The banner of the Steward snapped in the wind as two riders drew up in the Court of the Fountain and dismounted with muffled groans.

"A hot bath and a good book will not go amiss tonight," Faramir said, hobbling to a seat to knead a cramp out of his thigh.

"Ah, brother mine, there are greater cures for stiff legs than hot water," Boromir said, tugging off his gloves and tucking them into his belt. He stretched luxuriously, the tips of his fingers brushing the lowest and deadest branches of the White Tree. "Besides, the men wish to fete us under the table tonight, so your book will have to wait."

"I will leave the pomp and ceremony to you and gladly — you are fairer of speech than I could ever be. And less modest." He looked up and grinned.

"Knave!" Boromir yoked an arm around his neck in friendly torment. "Were I not your brother as well as your captain, I would buck and gag you for such talk."

His hold loosened enough for Faramir to shake himself free. "Alas. Your due chastisement will have to wait. You know he does not like to be kept waiting."

A chill fell over Faramir.

He sighed and heaved himself up, following his brother up the broad steps.

"I know it."

As they stepped into the shadow of the White Tower, Boromir gave him an all-too-knowing look. "You did well on the field. Father will see that."

"I doubt that," Faramir muttered, too low for Boromir to hear as the great doors creaked open to admit them.


The air inside the hall was chill and slightly dank. The doors thumped closed behind them, obliterating the noise of the levels below.

Faramir straightened his shoulders and kept pace beside Boromir, comforted by the easy matching of their steps and swing of their arms.

As they halted beside the dais stair, their father rose from his place on the black throne, his arms thrown wide.

"My sons. Home from the hills!"

He enfolded Boromir first and longest in his arms then Faramir.

"It is about time and past time," he said, his face as remote as the carven figures that flanked the hall. "I have waited long for your report."

"Forgive our tardiness, Father," Boromir said, clasping the hand still resting on his shoulder. "It could not be helped."

Over dinner, they spoke of small things at first. It was not often they sat down to a meal together. A houseful of men had other matters to occupy them.

"The keep of Cair Andros, my lord, is woefully under-manned," Faramir was saying. "Thrice they have requested a strengthening of the garrison."

"Gondor's knights are needed in the South, not in a derelict keep where they will squander their time and our coin fighting off little more than gulls."

"There are rumors that orcs are moving through the no-man's land beneath the Marshes."

"And are you a fishwife that you heed such rumors without proof of sight?"

"I—"

"The threat is in the South. That is where we must head off the enemy."

Boromir cast Faramir a warning look as he opened his mouth to argue. "Truly, Father, regaining the port of Umbar would be strategically advantageous. But Faramir is not wrong. For too long we have neglected the northern and eastern marches. Not since the days of our great-grandfather has—"

"I do remember our history, my son," Denethor said but with distinct coolness that said the matter was closed. "Not since the days of Turgon, you would say, has the watch been properly manned at Cair Andros."

"It could use a captain, proven in courage and wisdom," Boromir insisted. He cast a small, teasing smile across the table. "With perhaps more modesty than most."

"I take it you are this…modest…captain," Denethor said.

Faramir straightened his shoulders under that gaze. "I shall accept whatever ruling my lord sees fit to bestow."

Denethor grunted around his fork. "Will you indeed? I had thought you would remain in the city a time. A man may learn much regarding the proper attributes of a soldier and knight: valor without vainglory, sacrifice without selfishness, allegiance to family and a just cause…"

"Drunkenness and debauchery number amongst soldiers' deeds as well. Shall I learn those?" Faramir inquired lightly.

Boromir scowled at him.

"I would welcome a tale of debauchery or two to your name," Denethor said. "Better that than what is currently bandied about the barracks. Oh, yes, my son, I guess more than you know. Your father has eyes and ears everywhere."

A heavy silence fell around the table.

Faramir let his fork clatter beside his plate, his appetite quite vanquished. "Glad I am that you have a paragon then for a firstborn, Father. You need not concern yourself over me." His voice, at least, was steady.

"Very well. You may have your appointment. But do not crawl to me if you rue it."

Denethor scraped back his chair and left the table, leaving the two brothers gazing at each other ruefully.

"Well. That went well," Boromir said, helping himself to more wine.


Bleary-eyed with lack of sleep, Faramir finished cinching his horse's girth and shrugged his cloak up about his neck to stave off the early chill. The fountain chattered in muted tones.

"I would rather you were not going alone," Boromir said, tugging him into a tight embrace. "Travel safe, brother."

Faramir had not the heart to tell him that he was always alone. Now, he would merely be solitary — which suited him just fine. (Their father was conspicuous only by his absence.)

"I will," he said instead, clasping his brother's strong shoulder. "If worse comes to worse, I shall beg you to come rescue me."

"As long as it doesn't involve me sending another purse of gold down to the Umbar docks—"

"Yes, yes. Thank you for that. Goodbye."

Once the gates of Gondor were safely out of sight, he breathed easier and urged his mount into a steady trot.


He made good time, riding north with the sun on his right shoulder, the river on his left.

He met no one and nothing on the road. Few of Gondor's folk lived this far north of the city, and those who had not fled Ithilien entirely remained farther to the south of it, evading the enemy's roads and that perilous land just south of the marshes.

As evening fell, thickening clouds scuttered across the moon, and a cold wind arose from the East.

The night was very still, and absent the usual scurryings and scuttlings of creatures. With only the creak of harness and branch and the jingle of falling water for company, Faramir sang quietly to himself for a while, but the oppressiveness behind the silence stopped his voice before too long.

At a bend in the road, where it forked and climbed down towards the ford of Cair Andros one way and puttered out into a dirt lane towards the marshes, he spotted a nasty twist of wire half-concealed under a clump of leaves. His horse almost put a foot in it before Faramir wrenched him aside.

No Ithilien ranger set such evil-looking snares.

The undergrowth too was trampled in places: branches torn off, vegetation uprooted. The earth groaned under such violence.

Faramir walked carefully to the side of the path, fingertips searching over the grass until they found a half-moon shape deep in the dirt. It was an hobnailed boot or he was no ranger.

Orcs had been and gone not long enough for his liking.

Faramir remounted, eager now to reach Cair Andros the sooner. But his horse refused his urging, his ears going farther and farther back as if whatever he read in the earth or the wind that his master could not displeased and alarmed him.

A branch creaked, and something hissed…It did not sound like wind in the leaves…though Faramir, straining with all his senses, could not pinpoint where the noise had come from.

Something — a dark, stooping something — streaked out of the underbrush, almost under the horse's hooves.

He didn't have time to go for his sword or bow. His horse heaved under him, rearing onto its hind legs with a startled neigh, and dumped him from the saddle.

The fall knocked the breath from his lungs, and stunned, his body slid sideways, the earth sloping away beneath him.

Unknowingly, he had come to a part of the path where it dropped towards the river below in a sharp fall.

His hands scrabbled for purchase, but root, branch and grass whipped through his fingers faster than he could hold on, his weight dragging him down in an ever-quickening slide.

The world turned over, once, twice. On the third, something — a rock or root — caught him on the side of the head, and hurtled him into a blackness so complete that if the bottom came, he was mercilessly too senseless to feel it.