Dawn was creeping slowly towards the horizon. He had ridden through much of the night, feeling a slight uneasiness about what he would find upon reaching the White City. It was at least ten years since he had entered Minas Tirith, and the memories of the last visit still weighed upon his mind.

He had arrived to find the lady of the city, Finduilas, on the point of death, suffering from an illness that seemed to be almost self-inflicted. She had been a gentle lady who had such a strange connection to the sea that it reminded him of the way Elves would long for the Ocean. He had tried to help her, but seeing that only her own will to return to the world would bring her back, knew there was nothing he could do. She had died soon after, leaving her husband with the care of her two sons. He had left the city then, for although it was not spoken of, he knew Denethor blamed him for not being able to save his wife.

So it was that he dreaded entering the city. He feared Denethor's despair over the death of his wife might have weakened his rule enough to let the city decay and weaken. A shadow grew in east, and Minas Tirith would have to bear the brunt of the assault if war came to the free people of Middle Earth. If they were not guided by a strong, wise hand then all of the land would be laid open to powers of darkness.

He had heard tidings in Edoras of the Steward and his sons. Denethor was still in charge of the city, and had two potential heirs for the day he could no longer carry on his duty. There was hope for Gondor in this, and even more if fate played its hand right and brought the king back to his rightful place.

It was strange that upon his last visit to the city, he had heard unexpectedly of a man, dark haired, stern and resolute, who had served the previous Steward until his death four years previous. The man had been named Thorongil, called so because of the star of rangers he wore . . .

He had chuckled when he heard of this, for although Denethor had hated the man, had he known that Thorongil was actually destined to rise higher than himself, Thorongil would not have been free to roam the lands of Gondor, nor return to his childhood home in the west.

In his heart, he was sure that the king would return, either in Denethor's reign or his son's. He had a feeling the Steward would like him even less if he had known the part he had played in bringing it about.

Denethor had trained his elder son from the time he was a small child. Denethor would see Boromir take his place as Steward, even the return of the king would not prevent it in his eyes.

He took his mind back to the last time he had seen the sons of Denethor. Boromir had been strong and stubborn even then, in the face of their mother's death. He had repeated over and over that she would not die, that she could not. In some ways it had crushed his faith to see he could do nothing to prevent her death. He would make a valiant steward in times of war, but there was some doubt over whether he held the deep wisdom of his forebears.

In this respect Faramir had appeared to have the advantage over his brother. Even at such a young age his perceptiveness had amazed those around him. He had seen the truth about his mother's illness more clearly than his brother or father. He had seen the loneliness in her heart and accepted, in the end, that there was nothing that could bring her back to them.

He thought for a moment. Ten years. Such a long time in the years of men. The sons of Denethor would almost be grown up by now. Boromir would be almost twenty years old, ready to take over his full duties in the city.

As the sun glittered on the horizon, he glimpsed the tower of Ecthelion in the north. It was a spectacular sight, and at that moment his fears for the safety of Minas Tirith faded. Without his worries he felt suddenly tired, realising how long he had been riding. He knew that upon entering the city it was duty to go first to Denethor, but found himself unwilling to do so. It would be easier, he thought, to rest here for a moment, and go on when his strength had returned.

Now resolved to do so, he rained in his horse towards the mountain face to his right and dismounted. Leading his horse to one of the rocks close to the cliff, he gave a small start. Behind the rock, upon the cold ground, lay a body.

Tethering his horse quickly, he moved towards the small form. The body was unmoving, and he feared he may have come too late. He sighed, wondering what cruel fate could have let one so young die within sight of his city.

Something suddenly caught his eye, a glimmer of silver caught by the rays of the rising sun. It was clutched in the child's fingers but he could still see it for what it was. The Horn of the stewards! There could be little doubt over the identity of its owner. But what would Boromir of Gondor be doing away from his city at night?

With a start he realised there was another body lying beneath that of the first. A grey cloak was draped over the still form, and from the features of the pale face he could see the strength and pride that lay beneath them. It was Boromir, though much changed from the innocent child he had known over ten years before.

He furrowed his brows with worry, if this were Boromir, then . . . Reaching forward he gently lifted the other child's chest from where he had slumped over Boromir.

"Faramir," he said gently, pushing the boy's shoulders back to rest against the rock behind him. "Wake, son of Denethor. Your brother needs your help now."

The eyes flew open at the words, and he knew his guess to be correct. The same grey eyes stared at him in confusion, just as his mother had done all those years ago.

"Mithrandir?" The voice was soft, almost wary. These two had been through much, he could see, but through it all the child's judgement had remained sound. The boy's eyes lit up with full recognition. "Mithrandir you have come back!"

Gandalf smiled. It was nice to know he was remembered fondly by someone. "Yes, Faramir. I am here." Gandalf nodded, "But come, we must bring your brother home to Denethor. He will be worried about you." Faramir seemed to cringe at the mention of his father, and Gandalf's heart sank.

He had feared it was so. Even from this small reaction, Gandalf perceived that Denethor's relationship with his younger son was not as he had hoped. He bent over Boromir, carefully drawing Faramir's cloak away from the body. The young man was as pale as death, and even in sleep his face was marked with lines of pain.

"They left the spear-head in his leg," Faramir told him in a pained voice. Gandalf did not need to ask who 'they' were. From the red cuts on Faramir's face, the way he was holding his ribs and the large prints he had seen further north, it was clear that Goblins were involved.

Replacing the cloak over Boromir, he turned to younger and asked, "How did this happen?"

Faramir met his gaze without flinching, and Gandalf found himself surprised at the depth of understanding in the child's eyes. "It was my fault," he said after a moment. "I was upset after losing a duel to Boromir. He . . he was trying to make me feel better. We went exploring and . . ." He stopped, swallowing hard. "We fell into their cave . . . Boromir took the spear for me . . ," Gandalf ran a worried hand through his beard as Faramir blinked back tears. "It should have been me . . ."

"Do not think that," Gandalf said gently, reaching down to lift Boromir to the horse. "Your brother wanted to protect you. He could not have borne it if you had been harmed."

Faramir nodded, moving an unconscious hand to his shoulder. Gandalf saw at once that the sleeve was soaked with blood. Rising to his feet with Boromir held in his arms, the wizard whistled quietly to his horse who stood very still while Boromir was placed in his saddle.

"Climb up behind your brother, if you wish," Gandalf said kindly. "You can hold him in the saddle for me."

But Faramir's shrewd judgement had told him that Gandalf was only comforting, "I shall walk," he said determinably. "I will only be in the way if I ride."

Gandalf did not reply. He knew how proud Denethor could be, it was probable his sons had been brought up the same way. "I cannot do anything to heal him here. We must take him to the healers in Minas Tirith."

Faramir nodded, blinking slightly as if to clear his eyes, and trailed after Gandalf as he led the horse towards the tower on the horizon.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The sun had finally risen, and Gandalf could see the faces of his companions more clearly. They were both dirty and dishevelled. Boromir's wound had festered, and in the morning light Gandalf could see dark bruises on the skin of Faramir's bare arms. It had been some time since they had run into the Orcs, several days at the least. He was surprised they were still alive.

From what he had gathered from Faramir's broken speech, the Orcs had discovered the identity of their captives. That could have made it worse, Gandalf thought, but then again it was probably their relation to Denethor that had kept them alive. Gandalf wanted to know how they had escaped, and what had become of the Orcs. But Faramir seemed reluctant to speak on the subject and the wizard did not press him.

They were in sight of the outer wall of the city when Faramir suddenly tripped and fell hard. He lay there for a moment, seemingly stunned, then refusing help from Gandalf struggled to his feet. Within a few minutes he fell again, and this time Gandalf drew the horse to a halt and knelt by the fallen child.

"We must go on," Faramir insisted, crawling to his knees once more. "Boromir needs a healer. It is just the darkness, I will be more careful."

Darkness? The sun was rising in the sky, the ground lit by golden light. Gandalf felt worry flood through him. "Faramir. Faramir, look at me." The boy's eyes seemed strangely out of focus, he did not seem to be able to look him in the eyes. "Faramir . . . Can you see me?"

"A little. The darkness makes it hard to see." Faramir's voice shook slightly, he had realised something was very wrong.

"I think it is time for you to ride," Gandalf said gently, so not to frighten the boy. "We will arrive more quickly that way." With a moment of thought, Faramir consented and Gandalf was helping him up to sit behind his brother.

Wondering what other surprises his visit could hold, Gandalf moved slowly towards the white city. Ahead, the tower of Ecthelion was glimmering in the golden light, the white banner of the stewards fluttering proudly in the morning breeze.