The sense of disquiet grew in Faramir during the council. Dressed as he was in his formal black tunic of rich silver embroidery, he felt as if the walls of the great hall were closing in and that his garb was choking the breath out of him.

“Our spies say that the Easterlings and the Corsairs are planning another attack. It is a force of a few thousand men heading towards the southern part of the Anduin. They plan to attack the villages further downstream – no doubt hoping to loot and destroy the villages that escaped their attention the last time,” said Boromir.

The council and the Captains of Gondor had gathered around a large table in the Hall. A large map was laid out on the table, which was used heavily by Boromir to explain his strategy. Lord Denethor stood facing away from the table, his brow heavy in deep thought.

The villagers are to be moved out. The soldiers will lie in wait in the villages for the raiding party. And since the villages are flanked by low-lying hills covered with thick forests, Faramir’s rangers will be needed to harry the enemy into a ready trap.

“My men are few, Boromir,” he cautioned. He saw his brother frown heavily, frustration shining in his eyes. Lord Denethor, meanwhile, shifted his gaze ever so slightly to his younger son. The grey eyes were sharp disapproval. As always. Faramir swallowed and returned his gaze to the map instead

“I will not ask you to withdraw too many men from Ithilien, Faramir. What I need are good archers who will push the enemy into the trap we have planned. Around twenty at most.”

Faramir felt the disquiet turn into panic. I need those men to protect Endh Aes! The thought was so startling because it had never occurred that he should protect the farmlands before. And every soldier in the Gondorian army knew that Endh Aes was impenetrable – it was far from the Anduin and isolated from the routes used by the enemy – orcs, Haradrim or Easterlings. It was the most peaceful and well-protected part of Gondor. If the enemy wanted to attack Endh Aes, they would have to first get past the watches at the Anduin and later, Minas Tirith. If they came from Rohan, which was most unlikely since the horse lords would never allow orcs to traverse their lands so freely, they still had to go through numerous watches and fortresses to get through. It was difficult to attack, and the effort would take months of combat.

The councilmen and the Captains shifted uneasily at his long silence, some looking at each other in discomfort.

“Do you mean to deny me your men, Captain?” Boromir asked quietly, fixing his blue eyes steadily on his. His tone was too much like Denethor’s for his liking.

Faramir shook his head immediately. “No … no, I do not mean that … my Lord.”

Boromir raised an eyebrow at his mode of address. Faramir had to admit that it was his little revenge at Boromir calling him Captain.

“I merely …” he cleared his throat and fixed his eyes on Boromir’s steadily, hoping that his anxiety would not show through. “I mean that Gondor has many excellent archers besides the Rangers.”

“Who will be needed on the ground. The Rangers are best at harrying the enemy; my men are best on the ground,” he said.

It was his turn to shift uneasily. Boromr spoke to him patiently, but it was clear that he was irritated that Faramir would question his battle strategy. But in truth, Faramir was desperate to hold on to his men; the illogical drive made him pause again. He tried to find a reason for his strange urge but no answers came.

“Of course, brother. I … I will give you my best men.”

“And you will be one of them.”

It was not a request.

“Yes, of course” he said, hoping his voice sounded certain.

But in reality, he felt as if he was making a terrible mistake.

Their father, on the other hand, watched the uncomfortable exchange with heavy disapproval.

*          *          *          *

The Steward’s sons were expected to dine with their father every night after their return to Minas Tirith. Faramir dreaded this duty, as it was always fraught with tension and uncomfortable silences – at least for his part. Boromir often tried to defuse the tension by deflecting Denethor’s attention from Faramir to him by regaling tales of successful battles. It worked, for most part, but tonight, Faramir knew that he would not be spared as Boromir was too preoccupied with the coming battle for such word games. Of course, he was also still probably angry at what he did this morning.

They dined in stilted silence for many minutes. Then the Steward, while cutting into a piece of meat, said in a low voice: “I trust that you are in agreement with your brother now, Faramir?”

Faramir took time to chew, willing his heart to stop beating so fast. He cast a discreet glance at his brother, which Bromir returned, but Faramir could not read what was behind his eyes.

“Yes, father,” he said after a while. He readied himself for the cutting words that were sure to come.

“It would not do for the two captains of Gondor to disagree so publicly,” Denethor said, giving Faramir a steely glare. “You are my sons, and you are to show unity at all times. If you disagree with your brother, Faramir, disagree in private before you air your unpleasantries in public.”

“Father-” Boromir protested.

 Denethor had only to shift his sharp glare to his oldest son for Boromir to be silenced. When Boromir looked down at his plate in dismay, Denethor returned to pierce Faramir with his glare.

“When your brother is Steward, am I to expect a challenge to his rule from you, Faramir?”

The question stabbed Faramir’s heart, for Denethor was questioning his loyalty to his brother – whom he loved more than life.

“I will rather die than betray him. Father,” his voice trembled despite his best efforts to stay calm. How lowly must his father think of him, to think that his son was capable of such treachery!

Silence for a long time, then Denethor returned to his meal and said, “Good. Be sure to remember your words, Faramir.”

Faramir concentrated on his meal, ignoring the presence of those around him, so he did not notice Boromir look anxiously at him.

*          *          *

He watched the moon again, willing his heart to stop stabbing him with unease at the thought of saying yes to his brother’s plan. Defend the southern part of the Anduin – it was a good plan, a very noble plan. It could tilt the never-ending war to Gondor’s favour.  Yet he knew it was wrong. It was the how and why that he found difficult to explain.

He shifted his stare to the distant horizon of Mordor. How you haunt us, Mordor! How you plague us with your plans!

He had once lamented to Mithrandir, on one of his rare visits, about how he wished he was not the Steward’s son. He didn’t want to be Boromir, and yet he did not want to be Faramir either. As the Steward’s son his responsibility was to wage war against Gondor’s enemies – he hated war, despite how good he was in the use of bow and sword. He wished only to study the fascinating lore buried in the ancient library’s archives. And he did not want to bear the wounds of war or his father’s disappointment.

“Sometimes I feel like I would break in two from these burdens,” he had said. He had been 16 that summer, newly minted as a soldier of Gondor. Although he had performed well, and his commander was pleased, he had hated the thought of ending another’s life – even if he was the enemy. He had killed ten men of Harad on his first few months as a soldier, and Boromir had congratulated him for his skill. He didn’t feel any joy from Boromir’s praise, and his father had looked into his heart then and scorned him for his pity.

“Would the Men of Harad offer you their pity, Faramir? They would rather slit your throat. Your thoughts are foolish!” the Steward had hissed.

Mithrandir had placed a gentle hand on his head and murmured, “You were born for a time such as this, Faramir, son of Denethor. There would come a day where you will put down your sword. But until then, you have to defend Gondor with a sword and bow. But do not scorn your pity for the men you killed, Faramir.”

He had looked at Mithrandir uncertainly then – for he had not told Mithrandir about his thoughts.

Mithrandir had given him a kind smile. “For it is this quality that makes a fine leader. And Gondor will have need of your leadership in the future.”

Faramir sighed at the memory, and closed his eyes as he enjoyed the cool breeze. Enigmatic words. Mithrandir always teased him with half-glimpses of the future. Yet, strangely, they brought him great comfort. Of course Father hated my friendship with the wizard and wanted me to have nothing to do with him. He sighed at that thought. His father expected total obedience from him in that matter (actually, in all matters) but he could not offer it. How could he turn away from a great friend like Mithrandir? So this continues to be one of the many sore points between them. He turned his thoughts elsewhere.

 If it is my fate to kill for Minas Tirith I will gladly do so – if it means the safety of my father and Boromir … and the people of Gondor.

Yet, what is Minas Tirith but a duty to him? It was not home. Home was a place where you could find comfort and love, and he found little behind these stone walls. If so, home is where Boromir is, but he is often not here.

Up here, in the privacy of his room, safe from his Father’s piercing gaze, could he think such thoughts. Too weary to go on thinking, Faramir retreated to his bed, praying that his dream would not return.

*          *          *

The nightmare had returned.

And with greater ferocity. The screams were still ringing in his ears as he rushed out of his room, tunic badly fastened, hair flying around in a mess, heading towards the eastern side of the courtyard surrounding the family apartments. Shoulders shaking, Faramir clutched the balcony beams, willing the screams to leave.

He was making a mistake. He knew it deep in his heart now.

All his life he had this gift. When he was but a child of three he had foreseen his mother’s death and when he told his father of it Denethor had glared at him and bade him to stay silent. His mother Finduilas died two years later, and Denethor had looked at him strangely since. Over time, the strange looks became sharp words, and ever were they separated by a huge gulf that he could never cross. It was his dreams and visions that had caused this rift between them, and his father perhaps thought of him as an evil oracle who spoke only of doom. So he had since kept his dreams to himself – even Boromir was not told.

For he did not want his brother to turn away from him as well.

The doom of Gondor.

He covered his face with his hands and wanted to weep, but he could not. Weeping wasted time that he could not spare.

I’m making a mistake.

“Are you all right, Faramir?”

Startled, Faramir reached for the dagger hanging at his side instinctively. A hand held his and Faramir realised that it was Boromir.

“You seem troubled brother.”

How he longed to tell Boromir  .... but would he even understand? Boromir was a man of absolutes – he would not believe in shady dreams of half-seen prophecies. And furthermore, how could he burden him with more troubles?

So he remained quiet. Boromir sighed at that.

“Father loves you, you do know that?”

Boromir reminded him of that often. Faramir wished that he could believe him, for he saw so little evidence of his father’s love.

“So you tell me often. If only it was true,” he said bitterly.

“Faramir! He loves you. Do you think I lie?”

“Father thinks I could,” he replied shortly.

“But I do not. I know where your heart lies, and I know you will never betray me.” Boromir gripped his brother’s shoulder with a firm hand to emphasise his point, but Faramir merely gave Boromir a faint smile before returning his gaze to the Pelennor. The breeze blew his reddish hair across his face, obscuring his vision for a moment. He did not bother to brush it away. Boromir sighed after a while.

“Truly, what troubles you brother? Is it my strategy? Are you angry that I’m taking some of your men?”

Faramir’s eyes widened at that. “Boromir! You know my men are yours if you just command it. And … you know I can never stay angry at you for long.”

“And for that I am lucky,” Boromir smiled, then shifted uncomfortably. “I am sorry for my …” he coughed. “…impertinence at the council this morning.”

“Impertinent? You?” he laughed, partly because he was glad for the change of subject, but mostly because he suddenly had an image of Boromir as a sullen, pouty child. Then, more seriously he said: “You are burdened by your men’s deaths, Boromir. And weary. I wish you would rest and not worry so much. You know I will be behind you. I will always be with you, Boromir!” he gripped his brother’s shoulder. “If it ever comes to a choice … I will gladly sacrifice my life for you.”

“Faramir!” Boromir hissed, alarm in his eyes.

“And,” Faramir interrupted before Boromir could object, “I know you would do the same for me.”

Boromir grunted. Faramir knew he was struggling to find words to express his dissatisfaction at the idea that Faramir would die for him, but Faramir had driven him to a corner. If he had said as much, it would deny Faramir’s sense of honour and Boromir was too much of a soldier to do that.

“Come,” he patted Boromir’s shoulder. “I have something to show you.”

He led his brother into his room. He took out a box, which had been resting on his table, and handed it to Boromir.

Boromir’s eyes widened at what he saw inside. He took out the vambraces reverently and studied it with rapt eyes. They were two-piece leather vambraces with the Tree of Gondor, worked in silver, as its adornment. “The workmanship is excellent, Faramir,” he murmured in wonder.

“It is Master Adlith’s work.”

“I recognise it,” Boromir agreed, still admiring the vambraces.

“I notice that you often wear your steel vambraces while hunting – despite complaining that they were uncomfortable. I thought you needed real leather vambraces,” he grinned, amused at the look of pure delight on his brother’s face.

Boromir laughed and enveloped Faramir in a hug. “It’s a wonderful gift, Faramir! I will wear it gladly at all times.”

Humour sparkled in Faramir’s blue eyes. “It would look rather odd with your armour, however.”

Boromir merely slung an arm around Faramir’s shoulders. “Come! Let us drown ourselves in ale, little brother. I hear the tavern calling.”

Faramir gladly followed, and for an evening, he forgot his troubles.

Dawn. Boromir’s soldiers were already ready to depart. Most were merely waiting for the Captain-General’s orders and were lounging about, laughing easily. Obviously to many, an easy victory was expected.

Faramir gripped the cold stones of the balcony overlooking the level where the army was assembling. He could see his rangers in the far left corner of the level, already ready. Unlike the soldiers, the rangers were quiet, hidden in the shadows. Some were checking their bows – most were sitting, silently observing, their grey eyes glinting in the shadows.

Still rangers … despite being in the safety of the city.

He ducked his head and closed his eyes. Ah, for all the preparation that Boromir had invested in this campaign … why was his heart still troubled? No matter how much he reasoned with himself about the safety of Endh Aes, his heart was not convinced that he should go to battle by Boromir’s side, away from Endh Aes.

But what else can I do? What foolishness do I entertain, to walk away from the battle just as I am about to enter it? What will my men think of me? What will Boromir … what will father think of me?

Ah, but he already knew what his father thought of him. The second son, the son that will always fail him.

He sighed. What useless thoughts to entertain. He knew that there was little that he could do to change Denethor’s regard of him. His father had made up his mind about his younger son a long time ago.

It is done, then. I shall ride with Boromir. It is the only thing I could do.

Lifting his eyes from the soldiers, Faramir made to walk towards the gate to join his men when he saw that a little girl was blocking his path.

Words of query died in his lips when he saw her bony frame, and the dark, ratty hair that hung in clumps around her face. But it was her eyes that arrested him. Pale grey eyes – Numenorean eyes – that were devoid of life.

What was she doing here, a creature of misery, when in Minas Tirith food was aplenty and the cloth rich?

He reached out for her, but she turned and walked, nay, floated ghost-like down towards the gate.

His heart hitched in terror.

A wraith!

But as if compelled by an unseen force, his feet moved and he found himself following the girl through the gate.

And it felt as if he stepped through a liquid curtain, and the very air of the world shifted and swayed.

It was the lamentations that he heard first. Songs sung in Sindarin, heavy with grief.

A nobleman had died, thought Faramir. For it is for a man of such rank that Sindarin would be used.

A grey pallor seemed to shroud the city of Minas Tirith. Its once-white walls were grey with dust and filth, and he saw that the tattered banner of Gondor hung at half mast from a parapet.

Faramir whipped his head around in horror. No!

Boromir … father?

And he realised then that there were people lined up on the streets. And like the girl, their eyes were blank and empty, their faces gaunt with hunger and their bodies wasted from starvation, disease or both. These were the refugees of a war or a disaster, not the citizens of Gondor! Yet some carried the proud crest of the Stewards in their hands, a sign of respect when one of the Stewards had died.

The mists retreated, the crowds disappeared, and a bier appeared before him, flanked by soldiers in tattered robes and armour. And he knew instinctively who it was.

Father …

He wanted to go to him, but he was paralysed, for another figure appeared, floating ephemerally beside the bier. There was no mistaking who it was … the fair hair … the Horn of Gondor by his side.

Boromir … he stood there, his once royal red cloak tattered and torn. Always he had held his head high and proud – as if to say that he was certain always that he could conquer whatever adversaries that come his way. But now, the head was bowed in defeat and grief.

“Boromir …” Faramir whispered.

And as if he heard him call, the apparition of his brother turned, and Faramir nearly fell to his knees horror.

He was looking at a skeleton … a living one; whose body had been so ravaged by starvation that it had turned on itself, eating whatever reserves it had. Dark circles were beneath Boromir’s hollow eyes and his cheekbones jutted sharply on a ravaged face. And the pride that he once carried was gone, replaced by despair and terrible want.

Gondor was dying. Boromir was dying.

“Boromir!” Faramir cried out, lurching towards the apparition.

And the mists came and his brother was hidden behind them.

The starving city of Minas Tirith vanished and he was in the present once more, surrounded by the bustling army of Gondor going about the business of battle preparation.

“Captain?” came a concerned voice.

“Anborn,” he murmured in recognition. He turned to meet the man and saw his lieutenant’s concerned face. The young man, his expression grave as always, bowed in acknowledgement, but he kept his eyes on his captain. He had no doubt witnessed his strange behaviour.

But his rangers were used to his strange visions, even if they did not acknowledge it out loud. It was an open secret and something which was discussed in hushed, awed tones – that their Captain had purer Numenorean blood running in his veins and had the foresight of their ancestors. Often they went into battle, no matter how strange the hour or place, without question by his side because they knew his visions were true.

The men thought that he did not know about their whispers, but Faramir’s ears were keen. He, however, made no issue of it. He was merely glad that they did not share this “secret” to those outside the group.

“Captain … what did you see?”

Faramir raised an eyebrow at the question. Aye, they knew of his visions and dreams … but never have they asked him about it before.

“Anborn …” he bowed his head, awed by the decision he had to make. No, he decided. I shall not drag my Rangers into this. I need not burden them with this knowledge, not at the eve of battle when my brother needs their skill and concentration so much.

He forced a smile and shook his head. “For a moment I thought I saw my brother in this mess. I was concerned that he had not armoured himself yet, that is all.”

Ah, it was a pathetic lie and Anborn was not convinced at all. His frown grew deeper and Faramir could see Anborn’s grip on his bow tighten as if in anxiety. He would not allow it.

“Rejoin the company, Anborn. We are late and we need to depart now. Tell the men to start on their journey.” He made to leave, but Anborn stopped him.

“Captain! Are you not coming with us?”

He had to play it well this time. No more flimsy stories. He turned, a confident smile on his face. “I need to be with my brother, at the hour of his greatest need. I shall rejoin you later. Go. Time is short.”

Doubt settled into Anborn’s face, and Faramir saw a war going on in the Ranger’sheart: should he obey his Captain or should he listen to what his heart was telling him?

Loyalty to Gondor and years of military training won, and Anborn bowed shortly and left.

Now it was Faramir’s lot to face his brother alone.

Biting his lip, he made his way to the Steward’s stables, where Boromir was surely preparing to ride out.

*          *          *

Their father was by Boromir’s side, and Faramir could see from Denethor’s expression that he was pleased with Boromir – as always. A rare, big smile brightened his normally grave expression and he was speaking to Boromir in animated tones.

Although he was proud that Boromir had Denethor’s favour, Faramir could not deny the significance; Denethor had come to see Boromir off, while his younger son – who had supposedly left an hour earlier – had not received such a privilege.

The stab of pain at this act of casual disregard came swiftly and just as swiftly Faramir quenched it. No use pondering such things now … just as it was unfortunate that his father would witness what Faramir had to do in the next few moments. But sharp looks and cruel words from Denethor were nothing new to Faramir. He will endure it as always. It was Boromir’s reaction that worried him.

His brother noticed his presence first. A look of puzzlement came into his face then and when Denethor noticed it, he followed his gaze to Faramir. He frowned with disapproval.

Faramir felt his heart wilt from trepidation at his father’s expression, but he steeled himself. The image of his father’s bier and Boromir’s starving face came to his mind and he found himself walking towards Boromir, staring into his brother’s healthy, proud face – as if to anchor this reality into his mind.

“Boromir,” he said in acknowledgement.

Boromir did not return it. When he spoke, his tone was stern: “Why are you still here? You should’ve left at least an hour ago!”

“Forgive me. I was … delayed, and as a consequence my men were delayed as well. But they left a moment ago.”

He could see that his brother was not pleased by the news. Boromir was exacting when it came to discipline; he did not tolerate carelessness or laxity of any kind from his men, much less from his brother.

“Just because you are my brother, does not mean you can be lax, little brother! Every minute counts – you know this!” he said sternly.

He nodded, finding his head suddenly too heavy to lift.

“Explain yourself, Faramir,” Denethor growled. “Unlike your brother, I am not content with your explanation.”

What happened, Father? He thought humourlessly. I saw the future of Gondor. I saw her people starving and dying on the streets from hunger and disease. I saw the flag of Gondor in tatters and I have foreseen your death!

“I must … apologize, Father … Boromir.” He could not meet their eyes, but he gave Boromir a reluctant, brief, gaze. “I cannot join you in this campaign.”

Stunned silence from both Boromir and Denethor.

His heart thudded frantically from nervousness. But ever did he keep the image of his dying brother before him. If he is to suffer shame or his father’s wrath to prevent that future, he will gladly go through it.

“And your reason?” That was Denethor. Boromir was perhaps too stunned to say anything at the moment.

“I need to defend Endh Aes,” he said simply. He did not know how to explain the entire situation to his brother and Denethor. It would probably take hours. Brevity is probably the best solution, albeit a less satisfying one.

 He felt every eye on him – even the stable hands had stopped their work to listen – but nothing burnt more than Boromir’s gaze. Reluctantly, he met his brother’s eyes again. They smouldered with anger and betrayal.

 “What is this, brother? A Captain of Gondor withdrawing on the eve of battle? Never have I heard of this, not in all the history of Gondor. But perhaps I am ignorant – you are, after all, a more learned man than I, Faramir. Perhaps you could fill the gaps of my memory?”

 Faramir flinched at the cold mockery that laced his brother’s words. How like Denethor Boromir had seemed then. Faramir had bore Denethor’s scorn all these years but never had he endured such coldness from Boromir. Never had he spoken to him this way.

 “Your brother speaks true, Captain,” said his father. Faramir flinched once more. How his father loved to mock him by his title. He turned his head slightly towards the Steward. “Your plan … your foolish plan … has no reason. To defend Endh Aes, far from the threat of Easterlings and Umbar … I see no other reason except that you are afraid.”

 Someone gasped at that slight. It was then that Denethor barked: “Leave us. All of you! Boromir, stay.”

 Faramir stood very still as Denethor walked towards him with Boromir at his side. Never had he felt more alone. Always Boromir was quick to defend him against his father’s wrath, but now Boromir was Denethor’s ally. Ah, to be afraid of your own kin!

 “Faramir,” Boromir said, his voice suddenly gentle. “Come, just tell me why.”

 He lifted his eyes to Boromir, torn between telling him the truth to his fear of being mocked by Denethor for his dreams. Boromir knew of his dreams and visions, but he merely tolerated them as amusements, nothing more. And Faramir had never insisted upon their truth . Denethor … he had never told the Steward of his dreams.

 “Boromir, I know Endh Aes will be attacked because I dreamt it,” he whispered. If he is to be mocked by Denethor, then so be it. He would prefer that to lying to his brother.

 “A dream?” Boromir was incredulous. “It is just a dream! How can you let it dictate your actions? You’re a Captain of Gondor, not a superstitious fool!”

 Denethor, however, was strangely silent. He watched his younger son with his piercing grey eyes, his brows heavy with a frown.

 How can I explain my certainty, brother? How can I explain the screams and the smell of burning flesh which haunts my dreams? Faramir thought in despair. He willed the tears behind his eyes to disappear and steeled his voice. “I will go to Endh Aes. Malbug and Anborn are more than adequate commanders. The rangers will serve you well.”

 He turned to leave, but Boromir’s angry voice stopped him.

 “If you leave with this purpose in your heart … there will be consequences to pay, Captain.”

 Faramir closed his eyes as despair gripped his heart. He turned to Boromir.

 “We have to do what we must, Boromir,” he said softly. He gave his brother a nod and left as quickly as he could, before he could give further grief to his brother.

 *          *          *

 Why? Why must we part the way we did? Boromir bit his lip in a vain attempt to stem his fury. He knew that he had been too harsh with Faramir, but his blatant desertion wrenched his heart. Did he not know the consequences of desertion? He would be stripped of his rank, dishonoured! Did he want to prove our father right? That he is a failure? Did he not know how much I needed him by my side in this battle?

 “Boromir.”

 “Father,” he answered, his voice grim in his ears.

 “You must ready yourself for battle. Your brother will be dealt with accordingly once he returns.” Denethor waved him away and Boromir saw that his face wore the countenance of one who was distracted.

 He left and his heart was troubled. It was not the thought of Faramir’s punishment that troubled him. Somehow, his heart was heavy with a sense of foreboding; a shadow of doom seemed to hover in the air.

 *          *          *

 Faramir left the stables with his horse and did not look back until he passed through the main gates and then out into the open fields of the Pelennor. When he reached the hill overlooking the Pelennor and beheld the white grandeur of Minas Tirith, he finally allowed his silent tears to fall.

 It was a hopeless course he was taking. There were only 15 rangers left in Ithillien, all recalled from leave because of the coming charge. Taking them from Ithillien to Endh Aes would mean leaving Ithillien defenceless. It was a treasonous act to abandon the outpost without the consent of the Captain-General or the Steward. Furthermore, his dreams had showed him a large army of orcs – they would most certainly outnumber his rangers. The only hope he had of getting the upper hand was to call the Gondorian Guard from the outlying posts around Endh Aes to come to his aid – but again, they will not leave their posts unless commanded to by the Steward or Boromir.

 So, he is alone in this.

 What chance has he, a man with a mere 15 men against the forces that will come against Endh Aes? Can they win the battle? He was afraid … afraid of the impossible battle ahead of him and afraid that his men would fail. But he cannot fail! The Valar had shown him this vision for a reason, and it is his task to prevent the bleak future from happening.

Angry at his doubt and fears, he brushed his tears away brusquely and turned his horse away from Minas Tirith. As they raced across the Pelennor towards Ithillien, Faramir willed himself not to look back even though he realised that this could be the last time he would witness the beauty of the White City.

 For Gondor, I will endure shame and dishonour. For Boromir and Father I will brave death!

Chapter 7: The tide turns

During saner times, Boromir would have marveled at how quickly a Healer's tent was built amidst such chaos, especially since the battle was still fresh and raging around them. But with Faramir lying badly wounded in his arms, and his brother’s blood dripping down the side of his battle-stained armour, Boromir did not have the time or the thought to do so.

He stepped into the tent hesitantly, and looked around amazed at the scene before him. There were a handful of rangers in the tent, all wounded, but their numbers were far outnumbered by the commonfolk who bore all manner of grievous wounds. One of the rangers shot up to his feet, clutching his sword, when Boromir entered the tent. But his look of alarm turned to dismay when he saw Faramir in his arms. “Captain Faramir!” he cried out in horror.

It was Haladill, a young ranger barely two summers under Faramir's command. He sported a bloody bandage around his torso, but he did not seem to pay it any heed as he stared at Boromir’s burden, his grey eyes wide with horror.

At his cry, the other Rangers looked at Boromir’s direction. Many gasped in shock while others cursed in anger.

Ancar, whose arm seemed broken, was more subdued. He rose to his feet slowly, his blue eyes fixed on Faramir. The only sign of his grief was his trembling lower lip.

“Where is the healer?” Boromir asked, his voice hoarse with exhaustion.

“He is coming my lord!” said someone from the back. He briefly saw a young boy in soot-covered clothes running to the back of the tent, no doubt to fetch the Healer.

“Lay him down here, Captain Boromir,” Ancar murmured as he prepared a cot by the far right corner of the tent. It was a poor bed for someone in Faramir’s condition, but with so many in the tent lying on the muddy ground or leaning against each other for support, he knew that it was the best bed there. He was grateful for that.

Boromir lowered Faramir gently onto the cot, careful not to jostle the arrow that protruded from Faramir’s shoulder. He stared at the repulsive shaft, and wished he could remove it – but it was embedded too deep and he would cause more damage if he had done so, and Faramir had lost far too much blood to lose more. It needed a more expert hand, that’s for certain.

“He had rushed into the battle alone, bidding us to defend the crops. There were too few of us!” Haladill whispered brokenly.

It is just like Faramir to do so, Boromir thought grimly.

Faramir was deathly pale; the only colour on his white face was the blood which ran down the left side of his face from the cut on his forehead. Ancar gently placed a rolled up cloak beneath Faramir’s head. With a trembling hand, the old ranger carefully pulled away Faramir’s leather amour to reveal the bloody shirt beneath. What he saw made him close his eyes in sorrow, and when he opened them, his eyes were misted with tears.

It was a grievous wound. They did not need to be healers to know that although the blade had avoided his guts – which would have certainly been fatal – he was still in danger as orc blades and arrows were covered with filth that were almost as bad as poison.

United as they were by their fear for Faramir’s life, Ancar and Boromir clasped each other’s shoulders to offer each other comfort.

“Where is the Healer?” Boromir demanded impatiently.

“Captain Boromir, here he is!” cried someone. Reluctantly, Boromir removed his gaze from his brother's face to settle on a man in a once-white robe who looked as if he was covered with the blood of several men … and orcs.

The Healer met his eyes briefly, his grey eyes disturbingly vacant. Without a word, he bent over Faramir and examined him with sure, brisk movements which revealed that he knew his craft. But his unnerving silence set Boromir’s teeth on an edge.

“My brother. How is he?” he asked anxiously.

The healer paused in his ministrations, looking up briefly without meeting his eyes, but he returned his gaze to the arrow, gently probing the arrow wound, ignoring Boromir.

“Don’t you know how to speak?” Boromir hissed as he took a threatening step towards the man, determined to wring the answer out of the man if he had to.

A gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him. Ancar leaned close and whispered, “My Lord. Forgive Master Andain. I was told that he lost his wife and child to the orcs but an hour ago. Yet he has continued beyond his grief, tending the injured without complaint.”

Boromir’s heart immediately clenched with guilt - to think that he was about to berate the man for doing his duty despite his crushing sorrow! But his guilt quickly turned to fury as he thought of the loss the people of this village must have suffered in this siege – a siege he could have prevented if he had only listened to Faramir! He gripped the pommel of his sword; his whole being ached to crush the lives of several orcs.

“Master Andain, watch over my brother,” he told the Healer brusquely as he got clumsily to his feet.

Surprisingly, this time the man acknowledged him by meeting his eyes. “Of course, my Lord,” he whispered, his voice as dead as his gaze.

Quickly, Boromir gently kissed his brother on the forehead.

“Hang on, little brother …,” he whispered into his ear. When he finally managed to tear himself away, his knuckles were white with strain from his death grip on his sword.

He strode out of the tent, vaguely aware that Ancar and Haladill was at his side. When they were outside, he saw that they have somehow hastily grabbed their bows and were strapping on their short swords.

“Ancar, Haladill – stay here and protect this tent,” he commanded.

The two stopped in surprise, exchanging disappointed looks. But Ancar broke the silence and bowed.

“We will protect everyone with our last breath, Captain Boromir,” he vowed in a gruff voice. Haladill bowed, albeit more reluctantly, in response.

He could see that the two were torn between his command and their desire to follow Boromir out into battle, but Boromir would much rather them at his brother’s side than his right now.

“The orcs know no mercy and would think this tent an easy target. My heart would rest easier if able men were at my brother’s side,” he said gravely.

“We will die before an orc blade reaches this tent, Captain,” Ancar vowed, clasping a fist to his chest as he bowed.

Boromir gave the men a curt nod and marched quickly to his horse, determined to rent as many orcs from this world as he could.

***

The battle was long and bloody, and for a while, it seemed as if the tide of orcs would never turn and all was lost. But fuelled by fury and rage, the men of Gondor fought with the single-minded ferocity of the vengeful, finally beating the horde back to the sewer which they came from.

“They are retreating!” a soldier yells.

The soldiers and rangers roared with triumph, throwing their fists in the air.

“And we shall make sure they do not return!” Boromir roared. He pointed his sword to a hill right beside the sewer hole. On top, as if placed by the Valar themselves, were rocks and boulders that had rolled from the mountains from a long-ago rockfall.

“Men! Loose those rocks on the scum!” he commanded.

His men roared in response, many surging towards the hill. The rangers remained behind, harrying the orcs with their arrows. Watching the filth run away like the cowards they were made him grin madly with delight, but he gave few the chance to escape as he ran them down with his sword and his steed.

Someone yelled a warning, and Boromir cried out for his men to get to safety as the rocks came tumbling down. He grinned mirthlessly as he saw the boulders crush many of the orcs, but he was even more satisfied to see them landing over the sewer hole – it would be enough to stop them for now.

The soldiers of Gondor cheered, many embracing each other in their joy. It had been a hard won battle; they had been so badly outnumbered, and so many had been killed or injured…

He gasped. Faramir.

In his bloodlust, he had forgotten about his brother lying gravely wounded in the makeshift Healer’s tent. Shaking in horror, Boromir spurred his horse away, so suddenly that the horse neighed in protest.

“Captain!” someone cried out worriedly. But Boromir ignored the chorus of confused cries, his mind only on Faramir.

He leapt from his horse, and saw to his horror that there were orc bodies strewn on the path. He ran up the hill so fast that by the time he ran into the tent, he was breathing hard. A young woman, who was right at the mouth of the tent, gasped in fright as they nearly collided. She dropped the bowl of water she was carrying onto the muddy floor.

“Rest easy, Irulan, it is Captain Boromir,” said Ancar, who rose from his kneeling position beside a cot.

A cot where his brother lay.…

They had removed his ranger’s uniform, so that all remained was his light tunic. Somehow it made it seemed worse, for the grey tunic was heavily stained with blood. So much blood that it was any wonder that any was left in Faramir….

Boromir cried out fearfully and ran to his brother’s side. Hastily, he took off his vambrances and felt his brother’s forehead clumsily.

It was far too warm – he was burning with fever – but at least it meant that he was still alive.

His heart slowed down to a more normal beat, and he looked questioningly at Ancar for answers.

“Master Andain did his best for Captain Faramir – he removed the foul arrow and staunched the wound at his side. But he worries about his fever,” said the ranger.

“The orcs destroyed Master Andain’s home,” said the woman Irulan, who cautiously moved to his side.

“All the medicines and poultices were in there. We salvaged what we could, but…” she paused, gripping the folds of her tattered skirt as if to seek some kind of strength. “My Lord, we do not have what he needs here, and the outlying villages are a few days’ ride away. Lord Faramir needs to return to Minas Tirith, to the Houses of Healing, to … survive,” she said in a wavering voice.

It was a day’s ride to Minas Tirith – and that was when one rode one’s horse to exhaustion without rest. But with Faramir’s condition, they would have to travel slowly, and it would take a better of two days to reach it.

Irulan seemed to guess what was on his mind, for she knelt by his side and gently touched his hand, her eyes dewy with tears.

“Lord Faramir saved my son from the orcs … I will give him my life if it’s necessary to save him. I am a Healer, like Andain, and I will tend to him without rest by his side as we make the journey, my Lord,” she said.

“I am-” he took a deep breath as his voice broke. “I am in your debt, lady Irulan,” he said simply.

She nodded, tears finally falling from her eyes. “As all of Gondor,” she said fervently.

He smiled through his tears. “Aye. Indeed,” he grasped her hand in gratitude. She nodded and hastily brushed away her tears.

Reluctantly, Boromir climbed shakily to his feet. He would have done anything to stay by his brother’s side longer, but his men must no doubt be confused by his hasty departure, and there was still great need to secure Endh Aes, lest there were still orcs roaming the area.

“Take care of him, my lady,” he said to Irulan. “And if my brother wakes or if he … falters … fetch for me.”

“I will, my Lord,” she said, as she accepted a new bowl of water from a young boy who had run to the cot with it. She then gently dipped a cloth into the bowl and placed the wet cloth on Faramir’s forehead.

“Beren,” she called to the young boy as she gently dipped another cloth into the bowl. “Fetch a clean nightshirt for Lord Faramir, and tell Florin that I need help to undress him,” she said in a surprisingly commanding voice.

He allowed himself a small grin as the boy hastened to obey her command. He knew for certain now that his brother was in more than capable hands.

Ancar followed him out of the tent. Boromir noticed that the ranger had a short sword in his hand. His broken arm was splinted, but judging from the looks of the bloodied blade, it seemed that Ancar did not let it stop him from using it.

“How do you fare? Do your injuries trouble you?” Boromir asked worriedly.

“Do not concern yourself with me, Captain. We can still fight the orcs for hours,” Ancar said gravely.

Boromir scowled angrily. “I saw the bodies - the orcs attacked the tent?”

Ancar nodded gravely. “Hidden as we were, they still came. It is our luck that Master Andain was wise enough to choose a strategic spot where we could see the orcs coming from afar. Most fell from our arrows before they even reached the hill. And those that got through met a hasty end,” he said grimly, lifting his bloody sword.

He slapped the man’s shoulders in gratitude. “Faramir and I are made rich with men like you under our command,” he said, grinning.

Ancar flushed red from the compliment, but grew serious when he saw Boromir’s smile melt into a grimace.

“Captain, are you injured?”

“No,” he shook his head brusquely. “I just … I fear for him, Ancar.”

“As do all of us,” Ancar said gravely.

“Captain!” cried a voice to their right. It was Anborn, running up the hill. Although he looked exhausted – the man, like Boromir, had fought several battles without rest, after all – there was joy in his weary eyes.

“We’ve secured the area, and the few orcs that are left are being put to the sword as we speak,” he said. Then his eyes darkened as they shifted to the tent.

“Captain Faramir…” he began anxiously.

“He is alive, but … gravely wounded,” Boromir said, his voice taut with fear. “We need to ready a wagon to carry him back to Minas Tirith.”

“I will do it, Captain,” Anborn said. He then swallowed visibly and looked away, suddenly overcome. “I should have stopped him when I saw that look on his face … I knew that he meant to ride away from us that morning … but Captain Faramir could lie convincingly when he wanted to.”

“I’m afraid I taught him too well. Our childhood adventures required that talent,” Boromir said, giving the ranger a weak grin. Anborn smiled at his remark, but like Boromir, his mirth was shadowed by the reality of Faramir’s tenuous hold on life was tenuous.

“My Lord,” said Ancar, rousing Boromir from his dark thoughts. “You have many troubles ahead of you. Anborn and I will ensure that Captain Faramir is well taken care of. You have our word.”

He nodded gratefully, glad to have men who knew what needed to be done. He cast a last look at the tent, then turned away and walked down the hill, his feet growing heavier with each step. He wondered how he could carry out his duties while Faramir lay a breath away from death. But as the Steward's heir, he never had the luxury to choose personal matters above Gondor's, not even now.

Chapter 8: Reprieve

It was cool beneath the water, and Boromir was almost reluctant to emerge from it. Bathing was a luxury he could not afford for the past few days, and when presented with the opportunity, he could not resist. Sighing, he waded out of the shallow stream, clad only in his breeches, and cast a critical eye on the desperate operations before him.

Villagers – many still in soiled and tattered tunics – were working as fast they could to harvest the wheat. It was fortunate that the wheat was ripe for harvest to begin with, or Boromir had to figure out how to protect the growing wheat – something he'd rather not do at a time like this. In fact, the harvest celebration was actually only two weeks away, and the villagers were in the midst of preparing a great feast before the orc raid began. But today, thoughts of celebration were far away as wagons from the outlying villages poured into the little village almost on an hourly basis.

Injured soldiers and villagers – those able to walk at all – shuffled wearily about the village with the aid of more able-bodied people. A proper place of healing was finally set up in the village hall, but Boromir could see from the harried expressions of the Healers and their helpers that they were being stretched too thin. He wondered how long the grief-stricken Andain could function before crumbling from his loss. And he felt guilt-stricken yet glad that Irulan was spending so much time with Faramir.

Boromir had told the village head frankly that it may take awhile to secure the breach – if they could at all. He could still remember the disheartened look on the aged man's face when he realised that they may not be able to have a home to come home.

Not only have they seen their loved ones killed they may now lose their homes, he thought in despair.

As he clumsily put on his clothes in his tent in the middle of the village, his men came into it in a steady stream to report on the progress of the evacuation. Most of the women and children have safely left for the other villages. Some aid – food and medicine - has come from the other villagers but were deemed insufficient. But the wounded was the most problematic of all. Moving such a big number – about fifty or so – was not only a logistic challenge, but a risky one as well as many were too ill for such a journey.

Boromir frowned heavily as he thought of his brother.

After the battle, the rangers had carefully carried Faramir into a home unspoiled by the raid – it was a humble farmer's home, but Boromir was grateful that the kind wife had offered Faramir a comfortable bed. Irulan informed him that Faramir’s side wound was deep, but had missed vital organs. However, it had clearly become infected. Boromir despaired that his brother remained unconscious, and wondered if he’d ever awake.

Would you not wake, brother? And reassure me that you will live? He thought worriedly.

When the last soldier left his tent, Boromir slammed his fist on the rickety table in his tent in frustration. A mug wobbled, fell, and spilled water onto its surface. Absently, he watched the water trickle over the table to land on the muddy ground.

It was a miracle that we survived the attack, but can we even survive the aftermath? I grow so weary of Mordor's evil plans.

“My Lord! Riders!” someone cried out fearfully.

Startled, Boromir hurried out to the village square. There, he saw excited villagers pointing towards the path to the village. Bit he could only see a heavy dust cloud there; he squinted as he tried to make out the riders through the dust. Is this another enemy? Instinctively, he reached out for the sword at his side. Likewise, soldiers and rangers ran to the path, some with weapons drawn.

But then Boromir saw shiny armour, gilded blue banners … with a ship and swan…

And the soldiers stopped suddenly and threw their fists into the air and shouted with joy instead. He grinned furiously when a cheer rose about the village as many realised who the riders were. Forgetting all decorum in his delight, Boromir ran up the path, stopping only when the man at the lead slowed down and signaled for the company to halt. He took off his helmet and his fair hair - like Faramir and Boromir’s … and like his sister Finduilas' – flew in the wind.

“Uncle!” Boromir called out and reached out to clasp his kinsman's hand.

“Well met, Boromir,” said Prince Imrahil, returning his grip heartily. Although he smiled, his expression was grave. “Your scout told me that Faramir is injured.”

“Yes,” Boromir said. “He still lies in a swoon, and he burns with fever. And there are not enough herbs to ease it … a wagon is being readied to bring him to Minas Tirith as we speak.”

Imrahil nodded and then dismounted. “Then you’ll be glad to know we brought healers, and medicine.”

Boromir's eyes widened in surprise and then he tossed his head and laughed, overcome with joy. It's as if the Valar saw their needs and decided to bless them with it. “How? And not that I’m not glad to see you here, uncle, for your presence is sorely needed, but why are you here?”

For Prince Imrahil never strayed far from his territories near the sea.

“The Steward bid us to come here and secure this place from the orcs. He feared that you were outnumbered. But I’m glad to see that it is not true – I had greatly feared that we were too late,” he said.

“We were outnumbered, but we beat them back anyway,” he said, grinning fiercely.

“Aye, you are a good soldier, Boromir. Now, where is your brother? The healers will need to see him.”

It was only now that he saw the two healers behind Imrahil – one old, and another young, perhaps just fresh out of apprenticeship. Judging from the robes they wore, they were from the Houses of Healing. And his eyes blurred with tears when he saw the satchels of medicines they carried. How they needed this relief!

“Your father thought it wise to bring them as he anticipated many wounded men. Ah, to have Faramir included in that number!” Imrahil said, shaking his head.

***

Boromir and Imrahil entered the modest home, and the first thing they saw were two grime-covered children – a boy and a girl - sitting on the floor with scraps of dry bread in their hands. They looked up, wide-eyed with surprise, when they entered.

And at that very moment, a woman came into the tiny hall carrying a bowl of water. When she saw them, she let out a little gasp of surprise.

Boromir’s heart began beating furiously when he saw that the water was red. Blood.

“My brother…?” his voice was weak with fear.

The woman peered at him curiously then, realising who he was, curtsied hurriedly.

“Lord Boromir, forgive me!” She placed the bowl on a table, and smiled curiously at Imrahil while she did so.

“I am Herlith, sir. Irulan and I were cleaning his wounds, my Lord,” she said as she hastily dried her hands on her skirt. “He is still sleeping. He did wake for a while, but he did not seem aware for long and fell asleep again.”

He heaved a sigh of relief while Imrahil relaxed visibly. His uncle clasped him on the shoulder in comfort and smiled at the woman wearily.

“We bid you thanks for your care, kind lady,” said Imrahil. “But I’ve had a long journey and would be glad to see my nephew.”

Her eyes widened further and she gestured impatiently at her children.

“It is Prince Imrahil and Captain Boromir, children! Stand up and mind your manners!” she said, hurrying to their side and fussing over their rumpled clothes.

Boromir and Imrahil could not help but smile when the two children clumsily attempted a bow and a curtsy. It was obvious that their mother thought it important to drill good manners into her children, and when the young girl gave him a tiny smile, Boromir could not help but return it. They were a sturdy folk, the people of Endh Aes, thought Boromir. Despite the horror that they've endured but a few hours ago, they have rallied together to do necessary things such as taking care of the injured and harvesting the wheat.

Pleased that her children have suitably demonstrated their manners, Herlith then led them to a room. Boromir’s gaze was immediately drawn to the large bed in the middle. There lay Faramir, his face turned to one side, a pained grimace on his white face.

He was paler – paler than he was yesterday. They had cleaned the blood off his skin, and he was dressed in a clean nightshirt. Fresh, white bandages peeked out from beneath the low collar of the simple shirt. He did not like how Faramir breathed in shallow and quick gasps, and how he tossed and turned, muttering breathlessly. From beside the bed, Irulan rose, a cloth in her hand. She had been mopping his brow when they came in.

It took just one look at her strained expression to know that all was not well.

“We need more willow bark,” she said in a tight voice. Her frank demand belied her anxiety, and it made Boromir’s heart race painfully in his chest.

“And you shall have it, Irulan.”

Startled, Irulan turned to the direction of the voice. A joyous smile spread over her weary face when she saw the two Healers behind them. She cried out in delight and ran to them, enveloping the two in an embrace which they gladly returned.

“Huldin! Imradil! I never thought that I’ll see you here!” she gave her fellow Healers another hug, and brightened visibly when she saw that they were holding satchels filled with precious herbs.

“I cleaned his wound the best I could, but I fear that it is not enough,” Irulan said anxiously as she returned to Faramir’s side. Carefully, she lifted his shirt to reveal a light bandage at his side – already spotted with blood. Imradil, the older of the two, leaned forward and lifted up the cloth.

And Boromir could smell the copper scent of blood … and beneath it, the faint smell of decay he knew so well in the battlefield.

And his worst fears were confirmed when Imradil shook his head and murmured, “That must be cut. It is poisoning his blood.”

“I’ve never seen a wound go bad so quickly. It’s only been two days,” whispered Irulan, but not soft enough to hide it from Boromir.

Alarmed, Boromir grabbed the young Healer – Huldin – who was busy taking out herbs. He did it so suddenly and brusquely that Huldin spilled the herbs.

“My Lord?” he remarked, startled.

“What does he mean, that ‘it must be cut’?” he demanded.

Seeing the commotion, Imradil got up quickly and nodded to Huldin, who bowed shortly at Boromir before returning to his satchel. Quietly, the aged healer led them outside.

“His wound has festered, my Lord,” he said in a low, somber tone once they were outside the room. “And we need to cut out the dead flesh immediately.”

Boromir suddenly felt unsteady on his feet, but he mustered the strength to ask the question he did not dare to ask, yet must: “Will he live?”

“His condition is grave, I won't lie to you. But Lord Faramir is strong and young. That is in his favour,” said Imradil carefully.

He is not making any promises, thought Boromir anxiously. He isn’t sure if Faramir will survive the procedure!

Alarmed, Boromir made to return to the room, but his uncle placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“I know you are worried for your brother, Boromir. So am I,” he murmured sternly. “But we need to let the healers do their work. There is nothing we can do now.” But Boromir couldn’t tear his eyes away from the room, couldn’t pry his mind from imagining his brother dying without him at his side.

“My lord, Yyour brother is strong … and I am experienced in these matters,” Imradil said gently.

He blinked away tears and finally tore his eyes away. He drew a shaking breath to compose himself. “Then I will entrust my brother into your able hands, Master Imradil,” he said in an unsteady voice.

With that, Imradil bowed shortly, and quickly entered the room and closed the door gently behind him.

When the door creaked closed, Boromir nearly came undone. It took great will on his part not to rush into the room and gather Faramir into his arms. He closed his eyes and dragged in another shuddering breath.

“I don’t know what to do, uncle. Orcs and Haradim I can vanquish. But this …?”

“We will fight this together, Boromir,” said Imrahil, holding him close like he once did when he was that grief-stricken boy who just lost his mother. “Rest now, Boromir. I will take over your duties for now.”

Boromir nodded, grateful for the reprieve. He slumped into a chair, staring at the door morosely.

Imrahil patted him on the shoulder and left quietly, but he did not leave him alone for long. He sent a boy bearing some dinner to him. Thankful as he was for his uncle’s kindness, Boromir found that he had no appetite. But Imrahil must have instructed the boy not to leave until he had eaten some food, for to boy stood there awkwardly, staring at him for a long while.

Sighing, he reluctantly chewed on the stale bread, and it was not until he finished the weak tea that the boy finally left his side.

He knew not what the Healers did in the room, but it took hours, by his count.

When he heard Faramir cry out in pain, Boromir stood up so quickly that his chair overturned. But before he could charge into the room, Irulan opened it, carrying out bloody bandages.

Wordlessly, after leaving the bundle of bloodied rags with the woman Herlith, she entered the room again, closing the door behind her.

He sighed in frustration and ran a hand through his matted hair.

He saw, from the corner of his eye, Herlith looking at him in concern. He gave her a weak smile, which she returned. Silently, she returned to her task - boiling water for the Healer’s use.

A moment later, the door swung open again.

Startled, Boromir shot to his feet.

Imradil was the first to walk out, and he did not hesitate to stride purposely to Boromir’s side. “We have managed to clean his wound, my Lord, and have given him a drought for the pain. He will sleep for many hours. But he is very weak, and cannot be moved – at least for a few days. However, we also need to remove him to Minas Tirith as soon as we can as well, for this place is not sufficient for his healing,” Imradil whispered in a low voice.

He was in need of other medicines, said Imradil, and because of his frail condition, he needed care night and day – care that the four healers could not provide sufficiently here, stretched thin as they were by the demands of the many wounded.

It is not safe here either. Unless we secure the village, the orcs may try to attack again, Boromir thought darkly.

Imradil then said that he may visit his brother, but cautioned him not to rouse Faramir – not that it was possible, thought Boromir – and to call them if there was any alarming sign. Quietly, the Healers removed themselves from the room, allowing Boromir some privacy with his brother.

Alone at last, Boromir grasped the pale hand resting on the bedclothes with his own. He gazed into his brother’s still and white face, and noted how laboured his breathing seemed to be. Then, overcome, Boromir buried his face in his other hand, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Chapter 9: To Minas Tirith

The decision to move Faramir to Minas Tirith was a difficult one. He was still dangerously weak from the surgery, but the Healers felt that they should no longer tarry.

Yet the journey in a wagon would not be an easy one for him and there were doubts that he would survive the journey. Although the Healers did not say that out loud, their grave expressions told Boromir enough.

But with the healing herbs dwindling, and with the threat of another attack, their options were few.

So, on the morning of the fourth day after the attack, once the Healers deemed Faramir strong enough, the rangers carefully moved Faramir, swaddled in thick blankets, to a wagon readied for the purpose. It had been made comfortable for him – it was covered in pillows and furs to keep him warm and to cushion him from the wagon’s jarring movements. A tarp was pulled over it as well, to keep out the glare of the sun and the rain if it did fall.

Once the stretcher bearing Faramir stopped by the wagon, Boromir gently gathered Faramir in his arms. He winced when Faramir groaned weakly at the movement.

Even unconscious he feels the pain, Boromir thought in dismay.

Slowly and carefully – so much so that his arms shook with the effort – Boromir placed his brother in the soft, makeshift bed. Once there, Faramir murmured something unintelligibly and rolled his head to one side, but just as quickly, he was quiet again. Quickly, Boromir rearranged the blankets on him.

Sighing, he then placed a kiss on Faramir’s burning forehead.

“I love you, little brother. Be strong for me. Please,” he whispered pleadingly into his ear.

With a heavy heart, he backed away from the wagon. Some of Faramir's rangers will follow the convoy to protect the wounded, but like him, others will stay behind in Endh Aes to secure the village and to ensure that the wheat is safely harvested and brought to the outlying villages and Minas Tirith. It was a task that the Captain of Gondor was expected to take … but how he wished then that he was not the Steward’s Heir. How he longed to just be the brother of a wounded man, to be by his side to keep him safe.

The burdens of the steward’s heir are never ending, Boromir thought bitterly. But his dark thoughts turn to puzzled ones when he saw Imrahil walking towards him and leading Boromir’s horse along.

“Put on your riding gloves, Boromir. You’re returning to Minas Tirith,” said his uncle.

Boromir frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean? There are things to be done here.”

“Indeed. And they are now my tasks. The Steward bids you to return to Minas Tirith,” Smiling, Imrahil handed him the reins. “He wants you to secure the Anduin – he feels that your place is at Minas Tirith … and at your brother’s side.”

At that, Boromir laughed and embraced his uncle, nearly lifting him off the ground in his joy. “Uncle, I am without words. You don’t know how glad this makes me feel.”

“I have an inkling, Boromir. But don't thank me – it is your father's doing. Now, I must do my duty and so must you,” said the Prince.

He smiled gratefully and mounted his horse. With a last grateful nod to Imrahil, Boromir steered his horse towards the already-moving convoy.

He could see the caravan of wagons moving, and smiled at the thought of being with his brother. But suddenly, he heard the sound of sobbing. But it did not come from a woman, but a man.

Concerned, he searched for the source of the sound and found it at the edge of the village.

It was Master Andain.

He was on his knees, and his face was blank no more. Tears rolled down his dust-covered face as he pushed soil into a grave with his bare hands. When Andain collapsed on the muddy ground, wailing the name of his wife and child, Boromir turned away, ashamed of having intruded upon his time of sorrow.

oooOooo

“My Lord! Your brother calls for you!” Irulan said.

Startled, Boromir quickly spun his horse around from the front of the line to ride next to the wagon. And as he leaned down, Faramir reached out weakly with a bandaged hand. Boromir grabbed it hastily, squeezing it.

“Endh Aes … safe?” Faramir whispered.

“Yes, it is safe. The harvest is safe. We are now on the way to Minas Tirith – a mere half a day's ride away. But rest, Faramir, and do not concern yourself with these matters,” he said.

“I remember,” Faramir closed his eyes and winced as a wave of pain assailed him. “I remember now …”

Boromir frowned, wondering if his brother has slipped into delirium. “Don’t worry yourself so, Faramir. All is well.”

“No,” Faramir shook his head. “… important,” he wheezed. Another pained groan as the wagon rattled over some stones.

“Faramir.…” he began anxiously.

“Chronicles of Osgiliath. It is there that you will find plans for the sewer system,” he said, his voice thin with pain. Faramir took a deep, shuddering breath. “It does not stretch into Mordor, thank the Valar,” he coughed and instinctively reached for the wound at his side. Irulan quickly intercepted his hand and gently placed it on his chest. The healer looked up at Boromir and shook her head, silently telling him that Faramir needed to rest.

“I hear you, little brother. Now, sleep. I will be here, by your side,” he promised.

He was not sure if Faramir heard him, for he was quiet at last, and his eyes closed. He appeared to have fallen into a troubled sleep.

“Even now he thinks of Gondor. And for our well-being,” he muttered.