"Faramir! Wake up!"

A hand shook Faramir's shoulder roughly, and he opened his eyes. It was still mostly dark outside, but chilly morning twilight filtered through the open flap of the tent. He was curled on his camp cot, the blanket twisted and wound around his body. Boromir knelt by the bed.

"You were dreaming," he said. "And you woke me with your cries."

"I am sorry," Faramir murmured.

"Is something troubling you? You were writhing as if in torment, and you have gotten yourself completely tangled in your blanket."

"Mmm." Faramir pulled at the blanket. "It was a strange dream. It was frightening, and I was alone, save only for a voice. I think I shall never forget that voice. It sang to me, but I can only remember a little of what it sang. There was a broken sword, and I was to seek for it."

"Dreams are strange things," Boromir said. He rose and peered out of the tent flap. "It will be dawn soon, or as near as I can tell through the Shadow that haunts this garrison. I see no sense in trying to sleep further."

Faramir groaned as he sat up. "That is because you have not been in the field as much lately. Then you would know that every minute of sleep is precious." He yawned, and finished disentangling himself from his blanket. "However, I suppose now is as good a time as any to finish the talk we began last night when you arrived here. I have been very generous and shared my tent with you, and now I would know why it is that you and the First Company have ridden all the way to Osgiliath. Surely the First Company has better things to do than to visit with the Rangers."

Boromir dipped a cloth in the bucket of water in the corner of the tent and scrubbed it across his face. "Father gave the order that sent us here," he said. "I have his orders in my pack if you would care to inspect them. They say that the First Company -- Gondor's best and brightest -- is to assemble with the Rangers of Ithilien at Osgiliath, and that we are to prove the merit of our blood." He caught Faramir's dubious expression and shrugged. "I confess that I do not entirely understand the order, either," he said. "However, the Osgiliath garrison is of vital importance, and now that I am here, the situation seems most grim. The Shadow spreads quickly in these later days, and your men are on edge."

Faramir nodded. "I confess that we are glad of the relief, and the First Company is most welcome. I will be rotating the deployment shifts tomorrow; the Rangers here will return to Henneth Annûn, and fresh replacements will be coming from there. I do not like splitting my company, but men cannot remain overlong in this accursed garrison. The First Company will be useful in strengthening the place while the Rangers switch out."

"Who did you leave in command of your second shift?"

Faramir grinned. "Why, my lieutenant, your old comrade Mablung, of course," he said. "Who else could I leave? He will be eager to see you when he arrives."

"It will be a surprise for him," Boromir said happily. Faramir rose and shook out his blanket, and then the two captains set off for the mess tent.

Denethor had finished his bread and butter, and he sipped at a cup of tea while he looked over the morning's dispatches. The news was almost uniformly grim these days. The commanders of every garrison reported that the Shadow was fast encroaching, and that it was all that their soldiers to do to hold it off. They begged for reinforcements, but Gondor's army was finite in size. Soon there would be no more troops to send. Denethor's hand shook at that thought, and he sternly suppressed it. He suspected that the Enemy had begun to discern his thoughts even without the use of the palantír, and so he concentrated on thinking of the First Company.

The Shadow was overwhelming, but Denethor was not about to go down without a fight. He had deemed it best to offer full resistance sooner rather than later, for the chances of success were growing slimmer by the day. And so he had gambled his best Company against the darkest Shadow. Osgiliath was the key, the straight road that connected Gondor through Ithilien to the Dark Land. He had set his best defense there; his two strongest captains, joined by blood and duty, would make a formidable presence with which to defy the Enemy.

Time seemed to crawl in Osgiliath. The very air seemed tense; horses were skittish and men snapped irritably. The Shadow dimmed the sunlight, but failed to block it entirely. The resulting half-light resembled the atmosphere just before a storm, which improved no one's mood. The soldiers attempted to keep to their normal routine of chores, drills and guard duty, but the daily activity seemed forced and sluggish. Boromir led some of his soldiers in an infighting drill, but every so often, his eyes turned to the eastern edge of the garrison, where Faramir stood, gazing steadily towards the source of the Shadow.

Denethor took three deep breaths to clear his mind, as he always did before engaging in these battles. He made sure the study was prepared, the doors and windows locked and the curtains shut, and then he sat down before a low stone table. He rolled his shoulders to loosen the muscles and joints, then carefully removed the heavy dust cover to reveal the palantír. The dark thing seemed to stir inside as he settled his gaze upon it. With a practiced ease that would have disturbed him had he given the matter any thought, he turned his mind towards the light that grew from within the globe, and there met the mind of his Enemy.

It was some time after noon when the Rangers stationed in the easternmost guard tower raised the alarm. All activity in the garrison came to a halt as Captain Faramir scrambled up the tower, with Captain Boromir close behind him. The men stared in horror for an eternal moment at the enormous horde of Orcs charging across the valley from Minas Morgul. Boromir recovered first.

"Hurry!" he cried. "We must organize a defense. I deem we have little more than an hour to do so. Faramir, divide your men and station them along the north and the south edges of Osgiliath. Concentrate them in the east. I will arrange the First Company in the center of the city. We will form a bowl-shaped trap. When the Orcs reach the city, have the Rangers shoot down as many as they can, and then the First Company will deal with what is left."

Faramir saluted quickly. He was already shouting orders as he climbed down from the guard tower. The garrison swarmed to life as men cleared away the everyday detritus, reached for weapons, and mustered themselves in the face of the oncoming assault.

"Release at will!" Faramir cried, and the Rangers abandoned their precise volleys. A seemingly endless stream of Orcs swarmed over the bodies of the fallen, and the Rangers cut down as many as they could. Faramir stood among them, shooting arrow after arrow, cursing the ones that fought through the gamut of Rangers unscathed. Dimly, he heard the shouting and the dull thud of metal against flesh as the Orcs encountered Boromir and the First Company. But there was no time to think about that, or to worry for his brother's life. The world narrowed down to his bow, the next arrow, and the next Orc charging at him.

His last arrow had pierced an Orc's eyeball some time ago. Now Faramir wielded his sword, thrusting and cutting madly as the foes came at him from all sides. He had just pulled the blade from the chest of one Orc when a shout alerted him. He spun around, bringing the weighted pommel of his sword up to connect with the chin of a second Orc looming up behind him. As the Orc staggered back, stunned, Faramir swung the blade in a tight arc and sliced the enemy's head cleanly off his shoulders. Black blood sprayed from the dead Orc's neck. Faramir swiped his hand across his face and thrust forward at a third Orc.

As he pulled the blade from this one's falling body, he heard a high, piercing scream, and suddenly he was seized with terror. His gut contracted, and his throat closed so that he could not even cry out. Something horrible moved to block out the sun. All around him, men were staggering, and horses reared screaming and were cut down mercilessly. Faramir felt his knees begin to give way, and then something came crashing down upon his off shoulder, shocking him from his stupor. He rolled with the blow and desperately thrust his sword up to protect himself. An Orc holding a cudgel fell on the blade, gurgled, and was still. Through the pounding in his ears, Faramir heard the Great Horn blowing the signal to retreat. Rolling the Orc's body off of himself, he staggered to his feet and began to cut his way one-handed through the press of bodies to his brother's side.

Quickly, he seized the dust cover and threw it over the palantír. The study was utterly still. A cloud had moved over the sun, and the room had grown dim. Denethor retreated to a chair in the corner and sat still, breathing shallowly, until his heart stopped pounding and the cold sweat dried on his brow.

The journey back to Minas Tirith was one of the most agonizing things Faramir had ever experienced. With one arm rendered useless, he had barely been able to keep his head above water, and he was chilled to the core when he was finally pulled from the river. Boromir, wet and shivering himself, had taken command then, ordering Anborn to ride to Cair Andros and intercept Mablung. He had organized makeshift litters for those of the wounded who could not walk and had loaded Faramir onto one over his murmured protests. Then he led the remaining soldiers in the long, slow trek back to Minas Tirith.

What should have taken a day took two at the hobbling pace of the walking wounded. As they stopped to camp overnight, Faramir slipped into feverish dreams, and he heard again the beautiful, haunting voice singing its song of broken swords and Halflings. At first light, they resumed their journey. The day was half gone before Faramir's head finally stopped spinning. Damrod bound his captain's arm to his chest to immobilize the shoulder, and Faramir walked.

With each step his heart broke for the blow that the Rangers had taken. Seven of the First Company had been lost when the bridge had been taken down, but the Rangers had lost nearly a quarter of their total numbers. Most of those had died in the collapse; of the soldiers who had still been on the bridge when it went down, only four had been pulled alive from the water.

When the survivors of Osgiliath finally staggered into Minas Tirith, the Steward met them personally at the city gates. He commended the soldiers for their bravery and dispersed them. The two captains followed him back to the Citadel to make their report on the disaster. Denethor seemed more preoccupied than angry at their failure to hold Osgiliath, which puzzled Faramir. Boromir gave the report, but Denethor did not appear to be especially interested in it. He dismissed them from his presence with little comment, and Faramir hobbled out, grateful that the audience was short.

He dreamed again that night, and when he woke, he reached for pen and parchment to write down the words of the song. But even as he wrote, the words faded from his memory. Boromir had relieved him of duty until his shoulder healed, and he could do little with one arm bound. He wished he could play his viol, for he thought he could play the melody of the song, but the viol demanded two arms to play. So he contented himself with haunting the Archives to learn everything he could about broken swords, and later, after the dream had come to him yet again, about Isildur and his mysterious Bane.

One evening, Halandir the Archivist placed a gentle hand on Faramir's good shoulder. "You may lay your books aside for the moment, Lord Faramir," he said. "Someone is here to see you." Faramir looked up to see Boromir standing looking around awkwardly.

"What brings you to the Archives, Boromir?" he asked. "It is not your usual haunt."

Boromir shifted his weight nervously. "I -- something has happened. Something has happened to me, and I do not fully understand it. I was hoping that you might be able to help. It struck me as something you would understand."

"What happened?"

Boromir sighed, then moved off a few steps to examine the crumbling edge of a scroll. He was silent for a long time, and Faramir feared he would not speak at all. But then he turned around. "I had a dream," he said.

Faramir felt his insides begin to churn. He forced his voice to stay calm. "Tell me of your dream."

"There was a desert," Boromir said. "It was gray and lifeless, and a shadow rose in the eastern sky. And it seemed to me that I heard a voice singing to me. It was a strange song."

"Seek for the Sword that was broken," Faramir said. Boromir stared at him, amazed.

"Yes, that was the first line. How do you know of this?"

Faramir looked at his brother wide-eyed. "You are not the only one to have that dream," he said. "I first dreamed it the night before the attack on Osgiliath, and it has come to me several times since then. I have written down a part of the song, but I do not remember it all. I have spent much time here as of late, trying to decipher the riddle."

Boromir sat down at the reading table. "Let me see what you have written of the rhyme," he said. Faramir pushed the parchment across the table to him. Boromir studied it, then picked up Faramir's pen. "I think that I remember some lines that you do not," he said. Swiftly, he filled them in and pushed the parchment back to Faramir.

"This is the rhyme," Faramir said. "Now that I see them, I remember these lines. We seem to have dreamed the same dream. It must be important, if it was sent to two people."

"The line about 'counsels taken' intrigues me," Boromir said. "We are drowning in Morgul-spells, and any counsel would help Gondor now."

"I wonder why a broken sword is so important," Faramir replied. "From what I have read recently, I guess that this line refers to the Sword of Isildur, but I do not see how it could be important, nor where it could be."

"It is in Imladris, just as the rhyme says."

"But where is Imladris? There is no place by that name in Gondor or Rohan." Faramir thought about other lands. "I hope it is not in Mordor."

"I do not think it is there. Look, the counsels are also connected to Imladris, and they are 'stronger than Morgul-spells.' It is not logical that something stronger than a Morgul-spell would come from Mordor."

They spent the rest of the day rooting among the shelves, baskets and heaps of old writings, but they found nothing that would help. There were many references to Isildur, but none mentioned his Bane. They could find no reference to Imladris at all. Halandir gave them what aid he could, but even he was forced to admit defeat in the end.

"There is a section of ancient writings from the time of the first Kings," he said. "Few are permitted there, to preserve the scrolls. I would show them to you, but the language is strange, and there are few left in Gondor who can read them."

"I ought to find a way to learn the ancient languages," Faramir said, brushing cobwebs out of his hair. "Such secrets ought not to be lost. Were Gondor at peace, I would devote myself to that project."

"But Gondor is no longer at peace," Boromir muttered darkly. "And I would wager that our answer lies in those very scrolls which we cannot read. It would be our luck, considering what has befallen us recently."

"Alas, I am an Archivist and not a lore-master," Halandir sighed. "But there are some lore-masters left in this city, even in these later days. Perhaps your father, the Lord Denethor, might be of some aid."

"Father will not enjoy being disturbed for this," Boromir said. "We are chasing dreams, and he thinks of nothing now but that which can preserve our lives against darkness."

"But perhaps this dream is that which can aid us," Faramir countered. "And in any event, I cannot rest until some questions are answered. What counsels are there to be had in Imladris? And what are Halflings?"

"Halflings are imaginary creatures in children's stories," Denethor said. "I was certain you had outgrown such tales, Faramir. Halflings are not important." He turned away from his sons for a moment, and Faramir rolled his eyes at the insult, earning a wink from Boromir. They straightened their faces as Denethor turned back to them.

"Now, Imladris," Denethor said. "That is a name I have not thought of in many years."

"But you know what it is," Boromir said.

"Oh, yes. It is a very old name, almost one of legend. The Elves spoke of it, so it is likely to be at least partially true. Imladris was their name for the place where their great lore-master and counselor dwelled. He was said to have answers to any question one could ask."

"Who was he?" Faramir asked. "Or, who is he? For the Elves endure forever, it is said."

"Elves endure forever," Denethor said. "But this lore-master was Elrond the Half-elven. I do not know if one of his kind would endure forever. Perhaps he is no more. It is a very old tale."

"But it may be our only hope," Boromir said. "Where is Imladris? If Elrond still lives, he might give us his counsel."

"Imladris is 'in the North,' and that is all I know," Denethor answered. "The North is a very large place, and the dwellings of the Elves are well protected. One could search for years and never find such a place."

Faramir took a deep breath and stepped forward. "Let me search, Father," he said. "Gondor stands now upon the brink of destruction, and it would be folly not to seek after even the most slender hope. I will bring back what aid I can to my country, or die in the attempt. Let me ride out."

Both Boromir and Denethor turned disapproving glares on him. "Faramir," Boromir said gently, "you are hurt. Your arm is bound, and you cannot move it. You cannot even mount a horse, much less ride off into the far North alone to chase after a mythical Elf home."

"But it may be our only chance of salvation," Faramir protested. "My shoulder is healing quickly."

Denethor snorted. "Are we now so desperate that we must send injured soldiers on desperate journeys for aid?"

Boromir jumped at his chance. "You admit then that there might be a shred of hope in such an undertaking, Father? That it is not pure legend only that we might seek?"

"I do. I believe that Imladris is, or was, real. Whether or not it could be found by Men is another matter."

"Then let me go to seek it, Father," Boromir said. "I am healthy, and as Captain General, it is my duty to provide all aid within my power to Gondor. I would be remiss in my duties if I did not make the attempt."

Faramir gasped. Denethor's face darkened. "As Captain General, your role is to command the army. What will they think if you abandon them for this quest? Their morale would vanish."

"Appoint Faramir to act in my stead. He is a well-loved captain. The men would follow him."

"Faramir will return to the Rangers when he is healed. You will return to your duties as well."

"And let Gondor fall to the Shadow because we did not have the courage to reach for what might be our best hope?" Boromir said. The color drained from Denethor's face; Boromir had struck some nerve inside.

Denethor stalked to his chair, sat down and scowled at both of his sons. "Go, then," he said. "Seek out Imladris. If you return with aid, I will see that the name of Boromir will be remembered forever in song as one of the greatest heroes of Gondor."

Boromir nodded. "And what of Faramir?"

"He will return to the Rangers when he is healthy. Go now, before I lose my resolution in this matter."

Four days later, Boromir tightened the last strap on his horse and gazed into the dawn sky. Faramir approached and handed him his bedroll, which he fastened to the back of the saddle.

"Are you sure you have everything?" Faramir asked. "Food, extra clothes, hunting gear? It will be a long journey."

"I have everything I need, mother."

Faramir managed a very small smile. "I am sorry. It is just that I do not wish to see you going off on such a perilous errand simply on account of my dream."

"Our dream, Faramir. It came to me as well, and whatever may befall me, you are not responsible." He made one last check of his gear, then looked up. Although the sun had not yet risen, the First Company had assembled in the courtyard in full dress uniform to bid their captain farewell. As one, they saluted. Boromir swallowed the lump in his throat and returned the salute.

Faramir watched this performance and was suddenly overcome by a nameless dread. He approached Boromir hesitantly. "Please, change your mind," he said. "I fear that I shall never see you again."

In front of the entire First Company, Boromir pulled Faramir into his arms and held him long. "You will see me again, little brother," he said. "I will return to Gondor, and you will see me again. You must keep Gondor safe against my return. I love you, Faramir, little brother. Never forget that."

He released Faramir and swung up onto his horse. He let forth a blast from the Great Horn, and the First Company cheered. Then Boromir of Gondor trotted off into the North to chase a dream. The First Company dispersed after a while, but Faramir remained at the gates of Minas Tirith, watching Boromir ride across the Pelennor until he was lost from sight.