suddenly gleamed red-gold in the low light that spilled inside the wagon. “Look!” he exclaimed, and pulled the canvas flap higher, “The light returns! The sun has reached far enough west to be free of Mordor’s foul murk. I will wake Boromir, and you must see this too, Gimli. For it is a sight to soothe even the most sorrowful of hearts – the White City and its towers washed gold by the sun’s setting!”

“And a sight well renowned in all Middle Earth,” Gimli said as he moved toward the opening. “Yet this will be my first … Oh!” Before him was revealed a beauty that could only be equaled by the far golden domes of Lothlorien’s trees. But this was a beauty better suited to a Dwarven heart for it was carved and hewn from the magnificent perfection of the mountain itself. “Oh!” Gimli inhaled again, overcome by awe. At his back, he heard Faramir whispering to his brother.

“I am loath to wake you from such a peaceful slumber when you are in such sore need of it, brother. But a promise made is only a promise if kept. Come, wake Boromir. Set eyes again on that which your brave heart so truly enshrines. Wake, Boromir, and find yourself home at last!”

Gimli dragged his eyes away from the golden city to catch the moment he had so often heard ring in the longing of Boromir’s words. Faramir gently lifted Boromir’s head and shoulders, cradling him against his chest. Both brothers were now awash in the golden light, their red-brown hair haloed, eyes glowing, and their smiles twin portraits of radiant joy. Gimli’s vision swam suddenly and he felt tears sting his eyes. In its way, the sight of the two brothers reunited, and one in their love for their homeland, was a beauty far greater than any that could ever be crafted by living hands.

“Home!” Boromir said. “My city at last!” There was a catch in Boromir’s voice that robbed him of further speech.

“Both the sun and Minas Tirith welcome you, brother!” Faramir’s words rang with pure joy. “Drink it in, and draw strength from it. Remember this day and this moment forever.”

“I will remember, little brother,” Boromir said softly. “I will remember.”

There was silence and Gimli turned back to watch as the highest towers caught the ever-lowering light. Tall and proud with their white banners flying, the spires and towers seemed to be trying to hold that golden radiance against the day’s dying, wanting to horde it as a treasure against the darkness to come. Finally, the uppermost peak of the beacon roof above the city gleamed in one last glorious burst of light, almost as if it were indeed aflame. Then the sunset light winked out, leaving the city painted in a pale twilight of purple shadows. High above the mountain the sky was molten gold, streaked with a defiant blaze of vivid colour, the lowest band a brilliant glowing blue. There at the westernmost point, a small gap of sky remained clear, open and free. A banner of life and hope defying the death and despair of Mordor.

“It is strange,” Faramir said intently, “Yet with each passing day as Mordor’s clouds spread further west, the sunset challenges it ever more bravely and cheers our hearts with a wider array of golden light.”

“The light of the West will never die, little brother.“ Boromir turned away at last to smile up at Faramir, “At the least, not in our hearts.”

Faramir nodded mutely, swallowed hard, then kissed his brother’s brow and said, “Never could my heart be more glad than at this moment, returned home with you.” Gently, he eased his brother back to the padded litter. “Rest, now.”

“Father also believes me lost?”

Faramir nodded. “It will be good to free him from the weight of that grief. I know too well its burden.”

“Yes,” Boromir said, but there was something uncertain in his gaze as he held his brother’s eyes. “And yet, we return to him without the mighty gift he so greatly desired.”

“The Ring.”

“Yes.” Boromir lifted a hand to grip Faramir’s bare wrist with surprising strength. “And as always, though it is my failure, the worst of his wrath will be directed at you!”

“We know it is anything other than a failure to keep Gondor free of The Ring’s evil,” Faramir replied firmly. “Yet if father will name it so, I will have him know that it was not your doing that turned The Ring back east from Osgiliath.”

“Faramir! No!” Boromir started up, hissed pain. “Listen to me! You must not reveal any part in its going from him! You must tell him as will I, that it was my order set Frodo and Sam free.”

“Boromir… he will know the truth.”

“It is the truth! It was my order! Whether or not it reached your hearing first is…” He panted pain, gasped, “of no matter.”

Faramir frowned. “I will tell him, as you wish. Now, please, do not struggle so; your wounds are already freshly torn. I will not see them bleeding again!”

Breathless and holding one hand tight against his ribs, Boromir nodded and lay back. “You will tell him it was my order?”

Faramir sighed. “If that is your wish.”

Boromir held his brother’s eyes fiercely. “It is my fervent wish! I will not see you pay this new penalty that father created! He would bring it to bear on any who release travellers before he has questioned them.”

“You would spare me this penalty only to have it directed at you in my stead!”

Boromir reached out and squeezed his brother’s arm again. “It saddens me, but you know well I have father charmed where you do not. I will find a way round this new penalty as I have those of the past.”

Faramir looked suddenly away from him, and Gimli caught the gleam of fresh tears in the younger man’s eyes. “That penalty was never...” Faramir cut himself short, choked by emotion.

“It will be all right,” Boromir said with somewhat uncertain sounding reassurance. “He will be too glad to have me home.”

“I pray you are right, brother.”

Gimli could be silent no longer. “Would someone kindly tell me what is this penalty of which you speak?”

Boromir looked up at him, and the grim light in his friend’s eyes suddenly worried Gimli. “Death. The penalty is death.”

Gimli’s mouth dropped open and it was a moment before he could say, “Surely your own father would not!”

Boromir sighed, and turned again to look toward the City. Its huge beautifully ornate gates were very close now. From inside came the shouted orders that would open it. “We will know soon enough.”

They could hear a horse trotting rapidly closer, approaching from the rear, and as it drew level with them, Gimli saw that the rider was Boromir’s friend, Garad.

“My Lords!” Garad greeted happily. “Friend Gimli! This is a moment long awaited. Boromir, may I beg the honour of being first to take the news of your return to your father? ”

Boromir grinned at the man’s eager expression, and nodded. “Go, Garad, enjoy the gallop. And don’t run down too many people in the streets this time!”

Garad laughed. “They should learn to move faster! My thanks.” And as the mammoth gates drew open, Garad indeed took off at a flying gallop. Gimli noticed that in the man’s right hand was clasped the Steward’s standard. The White Tree, dark against the white silk, caught the light of the many torches arrayed about the gates in the growing dusk. And by their flickering light, as if in salute, the branches seemed suddenly to come to life.

For Boromir was home.

Chapter Eight: Denethor and the Palantir.

Garad galloped excitedly up and around the first level, then the second, the third, and on, The Steward’s banner flying high. He shouted joyfully again and again, “Great news! Great news! The Lord Boromir is returned!" Voices cried out behind him, and the joy spread like a wave creating a sea of gladness. This was a wondrous day for Minas Tirith.

At last, with his brave horse tiring, he reached the seventh level and charged through the Citadel archway. The sentries stepped aside and he called the news to them, heard them too repeat it joyfully. He thundered on across the open expanse of green sward and by the dead Tree with its mournful fountain. At the steps of the Great Hall he jumped from his sweating mount, gave over the reins and the banner, and hurried up and through the door. Here, he slowed a little. For all its magnificence he’d never much liked Gondor’s Great Hall. It was for him too empty a place, full of echoes, shadows and coldness. But today, he smiled proudly up at the statues of Elendil and Isildur. Looking forward however, he saw that the Steward’s throne was empty.

A citadel guard hurried forward, resplendent in the silver and black livery of the Tower Guard, but wearing a scowl on his thin face. “The Lord Denethor is in his tower chamber and left strict instruction that he was not to be disturbed. You may leave your message with me.”

Garad laughed. “Not to be disturbed? Even to hear that Boromir is come home to him?”

“Boromir is home? Truly?” Garad nodded and the man’s sour face suddenly lit with hope and joy.

“Yes, man,” Garad urged. “Now let us hurry. Boromir asks that I deliver this news personally. Take me to the Steward!”

Together they climbed many a narrow winding stair going higher and higher above the Hall only to emerge on yet another landing or balcony that led to still more stairs. Garad had thought that the uppermost spires of The Citadel were no longer used, but apparently he had been mistaken. For ahead now, at the narrowest point of one final curving tunnel, a strange light could be seen flickering from about the edges of a heavily draped and screened doorway. On either side stood black robed and hooded shadowy figures. At first Garad thought they might be Dunedain Rangers, so silent and menacing did they appear. But Denethor he knew had long been hostile to the Men of the North.

The two stepped very smoothly, almost stealthily forward and Garad saw that, whoever they were, they had rarely seen the light of day. Their skin was flawless white yet sickly in its pallor, their eyes sunken and shadowed their cheeks hollow and bodies terribly thin. Surely such were not strong enough to guard the Steward? They were armed with halberds and their swords did not carry Gondor’s mark. From where had they come? Meeting their eyes sent a sudden chill through Garad – here lay power, not that of flesh and muscle and bone, but a power that may easily surpass it.

The taller of the two came closer still, his voice a sibilant hiss as he asked Garad’s companion, “What do you here? And with a stranger! You have been told…”

“I bring word,” the Tower guardsman found courage to interrupt. “A messenger, Captain Garad, with great news!”

“None may enter here,” the second creature said flatly. “Save the Steward.”

“Move aside!” Garad had lost his patience. “Lord Denethor will want to know his firstborn is returned to him!” Right hand gripping the hilt of his sword, Garad pushed at the curtain and stepped inside. It was a gloomy, stuffy and windowless small round chamber with a low wood rafter and tiled roof. Only a single candle burned, giving off less illumination than smoke. Someone was weeping, and the sound tore at Garad for its grief was that of one who had long abandoned all hope.

Denethor – if indeed it were he -- appeared inconsolable, sitting hunched over something that lay in the middle of a small, circular table. On its far side lay Boromir’s cloven horn. In this setting it seemed even more forlorn than it had when it was first found it floating in the reeds by the Great River. The Steward was whispering to himself, sobbing, “He is dead, then. Or dying. Ever the same. Ever the same.”

Swallowing hard against the miasma of despair and fear that permeated the chamber, Garad stepped closer. He saw that between Denethor’s now parted hands, was a strange black orb of stone or glass that gleamed with swirls of red and orange light. It was oddly beautiful, and he stared at it a moment, mesmerized.

“My Lord Steward! A messenger!” the guard who had followed Garad announced harshly.

Denethor jumped and almost guiltily, threw a dark silk cloth over the stone. “I told you I was not to be disturbed! And no strangers are ever to enter here!”

The ferocity of the snarled rebuke staggered Garad. He stumbled back and caught at another low table for support. His sight cleared as the strange orb let go its grip, and he realized cold sweat was running down his back and dampening his brow and hair. All the joy and warmth of his message had somehow died in the impossible chill and gloom of this awful, airless room. Denethor’s piercing eyes pinned him suddenly from within the shadows, and Garad blurted out, “My Lord Steward, I come to tell you, your son, Boromir is returned. Your firstborn is home!”

“Returned? Dead?”

“No!” Garad gasped. “My Lord, Boromir is alive! He is wounded, yes, but already his strength returns. A wagon carries him closer through the Circles as we speak.”

“Boromir? Alive? Surely it cannot be?”

Garad frowned in confusion for this persistent doubt. Given long enough in this hated room he may even come to believe such nonsense himself! “I swear, it is true! I left him bare moments ago. Please, my Lord, come, follow me and I will take you to him. He is eager to see you again.”

“Yes,” Denethor drew a deep breath and stood. He stumbled a little and Garad steadied him. “Yes!” he repeated more strongly. “Take me to my son!”

They hurried all the way back through a maze of stairs and landings, then, having apparently followed some secret, more private route, Garad found himself suddenly stepping out into the night onto a colonnaded gallery that ran the length of the eastern side of the Great Hall. He breathed deeply of the sweet, fresh air. The night for all its darkness seemed full of life and light by comparison to that awful tower chamber high above. Flickering torches lit their path as they hurried on to the far end of the gallery, turned a corner, and entered through a plain arch that gave access to a smaller, carpeted hall. This was, as near as Garad could make it out, the area in which more private interviews were held. On the far side stood another arch, open to the night and through it, with great relief, Garad saw the green sward where stood the wagon and its team of horses. Faramir had climbed out and seemed to be arguing with the driver about whether or not they should deliver Boromir back to the Houses of Healing, just beyond the Citadel Gate, rather than first proceeding here.

Insert Illustration by Skye

Completely ignoring Faramir, Denethor rushed forward, his long cloak billowing behind him. “Boromir! My son! “ He called. “Are you indeed come home to me? Say it is so!”

From inside the wagon, Boromir replied, “Father!” He came into sight, propping himself up to peer through the open canvas side. He flashed a broad grin and stretched out an arm to beckon his father into his embrace. “I am home at last!”

Denethor leapt up to the wagon bed with a nimbleness Garad would not have credited for the broken man he had found high above. The Steward caught his elder son in a fierce hug that must have hurt Boromir, but he returned it nonetheless delightedly. Denethor could not speak, but rested his brow against his son’s and wept silently for several long moments.

“Father?” Garad could see the expression on his friends’ face, saw how much this disheveled and grief-torn man had shaken Boromir. Denethor was not the stern leader he had left behind all those months ago. “It is all right! It is all right. Do not weep!”

Finally, Denethor drew back and Garad saw his face was transformed. He was smiling now, and his eyes gleamed only with tears and with love. That earlier strange cold light had left their depths. “Boromir!” he cried and laughed all at once. “I knew you could not be fallen! I knew you would not fail me!”

“Never!” Boromir said firmly in return. But he could no longer hide his weakness and pain, and was unable to remain seated. He lay back to the litter, and gave Faramir who stood behind their father, a somewhat bemused, sad and wry smile.

“You are wounded!” Denethor cried in anguish as he saw the bloodied bandaging that all but covered Boromir’s chest and shoulder. “How badly?”

“I will soon be well.” Boromir looked again to his brother and drew him closer with a glance. “Faramir has done much to aid my return of strength since my arrival in Osgiliath today.”

“Indeed?” Denethor stepped down from the wagon to regard the younger man. Both his tone and expression lost all their warmth as he continued; “Yet it is only now that I learn of this happy news?”

“My pardon, father,” Faramir ‘s face fell, and Garad glimpsed a heart wrenching sadness before a calm mask cloaked Faramir’s deeper emotion. “Osgiliath is under attack. The Nazgul are ever watchful. A single messenger may have been captured. And there was none to spare from those needed to guard the other wounded who travelled close behind us.”

Boromir shook his head angrily. “We sent Garad as soon as we might.”

“Osgiliath is under attack, you say?” Denethor had not removed his sharply cold eyes from the younger son. “Then surely, Faramir, as the senior commander of all our forces along the Anduin your place is there? Are you not sworn to protect the city your brother so recently returned to us? Go. Get you back to the garrison.”

“Father! No!” Boromir cried. He tried again to sit up, wincing and pressing one hand to his ribs. “I would have Faramir’s company a while longer!”

Denethor turned to Boromir with a flat smile. “You know where duty lies, Boromir. It is time your brother learned the same.”

Boromir spat an ugly, furious curse that made his father blink surprise and take a step back. Boromir glared bright anger at Denethor and snarled, “My brother has fought as long and hard as I to defend Gondor! Longer! Harder! I have not been here these long months when we have been so constantly hard-pressed! He has held the borders better than I could have wished! I will not hear him so rebuked!“ Breathless and fighting pain; he steadied himself and turned to his brother. “Ignore him, Faramir. There will be time enough for war come the morning.”

“I thank you, brother.” Tears of pride and affection for his brother’s fierce defence gleamed in Faramir’s blue eyes. “But, I must go.” He smiled sadly and shook his head. “I will see you soon. Rest. Regain your strength. Our Captains will look for your return to the fight, as will I.” Not giving his father the satisfaction of any protest, he merely turned his back and walked away, toward the Tower Guard stables.

Dismissing Faramir as if he had never been present, Denethor looked back to Boromir, took his hand, and asked, “And what of the gift I asked you to carry home to me?”

Boromir would have eased himself wearily back but for the grip on his arm. “This is not the place for such news,” he said tiredly.

Denethor gasped and leaned eagerly forward. “I know you found it! Where is it?”

“It was lost to me, and I’m glad of it.”

Denethor’s grip tightened so hard that Boromir flinched. “It cannot be so! You would not fail me! And I have seen it, seen this mighty gift. Seen that it has come to Gondor! You must have it!”

“I do not.” With the last of his strength, Boromir pulled his arm free and fell painfully back to the litter.

Gimli, who must have seen and heard the entire exchange, suddenly leapt clear of the wagon. He hefted his battle-axe in one hand, and gave Denethor a fierce glare, startling the guards who hurried forward.

“Friend! Friend!” Garad said quickly and stepped between them. “Gimli is a friend.”

“Friend to some here and not to others,” Gimli growled and did not leave off his glaring at Denethor. “Tell me, Steward,” he said scathingly, “how is it that you can see so much that does not concern you from so far afield?”

From inside the wagon, Garad could hear Boromir either cheering or laughing. Denethor cheeks flushed with anger, stepped closer to sneer, “And who are you, Dwarf, that you dare question me?”

Knowing Boromir’s patience and strength had been well exhausted, Garad intervened. “This is Gimli, son of Glóin, and our honoured guest, for it was he who cared for and returned Boromir all the way from Rauros.”

“Rauros?” Denethor whispered, “Yes, Amon Hen, that is where I last saw it clearly. Yet I know it was closer, much closer, only today.”

“Saw what? How?” Gimli demanded.

“You are brazen as all your kind,” Denethor spat. “It is long since Minas Tirith has tolerated such as you in her lower streets, let alone her Citadel!”

“Father! Enough!” Boromir exclaimed, and groaned as he struggled to again push himself up.

Gimli stepped to the wagon’s side, and reached up to pat his friend’s arm. “Leave it, laddie. It’s not worth you hurting yourself further. And I am going anyway.”

“Going? Where?”

“To Osgiliath. For I will not see your brother return alone to battle.”

Boromir heaved a sigh of gratitude. “I would be glad of that. Thank you, Gimli. Watch his back for me.”

“I will, laddie, I will. And I ask that you take care of yourself, too. The sooner you can rejoin the fight, the better.” He patted Boromir’s bare arm once more, smiled and said, “Rest, regain your strength. Looks like you’re going to need it.”

Faramir had reappeared leading a horse. Boromir called, and he came to the wagon to embrace his brother and say farewell. Then he swung into the saddle, and bent down to haul Gimli up behind him. “Return to me, soon, little brother,” Boromir called. “My thanks, Gimli! Return to me safe!”

Garad, watching, was appalled as he saw the brothers take their leave. This was far from the joyous homecoming he’d expected. He’d long known of, and sometimes witnessed, Denethor’s coldness toward Faramir, but never had he dreamed it had become so much worse. He shook himself and stepped forward, signaling the guardsmen to help him with the litter. They too were subdued. But as Garad and three others carefully lifted Boromir free of the wagon, he cheered them with a ribald remark and a grin despite his evident exhaustion. It was those innate qualities of good humour; courage and natural leadership that had long since won for Boromir the admiration, loyalty and love of every soldier of Gondor. Garad took command, turning them toward the Citadel arch and the Houses of Healing, only to have Denethor snap, “Not that way! I will have my personal physician tend my son. Follow me!”

Garad frowned and obeyed. He had not known there were any healers other than those who lived and worked on the sixth level. When had one been singled out and given such an exclusive honour? It had never been done before. The much loved and greatly mourned Felenthis had been the senior Healer, and all had assumed he would attend Denethor if ever such was needed. Garad grew wary as one of Denethor’s dark-robed guards joined them as soon as they re-entered the building. The stranger whispered to The Steward and Denethor nodded, said nothing, but his shoulders drooped and his back hunched in an attitude of extreme weariness.

Chapter Nine – Blood and Shadows

After following an ever-more confusing maze of corridors branching off from the Great Hall, they reached their destination. Garad and his men carefully maneuvered the heavy litter through a narrow door. Inside he was disappointed to find yet another small, windowless room, a bedchamber. The White Tree banner was draped over the bare stone of the rear wall, but there was little other adornment. If this was Denethor’s sleep chamber, surely it was the room he must use only when duty delayed him late in the Hall. It was a far cry from the comfort and beauty of the rooms of the multi-tiered House of the Stewards that stood to the right of the Hall. Most of the rooms there were bright and spacious with tall windows giving magnificent views of the city and the distant river.

Boromir lifted his head slightly to share a frown of puzzlement with Garad, but then lay back, seeming too bone weary to care for anything other than that the room contain a bed. And that at least it supplied in style – a large, deeply cushioned four-posted bed with its red-brocade drapes drawn back. Gently the men lay the litter down on one side of the mattress, and with Garad’s help, Boromir moved from it onto the bed. Seeing him shiver as the litter’s covers fell back, Garad bent and took the heavy woollen blanket that lay neatly folded at the foot of the bed. He covered Boromir warmly and heard him give a muffled groan of sheer relief. Boromir opened tired eyes to smile gratefully up at them and say, “My thanks. I hope carrying me so far has not ruined your backs.”

. The other men chuckled and stood back. Garad patted his friend’s arm. “It is we who thank you for this great honour.” Garad winked. “The story should earn us all many a free ale in the city’s taverns this night.”

“Be sure to save some for me,” Boromir grinned, but his face was pale and lined with fatigue.

“We will. Now, if I may be so bold as to give advice to My Captain General – take some rest.”

Boromir snorted dry amusement and closed his eyes. Garad dismissed the other men, but some instinct made him stop short of leaving the room himself. Denethor had come in from the outer corridor followed by two of the strangely dark-robed men, not those Garad had seen acting as guards. These carried baskets of rolled bandaging and what looked to be an array of surgical knives and probes. Garad would not, unless ordered otherwise, leave Boromir – even in the company of his father – while such unsettling attendants remained. The taller and leaner of the two he noted with some trepidation wore the insignia of a Physician high on his left shoulder.

“Shall I lay out your instruments here, or closer to the bed my lord Haradna?” the shorter man asked.

“Closer.” Haradna nodded. “Bring that table to the bed.”

The assistant, rather than doing it himself, waved at Garad to obey. He was ready enough to make himself useful; his feeling that he should not leave was growing stronger by the moment. He positioned the table then was ordered to fill a basin with water from a ewer in one corner. As he placed it on the table, he winced at the gleaming array of knives and other metallic tools. He had seen such before, used in ways he preferred not to recall, in battlefield aid stations. He was somewhat reassured when, unlike that rough and ready medicine, Haradna washed his hands thoroughly before bending over Boromir. The small knife he held was used only to slice through the filthy bandages, which he then threw to the tiled floor. Garad began to relax -- they planned then only to clean and redress the wounds. He glanced across the room to see that Denethor was now seated in a large cushioned chair in the left rear corner and was taking surprisingly little interest in proceedings.

Having washed the caked blood from Boromir’s chest, the physician began probing carefully with his long fingers at each wound in turn. Boromir stiffened, gasped, and then clenched his teeth tightly. As the examination continued, he lost what little colour had formerly brightened his thin face. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow and cheeks and his flesh drained to a stark white mask stiff with tension. Garad shared Boromir’s sigh of relief as Haradna finally moved away from the bed. Boromir looked groggily up at the man, but seemed now so weak that he was only partially aware of his surroundings.

To Denethor the physician reported tersely, “The left shoulder is broken and several ribs are shattered. The shoulder in particular contains bone fragments that must be removed if the muscles are to heal correctly. Without such, I fear your son may not regain full use of his left arm. And there are splintered pieces of the arrow shafts remaining that will soon poison the wounds if they are not removed.”

“Do what you must,” Denethor said without emotion.

Garad wanted to ask if surely it would be better to delay such surgery at least until Boromir had recovered a little from his long, jarring journey. But it was not his place to give advice to healers. And he did not want to be thrown out of the room, was glad they seemed to be tolerating his presence without objection.

The Physician searched among his instruments, pointed at several, and his assistant spread them on a piece of white cloth in readiness. Haradna chose a long, sharp-pointed set of pincers and bent back to Boromir.

“W-wait,” Garad said over a mouth suddenly gone dry with horror. “Surely there is something you can give him first? Something to deaden the pain?”

Haradna looked coldly over his shoulder and said nothing. The assistant turned and hissed to Garad, “Be silent, or leave!”

“But.” Garad shut his mouth as the assistant nodded toward the door. Instead of speaking, Garad looked pleadingly toward Denethor, but saw not the least flicker of response in The Steward’s empty expression. It almost seemed he had drifted into some kind of trance. He was muttering very softly, his lips moving; though Garad could not make out the words. Garad heard a strangled moan from the bed, and turned back in time to see the Physician dig at the shoulder wound. The sudden intense pain had brought Boromir fully awake, and he bit down hard to stifle further cry, his teeth drawing blood from his lower lip. Why had they not given him a piece of leather on which to bite down?

Garad grew ever more angry and sickened as the cruel work continued and more and more bloodied swabs were thrown to the floor. Though there had been plenty of probing, not one single piece of bone had as yet been removed. And they hadn’t even started on the other wounds. He began to fear Boromir would not survive if they went on much longer. The Physician tugged at something deep within the wound and Boromir reared up from the bed with a sharp, agonised cry.

“There! It is out,” Haradna said and dropped something gleaming white and covered in gore onto the folded cloth. Boromir dropped back limply to the bed, mercifully unconscious.

Garad’s stomach was in his throat. When Haradna picked up another metallic instrument and began to work on the lower chest wounds, he gagged and looked away, swallowing hard against the sickness. Partly waking from his faint, Boromir began to toss and moan, throwing his head about so violently that the assistant moved to grasp it firmly and hold him still. Boromir continued to fight them, his good right arm lifted and his legs drawing up. “Get over here, soldier, and help me hold him!” the assistant snapped.

Garad stumbled closer and obeyed, all the while trying to keep his eyes from seeing exactly what it was they were doing. But he couldn’t avoid seeing the dark blood that streamed now from all three wounds to stain the sheets in an alarmingly widening circle. Garad was no Healer, but he well knew that such bleeding needed immediate attention. “Shouldn’t we – “ he dared, “find some bandaging for –“

“Be silent! Hold him! You are needed for nothing more.”

Garad bit back a curse and struggled to hold down Boromir as he continued to try, instinctively, to escape the torment of those long, slender hands and their metallic touch. Boromir’s entire body trembled, muscles twitching and jumping with strain. Sweat drenched his hair and ran in rivulets from face, neck and straining tendons.

“Please,” Garad begged in a half–whisper and craned aside to look again to Denethor.

Anguish and fear drew taut lines on the Steward’s face, his brows low over dark eyes. He was talking to himself softly and wringing his hands. “It is gone from me, then. Gone! Our only hope.” The words he mumbled grew louder. “And my firstborn, Gondor’s finest Captain crippled! Or dying yet! There is no hope!””

“No!” Garad shouted, not having much effect on Denethor but earning a stern glare from Haradna. The Physician dared not order him to leave now – they needed his strength to keep Boromir on the bed. His struggles grew more desperate, making Garad want to weep even as he marveled at the man’s great strength.

“Merry! Pippin! No! Run!” Boromir called suddenly, his head breaking free of the clasping hands. “Run!” he repeated and lifted up from the pillows. Garad too almost lost his grip as Boromir’s right arm jerked, the fist closing as if about a sword hilt. “Where are you? Where? I can’t see! Run!” He gave a long moan of despairing agony and cried again with surprising strength, “Merry! Pippin!”

Garad jumped a little as he suddenly realized The Steward was now standing very close at his shoulder. Denethor was still wringing his hands but was silent, listening intently. “Pippin?” he said. “That is the name of the Halfling who arrived today with the Wizard, Mithrandir. My son suffered these wounds for him! For a foolish, unimportant Halfling!”

Garad almost lost his balance, jolted by the Physician’s arm as the man started abruptly back and swung about to frown at Denethor. “”Where is this Halfling?” Haradna asked sharply.

“Gandalf is here!” Garad said, feeling a surge of hope.

“I sent them from me,” Denethor snapped. “After they came to me this morning.”

Boromir found strength to cry desperately, “Pippin! Run!”

“If this creature was one of Boromir’s companions than I would have him brought to us,” The Physician said, sounding and appearing to Garad oddly strained and excited.

“And what possible good would that do for my son? The Halfling has already left him crippled!” Denethor snarled.

“It may help calm him. Boromir will do himself less damage if he stops fighting us so. He loses much blood.”

‘Very well,” Denethor nodded and turned immediately to Garad “You, Ranger, go fetch this Halfling, Pippin, to me.”

“Yes, My Lord!” Garad replied, then frowned down at a struggling Boromir and added uncertainly, “But who will —“

“I will hold him. Go! Hurry!”

Though he was reluctant to leave his bloodied friend with these madmen, Garad was glad to obey. He’d bring Gandalf, too. The Wizard would stop this butchery and see Boromir properly tended. “Where will I find them, my Lord Steward?” Garad thought to ask as he reached the door.

“I know not!” Denethor snapped. “The Wizard most often stays in the old quarter on the Sixth level.”

Garad cast one last despairing look at Boromir then charged outside.

Insert Illustration by Gonzai

Gandalf and Pippin were standing talking and enjoying the sunset view from the balcony of their quarters when a growing commotion from the levels far below gradually caught their attention. "What are they all shouting about down there?” Pippin asked. “They’re all suddenly so excited about something.”

Gandalf came to the balustrade at Pippin’s side and looked down, frowning as he saw a rider galloping full tilt up through the arch of the third circle to climb ever upward. The man carried the banner of the Steward and was shouting as he rode. Whatever it was it left cries of joy in its wake. The entire city seemed to be pouring from their homes into the streets, but not in fear, in celebration.

“I could almost swear.” Pippin began. “Does that sound like. Well, like they’re calling Boromir’s name?”

Gandalf listened harder, and as the rider entered the fifth circle he could hear it clearly, “Great news! Great news! The Lord Boromir is returned!”

“It is! It is!” Pippin cried.

“Yes!” Gandalf smiled and slapped the stone railing in triumph. “Well done!” At his side, Pippin had begun to dance, doing a strange jig that carried him in ever-wider circles. He whooped and called, “Boromir! Boromir! I knew you couldn’t be dead! I knew it! We were right!”

“Well, of course! We’re always right!” Gandalf chuckled and gave the hobbit a wry regard, remembering his fears of earlier that day. Then he took him by the arm and pulled him away from the balcony, back into their room. “Then you might want to stop running in circles, Peregrin Took and put your best clothes back on.” He stopped, cocked an eyebrow at his small friend, and said teasingly, “Unless you’d rather not visit him just yet.”

“Oh, Gandalf!” Tears suddenly filled Pippin’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks. “Do you think we could? Boromir fought so hard to save me and Merry, and I don’t want him worrying about us any longer than he must. But, do you think, I mean, will Denethor let us see him?”

“We may have to wait until after they have their own reunion, but I’m sure Boromir will soon ask for news.”

“And if Denethor tells him we’re here –“

“Boromir will send for us. Come along now. Hurry.” And Gandalf frowned, suddenly wondering at his own urgent need for haste. All his instincts were telling him speed was of the uttermost importance. Why? There was nothing but joy in the streets about them. Boromir could not be in danger, here in his own much-beloved city surely?

“Gandalf?” Pippin gasped. “You’re hurting my arm.”

“My dear Pippin, I am sorry!” Gandalf hurriedly released his grip.

Pippin rubbed at his arm. “Nothing’s wrong is it?”

“Wrong? No. What could be wrong with Boromir safely home at last.”

Gandalf and Pippin were somewhat out of breath when finally they gained admittance to the Great Hall in the wake of the wagons carrying the wounded. Aside from those eager for news and ready to celebrate Boromir's return, there were many others who anxiously awaited reunion with the other wounded men returned from Osgiliath. Gandalf had had quite a time of it trying to push his way through the crowds that clogged the streets. He needed to keep one hand firmly attached to Pippin who was in danger of being swept away.

“So,” Pippin dusted himself off and bounced impatiently on his toes. ”How long do you think they’ll keep us waiting?” They had been met by a small balding man dressed not in soldier’s garb, but in the red doublet and lace collar of a secretary. He had listened to their request then seated them in an antechamber and left them after promising to deliver their message. “How long do you think they’ll make us wait?” Pippin repeated when there was no answer.

“I don’t know,” Gandalf said absently. He was for once feeling even more impatient than Pippin looked. “But I don’t think we’ll stay here. Come, let’s follow our officious friend at a distance, shall we? There are no guards watching us here, they’re all out there trying to hold back the crowds.””

Pippin lifted his head in surprise, then laughed, “Why what a good idea!”

They crept along quickly and quietly until at last they saw their unknowing escort stop in a carpeted hall on the eastern side of the Great Chamber.

“Gandalf?” Pippin whispered. “Would they bring Boromir here? I mean, there are no Healers here, are there?”

“No, there are not,” Gandalf said slowly. “The Houses of Healing are just outside the Citadel Gates on the Sixth level.”

Pippin looked suddenly worried. “Maybe he’s not here. Maybe they’re just taking us to Denethor. I’d rather not see him again just now.”

“Oh?” Gandalf peered down at him in some bemusement. “You’ll see much of him when you take your formal oath of fealty tomorrow.” He paused. “Are you regretting it?”

“No! No. Well maybe just a bit. Now Boromir's here I’d rather I had more time to be with him.”

Gandalf grunted and lifted his head to study his surrounds. There was an unnatural chill in the air here that suddenly had him on the alert. Yet nothing seemed at all out of the ordinary.

Pippin shivered. “But they could bring one of the Healers here to him, couldn’t they?”

“Yes. Denethor may have chosen his own personal Healer and have him in attendance.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right then.” Pippin frowned up at him uncertainly. “Isn’t it?”

The dark mood of this hall had even dampened Pippin’s spirits. Something was not right. “We shall see, we shall see. Let’s move a little closer, around that next corner.”

They stepped into the next hall, and found their escort just coming to a halt outside a small, but ornate door. He started back in surprise as it suddenly swung open and a soldier exited; so much in haste that he very nearly knocked the little man from his feet. They untangled themselves and immediately began arguing. The door remained ajar and from the room beyond came an echoing cry of despairing pain.

Pippin gasped and stumbled. “What was that? It almost sounded like… But it can’t be. They wouldn’t…”

Gandalf was intent on the argument. The soldier wore the well-worn leather jerkin of an Ithilien Ranger. “Stand aside!” he said angrily. “I have a most urgent errand. Do you know where I might find the Wizard – Gandalf the Grey? Mithrandir?”

“Here!” Gandalf called and stepped quickly forward. At the same moment there came another cry this time followed immediately by an urgent “Pippin!”

“It is Boromir!” Pippin wailed. “They’re hurting him! .I’m going in there!”

“No, wait!” Gandalf grabbed and suddenly found his hands full of furiously struggling hobbit. “We will go to him. Just give me a moment to be sure it’s not a trap!”

“I don’t care if it is!” Pippin struggled harder.

The Ranger hurried closer, said, “You are Gandalf the Grey? This is Pippin?”

Preoccupied by small hobbit feet that sought his shins, Gandalf merely nodded.

“Thank the Valar!” the man cried. “I thought I would not find you in time! The Lord Boromir calls, and the Steward has asked that you both attend him.”

“Both?” Gandalf looked swiftly up at the man.

“Well, only for the Halfling. But –“

Another cry and Pippin pulled free, ducked under Gandalf’s arm, dodged the soldier, and sped on inside the room. Immediately came his anguished cry, “No! Stop it! Let him be! Stop it!”

Gandalf hurried inside with the Ranger close behind. Pippin had pushed himself between a black-robed physician and Boromir who lay gasping and moaning on the bed. The hobbit clutched at Boromir’s large hand with his own left, and in his right he held the Noldarin dagger given him by the elves. Never had Gandalf seen so fierce and stern an expression from a hobbit. Pippin’s teeth were bared in a snarl of hatred and rage. “Stay back!” he warned. “Don’t touch him!”

Denethor had retreated, his hands to his face. The physician stood frozen, his eyes carefully tracking that threatening blade. A third man, also garbed in black was trying to creep up on Pippin from the other side of the bed. Gandalf stepped forward, blocking his path, and saying, “I was told you called for us, My Lord Denethor?”

The Steward turned slowly and lowered his hands. His eyes, swollen and red, were glazed, but bright with anger. He glared at Gandalf then turned furiously to Garad. “What have you done, Ranger? I asked only for the Halflings presence! Get over here and take that blade from him! Throw the wizard out!”

Garad moved closer to Pippin, but his hands were empty and he gave a conspiratorial wink and approving smile to both visitors that Denethor could not see for Gandalf’s shielding body. Gandalf was suddenly alarmed as he saw beyond Pippin to the bloodied man on an equally bloodstained bed. All three of Boromir’s terrible wounds were badly torn and bleeding heavily. Still he struggled, moving feebly but desperately as if to fight some unseen foe, his face twisted with pain and white as the mountain snow. Gandalf moved urgently toward the bed, but Denethor stepped closer, spitting rage. “Leave us! You are not wanted here!”

Gandalf pinned Denethor with icy rebuke. “Not wanted, no, but badly needed! Boromir calls for aid and he will have it! Stand aside and let me help him! I will not be refused!” He lifted his staff threateningly and Denethor at once backed off.

All the fight left The Steward in a rush and he again hid his face in his hands. “It is too late!” he moaned. “Too late! I knew it would be so! It is as I foresaw – my son will die!”

Gandalf growled disgust and took one swift pace to the bedside. “He will if you allow this – this butchery to continue! Put away your blade, Peregrin Took!” he snapped.

“When he leaves,” Pippin said defiantly and waved the blade at the Physician.

Gandalf spared a glance for the surgeon and was sickened at the gore that covered the man’s long narrow hands. And more sickened by the sight of the probe he had apparently been using on the wounded man.

“I am The Steward’s personal Physician! I do not leave because a Halfling threatens me!”

Gandalf threw out an arm and hit the surgeon a solid blow to the chest. “Get away from him!” he roared. “You will leave at my command! Get you gone from us!”

Haradna staggered back, driven by the sheer force of the power in Gandalf’s voice. “But I have not completed my work!” he protested.

“Yes, I see that!” Gandalf said scathingly. “For he still breathes! Leave us! I will tend the Lord Boromir – as a friend, not an enemy! Get you from his side and never return unless to face my wrath! Begone!” Gandalf hefted his staff and white light suddenly blazed from its tip. Both black-robed men quailed and cried out in open terror. They turned and fled from the room. Denethor stumbled as if he had been struck and fell back into his chair.

Quickly recovering from his surprise at Gandalf’s display, Garad slammed the door and took up a posture of guarded defence beside it, sword drawn. “You should have let me take their heads,” he said vengefully.

“Mayhap I will yet,” Gandalf said quietly, dismayed and sorrowful as he saw what had been done to Boromir. He cast a grateful glance at the soldier and asked, “What is your name?”

“Garad, Ranger of Ithilien. I am a friend to Boromir.”

“I am glad you were with him, and I thank you for your aid.”

The Ranger nodded, then asked shakily. “Will he – will he be all right now? That butcher of a surgeon claimed there are fragments of bone and splinters of arrow shafts needing removal.”

“I very much doubt the last, at least, is true,” Gandalf said. He bent to wash his hands then grimaced in disgust at the stained water. Garad hurried to bring him the ewer and a clean cloth.

“Gandalf?” All Pippin’s ferocity was gone and he looked suddenly very small beside the towering bed. His small fingers still held tight to Boromir’s large hand. It was the man’s left hand, the fingers open and the arm worryingly unmoving while the rest of his body strained to rejoin the fight. “He won’t die, will he? Denethor’s prophesy – it’s not true is it?”

“Of course it is not!” Gandalf said with more heat than he intended and cast a glare at the Steward. “There is no certainty in such craft when used by the Elves, let alone that from any conjured by Man!” Gandalf drew a calming breath and patted Pippin’s head. “Boromir will live. Aragorn was certain the arrows came clean from the wounds. Now, help me. Bring those bandages here then see if you can find more blankets to warm him. And clean away this filth!” He threw down a gory swab then pulled away the bloodstained sheet that was tangled about Boromir’s lower body. Gandalf blinked surprise – the man was still dressed in his travel-stained clothing. His attendants had not even bothered to remove his boots. Boromir’s sword and shield, however, had been carefully placed against the wall beyond the bed.

Pippin nodded and obeyed without fuss. Gandalf did not need the help so much as he knew Pippin badly needed a focus other than the sight of Boromir’s horribly bloodied wounds. He bent to the man, appalled by his deathly pallor and the shadows of pain that tightened his mouth. Gently, he clasped Boromir’s sweat-drenched head, and called on the words of Power. Immediately the bleeding stopped and the angry, torn redness of the flesh about the wounds faded. The strain left Boromir’s face at last and he lay very still and quiet. “Come, Boromir, hear me. Wake now. It is over.”

Gandalf frowned when Boromir did not respond. Something was blocking the completion of the words of Healing. He leaned closer to the unconscious man and studied the wounds more closely. Very, very gently, he lay his hand to each in turn. He nodded, sighed, then held the palm of his hand to Boromir’s brow. He stood eyes closed, concentrating with all his might. It was no use; he could not reach the man in whatever far distant refuge he had found to escape the torment.

“What is it, Gandalf?” Pippin asked, apparently repeating himself though Gandalf had not heard him before. The Ranger too looked to him expectantly. Denethor remained sitting huddled in his chair, his expression one of profound sorrow and weariness. At least he was no longer muttering about death.

“There is poison,” Gandalf said tiredly. Both Garad and Pippin gasped in alarm, and Gandalf immediately reassured. “Nothing too serious. Only what we had expected from Aragorn’s report. The wounds bear Saruman’s taint. And too it seems Boromir has recently come under the shadow of the Nazgul. His flesh burns and yet he trembles with cold.”

“The Nazgul attacked the Osgiliath Garrison this morning as we sheltered there,“ Garad explained then added desperately, “But Boromir was recovering, I swear it. He was talking and laughing with us as we carried him here but an hour past.” Garad’s voice broke and he cried angrily, “Curse me for a fool! I knew I should have borne him to the Healers!”

Gandalf gave the dark-haired Ranger a wintry smile. “And had you disobeyed the Steward’s order, how long would you have stood to protect your friend? No, Garad, you served Boromir well. Do not fear for him now. He has been badly weakened, yes, and that has brought the poisons back to full strength in his blood… but, with help, I can soon rid him of that taint.”

“How? What must we do?” Pippin asked.

“Can you truly save him?” Denethor’s words were soft and full of pleading as he left his chair and came hesitantly to the bedside.”

“Yes. But I came not a moment too soon. Now, Boromir needs his father’s love to strengthen him. And yours too, Pippin. I ask each of you take a hand as I call him back. Pippin, go to the other side of the bed and climb up beside him.

Pippin nodded and obeyed eagerly. “Like this?” he said and picked up Boromir’s hand between both his own. From the other side of the bed, Denethor copied him, lifting Boromir’s limp hand to his lips before holding it tightly to his chest.

“Yes. Good. You must both stay in touch with him. He will hear and return if you also call to him.” Gandalf stooped again and placed a hand to either side of Boromir’s head. He closed his eyes and softly whispered the ancient words of Healing. Little by little Boromir’s spirit was rekindled. There was much innate strength, requiring only the merest spark to soon have it flooding back to refuel his warrior’s heart with defiant courage. Finally, Gandalf smiled, nodded and stood back from the bed.

Boromir moaned and blinked, his eyelids heavy and bruised-looking in the candlelight. His eyes came partly open but were without focus. The first face he saw was Pippin who smiled in delight and called to him. Boromir swallowed over a dry throat and said in a hoarse whisper, “Pippin? We are dead?”

Pippin’s smile vanished to dismay. “No! We’re alive! We’re not dead!” He squeezed Boromir’s hand as hard as he could.

“My son! Forgive me! I should not have listened to them!” Denethor exclaimed brokenly. He leaned down quickly, forcing Pippin back, and kissed Boromir’s brow. “There will be no more pain. I swear it.” Boromir squinted at his father and fought for greater wakefulness. He tried to sit up then gave a low moan and lay back as the fresh pain of his newly-torn wounds stabbed at him. “Yet you suffer!” Denethor cried. “I will see you eased!” He turned to Garad and said harshly, “Go the Houses of Healing. Bring Rarned.”

Garad nodded. “Rarned is a good man.”

“Stay where you are,” Gandalf said. “I have all that is needed.” He fished within his tunic until his free hand closed over the small phial of miruvor he kept there. “Lift Boromir’s head, Pippin,” he instructed quietly. “He must drink a little of this.”

“What is it?” Denethor asked, turning to him with his usual caustic suspicion.

“A potion he should have been given long before anyone touched these wounds and poked about at splintered bones!” Gandalf snapped. “It takes away pain, and allows sleep.” Denethor had at least the grace to look shamed. He nodded and began to move back, but halted as Boromir moaned softly again, his eyes closed.

“Hush, now. Hush,” Gandalf said gently. He bent and lay his free hand soothingly to the man’s pain-furrowed brow. “This will help.” He held the elvan healing draught to Boromir’s lips but the man turned his head from the touch. Gandalf smiled wryly, “You are ever one to resist, Son of Gondor! No doubt that has kept you alive where others would long have surrendered”. Changing to a tone of command, he said, “Drink, Boromir! You know its taste and its power. You had it once before, after our battle with Caradhras. Come, now. Drink.”

Boromir swallowed and Gandalf nodded satisfaction before putting away the flask. Again he lay his hand to the man’s pale brow. “Sleep, now. Rest.” Boromir gave a great shuddering sigh of relief, drew another easier breath, then relaxed, his body at last free of tension and fully at rest. “He will sleep the night through now, and most of tomorrow too, I should think.”

Pippin settled his friend’s head back to the pillows and looked up to say tearfully, “Thank you, Gandalf. Thank you!”

Gandalf nodded and reached out to ruffle Pippin’s hair. “I don’t much like the look of this room, do you, Peregrin Took?”

“Not in the least!” Pippin declared with feeling. “It doesn’t even have any windows!”

“Exactly. Boromir needs to be where the light can reach him and aid his full healing.”

Garad stepped closer and cast a wary glance to The Steward before suggesting, “Perhaps my men and I should carry him to his own rooms? The House of the Steward has many large windows that look west.”

“Yes, “ Denethor nodded wearily. “I would see my son in his own bedchamber once again. I would see him truly home.”

“Yes, thank you, Garad. Be so good as to find someone and have them send bearers,” Gandalf said tiredly. The Ranger nodded and left the room. “Pippin, come, help me get this clean bandaging about his wounds.”

There was warm sunlight on Boromir’s face. Silence. And he felt so wonderfully comfortable. A terrible weakness and lassitude dragged at him, and there was dull pain, but his wounds no longer burned with searing agony. He drew another breath, relishing the relative freedom and ease of it. His head and shoulders were cushioned on a mound of pillows; his back and legs cradled by a firm yet soft mattress. Clean sheets and a soft linen nightshirt caressed his freshly washed body. The last bed he had known had been in Rivendell, many months in the past. It felt so good. His right arm lay atop a woollen blanket though the room was not cold. Closely wound bandages held his ribs and there was more bandaging about the wounds in side and shoulder. A sling supported his left arm. He could hear and smell a wood fire crackling in the grate nearby. Even without opening his eyes, he knew he was resting in his own bedchamber. The sheer joy of homecoming combined with the luxury of being able to rest in bed, of being almost completely free of pain, tempted him to remain just as he was. He would keep his eyes closed a little longer. Yet not too long – there was much to do.

There were soft footfalls, someone walking almost impossibly quietly across the carpet and on to the tiled area closer to the bed. Then, seeming loud by comparison, a crunch followed by the sweet smell of apples. A small hand closed about his fingers. Joy vanished under a sudden crushing weight of grief. Tears brimmed beneath his closed eyelids. So, I am not awake after all, but only dreaming.

The noisy munch-crunch of someone devouring an apple, and the aroma were so very real. Cruelly real. As was that warm grip on his hand. Now he did not want to wake at all, to open his eyes and face the reality of an empty room, and an empty heart. His ‘little ones’ had been stolen from him, and it may be a mercy if they were dead.

There was a loud sigh that stirred the hair on Boromir’s brow. “Surely he’ll wake soon?” Pippin’s voice said with familiar plaintiveness. “He’s slept all night and most of the day.”

Someone chuckled and Garad’s deep voice from the corner of the room, startling Boromir a little, said, “Leave him rest, Pippin.”

“I am!” Pippin whispered. “It’s only that I can’t wait to talk to him again.” Another loud sigh. “He’ll break Merry’s record for lying in all day. Merry won’t be happy about that.”

“Your friend did not have three arrows shot into him. Hush, now, you’ll wake him.”

“Garad?” Boromir tried to say, but managed only a hoarse croak. Suddenly, he realized he was very thirsty, his mouth so dry he could barely swallow.

“I think he said something!” Pippin announced excitedly.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Garad said wryly. “No one could sleep through your chatter, little one.”

Hope was a knife blade at Boromir’s heart. He must know. But Boromir found it was surprisingly difficult when he at last tried to open his eyes. The lids seemed terribly heavy, then, he saw daylight, but little else, everything in the room was blurred. He blinked then screwed his eyes hard shut again, opened, and squinted.

“He’s waking! He’s waking!”

Boromir’s vision finally settled into focus. And saw a much-loved face. Pippin’s unruly curly hair was haloed by the late golden light of the western sky slanting low through the tall windows of the bedchamber. His green-blue eyes were bright with tears. “Pippin?” Boromir said, his voice clearer but trembling with a potent mix of fear and hope. “Do I dream that I see you here?”

Pippin shook his head and the tears spilled down his cheeks. He tried to say something, but it came out a strangled sob. He slid from the bedside table on which he perched to move to the bed and wrap one arm very tightly about Boromir’s neck. He buried his head against Boromir’s unwounded shoulder. There were muffled sobbing sounds mixed with what might have been ‘Boromir’. Bewildered, and beginning to hope, to believe, Boromir patted his friend’s back. “Pippin?” His voice quavered as much with joy as uncertainty. “Can it be?”

Pippin sat up, sniffed very loudly, and wiped his sleeve across his face. “Yes,” he said, and meeting Boromir’s eyes at last, he began to smile. That same impudent, endearing grin Boromir had thought he would never see again. “You look so surprised.”

“I am!” Boromir began to laugh but it broke to a sob, and he drew a deep breath, fighting not to lose control and weep like a maiden.

“You’re not dreaming,” Pippin said. He lifted Boromir’s hand and kissed it. “It really is me. Thanks to you.”

Boromir nodded, unable as yet to trust his voice.

“Here,” Pippin said with mock indignation, “You didn’t think those new bigger uglier Orcs could keep us prisoner for long, did you?” Pippin leaned forward a little and said with a wink, “They may be bigger, but they’re not very bright.”

“Us?” A new fear chilled Boromir’s heart. “Where’s Merry?”

“Safe,” Pippin said cheerfully. “At Edoras.”

“Edoras!” Boromir repeated in disbelief. “But – why isn’t he with you?” He frowned worriedly. “He’s not hurt, is he?”

“Not a scratch. Well, I mean, not now, anyway. He did have the most awful gash on his head there for a while.” Pippin’s expression lost all its cheer and his eyes darkened with grim memory. “I was so worried about him. You would have been so proud of him, Boromir. When he first woke up, tied to an Orc’s back and forced to drink their horrible muck -- “ Pippin swallowed hard against emotion but his voice trembled nonetheless as he finished, “He told me it was all an act. All an act! He’d been unconscious all that day.”

For a long moment Boromir could only stare at his small friend, overcome by the horror of the image. You and Merry could have been spared this torment, if only I had fought a little longer, until the others reached us.

Boromir looked up as Garad crossed the room and took his arm in a warrior’s grip. “It gladdens my heart to see you awake and free of pain,” he said. Boromir nodded and forced a smile despite the persistent horror of Merry hurt and Pippin also prisoner, helpless to reach him. Garad seemed to understand. “I will leave you to talk with your small friend. Others have asked to be told of your awakening. I will go to them.”

Boromir did not release the man’s arm. He met his eyes and said, “Thank you, Garad. For everything.” The Ranger smiled and nodded then turned and left the room.

“I know what you were thinking, Boromir. That you wish you could have stopped us being captured,” Pippin continued, surprising him both with the insight and with the new depth of maturity in his tone. Tears again filmed Pippin’s eyes and his face grew pale. “I can still see you, struck down by all those arrows, and getting up again and again to try to save us. At the last, we thought you were dying. Alone.” He wiped at the tears on his face. “You saved our lives when that first lot came at us swinging their blades and us just standing and staring. And you saved us on Caradhras and in Moria.”

Boromir’s eyes burned. He nodded, exhaled a gusty sigh and said, “So, come, tell me it all. Merry’s at Edoras? Was it the Riders of Rohan who rescued you or did Aragorn and Legolas reach you first?”

“Neither.” Pippin said proudly. He lifted his chin and folded his arms across his chest. “We rescued ourselves.”

“You escaped alone?”

Pippin nodded. “We did. Well, the Riders were attacking so that made it a bit easier… but they didn’t see us. We did it all by ourselves.”

Boromir smiled and shook his head. “I should have known. I told Aragorn you’d try to escape. So – The Riders took you to Edoras?”

“Oh, no. It wasn’t as easy as that. They didn’t see us, and one of the Orcs chased us. It was a near thing, but we sort of lost him in Fangorn Forest. And then we met… well, someone else helped us.”

“Fangorn Forest!”

Pippin grinned. “You sound like an echo.”

Boromir laughed. “Come here!” He lifted his right arm and drew Pippin down into a tight hug, then kissed the top of his head. “Well done!”

Pippin snuggled into the hug a while, then sat back to say, “You taught us how to fight, so that’s another way you saved us.”

“All right, you win that point! I surrender.” Another image came to him suddenly – Pippin with blade in hand, defending him from someone who had caused Boromir terrible agony. Only a dream, surely, though so dark, and pain-filled that the memory of it swept through him like a chill wind. He shivered.

“You’re cold?” Pippin said anxiously. He pulled the blanket higher.

“No, I’m all right. I was just remembering something, a fever dream. There was another room, and someone in dark robes was… well, never mind that part. You came to my rescue, blade in hand and drove him off. You were very fierce.”

“Oh, that wasn’t a dream.” Pippin straightened and preened proudly. “I was rather good, wasn’t I? Chasing that ill-named Healer away from you. Of course, Gandalf helped a bit but I got there first.” He paused thoughtfully, his face looking much older and colder. “Maybe I should have cut that Man. He needs to know what it feels like!” He sighed, shook his head and looked once more like plain Pippin of the Shire. “But, no, I hope I never see him again. I don’t want to think about his knives, it kept me awake all night as it is… Boromir? Are you all right? You’re staring at me like… well, you’re staring.”

“Gandalf?” Boromir finally managed in a hoarse whisper. Pippin groaned loudly and slapped a hand over his eyes. “I remember he was there, too. He took away the pain. But he’s dead, so – it was only a fever dream, wasn’t it? But this isn’t?”

“Now, you’ve done it, Peregrin Took!” Pippin moaned. “Put your foot right in it, and shame it wasn’t your mouth he’ll say.” Pippin peeped out from behind his hand, then frowned. “Boromir? You’ve gone all white again! Gandalf told me to break it to you gently, I mean, about him being alive again and all. He said if I didn’t you’d be so shocked you might get sick again.” He looked at Boromir, panic in his eyes. “And I did, and you are, and now I’ll have to go fetch him, and he’ll growl at me and call me a fool!”

“He will not!” Boromir said hotly. “I had enough of that all the long days of our journeying. He should not say such things to you.”

“You think not?” Pippin said happily.

“It wasn’t a dream? He truly is –?”

“Alive.” Pippin nodded. “Merry and I were just as surprised as you look. Here! That’s what I’ll say – that he has no right yelling at me about shocking you when he didn’t bother about scaring the life out of us back in Fangorn!” He paused, said worriedly, “Boromir, you’re staring again. Please, don’t … don’t faint or anything.”

“Soldiers of Gondor do not faint!” Boromir said indignantly.

Pippin smiled sadly. “I wish you had last night.”

“Then, that was real, too.” Boromir touched a hand to the bandages that covered his chest. He seemed to recall someone saying something about the possibility of his left arm being crippled. That was nonsense. It would take long hours of painful training, but he’d see the muscles mended soon enough.

“Why did they do that to you?” Pippin demanded heatedly. “Gandalf was so worried, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so angry.”

Boromir shook his head, then began to smile, his dry lips splitting as the smile drew to a delighted grin. “Gandalf’s alive! We may yet defeat Mordor!”

“That’s what I told him, late last night,” Pippin said, “when we saw that – whatever it was in the sky over Mordor.”

“A funnel of twisting, bright light soaring into the darkness and making the ground tremble?” Boromir asked. “Is that what you saw?”

“Yes. How did –“

Boromir sighed heavily. “I’ve seen it a few times, always soon before Sauron sends a fresh army at us.” He looked around the room, relieved to see his sword and shield, but annoyed there didn’t seem to be any clothing other than his boots. “I have to get back to Faramir.”

“What?” It was Pippin’s turn to stare in disbelief. “Gandalf says you’ll need to stay in bed for days, and even then… well you won’t be able to fight for a while.”

“I’ll have to fight. We all will,” Boromir said, matter-of-fact. His shoulder stabbed at him as he tried to turn further to see more of the room. He hid a wince and a curse as he lay back. “Faramir,” he remembered with a fond smile. “He knew. I should have trusted him. He’s never been wrong about these things.”

“What things?”

“Visions. Instinct. He told me only yesterday that he thought Gandalf could have survived.”

“He did?”

The door opened and Garad stepped inside to ask Pippin, “Is it safe to bring him in now? He’s getting impatient.”

“He’s always impatient! Yes, I think it’s safe now. I told Boromir.”

Garad turned to give his Captain-General a keen appraisal. “Yes, I see that,” he said softly. “You look much more pale than you were, Boromir.”

“The news of Gandalf’s return from death would leave anyone looking pale!” Boromir replied wryly.

“Anyone wasn’t felled by three arrows then sent to a butcher.”

Boromir waved a hand. “Go, fetch him. I am eager to see him again.” Garad hesitated. Boromir scowled. “I’m all right!”

“You don’t look all right.” But he said no more, and walked back to the door. There he turned and asked, “Pippin? You have given Lord Boromir food and water, as Gandalf asked?”

“Oh, no! I forgot! I’ll go to the kitchens and be right back with some hot soup.”

“No,” Boromir said. “Stay. Only -- is there some water?”

Looking more than a little chastened, Pippin collected a jug from a nearby table and poured what was, in his hands, a very large mug of cool water. He delivered it safely to Boromir who gulped it down greedily, enjoying its easing of his parched mouth and throat. He held out the empty mug, and said, “Another, please.”

“You’re so thirsty,” Pippin said as he gave over the second cup. “I’m sorry. I should have thought –“

“You are not expected to read minds, Pippin.” Boromir gave back the cup and ruffled Pippin’s hair.

“Indeed not, though he may learn the faster for it,” an amused voice said from the doorway.

“Gandalf!” Boromir cried joyfully. Gandalf’s responding laugh was the same, but not his face. He looked – altered. More radiant, somehow. He was no longer slightly stooped but stood tall and straight. His hair and beard were pure white and he wore a most beautiful cream and white brocade tunic. He seemed to have lost his cumbersome, wide-brimmed and long-pointed hat. The wizard moved more swiftly and easily also, crossing the room in a few easy paces to take Boromir’s outstretched hand in a firm, warm grip.

“This is –“ Boromir began then stopped, embarrassed by the powerful relief, the emotion that swamped him. “I am glad.” He managed to say, then looked away to blink the tears from his eyes.

“As am I to see you looking so much recovered,” Gandalf said. As Boromir turned back the wizard added mischievously, “It seems you and I have this in common, coming back from the dead – or so everyone is saying.”

“Yes,” Boromir returned the smile. “But yours must surely be by far the more exciting tale.”

“Perhaps,” Gandalf winked. “But then I’ve not yet heard how you and Gimli survived the river rapids.” He turned and tilted his head from Pippin to the door. “Fetch that soup, would you, Pippin? “ The hobbit nodded and hurried out.

“There were some interesting moments on the river,” Boromir said as he watched Pippin leave. Gandalf had sent him from the room for other reasons than a bowl of soup for which Boromir was fairly certain Garad had already gone. There was grim talk ahead. “Nothing to compare with battling a Balrog, I’m sure.” Gandalf drew a chair close to the bed and sat down. “How is it possible?”

“It is not,” Gandalf said without emotion. “Those who say I returned from the dead, do, in fact, have the right of it. I died defeating him, Boromir, then I was sent back.”

Boromir knew his mouth had dropped open, but didn’t seem able to close it. Finally he said, “Then, there is truth in Faramir’s belief that some great power seeks to aid us even as the dark power aids Sauron?”

“There is indeed such a power, though it cannot help us directly. And as for Sauron, he himself is the darkness. If he succeeds he will embody all that is evil. There will be none greater. Or more terrible.”

Boromir nodded grim agreement. “Tell me, where are Aragorn and Legolas? Did you meet with them before coming here?”

“I did, and they are now at Edoras.” Gandalf leaned forward a little and said with a smile, “We first met in Fangorn. I rather startled them at first for they drew weapons against me, mistaking me for Saruman.”

“I may understand that. For you have… changed.”

“Yes, I am no longer Gandalf the Grey, I am now The White Wizard. Saruman is dead, though not by my hand.”

Boromir gasped and his eyes grew wide with surprise and joy. “This is news! Saruman is dead and we need no longer fight on two fronts?”

“Well, I like that!” Pippin put in cheerily as he entered the room. Garad followed, aiding him by carrying a large tray laden with steaming bowls and plates. “You’ve gone and told him that tale when you promised you’d leave it for me!”

“I have not told the tale, as you put it, Master Took, but have said only that Saruman is dead. I would not dare think of depriving you of the honour you and Merry earned so cleverly and bravely in destroying his stronghold.”

“Oh.” Pippin blushed as he put the smaller tray atop a low table. “Well, that’s all right then.”

“Merry and Pippin took part in the battle against Saruman?” Boromir gaped from hobbit to wizard.

“They did more than take part,” Gandalf said, “they led the way.”

Garad, approaching the bed with a tray of steaming soup and bread and cheese, chuckled at his friend’s thunderstruck expression. “Here, eat, you’ll need it if these shocks are to continue.”

Pippin was less kind. “If you’re going to leave your mouth hanging open, like that Boromir,” he said. “You might as well eat your soup while I tell you all about it.”

Boromir laughed. “You have lost none of your cheek! And I am glad of it for without it I daresay you would not have survived.”

“Probably not!” Pippin agreed happily. He sat on the bedside table and began devouring his own soup and bread.

“Though how our stalwart hobbit hero can talk with his mouth full may prove the greater task.” Gandalf put in.

“Mmm… hmppfh…ggmt,” Pippin attempted, his cheeks rounded and full as he chewed quickly.

“What was that?” Gandalf asked.

Pippin swallowed a huge mouthful and said, “This food is excellent. Almost as good as Saruman’s horde – if you’ll pardon me, Boromir. You may tell the story, then, Gandalf.”

Gandalf gave an ironic bow from his seated position. “I’m sure you will correct me if I go wrong.” Pippin nodded and waved a hand that held a large wedge of cheese.

“Here,” Garad said, placing the tray on the bed at Boromir’s side. “Eat, my Captain. Trust me, when I heard this tale from your little friend, I needed all my strength to last the distance.”

“Then I’m glad Gandalf will tell it this time!” Boromir smiled but his eyes were fixed fast on the food. He hadn’t realized it but he was ravenously hungry. He took a spoonful of soup, found it hot and flavorsome, just what his empty stomach needed. He sat and listened, ever more amazed, as Gandalf revealed the events of the past ten days, of Aragorn and Legolas' incredible chase across the Plains of Rohan, of Merry and Pippin’s courageous escape and their meeting with Treebeard. And finally of the victories at Isengard and Helm’s Deep.

“You have become quite the warrior, Pippin!” Boromir said at last. “You and Merry both. I am proud of you.”

“You taught us well,” Pippin said. “Though we didn’t get much chance to use our swords.”

“There is always much more to battles than sword fighting,” Boromir said, and looked to share that comment with Garad only to find the man had again left the room.

“I asked Garad earlier to take some exercise and see what news he might find for us,” Gandalf explained.

“Oh.” Boromir nodded and turned back to Pippin. “The most important part is the planning before the battle even starts. And there you did better than any General could have managed, leading the Ents to attack even though they had at first declined to take part.”

“I only asked Treebeard to take us south,” Pippin said modestly.

“When you could instead have been carried safely closer to home,” Boromir said softly. “It was done with great valor, Pippin.” The hobbit blushed and looked away. “It seems I return home none too soon,” Boromir continued, looking now at Gandalf, “if I am to take part in the battles that yet lie ahead. Pippin tells me Minas Morgul is active again?”

“Yes.” Gandalf nodded. “And I fear the coming battle will be unlike any attack Gondor has as yet faced. Tens of thousands, possibly over a hundred thousand, will be sent to break the walls of Minas Tirith. They have new engines of war.”

Boromir felt the strength and warmth he had gained from the hot food suddenly drain from him. “One hundred thousand!”

“Or more. And they bring trolls and Haradhrim with Mumakil to their command. I believe they will be at the Anduin banks in three days or less.”

Boromir drew a sharp breath that caused a stab of pain. He pressed a hand to his ribs and said, thinking out loud, “The garrison at Osgiliath will fight a rear-guard action but must soon fall back to Minas Tirith. The Rangers scouting about Cair Andros should be recalled to reinforce them if they have not already. We must recall all our border patrols and concentrate our defences on the city.” He looked up at Gandalf again. Saruman is no more and Rohan has won victory, secured their own lands?” Gandalf nodded, watching keenly as Boromir resumed duty as Gondor’s Captain-General. “Then we will call for their aid. Has my father yet sent word to Theoden King?”

“No. And now I fear it is too late for a rider to carry such a message so far.”

“Then we must light the beacons!”

Gandalf lowered his eyes. “Yes. I advised such but Denethor refused to do so.”

Boromir stared, then shook his head in annoyance and disgust. “He has ever been mistrustful of you, Gandalf. And I offer my apology for his… brusque manner.” He sighed and added, “And indeed for my own in times past. I will speak to my father, and convince him of our need.”

“I thank you, Boromir,” Gandalf said. “And I fervently hope Denethor will heed your word.”

“I would not hold to hope. He will not be happy with either of his sons when he learns how The Ring was lost to him.” Gandalf’s head came up sharply, his blue eyes blazing keen attention. “You have not yet spoken with Faramir?” Boromir asked.

“I was told he was not within the city.”

Boromir muttered a half-voiced curse and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’d forgotten. Father sent him back to Osgiliath. Gimli went with him. I should have thought to tell you immediately – you too, Pippin. Sam and Frodo were in Osgiliath just yesterday morning.”

“You’ve seen Frodo and Sam?” Pippin grabbed at Boromir’s arm, his face alight with joy.

“Yes,” Boromir smiled. “I believe both are well, though I did not see or speak with Frodo directly.” Boromir met Gandalf’s surprised gaze. “I am afraid my brother also was – for a short time – drawn by the Ring’s power. He had Frodo and Sam brought to Osgiliath from Ithilien under guard.”

“But he let them go?”

“Yes, that same day. Though,” Boromir frowned, “I don’t know what happened to change his mind. I was talking to Sam, then the Nazgul appeared… and I’m sorry Gandalf, but nothing is clear to me from then until its departure. When next I regained my senses, Faramir came to me. I begged him to let Sam and Frodo go.” Boromir felt his tired face settle into a fond smile. “But he had already done so. All I can tell you that may be of use is that Sam said Gollum is leading them, that they had reached as far as The Black Gates before being forced to accept Gollum’s plan to seek another way, a secret way. They were on their way there through Ithilien, when Faramir found them.”

“Gollum!” Pippin exclaimed. “The creature we first saw following us in Moria?”

Boromir nodded then looked back apologetically to Gandalf and gave a heavy sigh. “I am sorry – and frustrated myself -- that my memory is so uncertain.”

“I think you have done very well to remember so much,” Gandalf waved away the apology with a smile, “given how severely you were wounded, and that your later – treatment – so dangerously increased the effects of both Saruman’s and the Nazgul’s poisons.”

“It did?” Boromir blinked surprise, then said, “I know that I owe both you and Pippin great thanks for your aid last night, but I had not known the poisoning had worsened.”

“Gandalf healed you,” Pippin said proudly.

“I thank you. And I am now doubly glad that you have been returned to us, Gandalf.”

“It is Garad you must thank,” Gandalf said. “It was he who came for us and allowed my entrance where your father would not.”

“When I get my legs under me again,” Boromir said intently, “it will be my pleasure to buy him several tankards of Gondor’s finest.

“How soon will it be before Faramir returns to the city?” Gandalf asked. “He may have more knowledge of Frodo’s plans?”

“Yes, or so I believe. As for his return – that will be tomorrow if father heeds my advice that the garrison must be withdrawn.” Boromir rubbed thoughtfully at his now longer beard as it made him itch. “I do remember warning Sam they must not trust Gollum, but apparently Frodo feels they would lose their way without him.” He sighed. “I had suggested we might hold Gollum here, and try to find some other way to help them. A map, perhaps.”

“No map, no matter how detailed, could hope to equal Gollum’s knowledge.” Gandalf frowned. “You say Faramir was drawn to The Ring?”

“No more than was I.” Boromir glanced guiltily at Pippin. “Before I tell you aught else of my brother, there is something I must say of my own actions at Amon Hen that I doubt Aragorn will have revealed.” He looked away, bracing himself to see disappointment in Pippin’s eyes. “I tried to take The Ring from Frodo.” Pippin drew a sharp breath, and Boromir flinched. “I make no excuse but can only vow that I will make good for my failure.“

“Failure!” Pippin cried, his voice breaking to a half-sob. “You have never failed us! I will not hear it!”

“Nor will I,” Gandalf said firmly. “You are correct -- Aragorn did not speak of this matter, and that alone tells all. He deemed there was no lasting harm. He wears your forearm guards, Boromir. When I asked he told me their owner was one who had at last convinced him where his future lies. He wanted The White Tree to bear witness to his oath of protection for Minas Tirith, and for all Gondor’s people. Many of us have failed with Aragorn where you have succeeded, Boromir. ”

Boromir drew a great shaking breath of relief and gratitude. “I thank you for your ready forgiveness.”

“There is little to forgive,” Gandalf said softly and patted Boromir’s arm. “And much for which we must thank you.”

Boromir swallowed hard over a tight throat before he continued. “I can only give you what answers Sam gave me when I asked about my brother. Faramir at first suspected Sam and Frodo were spies. But it was from Gollum that he learned of The Ring. He then sought to deliver them to my father.” Gandalf sat back to hiss a sharp breath in alarm. “You must understand, I was asked -- ordered -- to return to Minas Tirith with The One Ring. This my father named “A mighty gift.” Faramir, knowing I preferred to stay with my men, offered to go to Rivendell in my place. Our father then taunted him, saying Faramir wished only for the chance to “prove his quality.” Those were the very same words Sam repeated from Faramir’s lips when I asked why Faramir had not let them go.”

Gandalf sat quietly a moment, staring down at the floor, Pippin watching him uneasily. “There is much I now see more clearly,” Gandalf said slowly. “And much it seems that Denethor has seen, and still sees that he perhaps should not.” Gandalf sighed and looked again to Boromir. “There yet remains the puzzle of why – with such strong motive to do otherwise—Faramir suddenly allowed Frodo and Sam to go free.”

“Yes,” Boromir said. “And my brother risks his life in so doing for our father has created a new law that threatens death to any who release travellers to our lands without his first questioning them.”

“But –“Pippin began. “Faramir is his son!”

Boromir gave Pippin a sorrowful regard. “My father has ever been without show of love for my brother, though I believe it is there, deep within. Still, I had Faramir promise that he would allow me to take responsibility for the lack of this mighty gift.” He shrugged and winced as his broken shoulder grabbed at him. “It is true enough.”

“You grow weary,” Gandalf said. “I did not intend that we should keep you talking so long, though I am grateful for all you have revealed. Most grateful. If you would rejoin the fight, you must take all the rest you can find at least for this day.”

“I will rest,” Boromir nodded. “But only until nightfall. Then I must talk with my father and see Minas Tirith prepare for battle.”

“Good. I hope he will listen.” Gandalf stood and turned to Pippin. . “I do not think I have the patience to wait until tomorrow to speak with Faramir and hear more news of Frodo and Sam. And see Gimli again. What about you, Peregrin Took? How would you like another – much shorter ride, atop Shadowfax?”

“To Osgiliath?” Pippin said. “That’s easy after a such a long ride from Edoras.”

“Indeed it is,” Gandalf chuckled. “Come along then.”

“Gandalf,” Boromir called. “Tell Faramir that he is to prepare to withdraw by morning. He is not to wait for father’s order.”

Gandalf raised an eyebrow but nodded agreement. “I will tell him.”

“And if you would, please have Garad return to me.”

Garad soon arrived to return to his guard post and refuse to listen to anything Boromir said unless he first got some rest. Boromir scowled but gave up and lay back, knowing that he had seldom felt so bone-weary. Blood loss was the cause and only extended rest and plenty of good food was the cure. He had time for neither. He closed his eyes but found that despite his weakness and exhaustion, sleep would not come to him. There was simply too much that needed doing. And needed doing urgently. He muttered a curse and pushed himself up again to sit with his back to the bed-board.

“Most people sleep lying down,” Garad said mildly from his seat in the growing shadows by the door.

“I can’t sleep.”

Garad got to his feet. “Gandalf thought you might not. He left with me some of that potion he gave you last night and told me to give it to you if –“

“I’m not drinking any more of that! I have no intention of sleeping away another day!”

“Just a drop, he said, and –“

“Garad,” Boromir growled warning. “Leave it. If nothing is done about this city’s defences we will all of us have an eternity of sleep. Now, please, help me up. If my father won’t come to me, I will go to him!”

Garad shook his head. “And I was under the mistaken impression that you cared if I lived or died.”

Boromir frowned. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“You would have me remove you from your sick bed, against your father’s orders. You would have me cause the further tearing of your wounds so that you may bleed -- most incriminatingly – all over me. Denethor will have me hanged before the night is out.”

“I will not bleed all over you! And it is I who would disobey!”

Garad simply shook his head. “I’m more afraid of the wizard than I am of you. He said he’d turn me into a toad if I didn’t see you rested.”

“He said no such thing!”

“Something like that.” Boromir threw back the covers and Garad hastily added, “I’m sure I can make Denethor come here to you.” Boromir looked up at him skeptically. “I’ll tell him you’re feverish again and you’re muttering something about a ring.”

Boromir, set to swing his legs from the bed, stopped. “That might work.”

“Of course it will work. When have I ever failed you?”

Boromir grinned. “Never. Go on then. But if you’re not back in the hour –“

“Threats. Threats. Everyone is threatening me these days,” Garad muttered as he left the room.

Boromir snorted a laugh and lay back, finding much to his surprise that he might now be able to sleep. Just for a moment.

“Open the gates,” Gandalf repeated somewhat irritably.

“But, sir,” the armoured guard at the main gate said, “Osgiliath burns. It is under heavy attack. Are you sure?”

“Certain.” Gandalf scowled darkly from atop Shadowfax. “I must speak to Faramir without delay!” The guard sighed heavily but nodded and turned to his companions who would move the giant levers that controlled the gate. Gandalf frowned down at Pippin. “Perhaps you had best remain here.”

“I’ll be safe with you,” Pippin said. “Please, I want to know about Frodo and Sam. And to surprise Gimli.”

“Very well. But stay close and do exactly as I tell you.”

“I will.”

The gates finally parted, leaving Pippin again awed at their towering size and strength. Awed and reassured. Surely nothing could ever break through the gates and walls of such a mighty fortress city. The rolling plain of the Pelennor spread before them, reaching all the way to the gleaming Anduin, the same river he had once travelled upon with The Fellowship. That time in the elvan boats now seemed much more than mere days in the past. So much had happened since.

Shadowfax gave a sudden, smooth leap forward, eager for this new task, and Pippin fell back against Gandalf’s chest. The Lord of the Mearas, Gandalf had named him, king of all horses. Pippin would never have believed a horse could gallop so effortlessly, with such incredible speed, for days without tiring. They were soon more than halfway across the plain and Osgiliath became more clearly seen. Smoke billowed high into the dirty grey sky from its ruined towers and walls. It must once have been at least as large and beautiful a city as Minas Tirith. It saddened Pippin to see it so utterly destroyed.

“Look!” Gandalf cried with some dismay. “The Nazgul attack!”

Pippin swallowed hard, and felt the blood drain from his face. He’d heard of the Ringwraith’s new mounts, the giant flying reptiles that could strike terror into the bravest of hearts. Even from so far away he could plainly hear the awful whoosh-thump of unbelievably huge wings. And there was another sound that set his teeth on edge though it was yet faintly heard.

“The Witch King of Angmar!” Gandalf growled. “ And two others. Seeking fresh kills to feed their mounts.”

Then, suddenly, they could hear shouts mixed with the thunder of hooves and men and horses’ screaming. “Sauron’s army has moved even faster and in greater numbers against the garrison than I expected,” Gandalf said sadly. “Faramir must withdraw! Fly, Shadowfax! Take us closer!” The mighty white horse, already galloping at amazing speed, lunged forward and the wind whistled about Pippin’s ears, his hair streaming back from his face. Shadowfax’ long white mane whipped at Pippin’s arms and bare feet.

A hundred or more Gondorian soldiers were fleeing the burning ruins, arrows and spears hurtling toward them from the cover of the ancient walls. Orcs stood high on the stones, jeering and yelling, more and more joining them. Never had Pippin seen so many, Osgiliath swarmed with them like bees coating honeycomb. “There are hundreds of them!” he yelled to Gandalf.

“Thousands! Faramir has done well to hold so long.” Pippin felt Gandalf’s heavy sigh rather than heard it. “If only we had known. So many are dead.”

“Why didn’t Denethor send help or tell them to leave?”

Gandalf did not answer, instead he urged Shadowfax to even greater speed. And, looking forward again, Pippin gasped in horror. The Nazgul were swooping down, their beasts’ great cruel claws extended, grasping, snatching away several riders at a time then flying high only to drop the poor men to their deaths. Tears blurred Pippin’s sight, but not enough that he could not see another beast succeed in lifting and throwing both horse and rider.

Then, a great white light blazed up into the sky, its beam widening to ensnare all three Nazgul. They wheeled from it in terror, their monstrous mounts’ wings beating frantically at the air as they retreated eastward. Pippin exhaled in relief, aware now that the light had come from Gandalf’s upheld staff. Pippin grabbed at Shadowfax’ mane to steady himself as the horse turned more quickly and sharply than seemed possible, spinning about to join the fleeing riders. The gates and walls of Minas Tirith shone white ahead, beckoning them on to safety. Pippin could not see the smaller form of Gimli among the riders and he did not know Faramir to pick him out. Awful fear tightened his chest as he wondered if perhaps he would not find them. If perhaps they had been killed. “Are Gimli and Faramir with them?” he shouted over the rumble of galloping hooves.

“Yes!” Gandalf replied. “At the rear, helping the wounded.”

Pippin sighed relief and decided that Faramir must be much like his older brother – always putting others before his own safety. Finally, they all charged through the gates, the horses’ hooves making an even louder clatter on the cobblestones of the great square with its towering statue. One of the riders immediately drew closer. He was blue-eyed and strands of sweat-streaked red-brown hair clung to his dirty brow and cheeks. He wore The White Tree on his leather cuirass, and he was visibly exhausted, breathless, and somewhat pale despite the blood-stirring ride. The resemblance to Boromir was evident, though Faramir was younger and slighter of build than his older brother. Pippin thought he could see Gimli’s mail-clad form sitting behind him.

“Mithrandir! I knew you could not be dead!” Faramir said, relief flooding his eyes. “Never has your arrival been more timely. I thank you!” Gandalf nodded, but Faramir’s eyes suddenly widened, fixed on Pippin so intently that he was discomfited. Pippin turned his head, avoiding those piercing blue eyes even though they were gentler in their regard than Boromir’s could sometimes be.

“Timely!” A much deeper, wonderfully familiar voice called, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Gandalf has returned from death itself to save us, and you call it timely! But you were right about him, Faramir! By the Valar! You were right!” Faramir was jolted forward as Gimli slapped him jubilantly on the back. “And Pippin! Surely my eyes deceive me!” The Dwarf jumped down from the horse, stumbled a little, then stood staring up at them, grinning broadly, but tears gleaming in his deeply set eyes.

“Your eyes do not deceive you, Gimli, my friend,” Gandalf smiled down at him. “We are indeed both returned safely.”

“How? You fell in Moria!”

“I have not forgotten,” Gandalf said dryly. “I am sorry for your grief, but I was unable to return sooner.”

“Gandalf killed the Balrog,” Pippin put in with cheerful pride.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you helped!” Gimli laughed and held his arms wide in greeting. “Come here!”

Pippin happily climbed down to run to Gimli’s embrace. “It is so good to see you again, Gimli!”

“How did you escape? You are a very lucky hobbit! Where is Merry?”

“Safe. In Edoras.”

“This is another of the Halflings that travelled with my brother?” Faramir asked Gandalf sharply. “Has my father yet seen him?”

“Yes,” Gandalf said. “But thus far our secret is safe. Pippin and I arrived from Edoras but yesterday morning.”

“That is a long way to ride!” Gimli said.

“It is good to see you safe, Pippin,” Faramir said, and looked down at him. “Since Gimli told the tale of your capture, I have shared his and Boromir’s fear for you and your kinsman. I am most glad to meet you at last.”

Pippin looked up at him and as their eyes met, he saw in Faramir’s expression both keen intelligence and a sad wisdom that oddly made him seem older than his brother. Then Faramir smiled and it lit his face with youth and vigour. ”Have you yet spoken with Boromir? He will be overjoyed to know that he did not fight in vain to save you. And that Merry, also is safe.”

Pippin smiled in return, feeling an instant liking for the young ranger captain. “I have talked with him,” he said. “It took a while to convince him he wasn’t dreaming! Then, I think he shed a tear or two though he tried to hide it.”

Faramir snorted. “He would!” Then he dismounted and turned back to help his men unload some of the wounded to a wagon that had been found to carry them to the sixth level and the Houses of Healing. Gandalf did not dismount from Shadowfax but waited as patiently as he could. Gimli and Pippin stood, cheerfully exchanging news, Gimli insisting he wanted to hear all about the escape and of Gandalf’s battle with the Balrog.

Finally, Faramir reappeared. He collected the reins of a fresh mount brought to him by a groomsman and swung himself up into the saddle then reached an arm down for Gimli. Gandalf likewise called Pippin back to him. Shadowfax matched his great stride to the smaller paces of the cavalry mount, and together they began to climb through the streets from one winding circle to the next.

“How does my brother fare?” Faramir asked. “Have you managed to keep him abed?”

“With some argument, but yes, he begins to recover strength. Faramir, tell me, you were with Frodo and Sam yesterday in Osgiliath?”

“Yes. I let them go soon after.” Faramir lowered his eyes, his expression crestfallen. “I am shamed to tell you that I had been holding them against their will. I cannot now understand how I could have behaved in so cold a manner toward them.”

“The Ring,” Gandalf said almost inaudibly. He cast a wary glance at the soldiers and people milling about them.

Faramir sighed and nodded, his head still bowed. “I felt great freedom and relief when finally I turned it away, far beyond my reach.”

“Boromir told us you had let it go, that Frodo and Sam, along with Gollum, are once again set out on their quest. Tell me, Faramir, do you know which road they take toward Mordor?”

“The Morgul Vale.” Faramir lifted his head and his eyes were dark with worry. “Gollum leads them to Cirith Ungol.”

Gandalf gasped a sharp breath, his body tensing so much that Pippin looked to him in alarm. “What’s wrong? Is that a bad way to go?” Gandalf did not answer.

“Well, is it?” Gimli demanded from behind Faramir.

“Sadly, yes,” Faramir replied. “But it may not be as bad as we fear. It is only a rumour that speaks of the terror of The Stairs, one that has never been proven.”

“I fear the reason for the lack of proof,” Gandalf said, and Pippin had the feeling he did not elaborate because he wanted to spare him.

“Is there no other way in?” Gimli asked.

Gandalf shook his head. “None that will be so loosely guarded by Mordor.”

“Well, then –“ Pippin began, thinking that surely made it the best way, but Faramir said, “Unguarded because such is unneeded when a worse foe may hold it against both Man and Orc.”

“A worse foe?” Gimli asked. Pippin felt Gandalf half-turn to look at the Dwarf and Gimli said nothing. Pippin could only assume that Gandalf had given Gimli one of those looks that said he didn’t want to speak of it in front of the hobbits. During the long days of The Fellowship’s journeying, Pippin had become used to those looks, though nonetheless frustrated by them.

“I would hear all you can tell me of Frodo and Sam’s time with you, please, Faramir,” Gandalf said and the man nodded. “In particular I am curious to know why you suddenly decided to let them go despite the penalty you may face for doing it.”

“That is a story I would prefer not to tell here in the open streets.”

“No, indeed, that would be unwise. You go now to report first to your father?”

Faramir’s expression was abruptly tired and bleak. “Yes. Mithrandir, I swear I will reveal as little as I may about -- that which The Fellowship guarded.”

“I thank you, Faramir.” Gandalf said, then added, “Boromir has asked that you allow him to take the responsibility for its loss?”

A soft smile touched Faramir’s lips. “Yes. But it cannot be so, for my father has means of knowing the truth even if I were willing to try to keep it from him.”

“What means?”

“He has his own men, his agents, among our ranks. They are forever watching and reporting my movements to him.”

“Spies? Nothing more?” Gandalf asked intently.

Faramir met the wizard’s eyes for a long moment before he said softly, “I believe we may share the same fear, Mithrandir. But I cannot know for certain that Minas Tirith holds one of the ancient Stones. I do know that my father often disappears for long hours to the highest reaches of the towers, and ever, on his return, his mood is more despairing, and more full of bitter anger. When I sent Boromir’s cloven horn to him, saying that I feared Boromir badly injured but that my heart told me he yet lived, he sent a furious yet heartbroken reply. He claimed to have seen Boromir’s fall in battle days earlier, and that there was no hope. He was certainly dead.”

“Yes,” Gandalf sighed. “It was in that mood that we found him when we arrived. He ignored all we could tell him from Aragorn who had tended Boromir’s wounds and seen him safely on his way home in the care of Gimli.”

Faramir shook his head. “He has ever been hostile toward the one who may claim the throne of Gondor. Tell me, does Boromir take his rest in the Houses of Healing? I would come to him as soon as I am done speaking with our father.” He snorted. “If of course, father does not immediately have me clapped in irons and taken to the dungeons!”

Pippin gasped and dared to speak up. “He wouldn’t do that to his own son, would he?”

Faramir looked down and gazed with infinite gentleness and sadness into Pippin’s worried face. “No. He would not. If he decides to punish me, it will be in a more subtle fashion. He would not do anything that may bring “poor reflection” upon him.”

“My Lord Faramir!” a crisp voice called, startling Pippin. He turned about to see they had reached the final gate, the seventh with its arched tunnel that gave access to the Citadel. Faramir returned the sentries’ salute, then looked to Gandalf.

“Boromir rests in his own bedchamber,” Gandalf replied. “I would accompany you and give what aid I might, but I know that I would succeed only in angering your father further. Pippin, Gimli and I will wait for you at Boromir’s side.”

Faramir nodded and watched as Gimli awkwardly dismounted. “Don’t take any guff from him, laddie!” The Dwarf growled. Faramir smiled a little at that then kicked his horse into a trot that took him quickly across the green sward and to the steps of the Great Hall.

“He will be all right, won’t he?” Pippin asked anxiously as Shadowfax turned to carry them toward the Steward’s House.

Gandalf sighed heavily. “We can only hope, Pippin. We can only hope. But I will promise you this – if Denethor attempts to apply any penalty, I will find a way to stall it if any such exist. And there you may be of great help for tomorrow you swear your oath to Denethor and will be often at his side.”

“Pippin!” Gimli exclaimed in some horror. “You have sworn an oath to that crabby old –“ Gimli caught Gandalf’s scowl and grudgingly corrected – “To the Steward? Why?”

“Well, “ Pippin began, “It was just that he didn’t believe us about Boromir and…”

Chapter Twelve -- Strategy and Duty

“It seems apparent to me at least, that my son sleeps soundly. Why have you brought me here?” Father. And none too happy. Boromir tried groggily to bring himself to full wakefulness.

“It is good to see him peaceful at last,” Garad said quickly. “He was so badly fevered when I left. I am, however, sorry to have taken you from your duties, My Lord. Shall I call a guard to escort you back to –“

“No,” Denethor said testily. “He is waking. I will speak to him. Leave us.”

Boromir opened his eyes in time to catch his friend’s dismayed expression. “Thank you, Garad,” he said with a smile. “Though I am now feeling much better I am glad you have brought my father to me.” Standing behind Denethor, Garad rolled his eyes and shook his head, then mimed that he would be right outside should he be needed.

“I would have been here sooner, my son,” Denethor was saying as he drew a chair close to the bed. “But there is much that needs my attention.”

“I understand completely, father.” Boromir pushed himself up to sit against the bed-board. “How go the plans for the city’s defence?”

Denethor waved a hand as if to dismiss the matter. “The men know their duty and will protect us as best they might. But neither might of arms nor shielding walls will save Minas Tirith this time.”

Boromir’s jaw dropped. “Our men are able and our walls unbreakable. All we need do is last the fight.”

Denethor smiled and patted Boromir’s arm. “You are never one to surrender easily, Boromir, I know that. Yet you have not been here these past months to understand fully how grave is our plight. We cannot stand empty-handed against Sauron and live. Our only hope lies in the one mighty weapon I asked that you return to me. If indeed it was lost to you, then you must know where it may yet be found, or at the least where we may begin searching.”

Boromir shook his head in irritation. “Forget The Ring, father. It is a weapon that serves naught but Sauron’s will.”

Denethor stood and glared with such vehemence at Boromir that he was startled. Denethor turned his back and snarled, “I must have it! I will have it! Without it all hope is lost!”

“There is still hope, father,” Boromir pleaded. “We must recall all our forces to defend our walls, and light the beacons. Rohan will –“

“Light the beacons?” Spittle flew from Denethor’s mouth as he swung back to eye his son with utter contempt. “Would you betray me to do the Wizard’s will?”

Appalled, Boromir could only stare, struck dumb by the madness in his father’s normally astute grey eyes. Then, as abruptly as it had come, the terrible rage left and Denethor rubbed a hand over his face. “I am sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to accuse you, my most loyal, my beloved son.” He sat in the chair again and scrubbed tiredly at his face.

“I serve only Gondor and Gondor alone,” Boromir said at last.

“Of course you do.” Denethor looked up at him with a twisted smile. “And your loyal heart cannot imagine that others might eagerly seek to betray. Others who are very close to us. Very close.”

Boromir decided it wiser to ignore that remark. Instead he said, “Then, knowing my love of Gondor you will believe me when I say we must light the beacons!”

Denethor sighed heavily and looked down at the floor. “Theoden will not answer. He has ever been against me.”

“Father!” Boromir said in astonishment. “That is not true! Rohan has ever come to our aid in time of need.”

Denethor shook his head. “You are a soldier, Boromir, and a great one for battles of arrow and sword. But you know little of politics. We did not go to Rohan’s aid, and thus they will refuse us.”

Boromir frowned. “We have ever given aid to Rohan.”

“When we could, in years past. But we have been unable to help them of late.”

“Theoden asked for aid? When?”

Denethor waved a hand. “It is of no import. I was unable to answer his need. He will not so easily forgive. The Riders will not come.”

“They will if we but ask! I know it!”

“And I have seen that they will not!” Denethor snapped. “The beacons will not be lit! Of more importance is all you know of The Halfling who now carries The Ring. Where does he take it? What plans does the wizard conspire to make with him?”

Angry, Boromir opened his mouth to say that The Ring was to be destroyed. But just as suddenly he hesitated. Even that might be to say too much when his father’s desire remained so great. If Denethor knew they planned to destroy it, he would work out the rest and send an army, if need be, to retrieve it

“Come, Boromir, you were a member of this Fellowship, foolish as it was. You must know its secrets.” Denethor’s voice was oddly silky, smoothly compelling. And it made Boromir shiver for he had never before heard such a tone from his father’s mouth.

“Gandalf ever kept his intent from us,” Boromir hastily prevaricated. “Then, after we believed him lost in Moria, I did what I could to convince them we must bring The Ring to Minas Tirith.” He flinched inwardly at that memory.

“I see. Still you must have discerned some of what he planned to do, of why it came so far south from Rivendell. You must have some idea. You must!”

Boromir’s unease grew greater. The desire for The Ring seemed now to dominate his father’s thinking. What had taken hold of Denethor? If Boromir didn’t know better he would say The Ring itself had possessed him. He well knew that madness. Yet he had escaped it very quickly, while Denethor remained mired within it.

“You know how greatly I love you, father,” Boromir said. “Listen to me, now, I beg you. Hear me when I say you must put aside all longing for The Ring. It can do naught but bring despair.”

“Despair!” Denethor spat. “Do not speak to me of despair! I know it only too well, and I tell you that only with The Ring may we find our salvation! Tell me where you last saw it and do not try to twist the words to save your brother!”

“I last saw The Ring at Amon Hen,” Boromir said truthfully.

“Ahh! You begin to learn the way of politics. You tell the truth, yet hide much in so doing. Do not try to play such games with me, Boromir, for I have long since mastered them! I know what else the Wizard would hide from me. He would see me bow to a miserable Ranger from the North! It will not be so!”

“I have learned much of Aragorn. He is an honourable man and –“

“I know The Ring came to Osgiliath! You were there! You know it is true!” Denethor leaned menacingly over the bed and snarled, “Where is it now? Who carries it? Or has your loyalty to me been stained by too long an association with an Elf-loving Ranger who would usurp the throne of Gondor!”

So, his father had known all along of Osgiliath, yet questioned him regardless, tried to trick him. Boromir was appalled by the depth of Denethor’s insane rage, and incensed by the attempt at deception. And now his father tried physical intimidation. That was a tactic Boromir had last seen used years ago against the boy Faramir. Even then Boromir had stood his ground, protected his brother. He would not remain in bed and allow his father to think him cowered.

Furious, Boromir threw back the bed-covers and swung his feet to the floor. He would stand, look his father in the eye, and reveal his oath of fealty to Aragorn. He would not hear his good friend, his brother in arms, and future King so maligned! Pain stabbed through his wounds, making his vision fade and swim. The room tilted and began slowly spinning about him.

“Boromir! What are you doing?” Denethor sounded startled.

Boromir smiled grim satisfaction despite the tearing pain. He struggled for focus, found his father’s eyes, and said defiantly, “I have found Gondor’s salvation! And it is not an accursed Ring created by Gondor’s foulest enemy! Gondor’s King will come to our aid as he has sworn! Gondor’s King will bring us victory! I have given him my oath of fealty! Aragorn is our rightful King and you will do well to remember it!” Boromir gasped and staggered, his sight going dark, but not before he saw shock and perhaps awe in his father’s eyes. “As for the cursed Ring,” he finished breathlessly, one hand floundering for the support of the bedpost. “I have sent it far from us and it is – my fervent… hope that I never see it again!” Something cold and hard slammed into Boromir’s knees, and he realized dizzily that he had fallen.

“Boromir!” he heard his father cry, felt fingers clamp tight about his arm. “Boromir! You do not know what you say! The Wizard has poisoned you with his foul Elvish potion!”

Somehow, Boromir found the strength to lift his head though he could no longer see. “I await the coming of our King. The Ring is gone! On my order!” It took all the strength remaining to him, but he pulled his arm free of his father’s grip, intent on getting back to his feet without help. Something struck him a stunning blow to the face. His father crouched anxiously over him. Cold floor tiles pressed against Boromir’s cheek and he realized distantly that he had toppled from his knees to sprawl facedown. It was the hard floor had hit him, not Denethor’s hand. He shook his head and tried to move but only succeeded in losing consciousness completely.

The next Boromir knew, he was back in bed. A small, warm hand was once again holding his tightly. Pippin, sitting on the far side of the bed, away from the shouting voices. Someone else was holding a flask to his lips, coaxing him to swallow. He tasted miruvor, the elvan restorative. A few drops would bring strength, a mouthful sleep. He swallowed only a little and spat out the rest. He could hear Denethor and Faramir yelling at one another from further back in the room. His vision cleared to find as expected, Gandalf leaning over him, brows drawn down in concern, but his blue eyes afire. Close at the wizard’s side, glowering with equal parts anger and worry, was Gimli, helm removed but axe in hand as if to guard the bed. “It’s all right,” Boromir said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Let me handle him.” Gandalf’s worried scowl melted to a faint smile.

“I do believe you’ve already won this round, laddie,” Gimli said.

“You’re awake!” Pippin exclaimed. “I was so worried when we came in to find you on the floor and Denethor – well, he was sobbing. I thought you must have died.”

Boromir snorted and pushed himself up—with some much needed help from Gandalf, to sit in the bed. “It takes a lot to kill me, Pippin,” he said. “You should know that by now.”

“I do,” Pippin said. “But you do seem to always get into the thick of it!”

Boromir, about to speak to Gandalf, turned back to stare at Pippin indignantly. “Me! Who was carried off by – Never mind.” Shaking his head in self-annoyance he turned sharply back to Gandalf. A new pain stabbed above his eye and he could feel blood trickling toward his ear.

“What did he do to you?” Gimli growled. “This time.”

“He did nothing. I tried to stand and I fell on my face.” Boromir tried to follow what Faramir was saying then groaned when he understood.

“It was my decision, and never have I made better! For The Ring is now far beyond our reach!”

“You have ever been one to fail Gondor’s need, Faramir!” Denethor hissed. “And you will pay the penalty!”

“He will not!” Boromir roared, drawing their attention, but having to press a hand to his ribs so that he might continue speaking. “Or if he does, then I will share it! For it was my wish and would have been my order had I been able to deliver it!”

Denethor swung back to the bed, his rage somewhat lessened by his relief at seeing Boromir awake. “You have ever sought to protect your brother, Boromir,” he said in an abruptly quiet tone. ”But you will not do so this time.”

“Try it,” Boromir said. “And you will lose us both.”

Denethor’s face grew stark white as he met his elder son’s determined eyes. His lips moved as if searching for further rebuke, but unable to find any.

There was a long, tension-filled silence. Finally, Denethor looked to Pippin. “You swore an oath yesterday, Halfling. Will you now be foresworn?”

Boromir, sitting so close, plainly heard Pippin swallow hard before answering, “I will not.” Under his breath he whispered, “For my oath is for Gondor alone.” Boromir smiled and said equally softly, “Well said.”

“Then I will expect your presence in the Great Hall early tomorrow.” Denethor gathered his cloak about his shoulders. “And yours, Faramir.” He straightened and looked to Boromir with sudden sorrow in his eyes. “I bid you goodnight, son. May you sleep well and understand more clearly come the new day and your fever is gone.”

“Good night, father. I am not fevered.”

Garad, who had apparently been standing inside since Gandalf’s arrival, opened the door and Denethor left the room. Everyone remained silent, letting the tension ease a moment. Finally, Boromir looked up to his brother with a smile. “It is good to see you safe, brother. And you, Gimli. Gandalf delivered my request?”

Faramir, smiling in return as he approached the bed, suddenly hesitated. “Request?”

“Such proved to be unnecessary,” Gandalf put in dryly. “Your brother had the good sense to withdraw while there was yet hope of saving some of the garrison.” He crossed the room to sit in the armchair by the tall, lattice-framed windows. Night was beginning to darken the sky. Gandalf tapped his pipe against the ledge and prepared to refill it from the pouch at his side.

“Osgiliath is overrun,” Faramir said wearily. He unclasped the leather armour from his shoulders and let it fall. He collapsed wearily into the smaller chair by the bed and ran a dirty hand over his fatigue-lined face. “None of us would have escaped alive if not for Mithrandir’s timely aid.”

“You should have seen it, Boromir,” Pippin said excitedly. “We were galloping so fast, Shadowfax was near to flying. Then Gandalf lifted his staff and made all three Nazgul turn tail and run.”

Boromir stared from Pippin to Faramir. Gandalf’s head was lowered over his pipe, drawing on it to get the flame started to the leaf in the bowl. Close by his side, Garad poured water into a cup from a pitcher on the table.

“It was indeed a fine sight,” Faramir said, his sad, exhausted face lit briefly by amusement for his brother’s speechless astonishment.

“Three Nazgul?” Boromir said at last.

“Three.” Faramir sighed heavily and settled back in the chair. Garad gave him the water, and, a little surprised by the thoughtful gesture, Faramir nodded thanks. He drank the entire cup before continuing, “The enemy attacked not long after dark last night when our men were already weary after the day’s battle. Never have I seen so many boats. They were fitted with ramps that allowed access to Osgiliath’s western bank even where the water lies most deep. I do not know how far the Orcs carried the boats or where they were made. I know only that we counted some forty craft each laden with one hundred or more enemy before we were left too busy fighting for our lives to count any further.”

“Yet you held until sunset today?”

“Many are dead.” Faramir’s eyes shone with tears and he looked away as he said, “Our men fought most valiantly.”

“I know it.”

“The enemy now hold the bridge and the western shore. They will soon bring machines of war to the Pelennor.”

There was another silence before Boromir said, “Gandalf tells me Mordor has amassed an army of one hundred thousand or more. We do not have the men to long hold them from the city. We need the aid of Theoden and his Rohirrim, and we need it as soon as possible.”

Gandalf looked up from his smoking to meet Boromir’s eyes with silent question. “No,” Boromir said tiredly. “Father would not agree to light the beacons.” Gandalf sighed, and was about to say something, when Boromir continued, “So we must do it ourselves. If only we can find some way round the guards.”

Gandalf cleared his throat. “There, I believe I may be able to help. Leave the beacons to me, and to Pippin. I promise you they will soon be burning.”

“Me?” Pippin said surprised but eager. “Truly? I can do something to help for once?”

Gandalf flinched. “I believe I have spoken rather harshly to you in the past, Pippin. I have never doubted your willingness, nor your ability to help. And I will be most grateful if I may have your aid in this mighty task.”

Pippin flashed a broad grin. “You only have to ask!”

“Good,” Gandalf nodded. “Then, since time is of the essence, we might as well do it now. Come along.”

Pippin moved to jump down from the bed, but Boromir held tight to his hand. “Wait. You go tomorrow to swear an oath of fealty to Gondor?”

Pippin nodded but would not meet Boromir’s eyes. “I had to do something,” he mumbled. “When Gandalf and I first saw your father, he – well, he kept saying you were dead. But it would have made no difference -- I would still have done it.”

“Done what?” Boromir prompted when no more was said.

Pippin drew a deep breath and looked up at him. “Denethor wanted to know so I told him how you had defended us. Then I offered my service to repay that debt.”

Boromir felt his throat close tight with emotion. He squeezed Pippin’s hand.

“Did I…? Was that the right thing to do?”

Boromir nodded and smiled. “It was exactly the right thing, Pippin. Though I expected no repayment, I have never been more deeply honoured. I thank you. The Tower Guard will do well to have among its ranks one who brought Isengard to justice.”

“Well, I had a lot of help.” Pippin mumbled. “The Tower Guard?”

“Our finest,” Boromir said, then frowned as he ran his eyes over his valiant friend’s small form. “Though, it may be a while before the smiths can make armour to fit you.”

“I can help there,” Faramir said. He came closer to place his hand to Pippin’s shoulder. “I have a suit of armour given to me as a boy that should fit you well. I would be proud to see you wear it tomorrow.”

Pippin’s eyes rounded. “Thank you, Faramir!”

“It is my honour.”

“Well, if that’s settled, Peregrin Took,” Gandalf said gruffly, “And if I may have your services before Gondor lays claim to you, perhaps we might see to the beacons?”

“I’ll come with you,” Gimli said. “I can distract anyone who takes too much interest.” He winked back at Boromir. “Besides, I need to ask directions to the nearest tavern. I believe the ale is mine for the taking.”

“It is indeed, friend Dwarf!” Garad said with a laugh. “I’ll come with you to be sure there is no argument.”

“My thanks to you all,” Boromir called as they headed for the door. “Be careful!”

“We will,” Gandalf assured.

Chapter Thirteen – The Light of Hope

The door closed behind them leaving the room suddenly seeming much larger.

Faramir poured himself more water and sat down again. He took a swallow then sighed and looked up at his brother who watched him with concern. “How are you feeling? You’ve collected a nice bruise and a cut on your forehead to match your other wounds.”

“Have I?” Boromir lifted his hand to touch his brow, then winced. “Remind me to have carpet laid all the way across that floor.”

Faramir snorted. “A good idea if you plan to keep falling out of bed.”

“I did not fall out of bed!” Boromir said indignantly. “I stood up, and stayed on my feet long enough to tell our father a few long-overdue truths.”

“Yes?” Faramir looked at him with an odd mix of eagerness and sadness. “Tell me.”

“Well.” Boromir looked down at the blood on his fingers. “Now that I think of it, I must have sounded rather pompous.”

“You! Never!”

Boromir gave his brother a mock scowl. “I don’t recall it word for word, but the sum of it was that I had sworn an oath of fealty to Aragorn, Gondor’s King. And that Minas Tirith would do well to look to his aid rather than to hope for any from that most accursed of all creations, The Ring of Sauron.”

“ I wish I had been here to hear that!” Faramir’s expression was so admiring that Boromir, embarrassed, looked away.

“When did you arrive? I mean, how long was I unconscious and did I miss anything important?”

“It could not have been very long. We rode to the Citadel together, then Mithrandir said he would wait for me at your side. I went looking for father in the Great Hall only to be told he also had gone to you. When I entered the room, Garad, Gimli and Pippin were just settling you back in bed. Mithrandir was shouting at our father that he had no intention of leaving because whenever he left you alone with him he returned to find you further injured.” Boromir snorted amusement, but Faramir frowned and said, “Wait, what did he mean by that?”

Boromir waved away the question. “Nothing of import.”

“I could always ask him.”

Boromir gave his brother an exasperated look but knew when he was beaten. “Last night, after you left me, Garad and some other men carried me not here, but to some room I have never before seen, somewhere behind the Great Hall. There, someone father referred to as his personal Physician arrived to tend my wounds.” Boromir suddenly found the memory of that awful pain sent shivers coursing through him. He drew a steadying breath and concluded quickly, “I had never seen or heard of this Physician before. He said there were bone fragments, and then – “ Despite his effort at control he shuddered. “Then I remember little other than pain and blood.”

“I should never have left you,” Faramir whispered, horror-stricken.

“You had little choice!” Seeing how sickened his brother looked, he added quickly, “Gandalf and Pippin soon arrived to drive them out.”

“Them?”

“There was another, an assistant of sorts.”

“If ever you see them again –“

“I will take their heads before ever you get your chance,” Boromir growled and gave Faramir a quick smile that faded as he added, “But I fear we have mightier foes to worry us. And sadly, first among them, may well be our own father.”

Faramir nodded and met Boromir’s eyes intently. “What did you mean when you said the penalty would apply to us both? It will do Minas Tirith little good to lose you as well as –“

“Do not say it!” Boromir snapped, and sat straighter in the bed. He cursed and rubbed at the tight bandage that cut into his sore shoulder. “Whatever foolishness father attempts, I swear, I will find a way to counter him. “

“By threatening to die with me?”

“If that’s what it takes, yes!” Boromir drew a deep, calming breath and said, “I will see no harm come to you, little brother. Nor injustice.”

“I know it, and I thank you for it,” Faramir said huskily.

There was silence for a moment, then Boromir said, “You are freshly come from a two day battle. You must be exhausted. Go, take some food and rest, then return and we will see if we can find a way round our father’s madness.”

“I would like a wash and some hot food,” Faramir said, “But I do not think I could rest. Not yet.”

“Faramir –“ Boromir hesitated. “I am sorry. If only we had known you were so heavily besieged.” He well knew the aftermath of bloody battle, the deaths of friends, would leave little desire for sleep.

Faramir nodded but did not lift his head. “My Second saved my life back there. Then, as we were leaving…. I thought he was following close behind. But – he was not.” He shook his head and there was a catch in his voice as he finished, “I pray he and the others we could not save are dead, and not taken prisoner.”

Boromir swallowed hard. He had lost good men in similar fashion and the agony of it never truly faded. He could find no words of comfort for there were none. In the silence Boromir looked toward the window, saw the evening star appear low in the west. After a moment he became aware that Faramir was watching him quietly, taking in every evidence of injury. And only then did it hit him just how badly his brother must have suffered, fearing he too was among the fallen.

“You look most pale,” Faramir said as Boromir looked back at him. “Have you eaten a full meal today?”

“I could use some solid food,” Boromir admitted, and added with a wry smile, “if I see another bowl of soup I’ll throw it at the wall!”

Faramir’s grim expression at last was broken by a soft laugh. “How well I know you mean that! You once threw such at me when I tried to play nursemaid the first time you were wounded.”

Boromir smiled, pleased to see his brother eased. “So I did. I promise that if you find some roast chicken for me it will not meet the same fate.”

“Roast chicken?” Faramir stood and gave a half bow. “My wish is your command.” He went to the door, opened it and yelled, “You there, guardsman!” Boromir faintly heard his brother ordering their evening meal. There was the thud of boots as the guard hurried off to the kitchens. Faramir looked back into the room, and said with a smile, “I’m to my room to get out of this filthy shirt. Then, I’ll be back. Long have I imagined the moment when we might share a meal together once more.”

“As have I, little brother. As have I.” Faramir turned away and Boromir shouted after him, “Be sure you have them fetch some ale!”

They were soon enjoying their food and Boromir could not recall anything tasting better. It had been a long while since he’d had such fine fare. Faramir sat across from him at the table he’d dragged closer to the bed, and by mutual agreement, they said no more of war but found happier childhood memories. “I still remember the look on Cook’s face,’ Faramir was laughing. “I don’t think she ever trusted you again!”

“Not with delivering the cakes, at any rate,” Boromir said with a mischievous grin. “Though I don’t think she need have worried, we were both so sick after eating so many I doubt we could have faced them again anytime soon.”

Faramir chuckled and looked up from the grapes and cheese he was putting on his plate. “I completely lost my liking for cherry pie, at least. What?” he asked suddenly, realising Boromir was staring at something behind him.

“They’ve done it! Faramir! The beacons are lit!”

Faramir turned about so hurriedly that he almost knocked the table over. “So they have! Well done!” He stood and hurried to the window.

“Help me up!” Boromir called. “I can only see Amon Dîn from here. I will not miss seeing the relay!”

Faramir frowned but relented when Boromir gave him a look part stern glower, and part pleading. Carefully, Faramir took Boromir’s good arm about his shoulders and eased him up. Together they stood at the window, watching the blazing pyre of Amon Dîn light the night sky. “Hope is kindled,” Faramir said softly.

“Father fears Theoden will deny our need. But I have ridden with Théodred and Éomer and I know they, at least, will not.”

“Rohan will come,” Faramir said with that certain glimpse of the future that Boromir had long learned to trust. “Rohan will come. Théoden will fight on the field of Pelennor.”

Boromir felt his brother shudder as at some sudden horror, but when he asked, Faramir would not tell him what he had seen.

“Come,” Faramir said instead and turned him back toward the bed. “If you would also take part in the battles ahead you will need your own legs under you and that will not happen unless you rest.”

“Look who’s talking!” Boromir said as he settled back into bed again. “When did you last sleep?

“I don’t think I remember.” He rubbed a hand at gritty eyes.

“Exactly my point.” Boromir tried to hide a wince as he reached for a mug of ale. He studied his brother a moment and saw the sadness returning to line his tired face. “But I’m in no hurry to end our reminiscing. Stay. Take the armchair. I’ll wager one or two verses of my poetry recitation will have you asleep before you know it.”

“You! Poems?” Faramir laughed. “The threat alone might do it!” He held Boromir’s eyes a moment and said, “Thank you, brother. It is most good to have you home at last.”

Chapter Fourteen: Fealty and Penalty

“It took some doing,” Faramir said as he returned from his errand early the next morning. “But I finally remembered where it had been stored. I left Gandalf and Gimli to help him on with it. I swear Pippin can’t stand still for more than a moment.”

Boromir, sitting up in bed with a breakfast tray on his lap, snorted dry amusement. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Faramir craned to see beyond the door. “Here he comes now.”

Pippin came into the room walking in an odd manner that Boromir finally realized was caused by a cross between excitement, nervousness, and unfamiliarity with wearingthe long Gondorian sword. “Well, how do I look?” he said, standing close by the bed. He frowned down at the long scabbard at his hip and readjusted it. “I hope I don’t trip over this thing.” He looked up again, his eyes alight but his brows furrowed a little as he wondered at Boromir’s silence.

He could not know that Boromir was remembering the first time he’d seen that particular set of armour. Denethor had had it made for Faramir on his seventh birthday. Boromir, only twelve himself, had just officially begun warrior training, and his small brother had been lost and envious. With his own suit of armour, Faramir could at least join him after lessons for pretend bouts of sword fighting. It was one of the last generous gestures Boromir recalled between father and younger son.

“Boromir?” Pippin prompted.

“I’m sorry, Pippin,” Boromir said. “I was just remembering the first time I saw that armour.”

Pippin grinned cheekily back at Faramir. “Told you that’s the first thing he’d think of!”

“So you did,” Faramir chuckled. “He knows you too well, brother.”

“He should after living in my pockets for more than forty days!” Boromir said with a mock growl.

Pippin looked back, mischief undaunted. “It wasn’t your pockets, Boromir, it was your undershirts!”

Faramir erupted into laughter and Boromir’s mock scowl melted to a fond smile. Already Pippin was bringing to Faramir his gift for creating happiness.

“And after that remark,” Boromir said, trying to sound stern, “you expect a compliment on your appearance, Master Peregrin Took, Guard of The Citadel?”

“I do!” Pippin said confidently, bouncing on his toes, arms folded and chin high.

“Come closer,” Boromir said, smiling a little as Pippin gave him a somewhat wary regard before obeying. Boromir reached out and drew Pippin’s head toward him then kissed his brow. “I have never been more proud of you, Pippin. You may have saved us all when you lit the beacon last night. I am honoured to count you among Gondor’s finest.” He let go and as Pippin stood back, he said, “You look very handsome. Black and silver suits you. But you’ll need to be very careful.”

“Careful?”

Boromir winked. “All the girls will be chasing you.”

Pippin’s eyes rounded. “I hadn’t thought of that! But of course, they will!”

“Ever the modest one,” Boromir said dryly.

“I’ve rehearsed the oath a thousand times,” Pippin said. “But I’m still nervous I’ll forget it.”

“You won’t forget. You have well earned the right to wear The White Tree, Pippin. You have been tested in battle more than many. Remember that and hold your head high.”

Pippin met his eyes with that much-older, wiser expression he seemed to have come by since Amon Hen, and said quietly, “I will. And thank you, Boromir. Thank you for everything.”

Boromir nodded and looked then to his brother. “I cannot help but wonder if things might not go better for you if I were present, Faramir. If I were to repeat the promise I made father last night in regards to this matter – “ He sighed. “But it is my hope that a night’s rest has cleared his head and he will give over this madness.”

“We will soon know,” Faramir said. “I am most pleased to see you looking a little stronger this morning, and I would not have you undo that good by trying to walk all the way to the Great Hall.”

Boromir scowled frustration. “I don’t see why father could not have had a more private audience here with us both to settle this matter.”

“I do,” Faramir said in a half-whisper.

“Yes. That’s what worries me.” Boromir sighed. “He does love you, Faramir. It’s just --- buried, very deeply buried. But I promise you it is there. I saw him with you when you were but a babe. I remember his joy.”

Faramir nodded and did not say what they were both thinking – Before mother died. He said quietly, “Sometimes… sometimes, I think hope can be more cruel than hate.”

I know it, brother, Boromir thought with grim remembrance. For I have seen that glimmer of hope in your eyes many times, and seen you suffer anew when father stamps it out, time and time again. Curse him, for doing this to you!

Boromir and Faramir both caught Pippin’s sorrowful and worried frown at the same moment. “But this is your morning, Pippin,” Faramir said with a smile, and turned to him. “It will not do to have you late for your oath-taking. Come along.” Pippin nodded but did not return the smile. Instead he gave both brothers a most solemn regard before turning and leaving the room.

“I will see you after my duties are done,” Faramir said. “Try to rest. Don’t let me find you with another bruise when I return.”

Boromir did not smile at the jest. “It is difficult to rest when I can do naught but think of what you may face!”

Faramir sighed. “I know. But, Minas Tirith would have the better chance if you are fit to command when battle reaches her gates.”

“Then I will rest as well as I might. But I will have you know this, brother – if I am yet unable to lead the city’s defence I have no doubt that you will serve her at least as well for you have already done so time beyond counting. And know, too, that you always have my love and my great pride.”

“And you mine.” Faramir said and followed after Pippin.

(Scene Break)

“Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor,” Pippin recited. On his knees before Denethor, with the vast emptiness of the Great Hall echoing about him, he was most glad of Faramir’s presence. The young Captain stood not far behind him, and Pippin was pleased that he would witness his oath, too, rather than the bitter, irrational Steward alone. “In peace or war, in living or dying, from this – “ Pippin’s mouth was impossibly dry, his heart racing. “From this hour henceforth. Until my lord release me, or death take me.”

There. It was done. Pride surged through Pippin – he could take his place at Boromir and Faramir’s side as a sworn solider of Gondor. Now came the part of the ceremony he most disliked. Denethor stood, approached him and extended his hand for Pippin to kiss the ring on his finger. Pippin hesitated a fraction, then did so.

Denethor smiled. “And I shall not forget it,” he said. He cupped Pippin’s chin in his hand and lifted his head a little. “Nor fail to reward that which is given.” He let go and turned away, going not back to his throne, but to a small table on which his servants had prepared a meal. He sat down and lifted his arms to push back the long sleeves of his silver-grey fur trimmed black robe. “Fealty with love. Valour with honour.” He cast a cold glance at Faramir and concluded pointedly, “Disloyalty with vengeance.”

Pippin could not see Faramir’s reaction. But his own blood was chill with dread. Denethor’s first words as they had entered the Great Hall had been a furious question to Faramir concerning the lighting of the beacons. Faramir and Gandalf both had warned Pippin to remain silent. But it was hard to stand by and see the hatred so unjustly leveled at Boromir’s brother. Pippin may have defied his orders if not for the fact that Faramir was already in deeper trouble. When Faramir replied he knew nothing about the beacons, Denethor became all the more enraged. “We would not need the beacons, if you had but returned with The Ring!” he hissed. “Oh yes, I have heard of its coming to Osgiliath. And I know well who betrayed me there! Betrayed all Minas Tirith!” Faramir tried to explain that he had seen proof The Ring served only Mordor, but his father bellowed at him to be silent.

And in that tension-charged, sorrowful and grim mood, Pippin had been asked to make his oath. Now, he watched as Denethor began his meal, acting in an outwardly calm manner that was more unsettling than his earlier rage. “I do not think we should so lightly abandon the outer defences,” The Steward said. “Defences that your brother long held intact.”

Pippin turned a little to watch Faramir and his chest tightened with pain. Never had he seen a more hopeless, heartbroken expression. Faramir’s face was very pale, his handsome features set like stone. “What would you have me do?” he asked softly.

“I will not yield the river and Pelennor unfought,” Denethor said firmly. He did not look up at his son, but busied himself with piling food on his plate. “Osgiliath must be retaken.”

Pippin drew a sharp, shocked breath. Faramir said sharply, “My Lord, Osgiliath is overrun.”

“Much must be risked in war,” Denethor said unemotionally. At last he raised his eyes to meet Faramir’s gaze with cold contempt. “Is there a captain here who still has the courage to do his lord’s will?”

Outrage sent blood burning in Pippin’s cheeks, but Faramir grew all the more pale. Watching him, frozen with the horror of it, Pippin saw tears gleam in Faramir’s eyes. “You wish now that our places had been exchanged,” Faramir said with infinite sadness. “That I had fallen and not returned from Rivendell, and that Boromir had remained here, unharmed.”

“Yes, I wish that.” Denethor said, and lifted his goblet to his lips to swallow some wine.

Pippin did not believe what he was hearing. How could a father say such a thing? Could he not see he was killing his son with grief? Never had Pippin felt such intense sorrow. The tears were more clearly visible in Faramir’s eyes now and his voice was hoarse with emotion as he replied, “Since you are robbed of Boromir’s command, I will do what I can in his stead.” He bowed, turned and walked away. Pippin stared after him. Faramir halted but did not turn to face Denethor again. He said simply, “If I should return, think better of me, Father.”

Pippin looked pleadingly toward Denethor, hoping beyond hope for some small show of caring. But the Steward said only, “That will depend on the manner of your return.”

Pippin wanted to shout at Denethor, or go after Faramir and beg him to ignore his father’s death sentence. But all he could do was stand there and watch his grief-stricken friend leave, feeling lonely and forlorn in the immense cold stone hall, and do nothing. Faramir left and the doors closed at his back with an echo that rang through the hall like a death knell.

Pippin could find little solace in knowing that Garad was waiting outside to carry word from Faramir to Boromir and Gandalf. And they had sworn they would not see Faramir sent to his death. But how could they possibly get round an order to reclaim Osgiliath, a city swarming with an Orc army eager for more blood? Faramir had been right: his father’s mind was subtle in its cruelty – any refusal to do his will would seem a refusal to fight in Gondor’s defence. And Gondor’s soldiers knew too much honour to turn away from such a command. He shifted angrily from foot to foot, and stood, waiting on his new lord as Denethor ate unconcernedly.

Pippin found himself hoping the hateful old man would choke.

(scene break)

Boromir's impatience and anxiety knew no bounds .He sat in bed, and plucked angrily at the covers, unraveling more threads from the woollen blanket. Every once in a while, he cast an irritated glance at Gandalf who sat in the armchair by the window. The old wizard did not look back at him, seemed lost to his own world of scheming. Boromir hoped whatever he was thinking would be equal to Denethor's growing madness. There was a deep aggrieved sigh from the wall by the hearth where Gimli stood sharpening his axe. The Dwarf at least shared Boromir's frustration. At last there came the sound of running bootsteps, and the door to the bedchamber burst open to reveal a breathless Garad. It was obvious the man had sprinted all the way from the Great Hall.

"Well?" Gimli demanded, stepping forward.

"Give the man a chance to breathe, Gimli," Gandalf said. Then almost as quickly asked, "What news?"

Garad came closer to the bed, his eyes grim as they met Boromir's intent gaze. "Denethor has commanded that Faramir retake Osgiliath immediately."

"But that is madness!" Gimli exclaimed. "Utter madness. The place is crawling with tens of thousands of Orcs! He cannot go back!"

"He will." Boromir said, still watching Garad's face. They knew well that no soldier of Gondor would turn away from such an order. Not when honour was at stake. Boromir bunched up a fist and slammed it into the bedside table so hard that he sent the water jug flying. "Take me to Denethor." Boromir threw back the covers. "He will withdraw the order or --"

"Or what?" Gandalf said quietly. "Would you use force against him? Forever bring disorder to the Rule of Law?"

Boromir uttered a voiceless curse. "I will not see my brother ride out to certain death!"

"Nor will I." Gandalf said, still in that same calm, quiet tone. "But approaching Denethor is not the way to prevent it. He will expect you to do just that, and he will be ready. "

"I fear that is true," Garad said. "He was made more furious by the lighting of the beacons. He said that it would not have been necessary if The Ring had been returned to him as he had ordered. He knows about what happened in Osgiliath."

"Curse his spies!" Gimli growled.

"There must be another way!" Boromir ran a hand through his hair, then scrubbed angrily at his face. "But if not, then so be it, I will overthrow my father’s rule."

"Faramir is to ride out immediately?" Gandalf asked, and his intent tone immediately drew Boromir’s attention. He knew that tone; the wizard was up to something, had found a plan.

"Yes," Garad replied. "He takes two hundred knights with him."

"Two hundred against thousands?" Gimli said disgustedly. "Suicide."

"Denethor may yet have played into my hands," Gandalf continued and he met Boromir’s frantic eyes with a smile. "Do not fear for your brother, Boromir. I believe the solution lies in my newly given ability to command the weather."

"The weather?" Boromir asked with a frown.

"Just so. There are details I need to work on, but I have enough to be going on with. I must go to Faramir."

"As will I," Boromir said, and lowered his legs from the bed. He lifted a hand to forestall any protest. "I am Gondor’s Captain-General. Final say in military matters lies with me. I may yet be able to convince the men that they would serve better to stay and aid Minas Tirith’s defence from the battlements. We will need every man we have. Especially such experienced fighters."

Gandalf raised his brows and nodded. "It's worth a try."

"But, Boromir! " Garad spluttered. "You cannot hope to walk even half as far before your wounds tear open! And Denethor's henchmen guard the stables, they have orders not to permit Faramir to see you before he rides out."

"Do they indeed," Boromir said icily. His stern regard took all the worry from Garad’s eyes. "Let them dare try to command me! " He turned about and snarled, "Gimli, bring my sword, and check the blade. I believe I may have over-tested it at Amon Hen."

"Yes!" Gimli lifted his fist in salute.

Gandalf smiled. "It remains true that you cannot walk so far, Boromir," he said mildly. "Shadowfax must carry you."

"Shadowfax? Your horse? But --?"

"He is no mere horse, my friend. He is Lord of the Mearas. No maze of man-made halls will stop him." He went to the window, lifted his staff and then gave an odd, beautiful but echoing whistle.

Boromir gave Garad a puzzled look, but said only, "Help me, Garad. I can't go chopping off henchmen's heads while wearing my nightshirt!"

Garad laughed and went to hunt in the adjoining room for Boromir's leather surcoat and gloves. Gandalf looked over his shoulder at Boromir to say, "I hope it will not come to bloodshed, Boromir. I will drive them off."

"You take all the fun out of it!" Boromir grinned back at him.

"Your blade has a few notches," Gimli reported, "But it will serve. Here you go." He sheathed the sword and gave it, along with the belt, to Boromir who placed it on the bed behind him. Garad and Gandalf assisted him to stand and dress. He muttered curses as his torn shoulder hindered him, needing the sling replaced to support his left arm. Garad bent and pulled on his boots, and Boromir felt a surge of elation despite his fear for his brother. He was going into battle again!

A thunderous clatter of hooves roared rapidly closer up the hall. Startled, Boromir looked toward the door that had been closed behind Garad. "What the ?" he began, and was silenced by a loud, reverberating crash as hooves pounded at the upper door. It flew open to reveal so magnificent a white stallion it could only have come from the realm of the Valar.

"Your ride awaits, Boromir," Gandalf said with an amused smile. He gave a half bow to the horse and said, "Greet Shadowfax, Lord of all horses."

(Scene Break)

Faramir went down the lines of ranked men. With so many gathered, there was little space even inside the immense stables beneath the barracks of the Tower Guard. Grimly, he checked armour and weapons, and also looked to the horses that stood watching curiously from the stalls at their riders’ backs. They had yet to be saddled. Faramir did not want to imagine the horror, the agonised screams as such brave mounts and riders were cut down by a rain of Orc arrows. He had not wanted other men to come with him on what could only be a ride to the death, but they had adamantly refused to remain behind. It would be grave dishonour; they would sooner cut their own throats. Faramir would have liked the chance to say farewell to his brother. His father’s men guarded the stables but they would not have stopped him, had he truly desired to see Boromir. There was no point in it, the grief would come soon enough, and there was nothing his brother could do to save him this time.

"Stay back!" Voices shouted from outside the stables. Faramir turned back only to be near-blinded as bright white light blazed from the open doors. There were frightened cries from Denethor’s guardsmen and they abruptly broke, turned and ran out into the open parade square.

"Begone! Do not return!" Gandalf shouted after them.

Faramir felt the first fluttering of hope. He looked up as the white horse and rider approached, but it was not Gandalf who sat astride the magnificent animal – it was Boromir. His brother was dressed in light amour of black leather, his sword at his hip, and his gloved right hand resting on its hilt. His expression was grim and commanding despite his left arm being cradled in the white bandaging of a sling. A great roar and a mighty cheer “Boromir!” arose at Faramir’s back as The Tower Guard welcomed their returned commander. Only Boromir could have achieved such a spectacular entrance.

Faramir grinned, delighted to see his brother arrive in such a victorious manner and apparently well enough to ride. The dread of Denethor’s death threat fell away in the sheer joy of the moment. "Brother!" Faramir called, and with a laugh went to aid Boromir who swung one leg over his mount, ready to jump from the horse. "Wait!" He reached him in time to aid the dismount, and get a shoulder under his brother’s right arm. Gandalf stood a little to one side, Garad and Gimli not far behind.

Boromir managed an awkward salute and a broad grin for his men, and there was another resounding cheer. "Boromir! Boromir!" the men shouted.

Faramir heard his brother’s chuckle over all the noise. Then Boromir bent close to his ear and said, "What’s this rubbish I hear about you riding out to your death?"

Faramir looked into his eyes sadly and gave a great heaving sigh. "I can see no way out of it, brother."

"Let me talk to the men," Boromir said. "Maybe I can convince them of the truth – that Minas Tirith has far greater need of them alive to defend her walls."

"I already tried that," Faramir said.

"And?"

"As you would expect, they will not see their honour taken from them. Nor will they allow me to ride out alone."

The men had fallen silent and were watching them, had heard Faramir’s last statement. Boromir looked to them and said gravely, "Nor will I allow such." The gathered men’s worried frowns faded to smiles of grim satisfaction. They nodded and commented to their friends. "We ride to honour!"

"You ride to senseless death!" Boromir said. "Listen to me! I need you here, at my side! Minas Tirith needs your aid, not your blood!"

"And we will come to the city’s aid, My Lord Boromir." The commander of the Tower Cavalry stood forward. "After we return from Osgiliath."

Boromir shook his head. "None of you will return. They wait to ambush you. Tens of thousands of them. You have no hope of surviving."

Voices muttered and men looked uncertainly to their comrades, but their commander said loudly, "Then we ride to death! We have our orders! We will not be foresworn. The Steward himself has commanded it!"

"I will see that order overturned!" Boromir called.

Faramir looked sadly to him, and still standing close, Boromir’s arm about his shoulders, he whispered, "You know father will not listen, brother. It is a death penalty he seeks, not a victory."

"I will not allow this madness!" Boromir hissed in return.

"If you challenge him," Faramir said sharply, "you will succeed only in robbing the city of your command in its most desperate hour!"

Gandalf suddenly took a step toward them and, reaching out with his long staff, rapped hard at a nearby barrel. Startled, they left off their argument to stare at him. "There is oil in this barrel?" Gandalf asked.

Faramir and Boromir could only blink at him in bewilderment. Why was he asking about oil barrels now? One of the groomsmen came nervously forward to answer. "Yes, m’lord. Oil for lighting the torches and for cleaning the saddles and such."

"Torch oil. I see," Gandalf said. "A dangerous thing to have inside a stable, surely?"

"We are most careful with it. We keep only this one barrel inside here. The others are stored outside."

Gandalf looked up at Boromir. "How many barrels of oil would you say there are stored within the city walls?"

Boromir frowned at him. "I don’t have an exact count. You would need to go to the Marshal for that. At a guess, several hundred. Most are stored in the warehouses on the first level."

"Good, good!" Gandalf smiled. He tugged at Faramir’s arm, drawing both brothers close enough to hear his whisper. "You and your men will ride out the gates today, Faramir. But you will not go more than a mile or two from the city walls. A dense fog is about to settle over the Pelennor. And you and your command are about to disappear."

Faramir exchanged a hopeful but still puzzled look with his brother. Boromir suddenly smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "I think I see what he’s about, little brother. And it is a most clever plan!"

"Why thank you, Boromir!" Gandalf gave an ironic bow.

Boromir laughed and lifted his head to regard the anxiously awaiting cavalry men. "I was wrong, my brothers!" he told them with a triumphant grin, "Mithrandir gives me a more hopeful report, and we have a new plan! You will ride out! And I promise that you will return to defend your homes. Go! Go to victory! Prepare your horses!"

There were more cheers and then general chatter and noise as the men turned to their work. Gandalf waved at the brothers to follow him outside the stable doors where Garad and Gimli stood guard. Faramir helped his brother limp along at his side. "You do have a way with speech-making, laddie!" Gimli exclaimed as he joined them. "Never have I heard so much cheering!"

"I prefer the drinking at the celebration after," Boromir said dryly, making Gimli snort agreement. "And if Gandalf’s plan works, we might yet see the biggest celebration this city has ever known!"

"I like the sound of that!" Gimli said, but then, disgruntled at not having been in on Gandalf’s plan added, "The wizard is ever one for riddles! What is all this talk of oil barrels and fog! How can that help?"

"If I’m not mistaken," Boromir said cheerfully, "he plans to bring down the Orc siege towers before they are within range of our walls."

Gandalf, overhearing, nodded. "Indeed that is my plan. Fire and fog will yet see your men win victory and return triumphant, Faramir. But remember, this plan must remain secret! Tell the men they must not say a word, even to their families. They must behave as if they ride to Osgiliath."

"I will make them understand." Faramir nodded and sighed. "Though I will not tell them that it is father’s spies would soon see them undone."

Gandalf grunted. "Yes. But I fear it is not Denethor these spies truly serve."

"You believe Mordor has agents within our very walls?" Boromir gasped.

"Perhaps. Though I am not certain it is men who seek to bring down the city from within," Gandalf said. "I know only that Mordor seems to see too much of your father’s mind. Some evil will seeks ever to bring him to utter despair."

Boromir sighed. "There I fear it would not have to work too hard."

"No, it would not," Gandalf agreed sadly. "But let us to our plan. Faramir, you will lead your men out the gates, and into the fog. It will hide you not only from prying eyes, but also from listening ears. And the fog must cloak Minas Tirith’s lower level as well if the oil is to be safely smuggled beyond the walls. Here is what you must do –"

Chapter Fifteen: Surprise Attack.

High atop the city, almost at the furthermost reach of the Citadel’s green sward, Boromir stood leaning on the rampart. His head was tilted sharply down as he fought to keep his brother within view as long as possible. At his side, Gandalf stood ready, already muttering incantations that Boromir could only assume would soon see the city and Pelennor cloaked in thick fog. The proud white horse stood close by, reminding Boromir of Rohan. He could only pray the riders would come in answer to the beacons. For Minas Tirith would need all the help they could find. An army of close to two hundred thousand could not long be held at bay.

I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall, nor our people fail.

Aragorn’s solemn vow returned to Boromir so suddenly and clearly that he could almost hear the man’s sure voice. It brought him some solace, and he smiled faintly, remembering his reply. I will await your coming, and I will stand at your side. My brother, my captain, my king.

Two hundred horses bearing armoured knights would normally have made a fine sight as they wound their way ever lower through the circling streets. Banners and pennants stirred defiantly in the soft breeze, but the only sound was the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones. Deathly silence echoed all around. The watching crowds said little, and when they did it was in a hushed whisper. Women and children threw flowers into the road, or handed posies up to the riders. They believed they were farewelling their men -- husbands, fathers, brothers, to certain death. It made Boromir’s chest ache and tears stung his eyes. Minas Tirith’s people made no protest, but kept brave faces for those they loved.

Faramir rode at the head of the column, Gimli mounted at his back. The Dwarf had, as ever, wanted to be where the fighting would be thickest. As had Garad who rode proudly carrying the Steward’s banner just behind them. Despite his confidence in the plan, and the knowledge that Faramir and his men would in all likelihood return with only minimum casualties, Boromir was saddened and angered. It was a mournful procession that left only despair in its wake. The great gates opened and swallowed the riders. Rank by rank they rode bravely out beyond the safety of the city. They did not know the details of Gandalf’s strategy, but could believe only that they served honour. Loyally, courageously, they would follow Faramir even unto death. Boromir’s vision swam with tears of pride.

Gandalf lifted his arms and his white staff gleamed suddenly in the afternoon light. He chanted something in one of the Elven languages. Faramir would have known which it was. Abruptly, the air was chill and damp. Clouds billowed low about the upper battlements. Then slowly, they swirled downward and swept out toward the plains. The Pelennor was quickly engulfed, hidden so thoroughly as to make it seem it and the two hundred horsemen no longer existed. The fog crawled back up the walls, but completely hid only the lower level of the city.

“It is well done, Gandalf,” Boromir said. “I thank you!”

“They are very brave men,” Gandalf said softly. “It is my great honour to aid them.”

“Brave indeed.” Boromir sighed heavily and his fist clenched on his sword hilt. “Minas Tirith’s people should not have to bear with such apparent grief so near to fighting a battle for their very lives.”

“No, they should not,” Gandalf agreed. “But there is no help for it. We must continue with the deception at least until the enemy attack. I can hope only that there will be sufficient time to smuggle all the oil and other materials to Faramir. He will need every barrel we can send beyond the walls.”

Boromir’s anger only increased at the thought of his soldiers having to resort to such stealth within their own city. “We should have been able to tell the people that they will see their kin home safely again! And my men should not have to sneak around like mice when we do naught but secure our city!” Gandalf only eyed him sadly, and Boromir nodded. “I know, I know. There is no other course open to us. But I am nonetheless angry! My father will at least hear what I think of his wish that Faramir should die!”

“Now that,” Gandalf said with a wintry smile, “is something I would very much like to hear. It cheers my heart even to imagine it.”

Boromir had to snort a little at the wizard’s eagerness. “Good. I would delay no longer in giving him my opinion.” He turned about, took one or two unsteady paces, and was forced to grab at his ribs. Cursing, he studied the suddenly much larger-looking expanse of the green sward. And the many steps beyond it that led up to the Great Hall. Denethor had not even bothered to come outside to see his younger son ride to what The Steward would believe to be his death. Impatient fury tightened every muscle of Boromir’s body, and made him wince anew at the pain in his side and shoulder.

“Perhaps we may be of assistance?” Gandalf said, Shadowfax walking silently at his side. “You may have greater breath to deliver your judgment if you were to ride into the Hall?”

Boromir smiled. “You win. Thank you, Shadowfax.” Boromir blinked in surprise as the great horse bowed its head in reply, its keenly intelligent eyes regarding him steadily. “Umm, would you give me a foot up, please Gandalf?”

But instead, surprising Boromir further, the white horse looked him straight in the eye and whickered softly as if in answer. Shadowfax bowed low then settled to the ground, all four legs folded. Boromir was so amazed that he did not move, until, chuckling at his expression, Gandalf said, “Well, then, climb aboard now. He does like to be of service, especially to those of whom he thinks highly.”

Boromir felt strangely humbled. As he easily mounted, he gave the horse an awkward pat, and said again, “I thank you, Shadowfax.” The animal nodded, and its white mane ruffled in the chill air. Boromir looked up and saw that the battlements about the Great Hall were cloaked in mist and swirling dark cloud. For a moment, he could swear he saw an odd shape take form among them. He shook his head, his imagination was getting the better of him. He looked down at Gandalf who walked beside the horse, and said, “I’ve just remembered something – Pippin is in there with my father. I can’t storm in there yelling about Faramir when Pippin doesn’t know he’s safe.”

Gandalf nodded. “Still, I will not be robbed of seeing you tell him a few long needed truths.” There was a roguish yet stern glint in his eyes. “Don’t worry about Pippin. I’ll take him aside and explain.”

“Good,” Boromir said, distracted as he again thought he saw movement in the clouds above the Hall. The fountain and the looming dead tree obscured his view. He regarded the tree and its two solemn guardsmen thoughtfully, wondered if it could be true that some day soon he might see it bloom again. Hurry Aragorn. Hurry home to us.

They were walking close to the rampart for Boromir to be able to see over its side. Far, far below beyond the shrouding fog, he could faintly see the glimmer of the great river, the border that normally protected their eastern flank. But now the army of Mordor had taken the bridge and the west bank. How long would they wait before attacking? Long enough at least to prepare their siege towers. That might buy Minas Tirith another day. Surely attack must come in the morning. He sighed and felt the horse turn, heading toward the steps leading up to the Hall. Boromir wondered if he should dismount and climb the steps. Entering the Great Hall on horseback, and Gandalf’s horse at that, might only convince his father that he was indeed putting the wizard before him.

There was a faint sound from high above, a rattling as if some masonry had come loose. Shadowfax shifted nervously beneath him and blew out a great breath. “What is it?” Gandalf asked. Then, he and Boromir saw it at the same time. Nazgul! Crouched high on the battlements and almost completely masked by shifting grey mist, the black garbed rider shifted and its awful reptilian mount lifted its head and showed its teeth. There was an ear-splitting scream from the Nazgul and the creature came diving at them with astonishing speed.

“The Witch King!” Gandalf warned and hefted his staff. Light blazed from its tip and the creature and its shadow-faced rider swerved but only slightly. Shadowfax reared up, hooves flaying in attack. Boromir grabbed at the mane and ducked low. He could not draw his sword and hang on at the same time when he had only the one good arm. One great reptilian claw swiped at Gandalf, caught and lifted him. The reptile’s monstrous body clipped Shadowfax hard and sent the horse sprawling. Boromir fell and rolled clear, his shoulder and ribs jolted so badly that consciousness faded for a moment.

Desperately, Boromir shook his head and pushed himself to his knees. He struggled to stand and draw his sword. He looked about groggily but Gandalf was gone. The Nazgul’s mount had dropped him over the side of the Citadel rampart. Horrified, Boromir had no time to mourn his loss. The guards ran to his aid only to be knocked savagely aside by razor-sharp talons as the beast returned and dived at them. Boromir stumbled to his feet, his sword at the ready. But the monstrous creature did not come at him. It landed smoothly on the green sward and its rider dismounted.

A brutal helm masked The Witch King’s ghostly face. In his gloved hands he held a chain linked to the most savage weapon Boromir had ever seen, a huge spiked mace. One man could never have lifted the thing, but the Witch King raised it as if it weighed nothing. “You should be dead, Steward’s son!” The wraith king sneered. It took a pace closer, the mace swaying menacingly on its chain.

Boromir would normally have watched an enemy’s eyes to judge the attack. This thing had no face. He swallowed hard, braced himself and said calm and commanding, “You will find I am a hard man to kill.”

Eerie, searing sound pounded at Boromir’s skull, and he flinched, but could not lift his left arm to cover his ears. The Witch King was laughing. The piercing noise alone was enough to force a man to his knees. Somehow Boromir remained standing, endured the torrent. Silence. He blinked sweat from his eyes and glared hatred at his enemy. There was no fear; a savage yet calm battle rage flooded his veins and cleared his head. Time seemed to slow. He took a steady pace forward, sword low and ready for the lunge.

“Come then, fight me!” The Witch King hissed. “But know this – no man may kill me.”

Boromir laughed, surprising himself with the ease and genuine savage joy of it. “Let’s see how well you do after I hack off your head!” He ran forward, ducked under the swing of the mace, felt the rush of air ruffle his hair. He lunged, slicing the sword blade one-handed. It slammed into the wraith’s armoured thigh. Sizzling pain, a flaring fire burned through the sword. Boromir cried out, his fingers suddenly nerveless about the hilt. The sword fell and Boromir, shaken and dazed, bent to pick to up. And that saved his life. The mace just barely cleared his head, the breeze of its passing stronger thank before. The Witch King was enraged. Boromir lifted his head, hefted the sword and snarled at his enemy.

The Witch King had stumbled back a little but seemed completely unharmed. The sword blow would have near taken a man’s leg from his body. Boromir fought down a wave of despair. How could he win a fight against something already dead? There must be something.

“You dare!” the wraith hissed, a sibilant whisper that carried clearly in the stillness. “I will shatter your pitiful body and smear your blood and bone over these walls!”

“I think not!” Boromir lunged again. But this time the Witch King was ready, stepping side-on and the blade flew by, missing the mace-arm by barely a hand-span. The mace whistled toward him again and he ducked but too slowly. One of the spikes caught him a glancing blow to the right shoulder. It had barely touched him, yet its weight and momentum were so great that he was thrown back. He fell hard, sprawled on his back, the wind knocked out of him. The Witch King laughed again, and the cruelly cutting sound increased Boromir’s dizziness. Pure fury fuelled Boromir’s will. There was no pain, all his effort narrowed, focused on the fight. He pushed himself to his knees, suddenly feeling very clear-headed. He watched the chain, saw it loop as his enemy prepared a killing blow.

The chain! That was the weak spot! The mace came slicing toward him. Boromir ducked and lifted his sword, swung it hard to meet and sever the taut chain as it flew above him. The jolt of it tore his sword from his hand and flung it away. There was a thunderous crack as the spiked mace head impacted against the stone steps just behind him. He’d done it! The chain was severed and it curled back savagely and wrapped about The Witch King’s arm. Boromir pulled his dagger from his belt, staggered up and drove himself forward with all his might. The Witch King did not try to avoid him. The dagger stabbed forward and pierced the wraith’s chest armour, right at the heart. Or where a heart should have been. It was Boromir who was injured. Searing pain again jolted through his arm, sickening pain. He cried out and fell to his knees, fearing for a moment that his arm was broken. It was numbed but seemed intact. The Witch King stalked toward him and the monstrous reptile followed, its head high and its teeth bared hungrily. Boromir turned away, desperately seeking his sword.

“Boromir!” a high pitched voice called. Pippin. He had collected the sword and now threw it to his friend.

Somehow, Boromir’s fingers closed safely about the hilt despite their near complete numbness. He nodded a quick thanks at the hobbit and noted that his father had also appeared on the steps high above the fight. “Stay back!” Boromir warned. The Witch King stood over him now, unafraid, knowing nothing Boromir could do would harm it. Still Boromir lifted his sword and stumbled again to his feet. Everything was spinning about him and darkness edging his vision. He could not hold on much longer.

“I have changed my plans for you, Son of Denethor!” The Witch King lifted its head, looked a moment toward Boromir’s father, and laughed softly. “Yes, much better. I will carry you to Barad-Dûr. There your death will be long in coming, and only at my pleasure. Come!” He waved a hand at the fell beast and it moved closer, its giant feet making the ground tremble. “Take him,” the wraith ordered, “Do not harm him. I want him alive.”

“No!” Pippin shouted. He drew his sword and took a step closer.

“Stay back!” Boromir shouted desperately. Pippin hesitated. Shadowfax limped unsteadily forward, then tossing its mane and snorting defiant challenge, he gathered and charged. The reptile lifted one paw and easily thrust the brave horse aside. The reptile’s monstrous head lowered again toward Boromir, its yellow eyes flashing in the gloom, its huge pointed teeth bared. It lifted one clawed forepaw.

An idea suddenly came to Boromir – he could not damage the ghostly Nazgul but he could hurt its mount! If he panicked the creature -- He leaned back and aimed as best he could, knowing he had just this one chance to escape a horror worse than any nightmare. He threw the sword with all his remaining strength. It flew from his hand to thud into the reptile’s eye. Thick, green ichor spurted from the wound and the beast gave a screeching tearing cry. It threw its head back in a violent spasm of agony. The sword fell clear. Sudden white light blazed about the green sward. The Witch King howled and leaped to the reptile’s back. The creature’s tremendous wings clawed at the air, beating frantically, and causing a concussive sound and a furious wind that lifted Boromir from his feet and flung him back toward the Hall. He landed with a sickening thud against the stone steps. He grunted, tried to fight back, but consciousness wavered, and he slumped limp and unfeeling.

But was not entirely unconscious. He could still hear. He thought Gandalf was shouting. But it couldn’t be, the wizard must surely be fallen to his death. Giant wing-beats drummed painfully close. Boromir squinted, shook his head, and looked up. The creature was diving at Pippin and Denethor and some guardsmen atop the stairs. “No!” Boromir cried, but it was barely a hoarse whisper. He lurched to his feet and stood swaying precariously.

The Nazgul’s mount, half-blinded, had missed its aim. It whooshed over the group who ducked safely away. The reptile flew blindly onward coming toward Boromir, but too close to the Hall. Its wing and one shoulder thudded into one of the tall glass windows. There was a shattering crash and glass shards sprayed out, as sharp and deadly as any spear blade. Boromir threw himself forward and let go of his sword to bring his right arm protectively to his head. He grunted and gasped as his broken left shoulder and ribs slammed hard into stone. Agonising pain tore through him. There were multiple sharp stabs as pieces of glass sliced into his back and legs but barely registered beneath the greater agony. Warm blood spilled from a shallow cut on the back of his exposed neck. Consciousness faded.

It could only have been moments later when awareness returned. His first thought was for the Nazgul. He struggled up and Pippin’s voice said, “It’s all right, Boromir, it’s gone. Stay still! You’re hurt!” He had the impression that the hobbit was standing very close, sword drawn, guarding him against any further attack.

“No, ‘m not,” Boromir said muzzily. Large, cold hands pressed padded cloth against the wound in his neck, stanching the trickle of blood. He flinched at a sharp prick, as if embedded glass had been driven deeper. “Leave it!” he growled. Dizzily he looked up and saw it was the same surgeon who had near killed him before.

“I must stop the bleeding,” Haradna said.

“Get back!” Pippin snarled and came closer.

“Stay away from him!” a fierce voice shouted. Gandalf? Haradna hastily withdrew. Denethor took his place. “My son! My son!” he cried and bent to take Boromir in his arms. “A valiant battle!”

Boromir aimed a vicious glare direct into his father’s eyes. “Get away from me!” he snarled.

“W-what? Why?” Denethor found a shaky smile. “It’s me, your father. Not the enemy. You are safe.”

“Yes, I am safe!” Boromir spat and pushed himself to sit up. “Yet you would see Faramir dead! Stay away from me! It will be a happy day if I never see you again! You seek my brother’s death, yet you dare approach me! Stay away!”

“Boromir!” Denethor wailed. “You do not know what you say. The Nazgul has poisoned your mind.”

“It is your mind the enemy claims!” Boromir growled. “You would do well to ---“ A sudden violent chill grabbed at him, robbing him of his breath. Painful cramps shuddered through him, making him nauseous and dizzy. Cold sweat damped his brow and cheeks. He was abruptly weak and could no longer hold himself up. He began to fall back but small arms caught him.

“Boromir!” Pippin urged as he cradled him. “You must stay still.”

“My son! The Witch King has poisoned you!” Denethor wailed from further back up the steps. Someone must have forced him away. Good.

Groggily, Boromir tried to lift his head and that small motion made the dizziness much worse. He surrendered and lay his head back on the warmth of Pippin’s chest. Someone else’s hands were at him now, gentle but thorough. “Gandalf?” he said in disbelief. “It cannot be. You fell!”

“I seem to have heard that before,” Gandalf said dryly. “You must know by now that an Istari is very difficult to kill. I caught my staff as I fell. Its power slowed my descent. Now, hush, Boromir. You are hurt. Swallow some of this.”

Miruvor again. And Boromir was glad of it. The Elven medicine helped but nowhere near as much as he expected. He blinked groggily up at his friend’s worried faces. “I’m all right,” he said with a faint smile. “It’s just a few scratches from the glass.”

“You have a wound to your right shoulder,” Gandalf observed and pressed his fingers to it. “Small, but deep and ugly.”

Boromir nodded then flinched as the movement caused pain in his neck. It was not where Gandalf was touching. “It’s not too bad. One of the spikes on the Nazgul’s mace nicked me.”

There was a soft neighing sound and Boromir became aware that Shadowfax was standing immediately behind Gandalf, his head lowered and his large liquid eyes watching Boromir closely. He remembered now – the horse had dared to charge a Nazgul’s mount! “Thank you, Shadowfax,” he said, his voice reduced to a faint croak. He shivered as despite the miruvor, the chill cramps returned.

“I agree, Shadowfax,” Gandalf said crisply and his hands moved from the wound leaving some kind of cloth folded under the leather surcoat. “The sooner we return him to bed, the better.”

Boromir shook his head. He tried to speak but managed only a faint whisper. He marshaled his strength and repeated, “I am needed here.”

“You are in no state,” Gandalf said. He turned to someone else who stood close by. “Guardsman, bring bearers.”

“I don’t need,” Boromir tried to say, but he doubted they heard. Everything was going black, robbing him of his sight. And the cold was becoming more intense. He shivered harder. Something warm fell about his shoulders.

“You’re so cold.” Pippin’s voice was thick with worry. It was his small cloak that warmed him Boromir realized. Then, he was being gently lifted, laid atop a bier, and larger heavier cloaks were spread warmly over him. He heard Pippin ask desperately, “Gandalf, what’s wrong with him? Is it only the wounds that weaken him? He is so cold.” A warm hand settled on Boromir’s brow – Gandalf’s he thought.

“I am not sure,” the wizard replied. “Did you see the battle, Pippin?”

“Most of it, I think.”

“Did he strike the Witch King?”

Boromir struggled to answer for himself. “Twice,” he managed to say proudly.

Gandalf’s hand moved to squeeze his arm. “Valiantly fought, Boromir. But I fear the Witch King has sent his chill into your bones.”

“He will be all right?” Pippin asked tearfully.

“I knew it!” Denethor cried from somewhere further back. “It is as I foresaw! He will die!”

“Shut up!” Gandalf snapped, surprising Boromir and making him want to cheer. To Pippin Gandalf said, “Yes, he will recover. There is a spell that will counteract the Witch King’s will. But he will need much rest and warmth.”

Boromir groaned and shook his head. “Must be here,” he mumbled. “Battle tomorrow.”

Gandalf’s wonderfully warm hand returned to Boromir’s brow and he said firmly, “You will rest. I will see to the command until you recover. Now, you must not use your strength in fighting us. Be still, I beg you.” He began chanting, something softly and some warmth drove back the chill enough to make Boromir feel drowsy. Perhaps it was best he sleep, but only for an hour or two. The last he heard was Gandalf telling Pippin that the spell had done its work and the Witch King’s poison was gone. Boromir wanted to tell them that something still did not feel right. There was cold so intense in his neck that it burned. But he was too tired, too weak. Darkness washed over him and he knew no more.

Chapter Sixteen: Fire and Fog.

AUTHOR's NOTE -- Many many thanks to all those who take the time to review. It means everything to a writer to be given such feedback, information on whether or not the reader is seeing and feeling the sceneasthe writer intends. Thanks again everyone,you've restored my faith in internet fanfiction posting after having had only 8 reviews total in almost a year at another to Evendim for providing the most enjoyable treasure trove of her stories that drew mehere in the first place and for her encouragment in asking me to post the lady who asked that I also post my other story, A Gentle Touch (re Aragorn tending Boromir who was slightly injured as Moria's door collapses)thank you! But due to a promise I made to an editor friend, I can't repost it till June. -- Carolyn.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Allnight the men of Minas Tirith labored, rolling barrel after barrel through the small door that stood not far from the main gate. Beyond the gate, Faramir’s soldiers waited, taking the barrels and rolling them a mile further into the foggy night. Though there was much work going on out there in the dark, not a sound was to be heard. The spell was holding. At nightfall Gandalf left the city to check the preparations and was pleased to find Faramir’s men had achieved much in the short time since they had ridden out. A wide but shallow trench now ran almost the full length of the city’s main wall. It was almost a mile from Minas Tirith. If the siege engines and catapults were delayed here they would not be within range to release either Orcs or missiles. Hopefully, the first rank would be destroyed as Faramir’s archers sent burning arrows into the oil-soaked straw they were piling into the trenches.

Faramir approached, carrying a burning torch that lit his weary, sweat-streaked but happy face. He greeted Gandalf with a broad smile. “This will stop them in their tracks! And then we’ll roast them. That should give them a nasty surprise.”

“Yes,” Gandalf returned the smile. “You have done very well, Faramir. I did not expect that you would have the trench reach so far. It should halt almost the entire front line towers.”

“It will,” Faramir nodded confidently. “And with luck, the burning wrecks will make it impossible for a second line to get past them. Or at least, it will hold them back for some hours.”

“Hours that will spare Minas Tirith from bombardment, and give the archers on the battlements plenty of time to bring down any Orcs who try to rush the walls or reach the gate.”

Faramir nodded. “I don’t see that anything could breach the main gate.”

“Let us hope you are right.”

Faramir stood a moment watching his men empty more oil into the trench. He looked back at Gandalf and said, “I’m surprised my brother didn’t try to ride out here. You told him it would draw my father’s attention?”

“Faramir,” Gandalf began hesitantly. “Your brother has been returned to his chambers and is sleeping.”

Faramir looked sharply up at him. “Been returned! You mean he was carried. What has happened?”

“I assure you he will recover. He took no more than several cuts from broken glass. And one other minor, but for a time, worrisome wound.”

“Who would dare attack my brother in the Citadel itself?”

“You would not have seen it for the fog.“ Gandalf lay a hand to Faramir’s shoulder. “Boromir will be well. But it was the Witch King and its mount he fought.”

“What!” Faramir’s torch swayed alarmingly in a suddenly weakened grasp. Gandalf took it from him. “He fought the Witch King! And you tell me he is unharmed?”

“Yes. He fought most bravely and cleverly. He severed the chain that held his enemy’s weapon, a fearsome mace. I’m sorry I was unable to reach him before the fight was all but over.”

“Surely, even without a weapon, the Witch King would not flee.”

“He did not. He had decided to take your brother alive. That decision, oddly enough, may well be all that saved Boromir in the end. The Nazgul’s mount came closer and Boromir took out one of its eyes with an amazing sword throw. The Witch King panicked at seeing the creature near to flying off without him. He climbed to its back and they fled.”

Faramir sat down suddenly and shook his head in relief and wonderment. “It seems I dare not leave my brother for long if I wish to see what he gets himself into next! Wounded and barely from his bed! It makes me wonder what he will do when he is fully recovered!”

“Indeed it does,” Gandalf said with a smile. “But it seems to me that you will have your share of the fight very soon, Faramir. They will attack at dawn, perhaps much sooner.”

“I have some of my men in hiding as close to the river as we dare. Gimli and Garad are with them and will return with any news of movement.”

“Then, I will leave you. I will command the defence from the walls. I fear it will be more than a day before Boromir is well enough to again leave his bed.”

“He will be all right?”

“So I believe.” Gandalf frowned. “He was severely chilled by the Witch King’s evil touch. But he has some fight in him, your brother! If anyone can recover quickly from such a wound, it will be he.”

Faramir let out a great heaving breath that was frosted in the chill night air. “Just as long as he does recover. I care not if he is unable to command.”

Gandalf chuckled. “No doubt he would not agree.”

Faramir snorted. He stood and took Gandalf’s arm in a warrior’s grip. “I will look to you to have the gates open when my men and I make a hasty withdrawal. I fear the Orcs will not be pleased with us! “

“The gates will open for you,” Gandalf said. “I will use a spell that will see them open and close again faster than your men can manage.”

“Good. “ Faramir met his eyes. “If you see my brother, or can send a message to him, tell him Faramir sends his congratulations and asks that he please leave some of the enemy for the rest of us!”

Gandalf laughed. “I will see he hears your words. Now, let us to the battle. We will send Mordor’s foul creatures back to the abyss from which they came!”

(Scene Break)

Pippin was alarmed and angry when, late that night, Denethor forced him from Boromir’s side. The Steward had called his evil Physician to the bedchamber and the man had arrived with several of his dark-robed, sinister assistants. Pippin had managed to extract a promise of sorts, from Denethor: no one would touch Boromir’s wounds, that must be left for Gandalf or at least for one of Minas Tirith’s sworn Healers. Denethor had agreed with a readiness that worried Pippin further. All the man could do was mutter and mumble and hover over his feverish son. Pippin had rebuked the Steward more than once for saying that Boromir was dying. Yet, now that fear began to gnaw at Pippin, too. Boromir had not again opened his eyes, and his fever soared steadily higher, coating him in sweat. Then, the sweating stopped and he began shivering violently. After that, he simply lay very still, breathing shallowly.

Pippin was terribly afraid. He wanted to find Gandalf, bring him here to check Boromir’s condition. But as he stepped outside, surprised to find dawn had arrived, he realized Gandalf had more urgent concerns. From the near distance came a rough throbbing chant, crude Orcish voices, repeatedly bellowing, “March! March!” And there were drums, incredibly loud drums.

Pippin hurried to the ramparts and looked down, immediately appalled by the vast army that covered the Pelennor. There were thousands upon thousands of Orcs. Worse, there were dozens of Trolls who pushed or pulled monstrously high metal siege towers. They approached closer and closer to the bordering fog. It was not terribly thick now, nor high, just a thin mist that clung to the ground. There, Faramir’s men must be hiding. The mist was not enough that it would cause the Orc army suspicion. If indeed, such would worry them. Down about the battlements and balconies of the other six levels people gathered, were watching as fearfully as was Pippin. Suddenly, Pippin realized he was no longer alone. Denethor, no doubt having heard the clamor, had come out to watch Mordor advance toward Minas Tirith. He would have been unable to see the army from Boromir’s westward facing windows.

“My sons are spent!” Denethor wailed. “Boromir dies! We are without hope!”

Pippin was about to step closer and tell Denethor he was wrong. But below he saw two of the Trolls suddenly charge forward. In their hands they carried large round –somethings. From up here, Pippin could not make it out. They charged toward the gates and were met with a hail of arrows from archers on the walls. Their armour deflected most of the bolts, and the rest seemed not to bother them. They hurled their burdens at the gates. There was a loud, reverberating crash but no damage had been done. The gates could withstand much worse than that. Burning arrows suddenly flew from the Orc lines, and the bundles at the gate burst apart in showers of flame and stone. When the explosion was done, the gates remained unharmed but there was fire burning fiercely. Pippin’s eyes widened in horror. They must have seen Faramir’s men. They had blocked the gates! The riders would be trapped!

“My sons are spent!” Denethor repeated, making Pippin want to tell him the secret Gandalf had passed to him as they carried Boromir to his room. Faramir, Pippin knew, was far from dead, but rather was ready to spring into action in defence of the city. But what then? Perhaps his death had merely been delayed.

The guards who lined the ramparts were watching nervously, some turned to listen to the Steward. “Flee! Flee for your lives!” Denethor shouted.

Suddenly there was a flash of white robes and Gandalf emerged from the ranked men to bellow counter orders. Pippin stared in elated surprise as the ranked soldiers immediately obeyed and those who had moved hastily resumed their posts. They seemed only too happy to have someone command them to more honourable action. Lost to his grim muttering, Denethor wandered back toward the rooms where his son lay and took no further interest in the battle.

“Gandalf!” Pippin cried, running closer. “Boromir is worse! Much worse!”

Gandalf turned to him with a harried expression. “Watch him for me Pippin! I am sorry but I cannot go to him now. I must aid Faramir!”

Pippin nodded understanding even though he was disappointed. Gandalf was the only person who may be able to quench the unnatural fire at the gates and rescue two hundred men and one Dwarf. The wizard called Shadowfax to him and charged toward the tunnel arch that led to the next level. Some of the dark-robed advisers had followed Denethor. They scowled and muttered curses for the wizard as they helped the dazed Steward to his feet, and turned him to go back to his son. Pippin shook his head in frustration. They would never let him into the room. What was he to do?

The commander of the Tower Guard shouted orders. “To the first level! To the first level! Quickly!”

Pippin stared up at the man, torn between duty and fear for Boromir. The commander took him by the shoulder and propelled him forward. “You’re under my orders, small one! Move!”

Pippin dared not disobey. At least not while his commander watched. He ran as fast as he could, trying to keep up with the long legged soldiers. He planned to turn back at first opportunity, but then changed his mind. He would go all the way to the first level. Gandalf was there. If Pippin could talk to him after the emergency at the gate was over, he must convince him of Boromir’s plight.

(Scene Break)

Boromir could hear voices, but they seemed impossibly far off. He was cold through to the bone, his body only remotely attached to his will. He lay on a soft bed in a dimly lit room. He supposed it was his bedchamber but he could not be sure. It did not feel familiar, and suddenly he realized, they had moved him to the small room by the Great Hall where he had known such pain. It was beyond him to find the strength to lift his head. Occasionally he managed to open his eyes, but the result was never worth the effort. Nothing was in focus, spinning and flashing in unison with the echoing, distant sounds. But he knew the owners of the voices were in fact much closer. He could feel their touches. At least that much was left to him. And the touches were blessedly gentle. It seemed someone must have called one of the Healers from the sixth level.

“I am sorry, my lord Steward,” he heard the man say. “I have tried all my art, all I know, to no avail. Whatever ails your son is far beyond my ability to heal.”

Denethor’s words were hard to decipher. Boromir realized his father was near weeping. “Thank you, Rarned. You may go.”

“Yes,” The Healer said. “I will be needed. There will soon be many wounded, I fear.”

“Wounded and dead!” Denethor hissed. “It is hopeless! They should not fight! We should retreat!”

Rarned said, surprised, “Retreat? But my Lord, there is nowhere we might go!”

“There is always death,” Denethor said.

“I fear so,” Rarned said, sounding puzzled. Then Boromir heard the door close at his back.

The battle had already begun! Boromir tried to sit up but his awareness faded to another period of darkness.

When next sound and feeling returned, he thought whoever remained had bled him as they hovered over him, but he could not be sure. Whatever poison was taking him, it continued to increase in potency. It seemed he was slowly being paralyzed. The thought that he was dying brought more sadness and frustration than fear. My city needs me!

“I am sorry, my lord,” Haradna said, voice cold and flat. “It is as you foresaw. He is dying. I fear he will not last much longer.”

Boromir wanted to say something about that but his father suddenly bent over him, weeping and pleading with him to live. And he could not so much as say a word. He struggled mightily to do so and was pleased to feel his father’s hand tighten its grip on his own in response.

“Boromir?” There was heart-rending hope in the question. “Can you hear me? I cannot go on without you, my son. I can no longer bear it.”

You must! Boromir wanted to shout at him. Our people need you! Faramir needs you! Denethor said something indecipherable for his sobbing. Desperately, Boromir forced his eyes open and whispered, “Faramir will need ...”

Denethor stopped weeping and sat abruptly straighter. “Faramir? Faramir!” Boromir was shocked by the fury behind the voice. “Your brother has betrayed us all! Betrayed us to the enemy! Yet I gave him an honourable death!”

The accusation gave Boromir the strength to lift his head a little. He blinked and squinted and his father’s form came into hazy view. “Never betray...” he managed to croak. “And not dead.”

“He betrayed us,” Denethor continued, sounding suddenly calmer and more lucid though Boromir doubted he had been heard. “He sent The Ring to the enemy. He admitted it, Boromir. It is good of you to defend your brother as has ever been your way. But The Ring is gone from us. All hope is gone.”

No! Boromir tossed his head, cursing silently, and willing the strength to return to his limbs. What had become of the warrior father he had known in his youth? Surely Denethor was not so ready to surrender to despair! Then, Boromir remembered Gandalf’s warning of evil will within the city and he felt even more chilled.

“The Ring,” Boromir whispered, “ is -- evil. Aragorn will save us.”

“Aragorn!” Denethor’s spittle fell to Boromir’s face. “He would betray me! I rule Gondor!”

“Then go to the men!” Boromir thought he said but soon realized the words were loud only in his own head. His voice had completely failed him.

“I will save us,” Denethor said, suddenly unnaturally calm. He bent and kissed Boromir’s cold, sweat-beaded brow. “Lie still now. Be still. I will keep you safe from the evil. Sauron will not take us. I see the answer. We will die as befits the last stewards of Gondor. Burn like the heathen kings of old.”

What does that mean! Curse it! Where is everyone? With strength borne of terror, Boromir lifted his head and then tried to roll to one side. The room spun about him and he saw that his father had walked to the door. Denethor turned to meet his son’s bleary gaze. And the sight all but stilled Boromir’s heart. There was nothing but madness in the dark, blank eyes. No shred of reason remained. The Steward, having summoned someone from outside, walked trance-like back to his side. “Rest, my son. There will be no more pain. Rest.”

The effort and the shock of realising his father's mind was completely gone, drained the last of Boromir’s reserves. He could not draw a full breath. The poison was ice in his veins, edging deeper into his chest, into his lungs. Consciousness wavered, then blanked out. There were no more sounds, no more sensation of touch. Darkness enveloped him and he knew no more.

(Scene Break)

Pippin ran on and on, down one level to the next winding street. The soldiers had long since outdistanced him but he kept on, determined to do his duty and also to find Gandalf. Sounds of battle were now much closer. A sudden wail of horror erupted from the people who were standing by the ramparts, watching what was happening below. Panting, Pippin hurried to the rampart, then shook his head in frustration. It was too high for him to see over. He looked around, saw a stone bench and hurriedly climbed atop it. He leaned on the rampart and looked down. It was a terrifying sight. Pippin’s mouth went dry with fear. Never had he imagined so large an army. The Pelennor was covered all the way back to the Anduin. One of the monstrous catapults was attacking, throwing huge chunks of stone loaded by Trolls. It was at the furthest end of the line and apparently clear of Faramir’s hidden trap. A rain of arrows from the battlements fell short and it and lobbed a second burning rock into the streets on the first level, one level below where Pippin now stood. The people about him wailed in sheer terror more for the sight of dozens more siege towers and catapults with their Troll haulers than for the damage one alone might do.

Then suddenly, that approaching rank of towering horror faltered. The towers leaned precariously forward, their wheels dropping into the hidden trenches. Burning arrows suddenly appeared from archers who leaped out of the ground like dusty apparitions. Flames roared up from the trenches, fierce and high, lapping at the Trolls who turned and ran. Some of them were burning as they ran and in their panic they trampled many an Orc. The crowds of onlookers, both on Pippin’s level and others, erupted into cheering. Pippin happily joined in. The fires continued to burn and the metal of the towers began to glow with heat. The Orcs within began jumping out. Most were far too high to land without breaking bones at the very least. Some fell into the fire and then, covered in burning oil, spread fire in the ranks as they retreated.

It was utter chaos.

Pippin grinned delightedly. He looked toward the one siege tower that had escaped the flames and saw that Faramir’s riders were circling it, pouring oil from smaller barrels even as they rode. Pippin gave another cheer as he spotted Faramir himself. He was leading the attack on the stranded tower, and it was soon aflame. Gimli, seated behind Faramir, was busily hacking at running Orcs. The riders than galloped back toward the gates, leading horses for the archers who awaited them. They were under fire themselves now, burning arrows and spears came whistling through the flames. The Orcs were jeering. Pippin turned and looked to the gate. It was still burning fiercely, still aflame. More Orcs, driven by overseers who carried barbed whips, dared the flames and ran across the trenches to harry the riders. Still more Orcs appeared carrying ladders. Others brought shovels and began throwing dirt onto the fire. The flames began to diminish.

At the gates, Faramir’s riders milled in a tight bunch, those on the outside trying to fight a growing number of Orcs. Those on the inside were in danger of the flames roaring hot and high at the gates. Orc arrows rained more heavily on them all. The crowd fell silent. It appeared the gallant riders were trapped. Then, there was a blaze of white light, and voices called “The White Rider!” Craning his neck, Pippin could just see Gandalf and Shadowfax as they charged into the main square. He could see that Gandalf was chanting, or shouting something, but he could not hear over the crowd. The gates flew open, and the fire hissed, fell back, died. The horsemen charged inside, Orcs close at their heels. The enemy threw down their ladders and made hasty barricades in an attempt to hold open the gates that were already beginning to swing shut. More Orcs poured inside. Gandalf was chanting again, and Pippin had no doubt he would soon close the gates completely. But he could no longer merely stand and watch. He was a warrior of Gondor and there was fighting at hand!

(Scene Break)

“This is no place for a hobbit!” Gandalf warned breathlessly. The gates were now shut and a battle raged with those Orcs who had entered and were trapped, fighting Faramir’s men and other soldiers. More seemed somehow to have scaled the walls. Gimli was up there wielding his axe. Even above the tumultuous noise Pippin could plainly hear the Dwarf counting his kills. Gandalf swung about and felled an Orc who was set to take Pippin’s head from his shoulders. Another Orc, spear raised, took his chance at Gandalf’s exposed back. Pippin lunged and drove his sword deep into the creature. It uttered a gargled cry and fell. Pippin pulled his blade free. Gandalf turned and gasped surprise. Then, with a smile of thanks, he said, “Guard of The Citadel indeed! Now hurry, back to the Citadel!”

Pippin stared at his bloodied blade. Then he remembered his other mission. “Gandalf! It’s Boromir! He is much worse! I think he may be dying!”

Gandalf frowned down at him while trying to keep one eye on the battle. “I will come as soon as I can,” he promised. “But others are surely dying here about me and I cannot leave them. Go back to Boromir, Pippin. Do what you can!” He paused to slay another Orc. “The Witch King’s poison will test him, but the fever should break soon. Send word to me if he does not begin to recover in the next hour or two.”

“I will!” Pippin turned and ran back uphill. There was hope. Gandalf knew this poison. He would not have left Boromir before being certain it had been driven from him. Or at least, most of it.

(Scene Break)

The battle wore on into the growing dark as night closed in on Minas Tirith. The first rank of siege towers had been destroyed. But The Trolls had soon dragged them clear, and another line of towers was now in position. Burning missiles rained down upon the city. Then came a new cry from the Orc attackers, “Grond! Grond!” And a monstrous, burning battering ram hammered at the gates. There, Faramir stood, his archers ranked behind him. The men shifted nervously and Faramir called, “Stand your ground! Stand your ground! You are soldiers of Gondor! No matter what comes through those gates, you will stand your ground!”

Gandalf urged Shadowfax forward and went to Faramir’s side. “They will send Trolls at us first,” he warned.

“I know,” Faramir replied calmly. He had an arrow nocked to his bowstring. “Aim for their eyes!” he commanded.

“Or chop their feet off!” Gimli added with a savage grin.

The gates finally gave way, erupting in shattered metal. Flames flared from Grond’s monstrous gaping jaws. Faramir’s arrow flew true, striking a charging Troll full in the eye. It screamed and retreated, momentarily blocking the others who followed. That gave the archers better targets. But then the Trolls were upon them. Hefting huge spiked clubs they flung the soldiers aside. Gimli took down one with a mighty swing of his axe. Gandalf charged forward and claimed another whose fallen body then partly blocked the flood of Orcs pouring through the shattered gates. “Fall back!” Faramir ordered. “Fall back to the second level! Make sure all the women and children are out!”

Faramir, Gimli and Gandalf moved back a little from the battle so that they might talk quickly. Faramir, panting, looked up at the wizard. “How much longer must we hold? If the riders do not come, I fear we will lose at least two more levels.”

“They will come,” Gandalf said. “Be assured of that. They will come.”

“I do not doubt it,” Faramir said, and turned back to the battle. “I only hope they arrive soon!”

“As long as they leave some for me!” Gimli said with grim humour.

Tired and out of breath, Pippin finally reached the Citadel level. He had had trouble forcing his way through panicked, running crowds, all of them seeking higher ground. At last, as he walked into the Citadel tunnel and out onto the green sward all was wonderfully quiet. The battle sounds from below were distant and muted, and the sentries held back any of the crowd who might seek to enter the Citadel. Pippin hurried on, wanting to get back to Boromir quickly. Surely by now the poison would have abated, and he would see his friend sleeping peacefully, beginning to recover. Pippin smiled faintly as he imagined Boromir’s dismay should he wake to find the battle over. Then the smile faded. Pippin had the feeling that this particular battle might come closer to the Citadel , and last much longer than anyone imagined. Where was Aragorn? Where were the riders? Surely they must soon arrive.

Movement and flaring light on the far side of the sward caught his eye. It looked like Denethor with several dark robed men bearing torches following close behind. They were carrying something high on their shoulders. Pippin ran silently closer. Horror turned his blood to ice. It was Boromir! Where were they taking him? Wherever it was, Denethor would not permit him to come along, so Pippin continued to follow at a distance. They walked on and on, crossing a long bridge made from a rocky spur that reached into the mountain side itself. Before them were many domed marble buildings joined by winding narrow streets. Finally the procession stopped before the largest building and entered it through a strange gated door. Tiptoeing inside after them, Pippin found a cool, dimly lit marble pillared corridor. Ahead, in a central circular area, there was a high wide platform. Several more corridors opened from about it.

Pippin’s heart faltered and seemed to stop beating as at last he made out what was happening. There was wood piled on top of the platform and bundles and bundles of dry faggots leaned against it. And the dark-robed men lay Boromir atop it. He could hear the man moan faintly as he was moved. Denethor leaned down and kissed his son’s brow. “Hush, my son, hush,” he said. “Not long now and you will know no more pain.”

Pippin crept still closer though his legs shook beneath him. Surely they could not plan to -- ? Denethor ran his hands over Boromir’s flushed face. “Burning. Already burning.” The Steward straightened and commanded, “Bring more wood and oil! We will die together as befits the last of my line.”

“He’s still alive!” Pippin cried and darted forward to pull at one of the wooden bundles. “He’s still alive!”

Denethor only regarded his struggles coldly. He took Pippin by the collar of his surcoat and dragged him away. Pippin kicked and struggled to no avail, the Man was simply too much larger and stronger. “He’s still alive!” Pippin screamed again. Denethor threw him and he fell beyond the doorway.

“I release you,” The Steward said. “Go now and die in whatever way seems best to you.”

The doors closed and locked at his back. Pippin cursed and struck his fist in futile frustration to the floor. He must find Gandalf! Or if he could not take the wizard from the battle, then he would bring Faramir!

“Make more barricades over here!” Faramir ordered. He stood back a little, trying to picture the moment the enemy would break through the second level gate. As surely they must if no help reached Minas Tirith soon. Faramir organized the defence of the second gate while Gandalf, Gimli and the soldiers remaining on the first level fought a desperate rear-guard action. The streets down there were a burning chaos of debris and bodies. More and more burning boulders crashed down from the catapults. Nazgul flew freely overhead, their reptilian mounts diving and snatching away those brave men who stood manning the city catapults despite being dangerously exposed. Several of their comrades had already been taken up by the giant claws, carried higher and higher and then hurled to their deaths. They fell, screaming, a very long way before finally being silenced. Faramir felt sick to his stomach. How much more horror would this night see? Surely dawn could not be far off and the riders would come to their aid?

“Faramir! Faramir!” a familiar boyish voice called.

Faramir turned about to see a wild-eyed desperate-looking Pippin racing toward him. “Pippin? What are you --?”

“Faramir! You must help! You must come with me! It’s Boromir! Denethor has lost his mind! He’s burning him alive!”

Faramir felt all the blood drain from his face. “It cannot be.”

“I swear! Please! Denethor threw me out when I tried to stop them!”

“Where are they?” Faramir asked urgently.

“I don’t know the name of the place, but I can show you. It’s right at the back, near the rear wall of the Citadel. Beneath the beacon pyre.”

“Rath Dînan? The Halls of the Dead! No!” Faramir whispered. “Come!” He grabbed gently at Pippin’s arm and hurried him back to where he’d left his horse waiting. He lifted Pippin into the saddle. “Fear not, Pippin!” he said as he caught the hobbit’s utter distress. “We will save him!” And as he swung himself into the saddle and kicked his horse into a gallop he could only pray he was right.

When they at last reached the funeral hall’s gated and locked doors, Faramir despaired of being able to force them open. “Can your horse do what Shadowfax did?” Pippin asked.

“What --?” Then Faramir remembered his brother’s description of the horse’s arrival and how the bedchamber doors were smashed open. “Let’s see!” He pulled back on the bridle and called his horse to rear back. It’s front hooves flayed, striking the doors as it fell back to four legs. The doors burst open. “Father! Stop this madness!” Faramir shouted.

Denethor stood atop the funeral pyre. His grim face and dark hair were slick with oil, and he held a burning torch in his hands. At his feet, still and silent, lay Boromir. For a moment, Faramir feared his brother dead. Then, as oil dripped onto his face, Boromir flinched and his lips moved in faint protest. “What are you doing!?” Faramir called in utter disbelief. “He’s still alive!”

“He dies. We will die together!” Denethor snarled. “And you will not again deceive me, Faramir! You are dead! Yet you send your specter to haunt me and to rob me of my son!”

“You’re mad!” Faramir shouted. “I am alive, despite your wish to see me dead. And Boromir will live!”

Denethor smiled, such a cruel twisted smile that it made Faramir’s flesh crawl. His father lifted the torch high, above his head, above Boromir’s unconscious body. “We die!” Denethor dropped the torch. Flames roared up from the dried wood piled all about Denethor’s feet. Piled perilously close to Boromir.

“No!” Pippin cried.

Faramir snatched a pike from the guard at the door. The man barely blinked, seemed held in some evil trance. Faramir kicked his horse and it lunged forward to race down the short connecting tunnel. Faramir struck his father full in the chest with the pike and Denethor fell from the pyre. Pippin leapt from the horse to Boromir’s side. Faramir was about to do the same, but was distracted as his father found another torch. Faramir drove him away then turned back. Pippin was struggling with Boromir’s limp weight. Flames licked closer to Boromir’s face, closer to Pippin’s bare feet. Faramir threw himself from his horse and landed amid flames and wood. His leather clothing protected him from the worst of the heat. He tore off his left gauntlet and dropped it atop the flames that threatened his brother’s face. With a tremendous heave and a guttural cry, Pippin succeeded in rolling Boromir onto his side. Then a final push from them both sent the man falling clear of the pyre. But his clothing was now alight. Pippin and Faramir leapt down to beat out the small flames

Something struck Faramir a stunning blow to the back of the head, and he fell forward onto his hands and knees. Groggily, he shook his head and fought for awareness.

“You will not take my son from me!” Denethor wailed despairingly and there was a clatter as he dropped the pike with which he had attacked Faramir. Pippin screamed and Faramir realized his father was fighting, struggling with the hobbit, his hands reaching for Pippin’s throat. Collecting the fallen pike, Faramir stumbled to his feet and hit his father hard on the shoulder. He intended only to force Denethor away from Pippin and Boromir. But The Steward fell back against the burning pyre and his oil-soaked clothing immediately erupted in flames.

“No!” Faramir cried in anguish. Shrouded in fire, his father screamed, turned and ran. Faramir staggered after him and caught him not much further along. He pushed the burning man down and rolled him over and over. Then he sat up and beat frantically at the remaining flames, ignoring pain in his bare left hand. He looked down at his father’s horribly charred and blackened face.

“Faramir?” Denethor said, his voice barely coherent for the smoke and for the burns that closed his throat. “It is you? You’re not dead?”

“No, father, no! I’m here! I’m safe!” Faramir said tearfully. “Be still. I’ll find the Healers.”

“Faramir! My son!” Denethor tried to lift a hand, and Faramir, about to clasp it drew back as he saw flesh hung in ribbons from his father’s burned limbs. “I am sorry,” Denethor said hoarsely. “I do love you. Can you forgive me?”

“I forgive you, father,” Faramir said. But, after the horror of seeing his brother near burned alive he could not bring himself to say, “I love you.” For he felt no such emotion. Only pity stirred within him as he watched his father take his last breath. He thought there may have been a smile on that blackened, lipless mouth, but it was probably a grimace. Denethor exhaled painfully, shuddered once or twice, and was still. Faramir was too weary, too shocked to weep. He drew off his cloak and draped it over his father’s face. “May you at last find peace, Denethor, Son of Ecthelion. “

“I’m so sorry,” a small voice said behind him. “I never meant for it to end like this.”

Faramir looked up at a white and smoke smudged hobbit face. “Pippin! Of course you didn’t! Neither did I. It was not our doing. He brought this fate to himself.” Pippin nodded and wiped a soot-covered gauntlet over his tear-streaked face. “You are burned?”

“No.” Pippin looked down at his hands. “I had my gloves. But your left hand looks bad.”

Faramir frowned down at it, now he looked it did hurt him. “I must got to Boromir. Is there no water in this dreadful place?”

“I don’t know.” Pippin said and bootsteps behind him made him jump.

“Sir?” It was one of the guards from the doorway and he appeared more dazed and shaken than either Faramir or Pippin. “What has happened here? The last I remember the Lord Denethor asked my help with moving the Lord Boromir. What… what did he try to do?”

Faramir stumbled to his feet and looked anxiously toward his brother’s still form. Pippin had covered him with his small cloak, smothering the last of the burning material. “It’s over, Guardsman. And as you love Gondor, you will not speak of it again.” The other men, those who had been cloaked in black robes had disappeared. He wished he had seen their faces. He looked back at the guardsman. “Did you know those others, dressed all in black hooded robes?”

“There were others?”

Faramir waved a hand to dismiss the question. The man’s eyes were glazed as someone waking from a heavily drugged state. “I am glad you are here. What is your name?”

“Beregond,” the Guardsman said, following at Faramir’s side as he made for his fallen brother. “I’ll bring water, milord. Your hand looks badly burned.”

Faramir nodded thanks and sat on the floor to gently lift his brother into his arms. “Boromir?” he said. Perhaps his father had been right and there was no hope. Boromir’s flesh was white as snow, the few smudges of ash making it only more stark. He seemed barely to be breathing. “Boromir!” Faramir was suddenly frantic, weeping. “You cannot die!” He took his brother by the shoulders and shook him, hard. “Listen to me! Boromir!” There was no response. Boromir’s head lolled limp against Faramir’s smoke blackened leather armour. Faramir cradled his brother in his arms and wept.

Tears fell from his face to wet Boromir’s eyes and cheeks. Suddenly, those eyelids fluttered. Faramir held his breath, watching hopefully. “Boromir?”

The eyes opened, bleary and without focus. “Faramir?” Boromir said, and it was understood more from the movement of the lips then from any sound for it was barely a whisper.

“I am here, brother. I am here,” Faramir said, gasping relief.

Boromir struggled to say something and Faramir was not sure he heard properly. For it sounded like Boromir had said, “Trapped. All trapped. Must help.“ Then Boromir’s eyes slid closed again and but for his barely discernible breathing, was completely still.

“Here,” Pippin said, his voice choked by tears. Faramir blinked to clear his vision and saw that Pippin had taken the wet rag given him by the guard. “You should wrap this around your hand. It will help.”

Faramir took it with a nod of thanks then winced a little as he wound it about his burned left hand. Still cradling Boromir in his arms, afraid to let go, he looked up at Beregond and said, “Find bearers. I would return my brother to his room. And send a runner to fetch Healer Rarned. Most urgently!”

“Yes, my lord!” Beregond saluted and turned to run down the tunnel but suddenly halted again.

“What?” Faramir asked, and put his right hand to his sword hilt, fearing the dark-robed enemy may have returned. But there was a broad smile lighting the guardsman’s face. “Don’t you hear it, my lord? Listen. It’s –“

But now Faramir had heard it too. Horns. Calling again and again. Beckoning men and horses to the charge. “The Riders of Rohan!” he said, feeling hope and elation rekindled. “They’ve come!” He looked down at his brother and kissed his pale brow. “The Riders, Boromir! They’ve come!”

Dawn spilled in a faint beam through the doorway. Light and hope come to them after the darkest hour. And through that portal appeared The White Wizard.

“Gandalf!” Pippin cried and ran to him.

Beregond nodded a respectful greeting then looked quickly back to Faramir who had not moved. “I’ll find those men for you, milord,” he said. “And the Healer.”

Faramir saw dismay flood Gandalf’s wise eyes. He looked harried, a little out of breath, and the grime of battle smudged his face and clothing. “Faramir, Pippin,” he said softly. “I am sorry. Word of your need reached me only moments ago. What madness brought Boromir here?”

“He’s alive,” Pippin said with a loud sniff. “I kept telling them that but they wouldn’t listen.”

“Them?”

“Denethor and some other men, all cloaked in black. I don’t know where they ran off to, but they disappeared fast when we arrived.”

Gandalf took a pace closer, eyed the fading flames of the burning pyre then frowned worriedly at the brothers. “Denethor?”

“My father is dead,” Faramir said, and could say no more as the tight control he held on his emotions threatened to give way.

Gandalf looked to Pippin for further explanation, and the hobbit tilted his head toward the body that lay huddled further down one of the branching corridors. Scorched tiles gave mute evidence to the cause of death. “He tried to burn Boromir, too,” Pippin said. “Up there, on the pyre.” Gandalf hissed a shocked breath. “We got here only just in time.”

Gandalf hurried forward and went to his knees at Faramir’s side. Boromir was as still and white in his arms as one of the marble pillars that surrounded them. Gandalf lay a hand to the wounded man’s brow. There was not the least flicker of movement about Boromir’s closed eyes and scant sign he breathed.

Pippin stood at the wizard’s shoulder, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “There’s something else wrong with him. He’s been like that for hours now.”

Gandalf sighed heavily. “I fear you are right, Pippin. I should have come when you first called."

“You couldn’t. Faramir and Gimli and the others would have been killed.”

Faramir met Gandalf’s grave eyes and the wizard explained concisely, “The fire at the gate.”

Faramir nodded. “Can you help him?” He looked away again, afraid of the answer even as he asked the question. If Gandalf could do nothing then there truly was no hope.

“I can try,” Gandalf said. He clasped Boromir’s head with both hands and leaned closer. Gandalf’s eyes closed and his face furrowed with intense concentration. Long moments passed in silence and stillness and there was a sense of tremendous power humming about the wizard’s hands. “Boromir?” Gandalf called softly. “Boromir, come, hear me. Where do you wander?” There was another silence, then again, “Boromir?” Slowly, Gandalf’s shoulders began to droop as if under great weight. Colour faded from his face and his hands began to tremble slightly, his breathing quickening. Finally, he gasped and released his hold.

Fear tightened Faramir’s chest, for the wizard seemed completely drained, yet there had been absolutely no outward response from Boromir.

“I have done as best I can,” Gandalf said tiredly and the sorrow in his voice was matched only by the sadness of his gaze as he met Faramir’s desperate eyes. “There is some great evil at work here. Something, I fear, of Sauron’s close design.”

Faramir’s heart lurched and his throat closed over grief and fear. Pippin said, “But how? Sauron’s in Mordor, how could he…?” His voice broke to a sob.

Gandalf lay a hand to the hobbit’s small shoulder. “It has long been my suspicion that Denethor had found one of the lost palantirs, perhaps even the key stone itself. The Stone of Arnor. Though that does not explain how further harm was brought to Boromir.”

“Further harm?” Faramir asked.

“Something more powerful than the Witch King’s evil. That taint at least I was able to remove.” He bent his head and studied Boromir’s drawn face with combined affection and concern. “It is to your brother’s credit that he has fought so long. There is a great and growing weariness in him. I can sense nothing else of his spirit. He wanders far, in some realm of which I have no knowledge.”

“Will he die?” Pippin dared voice what Faramir could not.

“I have given what strength I can.” Gandalf sighed. “But I am not sure it reached him. Boromir is never one to surrender. If anyone can defeat this new evil, if will be he. Boromir will not abandon hope and nor should we. Come, let us at least get him off this cold floor and back into a warm bed.”

“That guard hasn’t come back,” Pippin said. “I don’t think he’ll find any men – they’re all gone to the battle.”

“Indeed they have,” Gandalf said. “But we do not need bearers, nor a litter. I will carry him. Here, Faramir,” he said gently. “Let me take him.”

“But, he’s too heavy for –“ Pippin’s protest ended in a gasp of surprise as Gandalf’s arms slid beneath the powerfully built man and lifted him as smoothly and easily as if he weighed no more than a child. Carefully he settled Boromir’s head against his shoulder. Then, cradling the wounded left side and arm against his chest, Gandalf turned and walked steadily toward the entryway, Faramir following silently.

“I never knew you were so strong, Gandalf!” Pippin exclaimed. “Just as well you never let Sam know or he’d have left Bill behind and had you carry all the packs!”

Gandalf snorted. “I was not so strong then.”

“Oh, right,” Pippin said. “I keep forgetting you’re the White Wizard now.”

They met Beregond hurrying toward them outside, and as suspected, he reported there were no soldiers on this level, but he had left word at the Houses of Healing. “It’s awful in there,” the Tower guardsman said grimly. “I’ve never seen so many wounded, and there are women and children among them. Rarned was in the middle of… well, something terrible. He said he’d come when he’s done. It won’t be long.”

“My thanks, Beregond,” Faramir said. “Now, I ask please that you remain and keep guard over my father’s body until other arrangements can be made.”

Beregond saluted and left them and they walked on. Shadowfax clopped sorrowfully behind them, his great head lowered and his muzzle sometimes gently nuzzling Boromir’s hanging right arm. At last they reached the Steward’s Hall. Still Gandalf showed no sign of strain as he carried an unconscious Boromir up the stairs and back into his bedchamber. Rarned arrived soon after and helped settle the man, stripping him of the funerary finery in which he’d been dressed and leaving him again clad only in the white linen nightshirt.

“How did he come by these burns?” The Healer asked, somewhat angrily. “They are minor, but he was unmarked when I last saw him.”

“That is a tale my heart cannot bear just now, Rarned,” Faramir said heavily. “It was an accident, of sorts.”

“He should never have been moved from his bed!” Rarned smeared burn salve on the marks at Boromir’s wrists and another at the side of his throat. “Your hand is burned also, my lord?”

“It is nothing,” Faramir said, all his attention fixed once more on his brother’s still face as Rarned lay Boromir’s head back to the pillows. But the Healer ignored his dismissal of the injury to carefully unwind the bandaging and clean and dress the burn with fresh linen. “Where is your father?” Rarned asked. “Was he hurt?”

Gandalf hastily drew the man aside to spare Faramir the agony of explaining Denethor’s absence. Pippin collected a damp cloth and climbed atop the bedside table to softly wash soot from Boromir’s brow and hair. Faramir drew the chair close to the bed, sat and took up his brother’s right hand. There was a pounding of bootsteps from the hall and an officer entered through the doors they had left open.

“Captain Faramir!” he greeted breathlessly. “Mithrandir! Forgive my intrusion, but things go badly with the battle. We need your aid!”

“Badly?” Faramir stood. “But the Rohirrim… we heard their horns.”

“Yes.” The man drew a grimy arm over his sweaty face. “Their brave charge scattered the Orc legions but a worse foe now has them outflanked. The Southrons and their Mumakil are trampling them and tearing them apart. And the Nazgul, also. The Orcs have regrouped and are storming the third level gate.”

Faramir’s hand gripped his sword hilt. “I will come,” he said and took a pace forward.

Gandalf grabbed at Faramir’s arm. “No, Faramir,” he said urgently. “You must stay here. I will go. You are Boromir’s only hope. His only anchor to this world. You must remain. Do not let go. Hold tight to him. Hold tight! “

Faramir cast a despairing glance at his brother. “How much longer can he fight? He grows weaker, I can feel it.” Tears stood in his eyes. “Boromir would not want me to abandon my command for his sake.”

Gandalf held his gaze with burning determination. “Your presence may yet save his life. He may need fight not much longer. Look!” Gandalf waved an arm at the tall, south-facing window across the hall.

Leaving Pippin and Rarned for the moment alone with Boromir, Gandalf escorted Faramir and the soldier to the embrasure by the window that gave a view of the south-eastern bend of the Anduin. Faramir had expected some sign of aid but instead he groaned aloud in utter despair. Dozens of black-sailed ships were pulling into the docks of Fornost. “The Black Ships! Mercenaries from the south! We cannot hold!”

“Wait!” Gandalf said, and Faramir was astonished to see a broad smile light the wizard’s face. “See? There!”

Atop the leading boat’s mast a black banner was unfurling. It caught the early morning breeze and opened to proudly reveal a silver tree crowned by seven stars.

Faramir drew a sharp breath. “The King’s banner!”

“Yes,” Gandalf nodded. “Aragorn is here! And he does not come empty handed! Now, Faramir, return to your brother and give him your strength for this last hour. Hope is coming! His friend and king returns!”

Gimli and Garad were elated to hear the horns call and cheered as they watched the magnificent and brave charge of the Rohirrim. That caused the Orcs within the city to retreat to the first level with its defenders chasing after them eager to exact punishment for the deaths of friends.

“They’re caught between the anvil and the hammer now!” Gimli laughed, waving his axe in triumph.

Taking a momentary breather at his Dwarf friend’s side, Garad grinned and wiped sweat from his brow. Then, together they raced downhill after the charging soldiers, determined to push the Orcs out of Minas Tirith once and for all. After much fierce fighting, Gimli and Garad’s group succeeded in reaching the shattered main gate. Suddenly, the Orcs regrouped, seeming to have rediscovered the will to fight.

“They’re not running any more!” Garad said breathlessly.

“So I noticed.” Gimli grunted as he slew another monster and stepped back to avoid having the creature fall on him.

“Something’s stirred them to turn and fight. What –“

Then they heard it, a grating eerie series of horn blasts. In complete contrast to the defiant beauty of Rohan’s call to the charge, this was a bleak and joyless wail, full of pain and cruelty. About Dwarf and Ranger the dismayed cry went up.. “Mumakil! Southrons!”

“What?” Gimli said frustratedly. He turned about and hunted for something on which he could climb to see over the heads of his much taller companions. There was nothing to hand, and giving up, he looked up instead to read answers from Garad’s expression. The Ranger was a tenacious and valiant soldier, not one to give up even when facing overwhelming odds. Yet for a moment, utter despair filled his dark eyes. Gimli had never seen him so shaken. “What is going on out there?” he snarled and hopped about, craning to catch a glimpse through the massed men and Orcs.

“The Riders of Rohan will be crushed beneath those monsters’ feet.” Garad’s tone was flat and terribly sorrowful, but a note of awe and admiration rang in his words as he added, “ Still they turn again to the charge. Théoden King calls them to reform the line.” The last word was almost lost as he swallowed hard against emotion. Garad looked down then to meet Gimli’s eyes and the Dwarf saw tears of pride gleaming in his friend’s gaze. “Let’s join them shall we?” He flashed a grin and became once more the dashing commander. “Can’t have Rohan taking all the glory!”

“Aye, lad!” Gimli said and hefted his axe. Then he added impatiently, “But what is it out there?”

“Mumakil,” Garad said, “Oliphaunts. Such giants as should exist only in legend. Their heads would reach over the main gate should it still stand."

“Oh.” Gimli said. He shrugged. “The bigger they are the harder they fall!”

“Indeed!” Garad laughed. “Come then, friend Dwarf, into the fray!”

“We must clear some of these foul Orcs out of the way first,” Gimli said and strode forward to hack at another foe.

It wasn’t much later when they came upon the first carcass of what was indeed a veritable giant. Garad and Gimli climbed atop it to get a better view and judge how the battle lay. Nazgûl were now diving at the beleaguered Rohirrim. Gimli could see little chance for victory. The brave riders were still fighting but losing ever more men.

“Oh, no!” Garad uttered a foul oath that did not hide utter hopelessness. He was not looking toward the battle with the Southrons but had turned to study the terrain at their backs, the area bound by the mighty Anduin.

“What now?” Gimli said grumpily. “Can we have no luck with us today?”

“The Corsairs,” Garad said flatly, and for the first time he sounded tired. “The Black Ships. See their sails?”

Gimli climbed a little higher on an overturned basket and squinted across the dusty field. “I see them,” he said grimly. “They seek to outflank us and they will succeed. Unless –“

“Unless what?” Garad tilted his chin down to study his friend.

Gimli flashed a smile that became an eager chuckle. “Unless we stop them! Come, laddie, they’re inviting us to dance and it would be most rude to decline the invitation!” Garad laughed and followed as Gimli jumped down from the basket and began scrambling down the side of the dead oliphaunt. “I saw much from that high perch,” Gimli added a little breathlessly as he tried to keep pace with the longer legged man, “But it is what I did not see that gives me hope. Aragorn is not yet here, but he will be, I can feel it in my bones. He and Legolas are not ones to miss a fight. They will not fail to bring us aid.”

“Let us hope you are right, friend.” Garad lay an urgent hand to Gimli’s shoulder and turned him away from a direct approach to the river. “We must take the pirates stealthily, from the side. And we must take them before they leave their ships. There is an Orc legion between us and the docks. What we need is a horse! ” He gave Gimli a grim smile. “Fortunately, there seem to be plenty to choose from.” He lifted his fingers to his lips and gave a shrill whistle. Within moments not one but three horses had answered the call, a bay, a roan, and a chestnut. “Take your pick,” Garad said.

“Ahh, I think I will ride with you,” Gimli grunted and ignored his friend’s teasing smile as Garad swung into the saddle and hauled him up. Together they took a circuitous route toward the river, avoiding the scattered fights at the edges of the main battle, wanting to save their strength to attempt to hold back the Corsair invasion. “What do you have in mind?” Gimli shouted into the wind that flung his beard back from his chest as their brave mount leaped to a full gallop despite its obvious weariness.

“Fire,” Garad shouted back. “If we set their ships burning –“

“Yes! They will turn back to try to save them.”

“So I hope,” Garad said.

As they drew closer to the river, Gimli who was trying to count the numbers of sails, saw a banner unfurl from the leading mast. He gasped in sheer shock then gave an elated bellow. “I knew it! I knew it!” He thumped Garad between the shoulder blades and as the Ranger looked back, pointed, “The King’s banner!”

Garad turned back and Gimli felt his indrawn breath. “Such has not been seen here in many centuries.” Garad’s voice was soft with awe. “It cannot be.”

“But it is! Aragorn brings aid!”

“I hope you are right, yet I do not know where more men could have been found.”

Garad curbed the horse and slid from the saddle, Gimli following. They were less than a parade ground length from the dock where the lead ship was pulling to a stop, the banner quickly drawn back and disappearing. Dwarf and Man edged from one hiding spot to another, Garad all the while keeping an eye out for barrels of oil or other flammable materials, uncertain as to whether or not his plan to burn the ships would still be needed.

“Late as usual, pirate scum!” An Orc voice jeered nearby. Gimli peered out from hiding to see the leader of the battalion step forward. He seemed to have the skulls of his enemies piled atop his head. Gimli ran a finger over his axe blade and decided the creature would be his first kill in this new battle. “Come on, get off yer scurvy ships!”

“Where are they?” Garad leaned down to whisper to Gimli. “I don’t see –“

Two lithe figures leaped agilely from the deck of the lead boat. “Aragorn! Legolas!” Gimli cried and charged out of hiding to join them crying “I knew you’d come! I knew you’d –“ He grunted as he swung his blade and felled the impertinent Orc commander who dared attempt to stall his reunion.

Legolas and Aragorn flashed welcoming grins, Legolas crying, “Gimli! Well met, my friend!” Then together, the three Fellowship friends turned to glare at the baffled and momentarily stilled Orcs. Gimli hefted his axe threateningly and snarled at the massed enemy. Somehow the fact that they were impossibly outnumbered did not seem to matter. For half of The Fellowship at least, was together again. “Meet my friend, Ranger Garad.” Gimli said as cheerfully as if he were introducing him at an inn full of happy drinkers.

“My Lords!” Garad greeted but added with a frown, “Where is your army? How did you --?” He gasped and took a stumbling step back.

Gimli looked away from his friends to see what had so unsettled the Ranger. He too drew an involuntarily shuddering breath. The air was suddenly chill and so full of fear that even the Orcs began backing away. A tide of ghastly green ghostly figures flooded smooth as water down from the boat decks. Hundreds and hundreds of them.

“There is my army!” Aragorn declared fiercely. “Come to redeem their honour.”

At his back like a sudden gust of wind or smoke from an erupting fire, the sea of ghostly skeletal and terrifying figures continued to grow. They swarmed from the ships like ants from an overturned nest, completely covering the vessels, the river and the docks. Then they charged. About them arose a terrible, overpowering chill and a bone-biting sense of death and fear.

Gimli blinked and tried to recover his composure, aware that Legolas was eyeing him with mild amusement. “This is a tale that will make fine telling,” Gimli said. “Where did you find them?”

Legolas laughed. “It matters not! Come, let us to the battle before they steal away the foe!”

Gimli grabbed at Legolas’ arm and grinned up at the tall Elf. “There’s plenty for the both of us! May the best Dwarf win!”

Together the four friends charged into the fray and before them the enemy, swamped by the ghostly army, broke ranks and ran. It was easy work cutting down the few who stood to fight and it was not long before Gimli broke free into a clear space to find much to his chagrin, there remained no enemy to hunt. The field was suddenly and eerily silent. Then new sounds came to his ears, terrible sounds, familiar sounds. The awful aftermath of battle, the groans and cries of wounded and dying men and horses. Here and there a pennant held aloft on a grounded lance, fluttered in the breeze.

“Free us,” a guttural voice hissed and Gimli turned to see the ghostly army’s commander confronting Aragorn.

“Bad idea,” Gimli said. “These lads are handy in a fight.”

“Free us,” the ghostly captain repeated, desperation leaking into his tone.

Aragorn nodded. “I hold your oaths fulfilled. Go, now, be at peace.”

The dead soldier smiled in return and gave a low echoing sigh as if all the weary years of exile and guilt left him with the breath. Then like a wind through a wheat field, the ghostly army swirled and lost shape to become no more than a flickering banner of pale green. And vanished as if they had never been.

A hand clapped Gimli on the back and he turned to find Legolas smiling down at him. “I think that last kill should count for more than one.”

Gimli snorted. “I admit it was a fine sight. I could scarce believe my eyes to see the way you scurried atop that monster!”

“Nor I,” Garad put in with a grin. “I have heard much of the prowess of the Elves. Never again will I think the tales exaggerated.”

“Thank you.” Legolas bowed and gave a soft smile.

Aragorn, who had moved to bend over a fallen rider, straightened and turned to them. His expression was tired, glad of the victory, but sickened and saddened by the many dead men who lay mangled all about them. Still, he found a smile for Gimli. The Dwarf met that smile with a broader one and opened his arms in greeting.

“It’s good to see you come to the White City at last!” Gimli avowed, only now truly realising the import of it. The King had returned to Gondor! Could the final victory be far off? He laughed and added, “Come here!”

Aragorn snorted fond amusement and stepped into Gimli’s embrace, then stood back to say, “I swore an oath to a good friend, and I have kept it. How is Boromir?”

“Ahh,” Gimli said, and avoided his eyes. “He was recovering well –“

“Was?” Aragorn frowned and Legolas turned about to listen more closely.

“You know Boromir, can’t keep him from a fight.”

Aragorn’s frown deepened. “Surely not. His wounds –“

“It’s a long story, but the sum of it is he and the Witch King fought it out.” Gimli hurried on over his friends’ dismayed reactions. “And Boromir won. Gandalf said he was not further wounded, and yet, well, the last I heard, Pippin reported that Boromir’s fever was worse. Much worse.”

“I must go to him,” Aragorn said.

But before he had taken more than two paces toward the nearest horse, cries and shouts erupted from behind a pile of fallen horses and Mumakil. A last pack of nine or ten Orcs came into view, dragging a wounded rider and using him as a shield. The man’s Rohirrim friends followed warily, swords drawn but unable to attack while their friend was held at sword point. The Orcs were watching the men of Rohan warily and had not seen the group at their backs. Aragorn leapt at the Orc who held the captive and they tumbled down to the turf then struggled to their feet to continue the fight. Legolas, Gimli and Garad jumped in to aid the Riders in felling the remaining foe while one of the Rohirrim bent to assist the wounded man. The hilt of the leading Orc’s sword flew up to catch Aragorn a glancing blow to the head and he fell back again to his knees.

Gimli turned sharply about as he heard a grunt of pain from his friend. “Aragorn!” he cried and charged closer to bring his axe blade down with a thump into the Orc’s back. The creature went down and did not move. Gimli stared worriedly at a dazed Aragorn then sighed in relief as the man looked up at him with a smile.

“Thank you, my friend,” Aragorn said. Shakily, he wiped blood from his brow and made no attempt to get to his feet, too dizzy as yet to manage it.

Chapter: Sauron’s Trap.

“Keep going!” Boromir repeated hoarsely and turned a little to squint through the heat and smoke haze at the fifty or more men ranked loosely behind him. “Just a little further.” He pulled an exhausted soldier’s arm more securely over his shoulder and staggered onward. ”There must be a way out of this cursed place!”

To his right an Ithilien Ranger similarly burdened with a half-conscious man, nodded agreement. “But the men need water. I fear they cannot last much longer without it.”

“They must!” Boromir insisted. “Not much longer. I swear I will find help… somehow.” Privately Boromir wondered how much longer he himself could keep going. The searing heat was deadly though there was no sun to guide them in a murky red shimmering furnace of sky. He and the Ranger both knew well they had walked much more than a day yet no night had come to ease them. The men, an oddly assorted company of Gondorian guardsmen and Rangers, as well as several newly-arrived men of Rohan, must know it too. Boromir could sense a growing despair that dragged at their limbs as surely as any exhaustion. And he was frustrated that he could give them no answers. He was just as bewildered by a stark landscape of continuous daylight that offered no more than bare rock overhangs by way of shelter. Yet, when utter exhaustion forced a halt, the rock itself often seemed to come to life, spewing fire that hunted them onward. It was a living nightmare.

Neither could any man remember how he came to be here. All had only this in common – their last memory was of falling in battle, most after being terribly wounded. Yet none could find sign of those wounds. Nor did any possess their weapons, and many were without their armour. Boromir had no sword, no shield, no horn, not so much as a dagger remained to him. Even his gauntlets were gone. His bare hands were stinging and raw with burns. He could be thankful only that his leather forearm guards remained to give some protection. And more, they were a source of courage when he might falter for they carried The White Tree, emblem of hope.

There was no way of judging time, but it seemed much sooner than he would have liked when Boromir was compelled to call another temporary halt. He was gasping and choking for breath in a painfully parched throat, and his legs were shaking beneath both his own weight and that of the now senseless man he half-carried on a shoulder blazing agony in overstrained muscles. He lowered the unconscious man to the sand as gently as his own near-collapse would allow. About him there were groans of relief as the other men sat or fell face down, creating pitiful shade from the shelter of their upraised arms. Some of the men, both of Rohan and Ithilien, had pulled their tunics off and now wore them tent-like about head and shoulders.

“Wait here,” Boromir panted to the man whose rank marked him as second in command of the refugees. “I’ll climb that ridge. I’ll signal if …. “

“If there’s any point… in us following?” the officer finished for him as he ran out of breath. Boromir nodded. “Thank you, sir,” Captain Wenarth said. “Are you sure you don’t need…?”

“An escort?” Boromir finished, and managed a wry grin though it made his lips bleed anew. “No. Let them rest.” Screwing his eyes against the sting of cinders and the shimmering glare, Boromir studied the steep slope he had set himself to climb and searched for the easiest path. There didn’t seem to be any. He’d just have to make a zigzag pattern back and forth through shifting sand, stone and tongues of fire.

Wenarth nodded. “Good luck. I will pray there’s a river and … shade trees over there.”

Boromir clapped the man on the shoulder. “Do what you can for the men. If there’s nothing out there…” He shrugged. “At least it’s one ridge they won’t have to… climb.” He turned away and lifted aching legs, taking the first step up the sandy incline.

It was heartbreaking work. One false crest after another taunted him, revealing ridge after ridge of grey sand-hills towering ever higher toward the burning sky. The monotony was broken only by outcrops of bare crimson-black stones from which sometimes erupted monstrous walls of flame. Acrid black smoke coiled and swirled everywhere without the least breeze. There was no stirring of air to cool him in the veiled, sunless sky. Below, back the way they’d come, foul fumes spewed from countless fires across an endless, pitiless landscape. Smoke and dusty glare shrouded all, confusing his sense of direction, impenetrable. The dunes changed shape constantly and the earth trembled with erratic upheavals, making it impossible to judge if they walked in circles, were hopelessly lost. They left no tracks and had been wandering for what seemed endless days, unable to find water, fresh air, or any sign of life. If this was Mordor, it was an evil beyond even his worst imaginings. And if it were Mordor, how had they found their way here with no memory of first crossing the Emyn Muil and the Dead Marshes? His last clear memory of battle was an agony of horror and desperate effort as arrow after arrow thudded into him.

At first, wandering alone, he sought to find his friends. But, as time continued he met and gathered about him other men who told similar tales of being ensnared in horror. The realisation came to him that they might all be dead. This place surely existed nowhere in Middle Earth. He’d heard tales of the Undying Lands of the Elves -- could this be the other worldly realm of Sauron’s tortured creation? Nothing lived here, or nothing familiar. All the men reported wraithlike demons of every shape and colour had sometimes emerged to attack them. Boromir had doubted until he had experienced it for himself. The demons pulled at his limbs, tripping and pushing, and adding to the energy-sapping oppressive heat. Without weapons, there was little he could do to chase them off. He’d tried striking at them with his bare hands, or booted feet, and watched in horror as his limbs met not solid matter, but passed through insubstantial beings. How could he fight such an enemy? He succeeded in nothing more than exhausting himself further. He had not encountered Orcs or anything physically threatening, other than fire.

Whatever this place, spirit or flesh, he could not survive much longer. Dizzy, painfully parched, he fell more often, and each time took longer to get up again. Now, weary beyond words, without hope, he marshalled all his meagre strength to draw breath, to battle the toxic fumes. At last he had reached the top of the ridge. He lifted a heavy arm and wiped sweat and soot from his face. Almost afraid to hope, he peered ahead. Each and every previous summit won for the men nothing more than the same promise of more toil, more pain. Now, again, an endless vista of roiling smoke above barren plains covered in ash and fine grey sand met his gaze. It was more than he could bear. This was the highest point in hundreds of leagues. There was no hope.

Flames suddenly roared about him, enveloping the peak on which he stood. He stumbled back, desperate for clean air, gasping. His face blistered, and his lungs filled with searing poison. Coughing, retching, he fell to his knees. His bare hands and booted feet sank deeper into hot, clinging, stinking black ash. He could not breathe, could not see. He’d fought so long, so hard. His strength was gone. The smoke-ruined landscape blurred into complete darkness. His eyes closed and he fell face forward, expecting stinking reeking ash to become his unmarked, lonely grave.

Instead, the sensation of falling continued, dizzying him further. The air cleared. Sauron’s demons had taunted him with glimpses of clean air before. He did not open his eyes, wanted only to sleep even as he fell. Then, abruptly, the fall ended.

There came the fragrance of new-mown hay. Rather than abrasive, burning sand, there was the impossible gentleness of soft, lush grass cushioning his weary head. A breeze, almost unbearably sweet and cool after days of heat, caressed and healed his seared face. Disbelieving, he opened his eyes, found they no longer hurt him, his vision perfectly clear. He was staring at his own forearms, bound in the familiar leather guards. Engraved there, the white tree of Gondor gleamed and flashed, silver in this new, soft daylight. He lay face down on a thick carpet of emerald green lawn. Lifting his head slightly, he found a vast green expanse dotted with tiny wildflowers of white and gold. This was far fairer, more real than any demon-sent illusion. And too, those had not brought him complete surcease of pain, exhaustion, or thirst. Here, he was completely refreshed, full of energy and life, surrounded by the greenest of green, the sweetest, clearest air.

BREAK

“Victory! Victory!”

The cry rang all about the bloodied field of battle, echoing from Pelennor to Minas Tirith’s towers. Aragorn shook his head and rubbed again at the blood that trickled into his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Legolas asked anxiously and lay a hand to his friend’s shoulder.

“Naught but a scratch,” Aragorn assured. “I’m just a little dizzy.”

Weary to the bone, he sank down further, sitting back on his heels. He opened his fingers and let his sword fall free from a heavy, aching hand. Blood still ran from the cut above his eye and persisted in streaming down over his face. Red drops splattered the turf on which he knelt. He peered groggily at the grass, it seemed to be sprouting small white flowers, but he couldn’t be sure as his vision fluttered and spun. Legolas mopped at his wound with a piece of cloth torn from his tunic.

Feeling suddenly that consciousness was about to leave him completely, Aragorn lurched forward and felt his hands sink into cool grass. He blinked groggily at that impossibly beautiful tuft of green sward. “Victory! Victory!” The cries continued about him, drowning out Legolas’ repeated anxious queries as to his health. He could hardly believe it. They had won, against overwhelming odds; they had held their ground. With the aid of Rohan, with Aragorn’s ghostly army to drive back any opposition and win the boats that had enabled the encircling of the enemy. Minas Tirith was safe for today at least. The sweet smell of athelas came to him above the foul odor of death and blood. He squinted, leaned still closer. It was indeed athelas, kingsfoil, beneath him. He stared at it in wonderment, watched as his blood splattered and fell to paint the emerald of the trefoil leaves with a border of red. So green, so fresh.

Then the sight blurred, wavered suddenly, and became another emerald lawn, somewhere impossibly far away. A strange blue sky above. Unearthly strange, for it was suffused with a piercing, beautiful golden light unlike anything he’d ever seen before. Aragorn looked down again and saw not his own hands splayed upon the green, but those of another man -- blunter, thicker, callused with long use of a sword.

A soldier’s hands. Familiar hands. The wrists and forearms were clad in leather etched with the White Tree of Gondor. Boromir’s hands. Boromir’s armguards. “Boromir?” Aragorn whispered. “What? Where --?” Then, certain, knowing it was a spirit vision he saw -- a death vision; he called urgently, “Boromir! No!”

His friend was passing from this life to another. And, somehow united by the symbol of Gondor they both wore, Aragorn saw the world that drew him. “No!” The word was a snarl of defiance. For Aragorn knew, deep within, Boromir had been deceived. Sauron’s poison had taken him. Whatever fair land he now enjoyed could be but a temporary refuge.

Aragorn closed a bloodied fist about the athelas tufts and tore them angrily free of the rich dark earth. Sitting back on his heels, he tucked the fragrant bundle beneath the leather guards on his forearms. Boromir’s guards. A hand tightened anxiously on his shoulder, steadying him, and Aragorn looked up to meet Legolas’ and Gimli’s worried eyes. At their backs stood the Ranger, Garad, equally concerned. “Aragorn?” the Elf queried. “I think you are more badly stunned than you know.“

“No, no,” Aragorn assured, and struggled to find a smile for them despite his urgent fear for Boromir. “I am all right.” He pushed himself up and was glad of Legolas aid as he found his feet. “I am unharmed, “ he repeated but accepted the helping hand nonetheless. He wiped blood from his eyes then looked from Legolas to Gimli to say quietly, “A vision came to me. Boromir is in deadly peril. We must hurry to him. Sauron’s demons seek to claim him through the fever. Come, there may yet be time to bring him back to us.”

“They shall not have him!” Gimli growled.

“We will bring him home,” Legolas added sharply. He bent and collected Aragorn’s fallen blade and gave it over. “You will need your sword.”

Aragorn’s fingers closed eagerly about Anduril’s hilt and he slid the sword home in its scabbard with a snap hiss of steel on leather. Legolas turned about to whistle for Arod and Brego. As Aragorn turned toward the approaching horses, a sharp cry, a sound of heart-rending anguish drew Aragorn’s attention. “Eomer!” The Rohan Captain was down on his knees, cradling another rider in his arms. Stumbling a little on unsteady feet, Aragorn hurried to his side, Gimli, Garad and Legolas following.

“Oh no,” Gimli said as they drew to a halt. “’Tis a lady! How could --?”

“Eowyn.” Aragorn heard his own voice as no more than a shocked whisper. “No, oh no!” Only his concern for Eomer’s terrible distress kept him from voicing his own scream of anguish and outraged pain. He took a pace closer, then gave a strangled cry as he saw beyond Eomer, another fallen rider who lay still beside his snow-white horse. A rider arrayed in magnificent armour. A rider whose courage could not be matched. A rider who now lay dead and still, eyes blank and mirroring the blue sky.

“Théoden. No!” Aragorn found himself again on his knees, but was unaware of falling. All the strength had fled his limbs. This was too great a price to pay. Hot tears scalded his cheeks, mixing with the blood from his head wound. He sobbed and surrendered to his grief, unable for the moment to hold back its awful agony even for Eomer’s sake.

“I am so sorry,” Aragorn heard Legolas as if from a vast distance, felt the Elf’s consoling hand on his shoulder as if it touched another person. This could not be real. This could not be borne. Théoden, a King such as Aragorn could only dream of emulating. A King who had been as a much loved father to Eomer and Eowyn.

Eowyn. Aragorn blinked tears from his eyes and dragged his gaze from Théoden’s unseeing face to look upon her limp figure. She too was arrayed in battle armour. “A cage. I fear a cage.” Her words returned to him and he gasped another sobbing breath. “You are a Shield-Maiden of Rohan. Such will not be your fate.” Yet he had never imagined so terrible a future may be hers. This most valiant of all warriors. She who need not have come to the battle, who could have stayed safe with all honour, yet she would not turn away from her great love for her people. And perhaps for another, a man who could not return that love. Aragorn felt his heart must break or burst forth from a chest that constricted too tight with the weight of grief.

“She lives!” Legolas said. “See, she breathes!”

“I fear she is badly hurt.” Eomer’s voice. Aragorn gathered himself, shook his head and forced the agony back. He must be strong for Eomer. He must aid Eowyn. “She fought and killed the Witch King.”

Gimli gasped. “Gandalf told me – Boromir said the thing boasted it could not be killed by – “ He paused and looked up at Aragorn in wonderment. “By any man.”

Eomer gulped back his weeping and nodded. “She took off her helm. She revealed herself to him.” His red rimmed eyes flicked up to lock with Aragorn’s gaze. “She came to aid our fallen uncle. Aragorn – you know healing – is there anything – can you – please?”

Aragorn nodded and held those pleading eyes for a long moment. “I will try.” He bent to Eowyn and took one hand. Gently he pulled off her gauntlet and closed his bare fingers about her cool flesh. “Eowyn.” He leaned closer, said again, “Eowyn. Come return to those who love you. Do not leave us, I beg you.” He reached with his left hand to caress her brow and some of the athelas fell from beneath his vambrace. Boromir’s vambrace. Another who waited in desperate need for his coming. “Eowyn, please.” He begged and lifted the sprig of bloodied athelas and rested it upon her pale lips. “Come back to us. “ He bent still closer and kissed her pale brow.

There was a sharp intake of breath and he felt her chest rise beneath him. “Eowyn! Sister!” Eomer cried. “Live! I beg you, do not leave me!”

“Brother?” It was so faint a whisper that Aragorn was surprised when Eomer responded. “I am here, sister. I am here.” The man’s voice was choked with tears. His eyes flicked from his sister’s face to meet Aragorn’s gaze with immense gratitude. “Thank you, my lord,” he said, “ Thank you!”

Aragorn nodded. “She returns, but will need much healing yet.”

“I will find a wagon,” Garad offered and Eomer nodded thanks, and then cast a pained glance at his fallen uncle. “And for your King, also.” Garad said, his words heavy with sorrow. “He will know the honour and gratitude of Gondor for all time to come. We will never forget.” The young Ranger’s voice broke to a sob and he repeated, “We will never forget how he rode in answer to our need.”

“Merry!” Eowyn started up then gasped in pain.

“Steady! Steady!” Aragorn urged over his shock of recognition and Eomer held her more closely.

She stared about in confusion and repeated with utter anguish, “Where is Merry?” Blinking tears from her eyes, she gazed pleadingly up at her brother. “Merry rode with me. I promised I would protect him!”

“He can’t be far,” Eomer said. “Be easy, sister. We will find him. I swear it.”

“I said I would protect him,” Eowyn turned to gaze now at Aragorn and Gimli. She sobbed. “But he – he protected me. The Nazgûl – I would be dead, but for Merry. He stabbed the creature.”

“Was he hurt?” Aragorn asked, perhaps he lay close by.

Eowyn shook her head. “No. A little maybe, but he was fighting when I saw him last. Fighting an Orc so much bigger, and I could do nothing.” She clutched at her sword arm. “I cannot hold a blade.”

“The fighting is done, sister,” Eomer kissed her brow. “We have victory. We will find our small friend. Come now, you must rest.”

“Take this,” Aragorn said. “Steep it and give her to drink.” He picked up the bloodied sprig of athelas and gave it to Eomer. He checked and noted the larger amount of athelas was still tucked safely in the vambrace. The White Tree beckoned to him, gleaming liquid red, gilded with his blood. Another vision flashed before his eyes, flames and a terrible empty burning landscape. “Boromir!” he whispered with renewed urgency. “I am coming, my friend. Keep fighting!”

“Here,” Legolas said, steadying Aragorn as he stumbled to his feet. Only then did Aragorn realize the Elf held the reins of two horses. Brego and Arod. “I will come with you. Gimli will stay to help search for Merry.”

Brego nuzzled Aragorn’s face gently and he steadied himself a moment against his horse friend’s familiar warmth. Brego had saved him after his near-drowning, now the horse must speed him to Boromir’s aid. Affectionately, Aragorn caressed Brego’s satin-soft nose. Then he took the reins and sprang into the saddle and the horse responded to his urgency to race into a gallop. With Legolas and Arod at his side, he rode swiftly across the field of victory. The white walls of Minas Tirith shone like snow in the late afternoon sun. Her once proud gates stood no longer, but were a battered and burned wreck. Aragorn did not slow but charged on, climbing through the circles. He must surely find a dying Boromir somewhere on the sixth level, in the Houses of Healing.

There must yet be time to save him!

Aragorn’s boot heels made barely a sound on the stone tiled floor, Legolas’ steps completely silent, as they followed a Healer who quickly crossed the crowded hall that opened from one of the many rooms. Somehow they both avoided stepping on the wounded soldiers sprawled everywhere about the place. Some lay on pallets on the tiles, some had propped themselves against the pillars about the room, and others, those most badly hurt, had been given the few narrow beds. “Where is he?” Aragorn repeated, catching up as the man halted by a Rider of Rohan whose right arm was little more than a bloodied ruin..

The Healer glanced up at him, and away, back to the wounded man he was tending. Impatient, angry, and afraid for Boromir, Aragorn gripped the Healer’s shoulders in both hands and swung him about. This was the third man they’d hunted down to ask for Boromir’s whereabouts. None seemed to know. The hall that lay at the forefront of the Houses of Healing was an urgent, noisy chaos as bearers arrived with more and more laden stretchers. Voices called, begging attention for wounded friends. Agonised cries and moans overlaid all else. “Where is the Steward’s son?” Aragorn said tersely. “He suffers and I must attend him with all speed.”

The Healer was a small stooped man with only a few strands of thinning grey hair stuck greasily to an otherwise bald head. There was blood thick on his leather apron and splattered on his bare arms. He turned and eyed Aragorn who knew the man would see nothing more than a ragged, battle-filthy ranger. The Healer’s bony face was made sharper by an irritation worsened by profound weariness. “I have not heard that the Lord Faramir was wounded,” he snapped. “You should seek him elsewhere.”

Aragorn shook his head, his long hair clinging to his dirty, sweat-streaked face. “Not Faramir -- it is Boromir I seek.” Busy with his work, the Healer’s mouth turned down; ready to snap dismissal, then he met Aragorn’s fierce eyes. He stilled, and his lips parted in a breath of surprise. “Who are you?” he asked, his tone wondering, “That you would ask to attend --?”

Aragorn squeezed the fellow’s shoulder hard enough to make him wince. “It matters not who I am! Where is he?”

“The Lord Boromir is in grave peril,” Legolas put in from behind Aragorn, his voice smooth and soft, yet intent, penetrating.

“Ahh, I see.” The Healer’s eyes clouded and sadness deepened the lines of his wrinkled brow. “It grieves me to tell you that it is too late for Lord Boromir. Our liege, The Steward, Denethor, prepares his son’s funeral pyre. He sent us from him and commanded that none disturb him.”

“What!” Aragorn’s right hand left the shoulder to grip Anduril’s hilt. “This cannot be. Boromir is not dead! I know it.”

“Not dead perhaps, but dying, surely. I helped tend him through the night. There was but the barest breath in him.”

“There is yet hope to restore his strength!” Aragorn hissed. “Take me to him. Now!”

Startled, the man stared and tried to pull free of the painful grip. Aragorn released him and he took a half pace back. The Healer was unable to hold this wild-eyed ranger’s gaze, and lowered his head in instinctive deference. His gaze fell to Aragorn’s sword arm, saw it was bound in leather. “The White Tree,” he whispered. Then, nodding sharp decision, he added, “I know not if they yet carry Lord Boromir to Rath Dînan, but we can hope he still remains in his chambers. I cannot leave my work, but I will find someone who may escort you.” Aragorn nodded thanks and turned away, and the healer added, “You should first find someone and have them tend that cut on --“ But Aragorn was gone.

BREAK

Boromir rolled over again and looked up. A strangely iridescent blue and cloudless sky arched high above him. It was unlike any sky he had ever seen. There was no sun and no shadows but a beautiful golden light like that of a late autumn afternoon suffused the air. He turned his head, sought the source of those golden beams and gasped with delight as he found it – The White Tree! It towered in the centre of the field, its vast trunk pulsing with radiant light and its enormous canopy thick with white flowers whose centers glowed gold and bright as miniature suns. The tree gave life to all about it and painted an infinite horizon of green rolling hills, meadows and forests through which wound wide azure-blue rivers. At the borders of the nearest forest he thought he caught a flash of white robes about a tall figure with a familiar bearded face. Oh so faintly whispered on the breeze a kindly voice called his name. Then it was gone and suddenly, he was on his feet, unaware of having moved. He knew only that he no longer struggled, no longer endured pain. He wanted to laugh for the sheer joy that coursed through him. He could breathe! He turned about and spread his arms wide to envelop the luxury of bountiful cool, clean air. He wheeled again and again, feeling like a small boy free of confining walls, reveling in spring’s first day of new life.

“Boromir?” This was a different voice, a woman’s voice. It was a happy, melodious call from much closer at hand, laughing a little at his playfulness. Immediately, he knew and remembered that impossibly familiar, much loved voice. He had heard her call his name so many times, so long ago. He halted, turned to face the sound. He blinked, shook his head. It couldn’t be -- “Mother? Mother!” he repeated, certain now, smiling. He took a step forward, eager to embrace her. She seemed much shorter, much younger and more vibrant than he recalled her in life.

“No!” she cried sharp warning and took a pace backward. “Beware!”

BREAK

The heavy oak door was banded with silver and lead that had been wrought into the shape of Gondor’s White Tree. The black and silver liveried servant pushed down on its ornate handles, shaped as twin swords, and the doors parted to reveal Boromir’s bedchamber. Aragorn, with Legolas close behind, stepped inside, following their guide who had introduced himself as Steward’s Guardsman Tirsen. The room was large with polished wood panels and a high plaster ceiling. There was a wide, thick square of red carpet covering one half of a white-tiled floor. It must normally be a beautiful room but currently it was gloomy and overly warm. A fire burned low in a brick walled hearth built into the wall to the left of the door. Red and gold brocade drapes shut out the light that should have entered through several wide windows on the right-hand wall. Against the rear wall and a little to one side, stood a canopied four poster bed.

“I bring visitors,” Tirsen announced nervously. “The Lord Boromir’s friends.” A tall broad faced Healer glanced up from his work at a table. He wore the same dark green robes as all the Healers but on his head was the round flat skullcap with its White Tree crest, the symbol of office of the Head of the House of Healing. He looked with weary irritation at the servant and snapped, “This is hardly the time for visitors, Tirsen! You should know that! The Lord Faramir grieves. Leave us.”

Tirsen took one swift look at Aragorn’s set features, then turned and abandoned him. “I am needed in the main Hall, “ he muttered and pushed by to vanish back out into the long corridor.

Paying no heed to him, Aragorn stepped further into the room, closer to the bed. Legolas followed and pulled the door closed at his back. “We will stay,” Legolas said, calm and firm, answering for them both. All Aragorn’s attention was focused on the man in the bed.

The Healer blinked, then snorting and muttering annoyance he shrugged and turned back to his work. He was grinding herbs in a mortar on a small table by the hearth. Aragorn could smell it as well as could Legolas. His nose wrinkled in disgust, not of the scent, but of its import. The Healer had abandoned all hope and was preparing an unguent used in the ritual farewell to the dying.

Aragorn shook his head and stepped still closer to the bed. His gaze remained fixed, intent, on Boromir who lay propped high on a mound of pillows. His left arm was cradled in a white bandage sling, and more bandaging showed above the neck of a white linen nightshirt. He was so still, so impossibly white. His formerly powerful proud face was haggard and thin. His eyes were closed, bruised and shadowed above cheeks that were sunken and hollowed. His lips were cracked and dry and the flesh of his face was set, as if already a marble carved death mask. There was not the least movement to evidence that he still lived. Aragorn had expected it to be bad but never like this. Alarm coursed through him – The Healer had said Faramir was grieving and indeed it appeared Boromir no longer breathed.

Aragorn nodded an unseen greeting to Faramir who sat on the opposite side of the high bed, head bowed over Boromir’s right hand which he held tightly in a double-handed grasp. Was Faramir lost to fierce concentration, struggling by sheer effort of will to keep his brother alive? Or was he bowed and broken by grief? Aragorn stooped low and bent urgently over Boromir, tilting his head to listen. There was not the least whisper of air, no sign that his friend yet breathed. Despairing, Aragorn leaned closer still until his ear was at Boromir’s lips. Intent, taut with hope, he listened. And caught it, ever so faint, a murmur of breath.

“He lives,” Legolas, though further back, had heard it too. He gave a sigh of relief.

A curtain on the rear wall to one side of the bed moved and a small figure stepped into the room from what must be a dressing room behind it. “Aragorn! Legolas! You’ve come! Gandalf said you would!” Pippin’s high sweet voice with its endearing accent was full of hope, carrying light and life in the dark, suffocating room. Still clutching the face-towel he’d apparently gone to collect, the hobbit ran toward them.

“Pippin,” Aragorn greeted with a smile. He was surprised to note Pippin now wore the silver and black livery of one sworn to Gondor’s service. “I am glad you are here.”

“Thank goodness you’re here at last!” Pippin said with a half-voiced sob and embraced him quickly. In unthinking comfort, Aragorn dropped his hand to ruffle the hobbit’s unruly curls and strength immediately circled back to him through the touch.

There was something imperceptibly different about Pippin. He was taller, but Aragorn had noted that in their last meeting at Isengard. Hobbits were ever a source of life and ebullient optimism, bright and vital. But now, woven tightly through Pippin’s spirit, Aragorn sensed a deep current of calm, sure strength. A steadiness and confidence that had not been there before, as of a warrior who had been hard-tested. Pippin hurried to greet Legolas, then, his expression solemn, he turned back to Boromir. He climbed nimbly atop a bedside chest and lay the damp towel on Boromir’s forehead.

From the other side of the large, canopied bed, Faramir lifted red-rimmed eyes to regard the newcomers. He blinked and squinted as if only now aware of his surroundings and seemed not to have heard the exchanged greetings. Aragorn met the young man’s dazed eyes and found an exhaustion and anguish so profound that it must be near crippling. Faramir’s handsome face was deeply lined, stiff, disinterested, broken by grief. There was charcoal, or dirt, smudged about his brow and cheeks. His dim grey eyes lowered again to watch over his brother. There was a bandage wrapped carelessly about Faramir’s left hand and his clothing reeked of smoke. Suddenly Aragorn wondered where was Denethor? Strange that he would not be here for he greatly loved Boromir. But Aragorn, ready to marshal all his strength for Boromir’s sake, could not deny he was glad of not having to also find time to deal with the old Steward’s bitter anger and disdain.

“How long has he been like this?” Aragorn asked. “I had thought he was on the path to healing even as we set him on his journey with Gimli.”

“Two days,” Pippin said sadly. “Or at least, I think that’s right. Time’s all run together. But he was all right, truly. He rode Shadowfax out to see Faramir, and then he fought the Witch King, and –“

Aragorn’s head came up with a sharp snap and he stared at the hobbit. “Gimli told me so, but I could scarce credit it. The more so now that I see him. How?”

“He fought the Witch King.” It was Faramir who answered though he did not lift his head. Aragorn saw the barest trace of a proud smile ease the grief from the young man’s weary face. “Barely three days ago now. Fought and won.”

“But surely was gravely wounded?” Legolas asked.

“No, naught but scratches. “ Exhausted, Faramir said no more and returned to concentrating all his will on the hand that gripped his brother’s right. Pippin added, “There was much broken glass”

“What of the evil chill of the Nazgûl?” Legolas asked.

.Pippin shook his head and looked sadly down at Boromir. “Gandalf swore he had taken care of that and said it was gone. But he’s just gotten steadily worse. Boromir’s fought the fever so hard.” Pippin tugged at Aragorn’s sleeve and as he bent close whispered, “Denethor’s dead. He killed himself and nearly killed Boromir too.” Aragorn started in shock and met Legolas’ eyes to find equal dismay. Pippin continued whispering, blessedly beyond Faramir’s hearing. “He wouldn’t listen and kept saying it was hopeless, then he took Boromir to the pyre with him.”

“He what?” Shock drew the words before Aragorn could stop himself. He flicked a glance toward Faramir, saw the young man had lifted his eyes to them, and saw that he had guessed what they discussed.

“Pippin saved my brother,” Faramir’s voice was husky and hoarse with exhaustion and sorrow. “For which I will be forever grateful.”

Aragorn looked quickly to the young hobbit and saw a red flush stain his cheeks. “No,” Pippin said. “I only brought help.”

“More than that,” Faramir said. “And I thank you. Though perhaps we are yet too late.”

“No!” Pippin said. “He’ll be all right now.” He looked from Faramir’s despairing face, back to Aragorn and Legolas. “He will, won’t he? That is -- we got Boromir back safe enough. And, Aragorn, you can heal him, can’t you?”

“Peace, Pippin. I will do what I can.”

“I know you can do it,” Pippin insisted and he took up the wash cloth and began gently bathing Boromir’s pale brow.

The hobbit’s devotion and courage warmed Aragorn deeply, making him smile faintly. And he was very glad of that smile. Death and despair hung thick in the dimly lit, over-heated sick room. Dark red and gold brocade drapes were drawn tight over the window embrasure, shutting out any daylight. Fear and grief lay like a tangible presence, further thickening the stuffy air in the room. Tendrils of that hopelessness had reached for him, too, the moment he entered. An unnatural despair. There was something very wrong here. Had Denethor gone seeking answers from the palantir? Gandalf suspected as much. If The Steward had unleashed that evil --

“Sauron’s taint,” Legolas hissed softly, echoing Aragorn’s thought.

He nodded. “It increases the power of the fever. It has spread fast and cruel in Boromir’s blood. So far, so deep.” Aragorn stretched out his right hand, palm down-turned, and held it above Boromir’s brow a moment, testing that other presence. Here, yes, but rising from where? He turned and faced the shadows about the window embrasure. Something moved there, curdling, congealing the life essence of those present. He could almost see it.

Aragorn stepped swiftly forward, pulled hard at the heavy drapes and drew them back from the window. Bright daylight spilled into the room. The shadows seemed to cower and shift closer to the stone as if to sink into the wall and vanish. Aragorn would not allow its escape. He drew Anduril in a ringing of steel on leather and its bloodstained blade caught the light, harnessed it. Glowing gold, Anduril knifed toward the shadow, and Aragorn commanded, “Begone! Go back to your Master! Leave us!”

The Healer jumped like a man scalded. Even Faramir reacted, startled to his feet. Both stared at Aragorn as if they wondered for his sanity. Aragorn gave them a calm nod and resheathed the sword. “There was a shadow, Sauron’s agent. It is gone. Now -- pray that it can as easily be drawn away from Boromir’s heart!” He turned to his friend and said, “Legolas, I fear there is much of Sauron’s power holds Boromir’s fate in the balance. We need our own source of power to counter it.”

“Gandalf,” Legolas nodded. “I will find him.”

“My thanks. Tell him our need is most urgent.”

BREAK

“Beware, my son!” Finduilas repeated sharply.

At Boromir’s feet the green grass split, revealing tongues of fire. The ground erupted beneath him. He stumbled, overbalanced, forward, then back, catching himself only just short of falling into the fiery chasm. Cautiously, he took another pace back, then stared hard down into the flames, disbelieving. There he could glimpse the world from which he had only just escaped. Still it reached for him, seeking to draw him back to its torment. Glowing red with heat, it belched black smoke. But, as it drew level with the green meadow surface, it hissed and curled back upon itself.

“It cannot enter this place,” Finduilas said calmly. Boromir looked up, met her eyes, saw a deep sadness he had not noticed before. The chasm rent the landscape, reaching from one unseen horizon to the other, parting him irrevocably from his mother and her kinder world.

“What evil is this?” Boromir shouted in wordless frustration and took a pace to the side. The chasm curved unbroken and bottomless before him. He could plainly see and hear his mother but knew there was no hope of leaping to her side. The chasm wavered and shifted even as he watched, widening further. Despairing, he lifted his eyes to meet his mother’s gaze. There was a sudden bright flash of golden light. It cleaved the blue sky and knifed like a thunderbolt down to strike deep into the chasm. The fiery realm bellowed as if in pain and recoiled, narrowed enough that Boromir could almost reach across.

Finduilas smiled softly, just as he remembered, and reached a hand to caress his face. He blinked in surprise. She stood now close at his side, though the chasm still parted them both from the green world. Her sweet touch filled him with strength and renewed his hope. He lifted his own hand, and was overjoyed to feel his fingers close about hers.

“My beloved, son. My jewel,” Finduilas said, “This moment cannot last, for all that the King himself has gifted it to us. I must soon leave you.”

“No!” Boromir whispered, yet somehow he felt not despair, but resolution. There was fresh eagerness to return to battle singing in his blood, and at some instinctive level he knew what his mother sought to tell him even before the words came to him. Her eyes were so full of love and fierce pride. “My warrior. Yes. There is yet another battle you must fight -- and win. Your spirit cannot cross to join neither with mine, nor with those others who await you here. Not yet. This is not your time to die though Sauron would make it so – and would make it a living death. You must return to your mortal body if you are to save yourself and your comrades. You must return through the flames, drive back Sauron’s evil will. I see it within you, Boromir. Sauron’s foul poison seeks to claim your very heart.”

“The Ring?” Boromir gasped, dismay and horror shuddering through him. “This is penalty for --?”

“No!” Finduilas said, sharp and sure. “Your battle there was well won, at the last, my son. Fear not. That vile creation has been carried far from you.”

Boromir felt the truth of it. Profoundly relieved, he leaned his head in to her touch as her fingers cupped his jaw. Boromir sighed. “I would return to aid the White City. I feel Faramir’s call. Yet I remain trapped, as are my men.” He waved a hand in frustration. “No matter how we turn, the fire ensnares us, again and again! And, “ his voice dropped to a shamed whisper, “my strength ebbs. “

“You will prevail, as is ever your way, Boromir. Hope returns to you. The King, himself, will aid you now.”

“The King? Aragorn?”

“Yes. Your valour wins his love and loyalty. The enemy trembles before his wrath, and he will not be denied. With his aid, you must walk this last road and win your battle over Sauron’s demons. For it you do not --”

“If I fail?”

“Sauron seeks to trap you and the others in his snare for all time. He needs the strength and vitality of all the souls his poison brings to his spirit realm. Fight Boromir! Fight for all that have fallen prey. See!” She waved an arm and a vision appeared of the soldiers of Gondor and Rohan he had left to come here. All of them trapped in the fire and ash world that was even now reforming at Boromir’s back. “Lead them home, son. Lead them home.”

Chapter Twenty: Athelas and Blood.

The Healer moved away from his work and reached to pull the drapes back about the window. “What are you doing?” he snapped, his face flushed red. “Leave us, Ranger!”

Aragorn lifted his head, held the man’s eyes, and said softly, “I know what I do. And I need light to do it. Leave it.”

The Healer wavered. He let go his grip on the brocaded drapes.

“He’s not a Ranger!” Pippin said, indignant. “He’s --” Aragorn cleared his throat loudly, and Pippin subsided.

Aragorn forgot all else, his very essence concentration, as again he moved to Boromir’s side. His right hand lowered, the fingertips lightly resting on Boromir’s brow, between the closed eyes. The man’s flesh was painfully dry, burning hot, his life force frighteningly weak. It would be enough. The image of Boromir’s defiant strength had been forever seared into Aragorn’s mind at Amon Hen -- pierced by three arrows, the man had pushed himself to his feet to rejoin the battle. Beneath Aragorn’s fingertips lay the bright light fuelling that true warrior’s heart. It was weary, true, staggeringly weary; but as ever ready to re-enter the fray. Boromir knew not the word, surrender.

Smiling down at his stubborn friend, Aragorn said softly, “Boromir. I have come. You need no longer fight alone.”

With that, Aragorn’s right hand left Boromir’s pale, unmoving face to reach under the leather bracer on his left forearm. Faramir, hearing the words, and sensing the profound change in the room, lifted his head, watching with growing hope. Tearing off some of the bloodied athelas leaves, Aragorn put them in his mouth and chewed them to a paste. A sweet, keen fragrance pierced through the closed room.

“Athelas!” Pippin exclaimed. “Kingsfoil! You found some! We looked but there was only some dried and it didn’t help much.” Standing on his toes, he craned forward to watch. Aragorn chewed some more then leaned down until his mouth met Boromir’s. Aragorn’s left hand moved, the thumb and forefinger forcing apart Boromir’s lips. Carefully, Aragorn transferred the life-giving herb, mixed now with his own blood. Numenorean blood. He tilted Boromir’s head back, massaged the throat, and forced him to swallow.

Then, Aragorn straightened. He stood back half a step, then stilled, his eyes intent, fixed on Boromir’s face. Long moments stretched, tension and expectation building in all who watched. When there was no response from Boromir, not the least flicker of strength, Pippin could forebear no longer. “Aragorn?” he asked anxiously. “Did it work?”

“He wanders,” Aragorn sounded immensely weary. “The athelas will reach him soon, but it has far to go. The merest thread tethers his spirit and I fear only Faramir’s strength holds him now. Boromir is gone from this room, Pippin. Far from his friends.”

“That’s what Gandalf said,” Pippin told him.

“Gandalf has tended him?” Aragorn asked. “When?”

“After Denethor took him.” Pippin flicked a glance to Faramir and did not elaborate. “He said I was right, that it was more than the Witch King’s attack that had made Boromir ill again.”

Aragorn drew a sharp breath. “But Boromir survived the attack unscathed?”

“He did more than survive, he fought and won most valiantly.” It was Gandalf who spoke. They turned to see him enter the room.

“My friend,” Aragorn greeted with a smile. “I thank you for coming so quickly.”

“I was already on my way here when Legolas found me,” Gandalf said. “He remains with Gimli to aid --“ He hesitated and flicked a glance to Pippin. “-- others in need.”

Aragorn sighed and looked back to the brothers. “You believe there is some new evil at work here? There was a foul presence in this very room until Anduril drove it back into the shadows. “

“Here?” Gandalf frowned and hurried closer. “Then it has begun already, much sooner than I feared.” Aragorn gave him a puzzled glance. “I am sorry,” Gandalf said. “I did not come here only to deliver more riddles. I believe Sauron has somehow further poisoned Boromir and has perhaps trapped his spirit – and others, no doubt, in a realm created solely for that purpose – to draw power from disembodied souls. And also to permit entry to our world for the demons who travel that realm.”

Faramir lifted his head, proving he had been listening despite his fierce concentration. “I thought I had misheard him. But it makes sense now. Boromir said, Trapped. All trapped. Must help.” Faramir’s eyes were dark with fear. “If this is true, how can we hope to defeat the might of Sauron’s will and bring my brother home? And the others, for he will not leave them.”

“We must hold true,” Aragorn said into the ensuing grim silence. “Together we may yet prevail. If Boromir’s collapse was not the Witch King’s doing, then how was it done?”

“The enemy used my father as a weapon against my brother,” Faramir said sadly, his head bowed. “I know of no other who could have harmed him.”

“What about that evil man, that so-called Healer who nearly killed him the night he arrived here?” Pippin asked. “You remember him, Gandalf?”

“Indeed I do,” Gandalf said and there was a fire flashing in his eyes. “He dared my wrath to approach Boromir a second time. Yes, of course! The Witch King was sent to deliver this new poison to Haradna’s hands shortly before Boromir and I were attacked. Pippin, do you remember if that foul man touched Boromir at all after the Nazgul left?”

“Yes! He said he was trying to stop the bleeding from cuts from the broken glass.”

“Where exactly?” Aragorn and Gandalf asked with simultaneous urgency.

“I –I’m not sure. On his back, somewhere.”

“Help me, Faramir,” Aragorn said. Together they carefully rolled Boromir onto his right side. Aragorn cut through the linen nightshirt and aided Gandalf in a careful search of the wounded man’s back. They found nothing more than faintly healed over scratches and scars from other much older wounds.

Faramir shook his head in frustration and sat back to take up Boromir’s hand again. “Maybe it was not delivered by touch.”

“He was here in this room only last night,” Pippin said coldly. “Denethor called for him. He could have done anything, put it in the water. Denethor would not let me stay to keep guard.”

Aragorn flicked a glance at the hobbit to see tears filming his bright eyes. “Do not fear,” he said softly, “We will find a way. I will call him back to us. I swear it.” Again, Aragorn bent back to Boromir, both hands coming up now to clasp the man’s shoulders. He shook him a little. “It is a fearsome, lonely road you walk, my friend. Heed me now. I command you, Boromir. Return! It is time to come home!”

SCENE BREAK

“It is time to come home!”

Finduilas heard it, too. “Your king commands, Boromir. Go, my son. Fight! He will aid you. And Faramir stands with him.”

Boromir nodded. “I will.” He remained unmoving a moment longer, his eyes intent, holding his mother’s gaze. “My love, mother. Always.”

She smiled. “I will see you again. When it is time. My love, son. To you and your brother. I knew Faramir such a short while, too short. Give him this from me.” She leaned closer and touched her lips to Boromir’s brow.

She vanished. The blue sky, the green land, was gone with her. Smoke and heat filled the void. But now there was a new element. Aragorn’s command thrummed in the hot, shimmering air. Boromir turned toward it, hearing again, the fierce entreaty, “Boromir, I command you, return!”

Flames suddenly roared high and fierce, and from their depths emerged a terrible demon, made all of fire and burning, molten stone. Bulkier, bigger than a towering cave troll, it loomed over Boromir and the men ranked at his back. To Boromir it seemed the Balrog had returned. The sheer ferocity of its blazing roar forced him back, its heat searing his unshielded face and hands. He threw up his right arm to protect his eyes, and the White Tree of Gondor flashed silver and gold. Etched in the leather bracers it caught the firelight and reflected it, throwing it fiercely back at the demon. The monster wavered, pierced by the reflected light. But only for a moment. With another deafening roar, it advanced on Boromir and his troops, bringing with it a conflagration of sparks that sprouted new smaller demons.

“For Gondor! For King Elessar!” Boromir bellowed. “Charge!” He ran forward, defying the flames, trying somehow to unbalance the creature and send it toppling into the chasm that curved beyond. Its heat was unbearable, agonising, licking at him, devouring him. His hands would be charred to the bone in an instant should he attempt to grapple with the thing. How could he fight a formless foe? A creature composed of naught but fire?

Then, as if in answer thunder roared above and rain pelted down creating a sweet herbal scent. It hissed and steamed, spitting and dancing on the molten, glowing monster’s red-black skin. The creature screamed in pain and staggered back. Boromir tilted his head back, opened his parched mouth, and let the rainwater pour down his throat. It ran over his face and hands, erasing the blisters and healing, burned, raw flesh. It was an elixir of life, flooding his veins with its refreshing, revitalising power and might. “Charge!” he repeated. If they could drive the thing and its smaller fellows just a little further toward the chasm...

Then, he saw it, and heard his men’s responding cry of despair. The creature had reformed, torn itself in half. In its wake stood rank upon rank of cave-troll like demons, each emanating a deadly chill, their flesh gleaming blue-white ice. The rain solidified as it touched them, harmless, adding to their bulky threat. Now, rather than feel he would burn to death, Boromir shuddered as the things’ icy breath rolled over him. He hugged his arms about himself, seeking desperately for warmth, retreating step by step. And as he watched, huddled over, the monstrous army advanced like a glacier set to crush and freeze them all beneath its unbearable weight.

Should Boromir and the others avoid that advance, the fiery chasm waited, circling behind them, creeping closer. They were trapped between fire and ice. Only weapons would save them now. They needed swords to hack at the ice, outflank the enemy, drive them to the flames. “A sword!” Boromir shouted in pure frustration. “I need my sword!”

SCENE Break

“Fight!” Aragorn commanded. “Drive back the poison! Fight, Boromir!”

Watching, Faramir was transfixed, awed by the power emanating from this ragged, battle-filthy Ranger who was so much more. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” Faramir, whispered, “And the hands of the King shall bring healing.”

Aragorn was unaware, lost to his deep battle. His hands clasped either side of Boromir’s head, holding him hard. Then, suddenly, Aragorn stepped back and shook his head, fury burning in his eyes. “It holds him! It changes.” He bent and with one angry heave threw the coverlets back on to the floor at the foot of the bed. They had removed the nightshirt during the futile search for a sign of Haradna’s poisoning and Boromir was clothed now only in loin-cloth; his chest swathed in broad white strips of bandaging. Aragorn reached to his belt and withdrew a small knife from its sheath.

Alarmed, the healer stepped forward. Faramir took him by the arm, said, “Let him be, Rarned. I see what he intends. Wait.”

Aragorn’s blade slid swift and smooth beneath the bandaging, sliced upward, breaking the bands. His left hand tore the stained cloth free, threw it away, atop the coverlets. All three wounds were bared -- shoulder, side, chest. Aragorn’s hand returned to the leather bracers, removed more bloodied athelas. He chewed the leaves, and again the scent renewed all in the room. Faramir was sure colour was slowly returning to his brother’s face. Still, he had not drawn a visible breath in all this time. How much longer could he endure? Desperate, anxious, Faramir watched as Aragorn hands took the athelas paste and drove it forcefully into the open wounds. Boromir’s body trembled and shuddered so violently that it seemed he would topple from the bed. Faramir steadied him on one side, Gandalf and Pippin the other. Rarned merely stood staring, aghast and afraid. At last Boromir drew a gasping breath. Then he fell back to the bed, as still as ever, barely breathing.

Aragorn’s wild eyes swept all in the room. “He hears me and answers. Yet he battles a mighty foe. He needs our aid. He needs us all!”

“What... what can we do?” Faramir asked.

“Speak. Touch. Take his hand, call him back,” Gandalf said and Faramir nodded and obeyed, taking up his brother’s hand once more. He blinked in shock, it was ice cold. Boromir’s face was beaded with sweat, burning high with fever, furrowed now as he fought the unseen enemy. Yet his limbs were so cold, so impossibly chilled. Like the touch of death, itself.

Golden light suddenly bathed Boromir’s face and Faramir looked up in surprise. Framed by the window, the white tower gleamed, its walls gilded by the sunset light that emerged at last free of Mordor’s murk, far to the west.

“The poison devours, burns through him. Raw as flame, here...” Aragorn touched the flat of his palm to Boromir’s brow. “And here.” The hand moved to rest over the back of Boromir’s head. “Strange.” He ran his hand through Boromir’s hair and lifted it away from the nape of the neck. He hissed suddenly and pulled his hand back as if he’d touched raw flame. “There! That is where he was poisoned.”

Faramir craned forward as did Gandalf and could plainly see a livid red and weeping wound, small but raw and terribly inflamed. Aragorn took more of the athelas from inside the forearm guard and began lifting it to his mouth. But Gandalf suddenly grasped his wrist, said, “Wait. Where did you find this athelas?”

Rarned, thinking the question relevant to him, dared speak up. “We have used dried athelas on the other wounded. It did not help them.”

“What does it matter?” Aragorn said. “It is fresh and may –“

“This is different to any other athelas. Most different and much more potent, I suspect,” Gandalf said. “Look closely.”

“It is covered in your blood, Aragorn!” Pippin said, awed as he caught the Wizard’s meaning.

Aragorn stared. “You believe my blood will –“

“Yes. It is his only hope.”

Aragorn bent to pack it tightly into the newly discovered wound. Boromir gasped and groaned then returned once more to his fevered sleep.

“Will it work?” Pippin asked breathlessly.

“We can only hope,” Gandalf said. “But yes, I believe there is a good chance.” He smiled and repeated, “A good chance, now that we have found the source of the poison.”

Pippin smiled but Aragorn did not relax. He remained frowning down at his friend. “The fever yet burns high. Such fierce heat may consume him before the athelas can do its work. And now –“ again he lay his hands to the man’s body, “Fire is joined by ice, and spreads from his wounds. It holds him back from us.” Aragorn turned to meet Rarned’s bewildered and frightened gaze. A kindly smile touched Aragorn’s lips and took the sharp edge from his commanding presence. “You have done well,” he told the Healer. “Done well to keep him fighting all these long hours.”

Rarned nodded, unsure. “But the fever... if it grows still higher -- he cannot last.”

“He must. He will.” Aragorn looked back to Boromir. He touched the man’s wounded side and frowned. Touched the limp right arm. Then he moved to the foot of the bed and grasped both bare feet. “Fire. And ice. They battle against him in union.” Again, his blue eyes flashed up to meet the healer’s gaze. “Be swift, now. We must draw the fire away from his head, draw its warmth down into his limbs.”

Rarned nodded. This was something he could do, something he could understand. “There are bricks warming by the hearth. I will wrap them.”

Aragorn nodded approval. “Faramir,” he said, “Call him.” He looked down to the hobbit watching keenly from close by. “Pippin. He needs you, also. Take his left hand.” The hobbit scrambled closer, almost tripping on the tangled covers in his haste. He climbed up onto the bed, and sat to take Boromir’s hand in both his and hold it warmly to his chest.

“How did you know of Boromir’s peril?” Gandalf asked suddenly.

Aragorn glanced up at him distractedly but knew better than to doubt that his friend had good reason for the question. “A vision. Brought to me by the White Tree engraved on these.” He lifted his leather clad arm slightly.

“The White Tree,” Gandalf murmured. “Yes, a most potent talisman. It links us all, both here and in the spirit world.” He closed his eyes and concentrated, his white staff clasped in both hands.

“He needs a weapon!” Faramir declared, startling himself. “Boromir needs his sword! I hear him call for it!”

Aragorn cast him a keen glance. Then, swiftly, he reached out a long arm and collected Boromir’s scabbarded sword from where it leaned against the wall beside the bed. He drew it ringing from its sheath and it caught the golden light that bathed the white tower in the dying day. Faramir let go Boromir’s right hand, and lay it back to the bed. Aragorn thrust the sword hilt into the man’s unmoving fist and Faramir closed his own two hands above it, holding it in place, bending the man’s fingers about the hilt.

“Now, together!” Aragorn commanded. “We bring him back!”

SCENE BREAK

“Boromir!”

The voice came from behind him, on the far side of the fiery chasm. Turning, squinting, his eyes running tears against both chill and smoke, Boromir blinked disbelief. Aragorn stood framed by gold-red flames, beckoning to him, the chasm fierce and wide, a murky shadow between them. And Faramir called too, standing at Aragorn’s left. A smaller figure at his right -- Pippin? Boromir gathered his courage, dared to step closer to the belching flames, and cried out with the agony of it. His face burned yet his limbs were an agony of cold as the ice-creatures swept closer. Surely both fire and ice would engulf and destroy he and his men long before they could find a way to cross the chasm? Agony clawed at his frozen limbs and forced him to stumble. He gasped, and swallowed smoke, choked. Desperately, he tilted back his head, hoping against hope to find some clean air. And, miraculously, something fresh, that same herbal essence, blessedly cool, reached him. Its taste was the sweetest of nourishment, full of strength and vigour.

The ice creatures had followed after Boromir and were melting, spitting a rain of blessedly cool water. Then, beyond Aragorn, Boromir caught a vision, so pure, so sweet it caught his heart -- Minas Tirith’s White tower gleaming gold flame against Mindolluin’s searing cold mantle of blue-white ice, and beneath it The White Tree in full bloom. Boromir swallowed, and it was as if Mindolluin’s snow entered his blood, cooling, quenching the flames in his head. Water, and more, much more was carried with the gift Aragorn sent him in his need. Warmth renewed his near frozen hands and feet. Across the wall of fire, Boromir could see Aragorn, arm outstretched, reaching to him with something -- a sword, held hilt first. “Yes!” Boromir nodded, eagerly.

Aragorn threw hard and high, and the blade caught the firelight as it arced above the flames. It came swooping down to slap hilt first into Boromir’s outstretched hand. The white tree of Gondor, engraved on his forearm braces, again greeted him as he gazed down at his sword. Disbelieving and elated all at once, the realisation came to him. It was the White tree that linked them, he and Aragorn. He -- and Faramir -- linked forever to the King.

The power of Gondor, all its generations, all its blood, all its hope and love, met in that link, flooding Boromir with an overwhelming tide of warmth and life. He smiled broadly, rejoicing at the feel of it. Mighty energy coursed into his heart and through his limbs, refueling his mind, his will. Laughing, he threw back his head, then charged, sword drawn and sweeping down to cut through the ranks of ice. The creatures shattered before the blade’s molten power, crystalline chunks falling into the fiery chasm. Clouds of steam issued forth, hissing, forming a cooling fog. Boromir’s sword chased each down, driving on and through both ice and flame. And, with one long loud wail of rage, Sauron’s demon-world evaporated. Vanished, as if it had never been. In its place materialised the wonderfully revitalizing green world.

Suddenly, Boromir was again standing under the glowing White Tree but this time he was encircled by his comrades, all of them cheering and laughing, slapping him on the back and congratulating him. Gondor’s Captain-General had led them home.

The beauty of the radiant light began to fade and the green hills blurred. Boromir could feel himself being drawn back to his own world at last. Home to Faramir. Home to his friends, his people, his city. Home to Gondor. He did not fight the sensation, but smiled and closed his eyes. It would be good to sleep a while, safe in the knowledge that the men of his command too were going home. Where their king waited and hope was renewed.

Chapter Twenty One: Homecoming.

Illustration by kim Kincaid

Busy with their battle of willpower and concentration, none in the room noticed as Rarned moved to pack Boromir’s feet with the wrapped, warm bricks. There were more, but as he looked up, he doubted they would be needed for the man’s hands. Each was held tight in those of a friend or brother. Even Boromir’s head was protected, held tight by the strange ranger Faramir had named king. Wonders would never cease. Then, he heard it -- Boromir drew a gulping full breath that eased into steady, even breathing. The fever was overcome! Smiling, Rarned bent to collect the coverlets. He doubted the Steward’s son -- no, he frowned, -- The Steward himself, now -- would want to wake to find himself spread near naked before them all. And it wouldn’t do for him to be chilled after such heat had near consumed him.

A hand squeezed Rarned’s shoulder, and he looked up, moved near to tears by the depth of gratitude he met in the ranger’s -- Aragorn’s -- eyes. “My thanks. You held him for us all the long days and have also cared for our other wounded. Here, let me do that.” Taking the covers from his hand, the stranger drew them warmly about Boromir, his head bent low over the man, and a smile on his lips.

There was a loud creak and a faint draft of cooler air as the heavy oak door opened. Rarned blinked, noting the Elf had returned, and at his side stood a short hirsute person with the most amazing red beard. A Dwarf.

“Gimli!” Pippin cried and ran to be enfolded in his friend’s embrace. “I’m glad you’re safe!”

“Thank you, Pippin. Boromir?” Gimli lifted his head over Pippin’s shoulder to regard Aragorn worriedly. “Legolas said –“

“It was bad.” Aragorn sighed then gave a weary but happy smile. “But Boromir is not one to surrender. He fought as valiantly as ever, and now sleeps the sleep of one who will heal.”

“Yes!” Gimli lifted a fist in triumph. "I’m glad to find all that boat handling was not for naught."

Aragorn snorted amusement. "Indeed! And I thank you Gimli you did well to care for him so long in such harsh surrounds."

Gimli and Legolas moved to stand about the bed, smiling and shaking Aragorn’s arm by way of congratulations. But as Gimli stood on tiptoe to catch his first sight of his wounded friend’s face, his smile faded. “He looks so very pale. And thin. Much worse than when I saw him last. Worse even than he looked at Amon Hen.”

“He will soon be well,” Gandalf assured and cleared his throat and tilted his head toward Faramir to let Gimli know he should not increase the man’s anxiety for his brother any further. “If we don’t exhaust him by all wishing to be present when he wakes. This room is far too full for a sick man to handle. Come, Gimli, what news of Merry?”

“Merry?” Pippin looked up at them with mild distraction. “But you know, Gandalf, Merry’s safe in Edoras.”

“Umm,” Gimli rumbled. “Now don’t be alarmed Pippin, but, no he’s not.”

“You found him?” Aragorn asked. “He is well?”

“No, we –“ Legolas got no further before Pippin’s repeated, plaintive, "What about Merry?" interrupted. "What do you mean he’s not at Edoras?"

"Ahh, well." Gimli said, his thick, heavy brows drawing down further in a frown. "I was hoping by some chance Merry may have found his way here, into the city. You seem to draw him to you, Pippin. But --"

"What? Merry’s here!" Pippin near squeaked with excitement. "In Minas Tirith?"

"Well, yes. Somewhere close by at least.” Gimli suddenly looked so grim that Pippin’s eager smile winked out as if it had never been. "The Lord Eomer of Rohan tells us Merry rode into battle with his sister, the Lady Eowyn. She was wounded, you see, and asking for Merry. It appears he may have saved her life, but then he was swept away again in battle."

All the colour drained from Pippin’s face and he swayed on his feet. Faramir steadied him with a hand to his shoulder. "Merry was out -- there? In the battle?" Pippin sounded as if he might throw up.

"Aye." Gimli answered. "Do not fear, lad, by Eowyn’s account he was fighting fit when she saw him last. And that was very close to the end of the battle. "

"We must find him!" Pippin moved toward the door.

"Yes," Gimli agreed. "And you’re more likely to manage it than all of us together, I’ll wager. "

"I’ll come with you, " Gandalf put in.

“I hope all will be well with your friend, Pippin,” Faramir called and the hobbit turned and nodded gratefully.

“Send word as soon as you find him,” Aragorn added.

And with that the four friends left the room, which suddenly seemed much larger and quieter.

"I hope he’s all right," Faramir said. "And the lady."

Aragorn met Faramir’s eyes. They both knew the kind of horrors the hobbit would have seen in such a battle. He turned and met Rarned’s gaze. “The Lord Boromir is safe, now, and your skills will be greatly in demand.”

Rarned nodded. “I will return to the Houses of Healing. There will be many wounded – The Lady among them. My lord? You called Captain Boromir back from the very brink of death. Might I ask that you --?

Aragorn nodded wearily ”Of course, I will be there shortly, and will give what aid I can to the wounded.” Rarned offered his thanks, collected his basket of herbs and salves, and left the room. Aragorn turned with a tired smile to Faramir. “I am pleased to meet you at last, Faramir,” he said. “Boromir spoke of you often.”

Faramir smiled and looked fondly down at his brother. “You may need to take what he says about me with a grain of salt. He tends to exaggerate when he speaks of my supposed scholarly abilities.”

“Perhaps,” Aragorn said softly. “For it is apparent that he loves you greatly. Yet, I see nothing that contradicts his telling. And he reserved highest praise, as only Boromir would – for things of a military nature.” Faramir snorted amusement but was stilled by the steady regard as he met Aragorn’s gaze. “I congratulate you, Faramir. I was much later than I would have preferred joining the battle. I am amazed and greatly impressed to see that you held all but the lowest levels of the city against such -- such overwhelming numbers.”

Faramir flushed and looked back at his sleeping brother. “I had much help. Gandalf’s plans and assistance were invaluable.” He bent to pull up the blanket then winced as his bandaged hand hurt him.

“You are injured?”

“Nothing. A minor burn.”

Aragorn came round the bed and held out his hand in silent request to examine the wound. “Humour me. I wanted to be a Healer. And if I don’t’ find something to do while I wait for your brother to wake, I swear I will fall asleep where I stand.” He forestalled Faramir’s suggestion that he do just that by adding, “And you look even more weary. Here, let me unravel this bandage for you. It looks to be too tight.”

Faramir nodded and frowned down at it. “It does seem tighter than it was. But –“ He lifted his eyes to Aragorn as the man began unravelling the linen folds. “I have been holding Boromir’s hand so tightly that I won’t be surprised if it is somewhat swollen.” He paused, swallowed hard, and confessed, “I was so afraid. So afraid I would lose him, too.” The memory of his father’s death brought a choked sob that he hid by pretending it was his hand that hurt him.

“I am so sorry about your father,” Aragorn said and lay his free hand to Faramir’s shoulder. Faramir nodded but said nothing further, watching as Aragorn uncovered the wound. Aragorn hissed a sympathetic breath. “This must be very painful. It has been rubbed raw by your vigil.”

“I never noticed it until now,” Faramir said truthfully.

“It is bleeding.” Aragorn sighed heavily. “Burns can easily become infected. I suppose our good Healer Rarned took all his salves with him?”

Faramir looked to the table by the window and nodded ruefully. “So it seems.”

Aragorn met his gaze and offered a smile. “It so happens I have some more athelas stuffed in my arm guard. It is making me itch. I’ll be glad to –“

“No, please,” Faramir said. “Save it for Boromir.”

Aragorn held his eyes so long that Faramir became discomfited and looked away. “I can find more should he need it. There was an entire field of it out there. I will not see you in pain – nor crippled by infection. Sit down, please.”

Faramir looked back into his eyes and surrendered with a smile. “As you wish, but I must say this is not what I imagined all these years of my first meeting with Gondor’s King.”

Aragorn smiled. “You imagined such! You believed it would happen in your lifetime?”

“Always,” Faramir said steadily, and it was Aragorn’s turn to feel discomfited by the solemn and admiring regard. Faramir frowned suddenly as his gaze drifted down to the vambraces Aragorn wore and from beneath which he drew more athelas. “Those armguards –“ Faramir said. “I would swear – But, yes, of course they are. Gimli told me!”

“Gimli told you?” Aragorn was puzzled for a moment. Then taking in Faramir’s expression as he continued to stare at the vambraces, he realized. “Yes, these are Boromir’s. I was most honoured that he allowed me their use.” Aragorn reverently traced a finger over the white tree emblem. “The past days since Amon Hen have been severely testing. This reminder of my oath, both to Gondor and more personally to Boromir --“ Again he lifted his eyes to share the emotion within with Faramir. “It meant everything to me when hope seemed lost. Your brother showed me what unfailing courage and love can achieve.”

Faramir nodded and turned slightly to smile at Boromir. “Yes, he’s like that.”

SCENE BREAK

As awareness returned for Boromir there was a sense of heaviness and dull aching with sharper pain whenever he tried to move or draw a deep breath. Echoing sounds. Voices? Something, someone gripping his hand tightly. He was in bed, very comfortable with his feet wonderfully warmed. Overwhelming fatigue tempted him to allow sleep to wash over him again. Instead, he blinked, squinted and forced his eyes open. Everything was a blur. Someone was leaning close over him saying, “Boromir? Can you hear me?”

“Aragorn?” Boromir said, or rather tried to say. It was nothing more than a garbled croak. But surely Aragorn couldn’t be here, at his bedside in -- Minas Tirith? He thought that was right. His memory was as uncertain as everything else. Then it all returned in a flash of jumbled and confusing images. “My king!” Boromir said, starting awake as one answering a command. But where were his men? Had he truly left them celebrating victory beneath The White Tree? Or would there be yet more enemy charging across a field of fiery battle?

“Be easy, Boromir,” Aragorn said, bending closer to welcome him with a smile. “The battle is won. And was well fought.” He straightened the covers, and stood back, still smiling. Then he took Boromir’s right arm, gripping it as one soldier to another. “Well fought indeed.”

Boromir returned the grip as best he could, and found himself looking up again into Aragorn’s keen blue eyes. But, unlike his last memory of looking into those eyes he felt no pain, no fear for his friends, and there was no anxiety in Aragorn’s face, just a profound, but happy, weariness. “What? Where?”

“You do not remember?”

“I’m not … sure.” Boromir said hoarsely. He swallowed against a dry throat and tried to steady his gaze on Aragorn’s face but it kept swimming in and out of view. He felt impossibly tired and weak. He admitted with puzzlement, “Demons, fire, ice – a White Tree.” He shook his head tiredly but it only made the dizziness worse. “A fever dream?”

“I fear not,” Aragorn said gravely and gently lay Boromir’s arm back at his side. “Sauron held your spirit and others’ trapped in a realm of his own making.”

Boromir could for the moment only blink and squint in disbelief though the room and his friend remained a hazy blur. Then, slowly he nodded. “We were lost… in a terrible desert.” He licked at his dry lips as the memory of that crushing heat and thirst returned. “Sauron drew us there?” Aragorn nodded and Boromir’s right hand clenched into an angry fist. He started a little in surprise as he found his fingers rested on his sword hilt. The weapon lay at his side on the bed. He frowned down at it in utter bewilderment.

“You called for it,” Aragorn said with deceptive mildness. “Here, let me take it.” He eased it out from beneath Boromir’s grasp and gave him a wry smile as he said, “Let us hope you never have need for it again while you lie abed. You are very weary, Boromir. I will leave you to sleep and will speak at length when you have regained your strength.”

“I remember more of it now,” Boromir said wonderingly. He closed his eyes as the room began to spin slowly about him. “We won. Sauron’s place of torment is destroyed.” He heard the sound as Aragorn slid the sword home in its scabbard and replaced it by the wall.

Boromir’s confusion gave way to a delighted grin. “I knew you’d come!” As Aragorn turned back to the bed, Boromir tried to lift his arm but it was impossibly heavy. He frowned down at it, but Aragorn had seen his intent and moved closer to bend and take his hand in a double-handed grip. “Rest now,” he urged.

“Here, you must be thirsty.” Faramir held a cup of water to his sore lips and he drank eagerly, the liquid wonderfully soothing.

“Faramir?” Eased by the water, his voice was stronger. But his vision was still uncertain and wavering.

“I’m here, brother. I’m here,” Faramir said and there were tears thick in his voice. His face swam, then settled into clear view. Boromir frowned. Never had he seen his brother looking so haggard. Faramir’s eyes were red-rimmed and dull with exhaustion, his face lined, smudged with dirt and unshaven.

“What’s wrong?” Boromir said. “You look terrible.”

Faramir spluttered, “You should see yourself.” It was said with an attempt at wry humour but it only made Boromir all the more aware of a deeper grief shadowing his brother’s eyes. “It is not I who was several times wounded,” Faramir continued with mock scolding. “And further hurt when he would not stay abed.”

“Naught but scratches.” Boromir found that even saying so little was making him breathless.

“One of those scratches gave us some bad moments,” Aragorn said heavily, “Very bad.”

“It did?” Boromir turned his head, just a little, but flinched as pain burned through his neck and made his vision blur again.

“And it appears, the pain will be a little longer yet in leaving you completely.”

Faramir fed him some more water and Boromir made a determined effort to focus on Aragorn who sat with a barely suppressed groan of relief in the armchair by the bed. “You look as if you haven’t slept in a week,” Boromir said.

“Something like that,” Aragorn gave an amused but weary smile. There was black blood smeared over his leather coat. Orc blood.

That reminded Boromir and he tried to push himself up in the bed, but it was beyond his strength. He grunted with strain, then lay back. “How long has it been? Are the city defences ready?”

Aragorn nodded. “The White City was most bravely defended.”

“I’m afraid you missed the battle, brother,” Faramir said. “It’s over.”

“The battle is over? All is well?”

“All is as well as can be after such a day of bloody battle,” Aragorn said gravely but Boromir did not look away from his brother’s face, seeing a shadow of deep grief cloud his eyes. “The victory is ours, yet there are those lost that we will mourn. For now it is enough that you are not among them!”

“Minas Tirith came under fierce attack,” Faramir added, “her outer gates are gone, and the first and second levels were breached. But we held.”

“Held and won most valiantly.” Aragorn said and Boromir’s head swam dizzily as looked from brother to friend. “I leave him in your care, Faramir. Be sure he rests, and take some rest yourself as well. I must go to Gandalf.” He stood and turned to the door.

“I will rest when my king rests,” Faramir said. Aragorn’s eyes widened with surprise and pleasure and he smiled and nodded before turning away again.

“Wait!” Boromir called. “What? How – did you --?”

Aragorn looked back over his shoulder. “Rest. The questions can wait.”

“There is one that will not.” Boromir was pleased to hear some strength return to give his voice its familiar commanding growl. Aragorn cocked an eyebrow and stood patiently as he found breath to continue. “I was poisoned by The Witch King?”

“Worse. He brought the poison here, but it was of Sauron’s making.”

“You nearly died.” Faramir only just managed to say it without quavering.

“I did?” Boromir stared in sheer astonishment. Dizziness washed over him once more and he muttered a curse. “How could Sauron reach me? The Witch King’s mace?”

“That was our first thought, but no, that monstrous weapon hardly needs poison to make it deadly. The enemy believed – as would most – that three arrows would be enough to keep you down. None could imagine you would so soon return to the fight – and against so formidable an enemy. Sauron planned to poison you where you lay abed. His Nazgûl successfully delivered the potion to a spy.”

“Spy? But –“

Aragorn shook his head. “I have answered your one question. Now, believe me when I say you must rest. ” Aragorn gave Faramir a look that implied he’d have his work cut out for him. Then he left the room, pulling the doors closed at his back.

. Boromir tried to lift his left arm, winced, and reached instead with his right to grasp his brother’s tunic. He tugged and as Faramir leaned down, kissed him on the brow. Then, breathless, he collapsed back to the pillows.

Faramir stared at him, smiling surprise. “What was that for?”

“You kept me alive. Thank you.” Boromir held his brother’s gaze intently, feeling the joy of the memory flood through him. “But the kiss is from one who loves you even more than I. Faramir, I see her still, clear and sure. Our mother came to me in that other world – the world of the White Tree.” Faramir gasped and stared at him wonderingly. “She asked that I tell you that she loves you and give you her kiss.”

That erased Faramir’s ability to utter anything of further coherence. He stared a moment, then collapsed into the chair and hid his face in his hands, sobbing. Then he leaned close and threw his right arm around Boromir’s chest and hugged him as he lay his head to Boromir’s shoulder. Boromir could feel silent weeping racking his brother’s body. Awkwardly he patted his back. And then he realized, “Where is father?”

“He is dead,” Faramir said, sitting up to meet Boromir’s eyes with shared sorrow. “I tried to save him, Boromir. I swear it.”

“I know you would,” Boromir nodded, unable to say more as he recalled his last image of his father’s face. He shuddered anew at memory of the madness he had found there. He had to know. “How did he die?”

“By his own hand. And he tried to take you with him.” Faramir looked away from him quickly. “Later, I will tell you it all. But ask it not of me yet, brother, I beg you. Neither of us has the strength for it.”

Boromir stared at him in horror, tears gleaming in his eyes. “But our city is safe?”

“Yes. She held. With Rohan, and others’ help, we have a great victory.” Faramir would say no more, his head lowered, his fists clenched in the coverlet at his brother’s side. “It is Sauron who must answer for our father’s death! He drove him to madness with the cruelty of visions in the palantir.” There was a sharpness to his tone that Boromir had not heard before.

“It is true, then? Our father had found one of the Seeing Stones?”

“Gandalf thinks so, and I am certain though I know not where it is.”

There was a long silence, then Faramir drew a deep breath, sighed and looked back at Boromir with a shaky smile. “My first order from our King was to be sure to see that you rest. I fear I am not obeying very well. ”

Boromir grunted. “I will happily sleep, but only if you also take rest. “

“I will rest here in the chair again.” Faramir held up a hand as Boromir opened his mouth to protest. “Someone almost succeeded in murdering you, brother. It will not happen again. Until we know more, you will not be left alone. That too, is Aragorn’s order.” He smiled as Boromir’s beginning scowl faded. “But before you sleep, you must eat some soup at least. You are as white as snow.”

Boromir groaned. “So I am back to eating soup?”

“Not if you think you could eat something else?”

“No,” Boromir gave him a wry smile. “Soup would be best for now.”

“Hot soup, it is then. Chicken soup.” There was a wonderfully heart-warming gleam of mischief in Faramir’s eyes as he stood and looked down at his brother. “Then you will sleep though I will be merciful and will not tax you as you did me with appalling drinking songs thinly disguised as poems.”

Boromir chuckled, watching as his brother went to the door to summon the guard. Suddenly he felt much more hopeful for the future. Minas Tirith had survived, he had survived, and Aragorn was here at last. He leaned heavily back into the pillows, easing his aching shoulder, and closed his eyes.

Not much later several servants arrived bearing trays holding hot meals for both he and Faramir. There was an unusual amount of and bowing and scraping before Faramir could convince them to leave. And the realisation hit Boromir like cold water – he was Steward now. And he had made a promise to himself many years ago about exactly what he’d do when or if he lived to see this circumstance.

“They were rather formal considering they delivered little more than soup,” Faramir said as he placed the tray across Boromir’s lap.

“Yes,” Boromir said slowly. “Faramir, there’s something I have to ask you. I need your opinion before I put it to Aragorn.”

SCENE BREAK

Darkness fell at last to mask some of the ugliness of death that lay strewn all about the Pelennor. Yet it brought nothing but increased despair to the smallest of those who searched hopefully among broken and bloodied bodies of Men and beasts. “Merry!”

Pippin called again. His throat was hoarse with having called for what must be hours. He clutched Merry’s cloak tighter to his chest and fought the urge to weep. That would help no one. He must be here somewhere! Pippin’s stomach lurched with despair as he realized he could not judge whether or not he had already searched this area earlier in the day. Gimli and the others searched too, but there was so much, so many dead. Pippin forced to the back of his mind the persistent voice that tried to tell him Merry must be dead too. Why else had he not answered? Pippin snarled and said aloud, “Because he’s just lost or hurt. Illustration courtesy of The Theban Band

He’s not dead! He’s not! He can’t be!” His voice broke to a sob and he fell to his knees.

Then, he saw it. A small, hairy hobbit foot, sticking out from beneath an enemy carcass. “Merry!” He raced to his friend’s aid and grunted as he fought to push aside the heavy body. Beneath it Merry lay face down, as still as death. “Merry, please –“ it was only a whisper of sheer terror. “Please.” Pippin bent and gently rolled his friend over and into the cradle of his arms. “Pippin?” Merry said weakly. “Are you going to leave me?”

“No, Merry! I’m going to look after you!” Pippin covered him warmly.