The sun shone, pleasingly warm, on the small group meandering amongst the hills of Emyn Arnen, soothing spirits made numb within confining walls. The ensign and the well-armed guards regarded with affection the small raven-haired boy trotting in their midst, the ensign proud of how stoutly his young brother endured. Even at his tender age the lad showed fair ability with his bow; perhaps they would even have the good fortune to find one of the great red deer of Ithilien against which to match his skill.

He wagged his eyebrows at the solemn child, earning himself a tolerant smile; for all his five years’ greater age he, boisterous and bold, often seemed the younger of the two. Newly commissioned to the City Guard, he took great joy in and paid all due to his duties, yet he also treasured these moments shared with his brother, delighting in teasing the serious young wordsmith out of his contemplation of whichever peculiar thought or book had seized his attention at the time. His youthful and mischievous heart had guided him in the gift he had given the boy on his last birthday - his first true weapon, a dagger, six inches of bright steel bound by a silver hilt worked in the form of a fair sea nymph with gilded hair, freshly caught from their nursery tales. His eyes filled with mirth as he pondered on when his innocent brother would see more than he did in the lovely maiden’s unclad state.

Small for his age, particularly for one of the line of Númenor, the dagger hung like a sword against the lad’s waist. The small hand clung to the hilt, warming the nymph as it had when he had first clutched it close with awe in his eyes. Am I a man now? the boy had asked and had glowed under his father’s laughing nod, while parent and firstborn had exchanged knowing glances over such a gift that straddled childhood and adulthood.

So much to share with his eager brother; tracking a deer would prove enjoyable- he pursed his lips and frowned. Would they were so fortunate as to sight the beasts.

Ah, brother, hunting grows far too thin amongst Ithilien’s green hills.

No more did the fabled red deer roam in vast herds, their mighty antlers swaying like trees as they grazed, and had not since long before even his father’s father was born. The few scattered animals that remained were wary now, harried as they were by men and orc alike, and only great cunning could mark and land such a prize. Even many of the smaller animals and birds had fled, leaving few but crows to mark time in the deserted garden of Gondor.

But one glance at his brother’s rapt face was enough to restore his spirits. This trip into Ithilien held possible dangers even so close to Osgiliath, and he had needed all his charm to persuade his loyal guards, but the lash of their father’s tongue would be well worth enduring for the joy in his brother’s eyes. The young one smiled too rarely, and his pleasure meant the result of the hunt hardly mattered.

The young boy enjoyed best learning lessons along with his play, and listened with attention to his descriptions during their wanderings through the hills and trees, laughing at his poor imitations of birdcalls and animal cries. Impulsively the lad caught his hand and squeezed, grey eyes alight with happiness and a deep adoration of the one who brought laughter to his lonely days.

One of their guards, a ranger who knew well these lands and had roamed further afield, hastened back with a smile on his face and a finger to his lips. He nodded at the ensign’s arched eyebrow and gestured for them to follow. Motioning to his brother to heed him well, he followed the guard amongst the trees, treading carefully so as not to crack a branch or rustle the leaves. His young brother moved at his heels and he marveled at how well he walked, no sound marking his passing.

They peeped through the brush and even he drew in his breath, while the young lad clapped his hands upon his mouth to stifle his gasp at the sight of three great stags picking their way over the grass. He grinned at the boy, sharing the younger’s wonder at so rare a sight, and nodded approval at the ranger. For all he did not favor the secretive rangers, yet he acknowledged their skill.

Quickly he showed his brother where to stand and aided him in readying his bow. “Practice and patience,” he whispered as he adjusted his brother’s stance. Breathing soft encouragement, he braced himself as the lad, biting his lip in concentration, carefully sighted and released the arrow.

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He lunged forth from his concealment even before he heard the bowstring sing of the young archer’s mistake, that ill fortune would be his should his prey escape. He trusted the others to follow; he saw only his quarry, roused to their danger as the arrow flew past and moving to respond.

The big one, the leader, the most dangerous- he was his.

Blood pounding, muscles taut as he raced forth- he was never more aware of his body and the life that surged within than at these moments. He flung himself on the broad back, his arm clasping the struggling body close; he hissed as blows struck hard in his belly, but his grip did not slacken. His dagger, hilt concealed and the blade’s sheen dulled with acid so as not to betray him by either sunlight or moonlight, flew up from his boot top in silence.

No more than a mew escaped when the blade struck home.

They sank to the ground in mortal embrace while three dark figures surrounded the last two of their quarry. Bright steel flashed, disappeared in folds of leather and flesh, reappeared briefly before falling from its wielder’s hand.

No escape.

Grunts, a faint metallic click; a gurgled sigh, then the breezes whispered in the silence of the glade once more beneath the ever-wheeling vault of stars.

Orc by day, men by night- the rangers knew well how to hunt their prey.

The young archer- no more than a boy- emerged from the bushes and bent to retrieve his errant arrow. He pulled down his mask with shaking fingers, revealing a face stark white even in the moonlight and glistening with moisture. “Captain-” he began but fell silent as his hooded companions rose around him. His eyes widened, then stared down where three lay huddled where there should have been but two.

The entwined pair stirred. A gloved hand wiped its blade on a bloody jerkin. A thumb absently caressed the voluptuous curves of a nymph before the dagger was returned to its sheath; silver winked in the moonlight, then leather concealed it once more.

The captain breathed deeply once, twice, testing his bruised belly before he pushed away the flaccid remains and rose to confront the archer, sparing not a glance at their fallen companion. Removing his own mask he clasped the back of the younger’s neck, bringing their faces close; shadows traced the rueful twist that barely curved his mouth. Grey eyes, weary and distant, were yet infinitely kind as they rested on the trembling, teary youth. “Patience and practice,” he breathed, the whisper just brushing against the archer’s ear. At the young man’s nod he gave a reassuring squeeze before moving away, his mouth only then turning grim.

Too young, too green for this task- he would fain have sent the youth back to the city for further schooling in less hazardous environs save that he so desperately needed every man however ill trained. The Captain-General knew his plight but had baldly stated in his last response that he could expect no better, that all new recruits were being hurried to their postings; all of Gondor’s captains must needs run similar risks.

The blunt reply clasped in his hand, he had bent his keen sight far above the hills, deep into crumbling towers of stone and into his brother’s troubled heart, reading there the ever growing worry and despair. He had mourned that he should add to it.

His brother’s reply had told him more beyond words: the defensive lines around Osgiliath and the White City were being fortified, by necessity and circumstance leaving him vulnerable.

He had understood, had long anticipated their fate; the Captain-General was an excellent soldier.

Now he paused by his dead companion and gently laid a hand on the still chest. Bowing his head for a moment in farewell he leaned down to press a kiss upon the brow before rising and striding away. His heart ached for the fallen man, for a young bride who would wait in vain for her beloved’s return, but he could not now spare the time to grieve. Tonight there would be letters to write, songs to sing, but his duty was above all ever to the living. For that reason, despite the futility and the burden it laid upon his brother, he would continue to hunt, continue to beg and plead and rage for more; he owed such duty to his men.

His brother would understand; the captain, too, was an excellent soldier.

He narrowed his gaze, seeking the unrest in the minds of those he sought. But he was weary and his will failed him, and the road beyond remained dark. He squatted down in intense contemplation of the trail then moved away, vanishing into the night, while the archer stood watch and the two others searched the bodies, scavenging weapons and foodstuffs much needed and welcome; it was fortunate that their quarry had not been orcs else there would have been little fit for consumption. With efficiency born of much practice they dragged the corpses deep into the brush and cleared all traces of struggle from the glade; such a favored path to Mordor made a fine ambush point well worth preserving for as long as they could.

Their fellow they folded tenderly into his cloak, after taking from him the amulet all the rangers bore, and his weapons, and weighting his clothes with rocks. Had they the wherewithal they would have borne him back to the refuge, to entomb with honor within sight and sound of the shimmering cascade and with a farewell song from the captain, but now all they could offer was the determination that his body should not be defiled by the dark creatures of Mordor. Though time was precious and their sorrow slowed their steps, they bore their burden away to a nearby pond where they consigned it to the depths, deep into the weeds and mud and darkness.

No words were spoken, gestures and touches all that were needed. When their tasks had been accomplished they returned to the glade and settled into the shadows to await the return of their captain, eyes schooled to night marking where each of their number lay.

The single note of a thrush, low and clear, hummed through the air, chased at once by a trill. The watchers, who had tensed at the first, relaxed and sat back while one called softly back, watching while the tall shadow that was their captain emerged from the night.

He brushed at eyes strained by the effort to glean signs of enemy passage from the stark, black and white world of the moon’s land. His glance at his company was keen and long, though, as he searched their faces: tired, grieved, but stoic. With quick gestures and a few soft words he gave them instruction, sensing more than seeing their weary disappointment that the night’s hunt was not yet over and likely would not be until the dawn. But their loyalty and duty and above all their hearts were his and where he pursued they would follow.

Taking up formation the rangers prepared to resume their hunt for the rest of the Southron scout force. One by one they clasped his arm warmly, the young archer’s grip fiercely firm with a promise.

He paused before leading the pursuit, glancing around the glade that had marked the passage of men both living and dead. He thought fleetingly of his brother, stern and grave among Osgiliath’s ruins as he struggled to fortify their beloved Gondor against the ever-encroaching shadow. His lips pursed, no sound marking the words they shaped before he tugged his mask back up and led his men on the trail.

Alas, brother, hunting grows far too plentiful amongst Ithilien’s green hills.

Author's note on the rank of ensign: Today the ensign is a naval rank only, but before 1871 the rank of army ensign did exist. It was the equivalent of today's second lieutenant, the lowest ranking commissioned officer, and army ensigns were responsible for carrying the colors of the regiment.

The good professor, to the best of my knowledge, did not give much detail on military ranks, so I decided to expand upon this. As the heir to the ruling Steward, it is entirely reasonable that Boromir would enter the army at least at this level (he could have been given a higher level, but personally I think Denethor wouldn't have been stupid enough to hand over the army to a 14-15 year old boy). Boromir's youth is also not a problem, as there are accounts of at least one prominent soldier (Charles Lee, later of the Continental Army) who entered the army as an ensign at age 12.

I was pleased to find out about the ensign, as I liked the idea of using an archaic rank, and 'ensign' is easier to type repeatedly than 'second lieutenant' :)