Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

A/N: To my loyal readers, please forgive the delay in updating, but illness has kept me from my muses (and my computer). Rest assured I will not leave this ( or any fic I write) unfinished.

From the Shadows

Chapter 6.

As he had always done in the past, Faramir had taken his leave of Boromir with their usual fond embrace and exchange of wishes for a safe journey and a speedy return, but he had barely taken more than a few steps along the path when dropped his pack and his bow and turned back, hugged his ailing brother one more time and placed a chaste kiss on his pale cheek.

“Promise me you will still be here when I return,” Faramir pleaded, suddenly afraid that death still lurked in the shadows, waiting for its chance to reclaim the soul it had lost. Boromir was both startled and deeply moved. He had not experienced such a display of affection from his little brother since they were in their early youth and Denethor had put a stop to what he considered unnecessarily emotional behaviour.

Boromir well understood the unspoken meaning behind the gesture this day and acknowledged it with a sad smile… it was the brotherly kiss of farewell Faramir had been unable to give once before, the one mark of respect and affection he would not be denied again if this truly was to be the last time they met.

“Rest assured little brother that I have no desire to meet our ghostly ancestors as one of them, if you take my meaning,” Boromir teased, placing his arm around Faramir’s shoulders, the possessiveness of his grip and the undeniable affection in his voice offering his younger brother more comfort that mere words could.

“Aye, they can wait for us both a little longer,” Faramir agreed, inclining his head in the direction of the ruins and shuddering slightly with not altogether feigned distaste. The early morning mist was still slowly lifting, the lingering white shroud an eerie reminder of the unseen, softly whispering spirits of the past.

Boromir’s laughter was the sweetest sound Faramir had heard for some time, but when it devolved into a coughing fit, forcing Boromir to release his hold, sadness again engulfed Faramir. ‘The sooner you return with Aragorn the sooner Boromir will be healed,’ a voice inside his head admonished and without further delay, Faramir shouldered his bow and his travel pack. Even though the ranger of Ithilien knew he was not likely to face any danger that he did not feel able to defend himself from as he made his way back to his boat, the company of the two experienced warriors he knew Rumil and Orophin to be, was certainly most welcome.

Placing his hand over heart in the elvish manner of leave taking, the younger man then bid Haldir farewell and with a nod to Rumil and Orophin to indicate he was ready, hastily began the journey back towards the Anduin.

“ Faramir could just as easily be one of those ethereal beings, the way he blends so easily into the forest,” Boromir commented to Haldir with an amused smile as they watched their brothers merge into the fog and gradually disappear from sight.

“Or mayhap almost like an Elf?” Haldir replied. All three Galadhrim had quickly learned of Faramir’s fascination with the Firstborn, and all had willingly indulged his insatiable curiosity.

“I beg of you, don’t tell him that! He will be insufferable!” Boromir groaned, eyes rolling in mock trepidation.

“As our siblings often are,” Haldir replied with a long-suffering sigh although his eyes sparkled with momentary laughter when Boromir nodded agreement. From similar tales told around the campfire, he and Haldir had discovered that, although Man and Elf had little else in common, they shared similar bonds of affection for their brothers that were born not only of familial love, but a good dose of friendly rivalry as well.

“What news from Lothlórien?” Boromir asked, taking advantage of his first real opportunity to speak of the visitor since Faramir had arrived. Haldir’s jovial demeanour clouded somewhat in response to the change to a more serious topic of conversation. “Some ill, some fair,” was his only reply and upon seeing how tired and drawn the man was, he decided any further discussion could wait a while.

“Come, my weary friend, I will make you some herbal tea to help you regain some strength and then we will talk.”

It was a measure of his tiredness in both body and mind, that Boromir neither protested the lack of response to his question, nor refused the arm Haldir offered for support as they made their way back to the encampment.

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The swift, strong currents as the waters of the Anduin carried the elvish boat rapidly to its destination and almost before he realised how quickly the days had gone by, Faramir had passed under the partially repaired bridge and was mooring his boat at the pier that had survived the destruction of Osgiliath.

Faramir immediately sent a boy to ask the stable master to prepare his mount while he took the time to seek a meal and a tankard of ale from the closest tavern. Fully refreshed he then rode hard for Minas Tirith.

The White City was also slowly being rebuilt, but it would take many months, if not years to return it to its former glory. The repairs on the gate were well underway, Faramir was pleased to see as he rode through them a few days later. By the time he had reached the stables, he realised that as much as he wanted Boromir to come home, a part of him was glad his brother was staying away, at least for now. Seeing how badly his beloved city had been ravaged by Sauron’s dark forces would surely break Boromir’s heart and he would undoubtedly hold himself to blame. Unless his strength of will could be restored before he saw the aftermath of the war, Faramir had no doubt that the unwarranted guilt his brother was already feeling would overwhelm Boromir and rapidly destroy his already wounded soul. And swiftly succeed in achieving the result the Uruk’s arrows had not.

“Are you well, Faramir?” Although Legolas spoke with his usual soft lilt, his unexpected presence in the stables was enough to rouse the Steward from his dark musings. The Elf had been grooming Arod in the next stall but had stopped to regard his friend with concern.

“Aye, but I must speak with the King at once. Do you know where he is to be found?”

“The King? You must bear news of great import,” Legolas teased. Faramir only ever referred to Aragorn as the King when acting in his official capacity as Steward “Aragorn is in his private study, but he asked not to be disturbed this afternoon,” Legolas informed him as he resumed his task.

“I do not believe he will object when he hears my news. In fact, I believe you should hear it as well, Will you accompany me to Aragorn's study?” Faramir asked already heading towards the door.

“As you wish,” Legolas replied, his curiosity piqued.

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With Faramir away, part of the Steward’s duties had befallen the King, and much to his annoyance he had not been able to convince Legolas to assist even though the Woodland King’s son was well versed in courtly speech and political discussions.

The loud and unexpected knock on the door startled Aragorn and he dropped his quill, leaving an unsightly inkblot in the middle of the address he was preparing for the trade meeting the next morning. Casting the damaged scroll aside, he walked angrily to the door, opened it and stepped back, hands on hips ready to vent his irritation at being disturbed until he saw who his unwanted visitors were. A smile of relief curved his lips, these two were not unwanted after all.

“You have returned not a moment too soon, my Steward. This wayward elf refused to aid me.” Legolas simply ignored Aragorn’s glare of annoyance and moved to the cabinet by the window and poured them all a cup of wine.

“As I explained when I declined your request earlier, ‘tis not my place to become involved in the political intrigues of Gondor,” Legolas replied with almost a shrug of his shoulders.

“I am forced to agree, Sire, it is in fact mine, or at least the Steward’s responsibility to assist in such matters,” Faramir said as he sat in his usual chair and took a large and very welcome sip of wine.

“You are the Steward, Faramir,” Aragorn replied, his brow creasing in confusion at such an unlikely response.

“Only until Boromir returns from Amon Hen,” Faramir stated with a strange smile on his lips and an air of certainty and that caused both Aragorn and Legolas much concern. Apparently Aragorn had made a severe mistake by encouraging Faramir to make the pilgrimage to the place where his beloved brother had died. Rather than allowing him to come to terms with his loss, he now appeared to believe Boromir still lived.

“You must accept the truth. That day will never come, my friend,” Aragorn said, his voice husky with his own pain yet much compassion in his eyes.

“We both saw him fall, saw him breathe his last breath,” Legolas added, moving to place a comforting hand on Faramir’s shoulder.

“I know what you think you saw, and that you are now wondering if I have not lost my mind due to grief. I cannot fault you for doing so, but before you judge me too harshly, I think you should read this,” Faramir said as he removed a worn message pouch from his belt and handed it to Aragorn.

“What is it?” The still sceptical King asked as he carefully began to unwrap the parchment.

“A message from Haldir of Lothlórien, if my eyes do not deceive me,” an equally sceptical Legolas offered. “ I recognise his seal.”

“So it is,” Aragorn agreed as he quickly read the missive, and then reread it with tears of joy in his eyes. ”Boromir lives, but he is not fully recovered.”

“Aye, and that is why he could not return with me,” Faramir explained. He needs…”

“… the healing hands of the King.” Aragorn finished. “I must go to him at once.”