Crossroads' Edge

by MCat711

As his brother rides north to Rivendell, Faramir confronts the dark forces that would destroy them both. Sequel to "The Well".

prologue.

Faramir entered the spacious throne chamber, his footsteps quiet against the polished stone of the floor. Up ahead, Denethor sat in council with his advisors. The pair of older men looked up and bowed in greeting as he entered. Denethor, however, did not even bother to glance in his son's direction. He only sat and stared into some unseen distance, as if gazing at something no one else could see.

Faramir stopped before the throne and made a respectful bow. "My lord," he began, "I bring news."

His words seemed to pass unheeded. The Steward only maintained his unfocused stare, and took a long, slow drink from the goblet in his hand. For all intents and purposes, he might have been alone in the room. The advisors looked at each other, uncertain of what, if anything, they should do. One cleared his throat uncomfortably, but did not speak.

After some moments of awkward silence, Faramir continued, more hesitantly. "I have just spoken with Borom--"

With a sudden, violent motion, Denethor flung the contents of the goblet into his son's face. The young man froze in mid-word, his expression one of shock and disbelief as tepid ale ran down his face and dripped off his chin, spattering his tunic with dark spots. The advisors could only stand and stare in horrified silence.

Then the Steward finally spoke, his voice sharp and deadly as the edge of a knife. "Leave us."

The elders retreated as hastily as propriety would allow. Father and son were left alone in the silent hall. Faramir stood without a word, humiliation smoldering inside him. He resisted the urge to reach up and wipe his face, but couldn't help blinking as the thick, sticky liquid burned his eyes.

Slowly, every movement laden with menace, Denethor rose from his throne. He advanced on Faramir like an oncoming thunderstorm, seething with barely concealed hatred. Faramir stood his ground as his father leaned forward till their faces were inches apart. He refused to allow himself to move, and stared fixedly off at a point somewhere beyond his father's shoulder. He kept his expression closed, unreadable, knowing from long experience that to show any fear would only invite another attack.

Finally, Denethor spoke, his guttural whisper somehow more terrifying than any scream. "Do you know," he began, "what you have done to me?"

Faramir sensed the question did not require his response. He remained silent and motionless as Denethor stalked around him like a predator circling its prey. "Right now my first-born, the pride of all Gondor, lies in a sickbed. For nearly four days, he lay writhing in a poisoned fever, delirious with pain. The healers could not even tell me whether he would live or die."

Denethor stopped directly behind him. Heart hammering, Faramir forced himself to remain still. "And why did this happen to Boromir?" Denethor asked in a deadly whisper. "Why?"

Faramir swallowed, trying to moisten his parched throat, but his voice remained dry and tight as he began, "Because--"

"Because of YOU!" The shout was so sudden, so close to his ear, that Faramir couldn't help but flinch. This, of course, only heightened Denethor's fury, and he bared his teeth in a feral sneer as he strode around before him again. "Oh yes, I spoke with your men. Or should I say, the only two of your men who escaped that disaster alive."

He loomed in front of his son, eyes burning with a rage that bordered on madness. "They told me much, my loyal soldiers. And what they did not tell, I learned all the same." His mouth twisted in a grotesque smile. "So, it was a dragon that stalked our lands these many months, slaying our men at will. And you did nothing to stop it."

"I--"

"And yet, when I send Boromir, the beast is slain within days. What, pray, does that tell you?"

Faramir was shaking with humiliation and rage, trying to hide it, trying to keep the shame from his face. "Father, I tried to--"

"And then, Boromir is wounded in combat with the creature, poisoned, no doubt, by its claws." He reached up and ran a finger down his left temple, indicating where Boromir would forever bear the scar of his battle. "He is brought home fevered, raving, near unto death. And why was this?" Faramir said nothing, wouldn't meet his eyes, continued to stare at the same fixed point. "WHY?!"

The response was a flat whisper, devoid of all emotion. "Because of me."

"Because...of...you." Denethor's lip curled in disgust. He stepped forward, his face filling Faramir's entire view, eyes blazing as his entire body quivered with fury. "Do you know...what I would have done...if Boromir had died because of you?"

Faramir didn't hesitate for an instant.

"You would have killed me."

Denethor actually took a step back at his son's matter-of-fact reply. "What?" Confusion and shock flickered briefly across his features. "No! I..."

There was a moment's silence as the Steward appeared to engage in some internal struggle. Then his anger seemed to cool, and his face settled into a cold, expressionless mask. "Never mind. It matters not. My son will soon be well again. That is what you came to tell me, is it not?"

"Yes, Father."

"Good. At least on occasion you perform your duties as you should." With that, he turned his back and strode back to the throne. Settling himself down again, he regarded his younger son for long moments that felt like an eternity. Briefly, Faramir's impassive gaze faltered, and his eyes flicked towards his father before he quickly looked away again. Denethor shifted position as if uncomfortable, then mused, almost to himself, "After all, I can expect no better of you. You cannot be all that your brother is. I accept that."

Slowly, Faramir's hand clenched itself into a tight fist, held quivering at his side. "Thank you, Father."

"Mm." With the barest grunt of acknowledgement, Denethor thoughtfully rubbed the stubble on his chin. At last, he ordered, "You will return to Osgiliath and take charge of the garrison there. When Boromir is well enough to travel, I will send him to you with reinforcements." He gave an unpleasant smirk. "Try not to lose the city before then."

Faramir's fist remained clenched, the edges of his nails digging into his palm. "I shall do my best."

"For all that is worth." He went on, enjoying his own jest, "Who knows, you may learn to enjoy the taste of victory. Perhaps it would be a pleasant novelty for you."

Faramir forced his mouth into a smile that never reached his eyes. "Perhaps."

"Now go." He made a sharp gesture of dismissal. The young man gave a stiff bow and turned to leave. But before he had gone more than a few paces, a voice called from behind. "Faramir!"

He stopped in place, but didn't turn around. "Yes, my lord?"

"The healers said that Boromir often spoke to you in his fever dreams. Did he say anything of...Isildur's Bane?"

It was fortunate that Faramir hadn't turned, and that his father couldn't see the look of shocked recognition on his face. However, he only said, in all truthfulness, "Boromir...never said those words to me, Father."

"Hmm." The tone was unconvinced, suggesting that the Steward was not entirely satisfied, but felt he could learn nothing more at the moment. Distracted and indifferent, he ordered, "Tell the servants I will need another drink."

Faramir exited the chamber and closed the doors behind him with a heavy, echoing slam. He walked away down the deserted corridor, not breaking his stride as he reached up to his face and roughly wiped away a dampness that had nothing to do with ale.

--

Boromir never said those words to me, Father. But I heard them all the same.

Autumn had come to the forests of Ithilien. A chill wind whispered through the trees as the last traces of daylight slowly drained away. Faramir shivered slightly as the evening grew cold, and drew up the hood of his cloak, shadowing his face. As he led his Rangers up the winding path to Henneth Annûn, he turned and glanced back over his shoulder. The sun slowly descended in the west, briefly dipping below the layer of sullen gray clouds that had hidden the sky all day. The setting sun enkindled the clouds with brilliant shades of red and gold, but the beauty of the sight could not diminish the shadow that had fallen over Faramir's heart.

Stepping off the path and pressing his back against the stone wall of the slope, Faramir waved his men ahead. They complied without comment, some nodding in respect as they passed. Their captain, usually so conscientious of his brothers-in-arms, scarcely noticed them. This evening, his mind and heart were far away.

Almost two months had passed since Faramir's confrontation with his father in the halls of Minas Tirith, but the pain of that encounter was still as fresh as a recent wound. Time, it seemed, was no healer where such hurts were concerned.

And ever since Boromir had left Gondor, time itself had become nearly meaningless. Faramir's days blurred one into another, each one nearly indistinguishable from the next. And his nights...

...his nights belonged to the dream.

Seek for the sword that was broken...

It had been summer when he'd first had the dream, after his brother's victory over the scarlet she-dragon. Faramir still shuddered at the memory; that victory had nearly cost Boromir his life.

Faramir remembered the tortuous nights spent beside his sickbed, watching his beloved brother struggle against whatever unknown poison seethed in his veins. Faramir had hardly dared to close his eyes in all that time, fearing somehow that if he let down his guard for an instant, Boromir would be lost. But in the endless dark hours, sleep had come nonetheless; brief snatches of oblivion that brought neither rest nor comfort.

In Imladris it dwells...

At first, he'd dismissed the recurring dream as meaningless, born of too much worry and too little rest. But as the days passed, Boromir grew well again, and Faramir departed to Osgiliath on his father's orders. And still the visions returned, time and time again.

Doom is near at hand...

Osgiliath, despite the best efforts of Faramir and his company, had been overrun by the forces of Mordor. Only the arrival of Boromir and his troops had turned the tide, and reclaimed the city for Gondor. However, no sooner had that battle been won, than Denethor had sent his eldest son on a mysterious errand to Rivendell.

Isildur's Bane shall waken...

Faramir shook his head sharply, as if trying to dispel a cloud of buzzing insects. Trudging heavily up the steep path, he forced his thoughts back to the present. This day's fighting had been heavy; the forces of Mordor grew bolder day by day. Fortunately, there had been no casualties among his men; all would rest safely in their hidden refuge tonight.

The sun dipped below the horizon, plunging the land into sudden shadow. Faramir turned back for one last glance. His shadowed eyes reflected the uncertainty in his heart as he gazed out at the twilight. Why, he wondered, did his brother's unknown mission fill him with such foreboding? What was its link to the dream they had both shared?

And where are you now, my brother? he mused, as he lowered his gaze and slowly turned away.

Where are you now?

--

Many leagues distant, Boromir sat in silence beside the road, as the surrounding forests faded to black in the deepening night. His small campfire did little to ease the chill in the air, but he found it a comfort nonetheless.

Idly, he reached out with a long stick and poked at the branches blackening in the flames. With his nightly meal finished, and his bay stallion Cirion tethered and peacefully grazing, there was little else for him to do. Dropping the branch with an impatient gesture, he sighed and pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head. Then he leaned back against a tall, rough-barked tree and shifted around, trying to find a comfortable position. However, the hard tree trunk and the harder ground made this nearly impossible.

Gazing pensively at the fire, Boromir wondered long had it been since he'd seen another person. Five days, perhaps more...it had been at least that long since he'd left the Gap of Rohan. He tried to recall the last time he'd gone so long without any form of human contact, and could not. More often, it seemed he barely had so much as a moment to himself. To be so completely alone was strange, and unsettling.

Still, he consoled himself that at least he'd spared his brother this long, arduous journey. With a flicker of resentment, he mentally added, Alas that I could not be spared it as well...

Immediately, he suppressed these near-treasonous thoughts with a twinge of guilt. After all, his father had made it clear he would trust no one else to attend Elrond's meeting. Boromir accepted this responsibility as he did all others; by considering it an honor and a privilege. However, though he tried to deny it, the task that had called him from his beloved homeland still disturbed his conscience.

Isildur's Bane...

Rubbing his forehead as if to dispel the unwanted thoughts, Boromir forced his mind from such musings. After all, perhaps his fears were groundless. Denethor had only said he'd "guessed" the purpose of Lord Elrond's summons. Although the Steward had an uncanny knack for accurate predictions, he was not perfect.

Might it not, Boromir hoped, simply be a council of strategy that Elrond sought? Perhaps the Elves had finally decided to seek Gondor's advice on how to combat the growing threat of the Enemy. After all, he told himself, who else was more qualified to give such counsel? Who but Gondor had fought against Mordor the longest, suffered the most?

But his father had seemed so confident, so certain. And then there was the dream...

Seek for the sword that was broken...

Boromir was not a man to place much faith in dreams. He seldom remembered his own, in fact, and shared his father's distrust of mystics and visionaries. Besides, he had good reason to suspect this particular dream. After all, he thought with a wry half-grin, I was mortally poisoned at the time. But to have a dream that spoke of Isildur's Bane, that showed it to him...only to be told days later by his own father that the Ring had been found...that could scarcely be a coincidence.

And of course, such a devastating weapon could not be allowed to fall into the hands of Gondor's enemies. Or even, Boromir thought with a frown, her allies. Despite the danger to himself...a danger even Denethor had warned against...Boromir was resolved to do what was right. But if the Ring was meant to come to Gondor, if every reason in his mind told him so...then why was he so torn inside?

Why did it all feel so wrong?

He sighed deeply, then glanced over at Cirion. The horse grazed contentedly, undisturbed by any misgivings. Boromir said aloud, "There are times I envy you, my friend." The bay swiveled an ear towards the sound of his master's voice, but only gave a vigorous shake of his mane and went on eating.

Boromir said nothing more, but re-settled himself against the tree and pulled his fur-lined cloak tighter against the chill. Too much time alone, he thought firmly, leads to too much thinking. Morning would dispel his doubts; it always did. He stifled a yawn, and his head nodded as he slowly closed his eyes.

Boromir drifted off to sleep, and for a long time, there were no sounds but the soft crackle of the campfire and the horse's single-minded feeding. Then Cirion snorted and raised his head, strands of grass dangling from his mouth. The horse's ears flicked back and forth. He gave a nervous whicker as he sensed what his slumbering master could not...

...they were no longer alone.

--

Not far from where the Gondorian lay sleeping, two pairs of eyes peered out from the forest. Hidden behind a low ridge on the other side of the road, concealed from view by a tangled clump of bushes, lurked a pair of unseen prowlers. Leering in anticipation, the smaller of the pair ran a slug-like gray tongue over jagged teeth and hissed, "Let's kill 'im."

The other scowled with the effort of concerted thought. Finally, he decided, "No."

The first orc, a scrawny creature with sickly pale skin, turned to face his companion. "What'ya mean, 'no'?" He blinked his large, watery eyes in bewilderment, as though the word was altogether new to him.

The darker orc gave a low, threatening growl and turned to glare at his comrade. "Captain says, we see anything unusual, we report it to 'im."

"Ooh, yes, a man and a horse. That's unusual, that is." He pointed a split, claw-like fingernail towards the unknowing object of their conversation. "Or maybe he's a really big Elf. That'd be unusual." Unfortunately, this attempted wit only earned him a sharp blow to the head. "Ow!"

"Snezgog, you maggot!" the larger orc snarled. "Look at 'ow fine he's dressed." His eyes narrowed, framed by the triangular eye-slits of his crude iron helmet. "He's important, he is. But he travels alone...no servants, no bodyguards. Why?"

Snezgog looked surly at the implication that he was meant to know the answer. "I don't know, Ufwúrz."

"I don't know either, idiot. That's why we report it. Understand?"

"Hnnnnh." The response indicated comprehension, if not agreement. The small orc squinted at their quarry, as if suspecting him of concealing dangerous secrets. The man stirred briefly in his sleep. Sounding worried, Snezgog said, "I didn't mean that, y'know, about the Elf."

Ufwúrz was bewildered by this statement. "What?"

"When I said he might be a really big Elf. He couldn't be, could he?" The larger orc gaped in astonishment as the other went on, genuinely concerned by the prospect, "I mean, what if he's an Elf in disguise?"

Ufwúrz slammed his fist into Snezgog's forehead and roared, "An Elf in disguise?! You--get down!"

--

Boromir woke with a start. Blinking back sleep, he sat up and grabbed his sword hilt. His eyes narrowed as he ran his gaze around his surroundings. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, and heard only a faint rustle of wind in the leaves. All was quiet...too quiet, he thought with sudden suspicion. He realized that the woods had been unnaturally silent all night; he'd heard no nocturnal bird-songs, not even the chirps of insects. Something had cast a pall over this part of the forest, and Boromir had an unpleasant suspicion he would soon learn what it was.

He glanced back at Cirion, who snorted and stamped a forehoof. "Steady," Boromir called softly. Carefully, straining his ears for any hint of sound, he laid back against the tree. He made a show of covering a yawn, then wrapped his cloak around himself once again. Closing his eyes as if to return to sleep, he left them open the slightest bit, and peered out at the obscured world though half-lowered lids. Beneath the concealing cloak, he moved his hand back to his sword hilt, and grasped it firmly. His breathing grew slow and deep in the semblance of sleep, and he waited for whatever challenge the night would bring.

--

The orcs waited, scarcely daring to breathe, as the man apparently returned to sleep. Finally, they both exhaled in relief. "Idiot!" Ufwúrz hissed, raising a hand to strike again. Snezgog cringed away from the expected blow. However, the senior orc thought better of it, and slowly lowered his fist. "Come on," he grumbled.

They crawled backwards through the underbrush until they could stand without being spotted. As they turned and trudged off, Snezgog muttered and sniveled under his breath, but said nothing aloud. Finally, after they'd walked unspeaking through the dark forest for some time, he whined, "We could've killed him, y'know. I 'aven't had any decent meat in days."

The larger orc spat in contempt. "Skai! Nobody cares about your stinkin' stomach. Besides," he went on, casually ripping off a low-hanging branch that happened to be in his way, "Captain Azkresh wants news, we bring 'im news."

The pale orc wrinkled his nose in disgust as they approached a red glow that emanated between the stripped trunks of the trees ahead. "You're a right boot-licker, you are." He clambered rat-like over a fallen log as they moved into the firelight of the camp. A few orcs looked up as they approached, but most paid them no notice. Snezgog affected a cringing, obsequious tone. "Ooh, Captain, I volunteer for this mission. Ooh, Captain, let me help you with that. Ooh, Captain, can I use my tongue to clean out your a--"

His voice died in his throat as his shoulder was seized in a deadly grip. Snezgog went rigid as a low, whispery voice came from high above his head. "You won't be finishing that sentence, will you."

The orc's runny eyes went wide as he swallowed audibly. Then, in a quavering squeak, he replied, "No. Captain. Sir."

The only reply was a hiss that died off into a rasping chuckle. As the iron grip was released, the puny orc scuttled away to a safer distance. Ufwúrz straightened up and bowed his head in submission. The strange, rasping voice spoke again. "Report."

"Captain, we found a man, travels alone. 'E's camped on the far side of the road."

The large orc considered this, then slowly drew his blade, its curved, serrated edge scraping unpleasantly against the leather scabbard. An involuntary whine escaped Snezgog's throat as he hunched down. "Were you seen?" the whisper asked, with a hint of threat.

Ufwúrz shot an ugly look in his comrade's direction. But he only said, "No, cap'n." He paused briefly, then went on. "An' I think he's important, by the looks of 'im."

"You...think?" Another faint chuckle followed this observation. "First time for everything, eh, lads?"

Several orcs chortled nastily in agreement. Ufwúrz suppressed a growl at the insult, but was wise enough to let it pass unchallenged. "You told us to keep watch for anyone goin' north, like they might be headin' for that elf-hole in the northlands. We done as you asked. So what're your orders?" There was no answer, and he dared to raise his eyes and gaze upon his commander.

The tall, muscular orc stood in silence, gazing down at the jagged edge of his wide blade. His black eyes slitted in some private, wicked amusement. The motion wrinkled the uneven line of thin bones stitched into his gray-black flesh, running down his forehead between his eyes, over the top of his bald head to the base of his skull. As he gripped the weapon's hilt, the lines of crisscrossing bone-slivers sewn along both biceps flexed and undulated with his muscles' motion. Finally, he said, "Bring this man to me. Alive, and...mostly undamaged." He held the blade before his face, squinting along its edge and leering in anticipation. "We'll have a little talk, find out his business."

Snezgog squirmed and asked meekly, "What if it turns out 'e's just a traveler, cap'n?"

Azkresh snickered. "Then we'll have ourselves a nice supper, little maggot." At this, there was widespread laughter, along with grunts and snarls of approval. However, the sounds were quickly stifled as the commander stalked over to his pale-skinned underling. "But," he emphasized, "if he's a spy, then it's the Tower for him. And they won't take kindly if he's too broken to tell any tales. So..."

With a sudden snap of movement, he seized Snezgog's throat in an unbreakable grip. Slowly, he pulled the struggling orc towards him, and held the point of his blade very close to his face. "...if I catch you lads having any unauthorized fun..." His rasping voice grew deceptively soft as he finished, "First I'llcut your eyes out, then I'll piss in the sockets. Understand?" The small orc nodded vigorously, ear-tips bobbing frantically up and down.

"Good." With that, Azkresh released him. His victim fell heavily and drew in a wheezing breath, clutching at his throat. The orc captain ran his squint-eyed gaze over the rest of his troops, ordering, "You, go with them. The rest of you, back to work."

The quiet command was as effective as any bellow of rage. Hissing and snickering in anticipation, the small group of orcs headed out into the night. The rest of the troop moved about their business, walking the perimeter on guard, tearing off branches and tossing them onto the growing fire. Their leader stood alone and silent, seeming deep in thought, or memory. Unnoticed by his troops, he reached up and slowly ran a hand along the high neck of his black leather vest. A soft growl escaped his throat, and his eyes narrowed to obsidian slits of purest hate.

--

Far to the south at Henneth Annûn, Faramir sat alone, gazing out through the liquid curtain of the waterfall. The familiar sound of the water was soothing, and gently coaxed him towards sleep. He struggled against it, blinking, rubbing his face in a frustrated attempt to stay awake. But he knew his efforts would ultimately be futile. Sleep would come; it always did.

Seek for the sword that was broken...

The words ran endlessly through his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried to dispel them. It was as if the voice had spilled over into his waking mind, tethering him to the dream-world with a chain he could no longer break.

Isildur's Bane shall waken...

No. With an effort, he wrenched his mind away from the maddening refrain. Think of something else. Gazing out into the distance, he wondered where Boromir was right now. It was too soon for him to have reached Rivendell, so most likely he had found a place to make camp for the night. Was he asleep, now? If so, Faramir fervently hoped his dreams were peaceful ones.

You left so quickly, Faramir remembered. His eyes lowered in sorrow as his thoughts drifted back to the last day they had been together. There had hardly been time for farewells before Boromir had ridden off on his unknown errand. You wanted to tell me why, I know it, I saw it in your eyes. His mouth set in a hard line of bitter recollection. But he would not even allow us that. And now, how long would it be before he saw his beloved brother again?

But if he closed his eyes, he could see him. He could imagine Boromir, having made camp for the evening, taking his rest. Faramir saw him lying with his back propped up against a tree, wrapped in his cloak to ward off the chill, eyes closed in sleep. His chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of his breathing. Close by, a small campfire burned low. And there was Cirion, his faithful bay stallion, tethered to a nearby tree. The horse, however, seemed unusually restless. He raised his head high, ears swiveling to and fro, as if he'd heard some sound, something that filled him with fear...

Suddenly, the image shifted. Faramir saw the forest that lined the road, and heard a crashing sound from the trees, coming closer. Suddenly, a pack of ravening orcs burst forth. Eyes burning with hate, they brandished their cruel-edged Mordor-blades with snarls of rage, and they charged...

"Captain Faramir?"

He startled awake at the sound. For a moment, he was disoriented, torn between sleep and wakefulness. But he quickly regained his bearings, and turned to look over his shoulder. Behind him, a Gondorian Ranger emerged from shadow, into the glow of the candles that provided the only light.

"My apologies for disturbing you, captain." he said, bowing. "But I thought I might relieve you of watch duty tonight." Concern showed clearly in his eyes as Faramir answered only with silence. "Forgive me for speaking plainly, my lord, but you need rest. You push yourself too hard."

Faramir gave a humorless half-grin. "Your concern honors me, Damrod. But..." His voice trailed off before he finally confessed, "...of late, I find sleep brings me no comfort."

The other man nodded in somber acknowledgement. "We all feel the same, my lord. The Enemy troubles the sleep of all Gondor, it seems. As does the departure of Boromir."

Faramir made no reply as he continued, "But we have faith that he will return, and together you will lead us to victory."

"Do you truly believe that?"

Damrod didn't hesitate for an instant. "Yes, captain, I do."

At that, Faramir allowed himself a smile. "Very well." He rose to his feet. "I would be wise to heed the counsel of such a discerning man."

He gave a brief nod of farewell as the soldier stood aside to let him pass. But then Damrod called, "Captain?"

"Yes?"

"I..." He seemed uncertain of what he wanted to say. "You may not remember, but I was there the day your brother slew the dragon."

"Yes, I remember."

A flicker of a smile passed over the man's face, pleased by this recognition. "I saw how bravely you fought." Then his tone grew insistent. "You must know, we all believe in you, no matter what your--" He cut himself off, looking chagrined, then corrected rather lamely, "No matter what others might say."

No matter what my father might say, Faramir thought with grim amusement. But aloud, he only said, "Thank you."

Damrod bowed once more as Faramir turned to walk away. "Sleep well, my lord."

The soldier didn't hear his captain's parting words, uttered softly to himself as he passed out of view. "What you wish has become what I fear most..."

--

As his brother prepared for another troubled night, Boromir found himself compelled to utilize an unaccustomed virtue: patience. He waited, hidden behind a tangled clump of bushes a slight distance from his camp site. It had been some time since he'd heard the intruders leave--for all their efforts, they'd been less stealthy than a herd of Mûmakil. Boromir's leg muscles were starting to cramp as he crouched behind his inadequate shelter, but still, he clenched his jaw and waited.

Since he had an unpleasant suspicion as to who--and what--the nocturnal visitors had been, he was determined to have the advantage of surprise when they returned. And so he stifled his impatience, straining his ears for any hint of sound...

...there. In the distance, he heard an approaching sound of foliage being trampled, and low mutters and curses in an obscene tongue. His face grim, he gripped his sword hilt and prepared himself.

Suddenly, a pack of orcs burst out from the tree cover, bellowing and snarling with blades raised high. However, their yells trailed off into confused silence as they looked around in bewilderment.

Boromir smiled in grim satisfaction. The Enemy's slaves have not grown in wit since I left Gondor. The foul creatures prowled to and fro, sniffing the air and peering warily in all directions. Clearly they suspected their quarry had simply vanished into thin air. "Well? Where is he?" one demanded.

The object of this question cringed and protested, "He was here! Tell 'em, Ufwúrz!"

A helmeted orc growled in reply. "He was here." He glared at his smaller cohort as if the whole thing was somehow his fault. "Cap'n won't be happy if we come back empty-handed."

So, Boromir realized,this was just a search party. Most likely, there was a larger contingent close by. He'd never heard of orcs coming this far north before, though. The forces of Mordor grow bold indeed, he thought darkly. Shifting position, he pondered his next move. He could easily defeat them, of course. But the sound of a fight might bring others, and who knew how many more were lurking nearby.

He gave a wry grin at these thoughts, imagining his brother observing in his dry, detached manner, Boromir of Gondor, choose strategy over a reckless charge? Truly, strange days are upon us. Then his thoughts snapped back to reality as the prowling orcs turned their attention towards his horse. Cirion flattened his ears and gave a shrill whinny of fear. Boromir cursed under his breath as he saw the orcs eyeing his tethered steed, hunger burning in their slitted eyes.

"Well, then," snickered one, a misshapen creature with a hideously flattened snout, as if his first act upon creation had been to run face-first into a wall. "What say we help ourselves? Nobody back at camp needs t' know." He looked back at his comrades, who chuckled and bared their fangs in approval. The speaker continued, glancing halfheartedly around, "Looks like the coward ran off, anyway."

"You are mistaken."

The group whirled in unison. Boromir stood before them, sword drawn, shield at the ready. His face stern, he slowly raised his blade and pointed it straight at his adversaries. "And stay away from my horse."

The creatures hissed and snarled as they fanned out around him. "Now, you come with us quiet-like," the flat-faced one sneered, shifting from foot to foot, preparing to charge. "An' we won't cut off anything...important."

The others guffawed at this, but Boromir refused to be baited, and stood his ground in silence. Finally, the orc rushed in, snarling like a dog as he swung his blade in a wide arc. Boromir easily blocked the clumsy thrust with his shield and plunged his sword into the orc's chest. The creature retched and gurgled as dark blood rose in his throat. Then he fell lifeless to the ground as Boromir yanked his blade free and stepped back. The encounter hadn't even left him breathing hard.

However, the others had learned caution from their comrade's demise. They stalked warily around their target, hissing and muttering, making mock feints. Boromir waited, biding his time. Finally, the group attacked as one, and he drove them back, his heavy blade slicing through the air. Preoccupied with the battle, he heard the crunch of footsteps a moment too late...

Something heavy landed on his back with a hideous yell, pitching him forward. Then the world went black as something dropped over his eyes. Boromir reflexively grabbed upwards as a dark, heavy cloth was pulled tight across his face. Blinded and stifled, he was tackled by multiple orcs, all shouting and snarling in triumph. Slashing blindly, Boromir was rewarded by the sound of screams and tearing flesh as his blade made contact. But ultimately, sheer numbers overpowered him, and he was borne down.

All thought vanished in a haze of noise and pain. The snarling, reeking mass overwhelmed him, kicking and pummeling. Stunned near-senseless by the beating, he vaguely heard an orc sneering, "Should've known you rats couldn't handle one tark." He was rolled over onto his stomach, none too gently. Scrabbling, clawing hands wrenched away his weapons, as well as the horn that hung at his belt. His arms were bound roughly behind him, and the cloth was pulled tight against his face and knotted at the back of his head.

As he struggled in vain against his bonds, his captors hauled him to his feet. "Move!" one of them ordered, as he was gripped by either arm and dragged into a stumbling walk. Boromir disappeared into the night, a helpless captive in the hands of the Enemy.

--

"Boromir! No!"

Faramir woke with a gasp, his forehead damp with sweat as he struggled upright. His hair was wild and his tunic half-undone as, breathing hard, he darted his wide-eyed gaze around the dark chamber. Irrationally, he almost expected the nightmare had followed him into the waking world. However, he saw only his familiar surroundings--the uneven, rough-hewn stone walls of the small room, the flickering candles, the few possessions he kept here. Yet somehow, everything around him seemed less real than the dream, as if reality itself was reversing, tearing itself inside out.

At first, the dream had been the same. He no longer expected otherwise. But then, he'd seen a vision of his brother overwhelmed by orcs, bound and gagged and led away to certain doom.

Faramir took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. Briefly, he glanced towards the entrance, fearing his outburst had attracted attention. There was no sound, however, so apparently no one had heard. Or, he thought with a self-deprecating smirk, perhaps they've grown used to their mad captain, and simply ignore his nightly ravings.

Faramir lay back down on the simple pallet that was all he allowed himself for a bed, and gazed up into the darkness. He tried to convince himself he was being foolish, that the dream only gave life to his unspoken fears. But it had been so vivid, so intense...he might as well have been standing there, watching it happen.

So perhaps it was not just a dream...

Faramir recoiled at the thought, instantly trying to reject it as nonsense. However, a deeper part of him could not deny its truth. There had been times, moments in the past, when his dreams had seemed to come true. Sometimes he'd even seen visions--he hated even to use the word--when he was wide awake; images that came without warning, and passed as quickly as they'd come, with no reason or explanation.

But up till now, he'd always tried to dismiss these events as coincidence, or the product of an overactive imagination. As Father would say. He could easily picture Denethor's withering sneer, hear him saying, If you have time for such fantasies, clearly you have not enough to occupy your thoughts. Always drifting off into some waking dream, just like your mother...

With an effort, he forced his father's voice from his mind. But the image had jarred memories; distant thoughts of his mother, whom he barely remembered. He'd only been a child when Finduilas died, and Denethor almost never spoke of her after her passing. But even so, Faramir had heard the stories: tales of how she'd been gifted with the Sight, and how dwelling so near to Mordor had driven her to despair and death.

Faramir balled his hand into a shaking fist. "Why do you torment me?" he asked, his voice a tight whisper of pain and anger. He didn't know who he was asking, or which he hated more; the unseen powers that besieged him, or himself, for allowing it to happen.

Even if it is true, he tried to convince himself, what aid could you give Boromir? His brother was miles away, in uncharted territory. There was no earthly way he could reach him in time. Yet to remain here and do nothing, knowing Boromir was in deadly peril, would surely drive him mad.

Enraged with frustration, Faramir whirled and slammed his fist against the rock wall. The action gained him nothing but a sharp pain in his wrist. But the release of pressure helped clear his mind. As he rubbed his wrist, his eyes narrowed in steely resolve, and his decision was made.

I must know. Even if I can do nothing, I must know the truth.

He lay down and closed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. Once again, he heard his father's voice, that constant, lifelong companion of scorn and mockery. You are a dreamer and a fool, Faramir. How laughable, to believe you could possess such powers...

No. He shut his mind, refused to listen. He took slow, deep breaths, in and out, focusing all his thought inward. I must see Boromir. For the first time in his life, Faramir consciously tried to tap into the power he'd always sensed inside, the power he'd hidden away, denied even to himself. No more. If the dream is the answer, then I will seek it out.

Slowly, the world faded away. Even the sound of his own breathing grew faint, and finally vanished. He was alone in a silent void, slowly sinking deeper and deeper. Come, then, he called out in silent defiance. I no longer fear you. He recalled how the dream began, how it always began...

With the wind...

The sound of the wind...

The darkness vanished, and he saw himself standing alone on the fields of the Pelennor beneath a flat, gray sky. He was dressed in his Ranger garb, with his sword at his side and his cloak billowing in the wind. All around him, the grass danced in billowing waves as the gale roared across the plains, bringing a chill from the east. Faramir turned to face the mountains looming in the distance, and watched the sky above them grow dark and menacing with the threat of an oncoming storm. A long, low rumble of thunder sounded, so deep and loud it shook the earth beneath his feet.

I know this. I have seen it before. He knew what would come next, and he turned his face to the west in anticipation.

Far beyond the city, the western sky began to glow with a pale light, as if with an impossible sunrise. And from beyond the horizon came a voice, speaking the familiar words.

Seek for the sword that was broken...

And every time, the dream would end with this voice, intoning the cryptic message. No. Not this time. Faramir spoke aloud, "Why does Boromir travel to Rivendell?"

As if in response, the voice faded, and all was silent. The wind died away, and the air hung heavy and still, as if the lowering clouds would soon burst with rain. "What does he seek there?" Still he received no answer.

Faramir drew upon all his strength, all his will. "I command you, show me the truth!" he shouted, his voice echoing into the distance. "Show me now!"

For another moment, nothing happened. Then the light in the west drained away, and the darkness from the east was lit from beneath with a lurid, fiery red. The thunder began again, but this time, it did not fade. Instead it grew louder, stronger, impossibly loud, shaking the ground, splitting the sky. There was a loud crack as of lightning, and blackness rushed over Faramir's mind.

He felt himself dragged away as if by a rushing current, falling into a bottomless pit. He fought for control, but could no longer bend the vision to his will. Whatever power he'd tapped into was no longer under his command. Helpless to stop the visions that assaulted his senses, he heard the voice, and he saw...

Seek for the sword that was broken...

He saw a black-clad man seated upon a rusted, battered throne in a vast circular chamber, the marble floor around his feet stained the color of old blood. The hood of his black cloak was pulled low over his face, its tattered edges hiding his eyes as his mouth twisted in a feral snarl of hate. One hand clenched the throne's arm in a desperate grip, and the other fumbled restlessly with something that hung from a chain around his neck. And over and over again, he muttered in a mad, ceaseless rant, "It's mine..."

Doom is near at hand...

He saw an Elf-lord standing amidst a dark forest, its trees twisted with ancient malice. All around him, leaves and branches writhed as if possessed, and the forest seethed with an eerie green glow. A roaring gale blew the Elf's long, fair hair back from a face proud and beautiful, yet terrible all the same. His blue eyes were pools of liquid light, burning with an ecstasy that bordered on madness. The Elf turned his gaze to a sky awhirl with blazing stars, and raised a quivering fist, clenched around something that flickered with vile corpse-light, crying out in echoing rapture, "It's mine..."

Isildur's Bane shall waken...

He saw an armored Dwarf in a vast underground hall lit by flickering torchlight. He was surrounded by corpses, hundreds, thousands. All had fallen facing him, skeletal hands still clutching at weapons, as if an uncountable throng had assailed him from all sides, and had died in vain. The Dwarf whirled in place, brandishing his bloodstained axe as if unseen enemies still beset him, snarling and bellowing with mindless, animal rage. Blood stained his rusted armor and dripped from his filthy, matted beard as he bellowed into the echoing, cavernous darkness, "It's mine...!"

The Halfling forth shall stand...

He saw a small creature hunched in a darkened corner, huddled against a wall of bare rock. The pitiful, barefoot figure was clad in the tattered rags of a gray cloak, and a shirt that might once have been white. Slowly, it turned to face him, revealing pale blue eyes shadowed in deep sockets. Strands of sparse hair hung down over white skin marred with livid blue veins. It bared its teeth like an animal and clutched desperately with both hands at something that hung from a chain around its neck. Cowering as if expecting an attack, eyes desperate with rage and fear, it hissed an endless refrain, "It's mine, it's mine, my precious...!"

Ash nazg durbatulûk...ash nazg gimbatul...

Mind reeling, Faramir fought to tear himself free of this onslaught, unable to comprehend these visions, knowing only that they filled him with soul-rending terror. Blinded and panicking, he cried out in desperation...

"BOROMIR!"

Suddenly, his vision cleared, and he stumbled and almost fell. Faramir looked around, and saw he was back where the dream had begun, in the fields of Gondor beneath an overcast sky. Although the sky was now stained with an eerie, blood-red glow, still Faramir felt a flash of hope. Perhaps he'd finally gained control over the dream, and would now find the answers he so desperately sought.

As if in reply to his hopes, he heard a low sound of approaching hoofbeats. Faramir turned and saw a distant rider, approaching at a slow gait. The horse was emaciated and its steps dragged, as if it had been ridden nearly to death. But Faramir scarcely noticed, as his heart leaped within him at the sight of the rider. Even in the dim light and at a distance, he knew him in an instant.

"Boromir!" He cried out with joy and ran to meet him. The man jerked his mount to a halt, the horse's hooves scraping and stumbling in the dry, withered grass. Faramir almost skidded into the horse's side in his eagerness. "Brother!" He looked up at the mounted figure, who remained silent, face hidden in shadow by a dark, hooded cloak. He sat slumped forward with head hung low, shoulders bowed as if by a heavy burden. Faramir's joyful expression slackened as his brother gave him no greeting, nor even acknowledged his presence. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Slowly, Boromir raised his head, but still wouldn't look at him. From beneath the hood, his voice came in a low, sad whisper. "Do you know what power is, little brother?"

"What?" Faramir was bewildered by the question. "I...I don't understand."

"I do." Boromir went on as if Faramir hadn't spoken. He turned his head towards his brother; and Faramir, for no reason he could name, took a step back. "I know it all too well."

Boromir was silent for a moment. Then he took the hood of his cloak in both hands, and hesitated, as if unwilling. Finally, he drew the hood back...

...and Faramir stumbled backwards with a gasp of horror.

It was his brother's face, unchanged in features, yet somehow altered beyond words. It was as if something evil stared out through his eyes, something that had hollowed out his body, obliterated both mind and soul. Boromir's face twisted in an evil leer, an expression Faramir could never have imagined on his beloved brother. A terrifying light of madness shone through Boromir's eyes as, his voice raspy and strangely echoing, he said:

"It's mine."

Faramir heard a roar of onrushing flames as the scene was lit with a blinding scarlet light. Whirling around, he saw the withered plains consumed by a fire that stretched across the horizon. As the fields burned away, the landscape shifted to a place he had never seen, yet recognized all the same. In place of grassy plains stood a desolate expanse of rock. A mountain of fire spewed geysers of liquid rock into the parched, reeking air, surmounted by swirling dark clouds, the foul breath of the mountain of doom. Looming over all was an immense tower of jagged, black stone, thrusting up as if to impale the very sky. And atop the tower, staring ceaselessly across the nightmare landscape, was an Eye.

Faramir could hear the roar of the fires that formed it, and a deep, shuddering snarl like a raging beast's. The Great Eye's burning, lidless gaze darted across the land; restless, impatient, seeking something. Then, suddenly, it halted. Faramir saw the pupil go wide as if in surprise, then narrow to the merest slit.

Slowly, inexorably, the Eye began to turn.

Faramir couldn't move, couldn't breathe, helpless as prey pinned beneath the merciless stare of an advancing predator. Still it turned...it was almost upon him, it would find him, it would see...

Then, without warning, the ground jerked sideways beneath his feet. Everything went black, and for an instant, he seemed to float in a featureless void. Then he gave an involuntary grunt of surprise as he landed face-down on the ground with a heavy, painful thump.

Faramir took deep, gasping breaths, laboring to fill his scalded lungs with air. The ground was cool against his sweat-soaked cheek, and all was dark and quiet; a blessed relief after the hellfires of Mordor. It's over, he thought, near-delirious from mingled panic and relief, his mind reeling as his heart hammered inside his chest. At last, it's over...

For a moment, he lay as if dead, waves of pain pounding their way through his skull. He kept his eyes firmly shut, desperately clutching at the ground with both hands, as if fearing it would spin away from under him. Slowly, gradually, he grew calm again as the pain and terror faded. He rolled over onto his back with a deep, frustrated sigh.

Fool. Stupid fool, he silently raged. You might have known you would fail. Whatever power lay within him, clearly he lacked the ability to control it. Either that, or he had only been deluding himself all along. The whole experience might have been just another nightmare, albeit a terrifyingly vivid one. And worst of all, his ordeal had gained him nothing; it seemed he knew no more about Boromir's mission than when he'd begun.

Faramir lay still, slowly breathing in and out, with his back against the ground and his hair spilled out around him. He felt strangely unwilling to open his eyes and face the waking world again. If indeed the whole camp has not been awakened this time...

However, he heard no voices, no sound of approaching footsteps. Even the familiar churning of the waterfall that normally permeated the base seemed to have gone silent. He felt a faint movement of soft-scented wind across his face, ruffling his hair.

Then he realized he wasn't lying on stone, but on grass.

Faramir's eyes snapped open, and he stared straight up at a starlit sky framed by trees. With an incoherent noise of shock, he flung himself over and stumbled to his feet, gazing in open-mouthed disbelief at his surroundings.

He was standing in a quiet forest glade. The trees were tall and slender, of a kind he'd never seen before, their colors faded to grays and blues beneath the starlit sky. The clearing was suffused with a soft, mysterious white light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

"Where..." he began, then swallowed as his voice caught in his throat. "Where am I?"

"You are alive. Be content with that."

Whirling towards the voice, Faramir was astonished to see a regal, golden-haired Elf-woman standing at the edge of the glade. The white light was strongest around her, as though she was the source of it. Barefoot and dressed in a gown of shimmering white, she silently regarded him with cool, impassive eyes.

At first, Faramir could only stand and gape, speechless with astonishment. Then recognition slowly crept across his face. "I know you," he said. "I hear your voice, every time I dream." She made no reply. "Who are you?" he demanded, briefly forgetting to be chivalrous in his understandable shock.

The Elf only gave a mysterious smile. "A worthy question, Faramir, son of Denethor."

"You know who I am?"

Her expression became distant and aloof, revealing nothing. "I know who you may become."

Faramir stifled his impatience at this cryptic discourse. He asked formally, "Why have you brought me here, my lady?"

She continued to regard him with her luminous, unblinking stare. "You were in grave danger, my young captain. Such paths are not to be traveled lightly."

"I..." Faramir shivered at the recollection. "I saw the Enemy. I saw his Eye."

"You are more fortunate than you know." Her eyes lowered briefly, and her tone grew quiet, almost fearful. "A moment more, and you would have been seen. Then your soul would have been taken, and held in torment for eternity."

Fear shook Faramir's mind, but was followed quickly by anger at her perceived indifference to his fate. You are a great comfort, my lady, he thought bitterly. At that, the elf-woman raised her eyes and stared unblinking into his, as if she had heard his thoughts. Unsettled, Faramir insisted, "I saw a vision of Boromir, my brother. I know that I..."

He trailed off, afraid to speak the words. It felt as if he stood at a crossroads, about to step onto a path from which there could be no return. "That I have...this gift."

He paused, but she didn't laugh, or mock him for his foolishness. She merely stood with her hands clasped before her, silently waiting for him to continue. "I saw Boromir in danger, and tried to learn more. Why did..." He broke off again, then quietly asked, "Why do I fail?"

When she answered, her voice was stern, yet with an undertone of regret. "Because all your life, you have taken your power, your very self, and bound them in a prison of your own making." As she spoke, she slowly began to walk the perimeter of the clearing, circling around him. "Fearing your father's scorn, you have denied all that is great in you, forced yourself into a shape you were never meant to wear." As she came into his view again, her eyes held his, and he could not look away. Her final words were very quiet: "If you choose falsehood over truth...then all may be lost."

Faramir wrenched his gaze away from hers. "I..." His voice was anguished, uncertain, and for a moment he wavered on the edge of a precipice, one step away from falling. But then, something inside him grew cold, and a voice that sounded much like his father's whispered in his mind. Do not believe her. There is nothing in you that is great.

Faramir's expression hardened, and he replied stiffly, "You speak in riddles, my lady." She made no reply, and he hesitantly dared to look at her again. She seemed unconcerned by his accusation, although her beautiful features showed the barest trace of disappointment.

The silence stretched out between them, and though Faramir tried to keep his emotions at bay, his urgent need tore at his soul. Finally, he could bear it no longer. He forced aside his frustration and pride, and pleaded, "I must help Boromir."

He reached out to her as if in supplication, then checked himself. "In my dream, I saw..." The terrifying images came rushing back, threatening to overwhelm him. Faramir's gaze went distant, staring at some unseen horror. "I saw my brother and did not recognize him! I looked in his eyes, and a stranger looked back at me!"

Her reply was soft, almost fearful. "It may yet be so." She hesitated. "It is the risk of all who were chosen."

"Chosen?" Faramir blinked as her words brought him back to reality. "Then Boromir's task is of great importance."

"Boromir's task may not be what you think, my young captain."

"But he must reach Rivendell. Whatever his mission, he must not perish before it begins." She didn't answer, but Faramir sensed his words had struck home. "If you can bring me here, surely you can send me to him." His voice faltered as he begged, "Please. Let me help him."

For a long time, the elf-woman made no answer. Her eyes were distant, as if engaged in some internal debate. Finally, she said, "There is truth in what you say." Faramir's heart leapt with hope at her words. Then, slowly, she raised her gaze to his and warned, "But there is great risk to yourself."

He nodded soberly. "I accept that risk."

At that, she gave an unexpected smile, as of a teacher to a favored student. "I would expect nothing less." Then she grew serious again. Her next words came without voice, spoken in the silence of his mind. I will give you what you need to aid him.

Strangely, he was unsurprised by the sound of the voice in his head. Still, something about her words made him shiver in apprehension. And what is it I need? he thought back.

Silently, she extended her hand to him.

Power.

For one moment more, Faramir hesitated. Then he stepped forward, reached out, and took her hand. Her eyes closed, and her expression became distant. Think on where you saw him, her voice came again. The bond between you will draw you to him.

Faramir closed his eyes, and called upon the image he'd seen earlier that night. He remembered the road, the forest, Boromir's camp. Good, she told him. Prepare yourself.

At first, Faramir felt nothing. Then he gasped aloud as a powerful shock ran up his arm. A brilliant white light consumed his vision, as if he stared into the blazing heart of a star. The Elf's voice spoke one last time, the sound of it filling his mind, overwhelming his thoughts. Remember what you have learned, she warned. Remember, and choose well!

Faramir's last, fading thought was, Boromir, hold on, I'm coming! Then darkness took him, and he knew nothing more.

--

Far from any hope of aid, at the mercy of his ruthless captors, Boromir stumbled blindly through the night. His only guides were the sounds of harsh laughter and an occasional shove in the back. Once, he dashed his shin against a log and toppled headlong into a blind fall; but a pair of clawed hands gripped his arms on either side, yanking him back. "Steady, man-filth," hissed a voice by his right shoulder. "Don't go smashin' your skull in just yet." A nasty snicker sounded from Boromir's left as he was forced back into a clumsy march.

After what seemed like an eternity, he began to hear voices up ahead. Then, he felt a sense of increased space, as if they'd moved into a clearing. The air was warm and thick with smoke, and he could see a glow of firelight through the blindfold. Without warning, he was shoved down, and his knees painfully struck the hard ground.

His head swam with dizziness and exhaustion. The heavy weave of the sackcloth tied across his face made it hard to breathe, and filled his nostrils with a constant reek. He tried very hard not to imagine what the cloth might previously have been used for. His arms ached from being held behind him, and his hands had gone numb from the ropes digging into his wrists. Although his chainmail had protected him from any crippling blows, his body still throbbed from the beating he'd taken. Boromir struggled to wrest free from the claws that clutched each shoulder as one of the orcs called out with pride, "We brought 'im back like you told us, Cap'n Azkresh."

A shadow blotted out the firelight. Heavy, deliberate footsteps drew closer. Heart pounding, Boromir flinched involuntarily as a callused hand seized him beneath the chin and tilted his head back. "Well, well," observed a strange, whispery voice. "What've we got here?" Boromir made no reply.

The voice went on, speculating, "Maybe one of the horse-men, heading north from Rohan." Boromir was released from the iron grip as the voice grew even softer. "Or even from someplace further south." He felt the sleeve of his chainmail lifted, and heard the soft chink of metal links rubbed between two fingers. "Expecting trouble on the road, were you?"

Still he said nothing. He heard his interrogator straighten up; from what Boromir could make out, the captain was tall for an orc, and strong besides. Then the one clasping his right shoulder spoke again. "We took these off 'im." Boromir heard the clink of metal as his possessions were handed over. The thought of some Mordor-bred scum handling the Horn of Gondor made his blood boil, but he could do nothing to stop it.

"Ahhh." Boromir got the distinct impression that the orc leader was smirking. "Very nice, these are, for a lone wanderer in the woods." Then, with a crashing sound, his weapons were flung aside like so much garbage. The voice spoke again, high above his head, with an edge that suggested an increasing lack of patience. "State your business."

Boromir straightened and held his head high in lofty disdain. "My business is my own."

The retort didn't quite have the impact he would've liked, both due to his increasing lack of breath and the muffling qualities of the sackcloth. He heard snickers and guffaws from around the camp. It was hard to guess their numbers, but there had to be a dozen, at least. Ordinarily the champion of Gondor would not have quailed at such odds; but even he had to admit that circumstances were decidedly against him.

Then Boromir felt the blind clenched at the back of his head, tightening uncomfortably against his face. "Want us to take this off, Cap'n?"

"No. Leave him in the dark for a bit." There was a papery chuckle. "Might help him think. And," this last was directed to him, "you have a lot to think about, man-scum."

Without warning, he was grabbed by the front of his tunic and yanked forward. His knees scraped along the rough ground as, struggling in vain, he was dragged towards the fire. The light of the bonfire stung his eyes even through the blindfold, and he felt a stifling heat against his face and chest. He was gripped hard at the back of his head, pulling his hair, tightening the reeking cloth against his face. Sweat ran down his forehead as bright spots danced behind his eyes, and he coughed deeply as the bitter smoke burned his lungs. The hateful voice was no more than a faint hiss, now. "You will talk. Only question is when."

With that, he was yanked back, and took a reflexive breath as he felt the blessed cool of darkness against his face. But this only lasted for a heartbeat before he was forced back before the fire, closer this time. Azkresh went on, an edge of cruel laughter in his whispery voice. "See, you can talk to me, now. Or you can take the long walk to Mordor with us, and talk to...him."

Boromir's shoulders quivered from strain as he tried to pull away. The heat was unbearable, and rivers of sweat ran down his body, his chest aching as his lungs cried out for air. He could hear the crackle of the flames, very loud, very close. "Tell me, or tell him." He swallowed hard, but had nothing to moisten his parched throat...he smelled something starting to burn... He sensed the orc leaning close to his ear, felt the puff of foul breath with each word: "Tell. Me. Or. Tell. Him!"

In the silence of his mind, Boromir resolved, I will die well. He tried again to swallow, could not. No matter what they do to me, I will die with honor...! The stench and the heat overpowered him, and the world began to go black.

--

Faramir's first sensations were a flash of light and a shock of cold, as if he'd fallen headfirst into an icy river. He struggled to keep his balance as he looked around, breathing deeply to steady himself. Although he hadn't taken a single step, his surroundings had completely changed. He was alone now, and stood in the middle of a dirt road, bounded by forests on either side. From his left, he heard a horse's sharp whinny. Turning, he saw a bay stallion tethered to a tree, and his heart leaped in recognition. Cirion! Boromir's horse! Awestruck by what he'd experienced, he could only marvel at what power the Elf-queen must possess, to transport him such a distance with only a thought.

Then he whirled in place at the sound of harsh voices. Without warning, a pair of orcs came crashing out of the trees, heading straight for him. Instantly, Faramir drew his sword and took a fighting stance. With a yell of defiance, he charged at them and slashed a killing blow at the nearest orc's neck...

...the blade passed right through him, harmless as air.

Faramir blinked in astonishment. The pair shambled past with their bowlegged walk as though he didn't even exist. Refusing to accept what his senses were telling him, Faramir reached out for the nearest tree. His hand disappeared into the trunk, and he jerked back with a gasp. Alarmed, he patted himself down. He felt solid enough to himself, but to the rest of the world, he was apparently nothing more than a phantom.

Shoulders sagging in defeat, he muttered, "I fail to see how this is helpful."

The greedy snickerings of the orcs drew his attention. They were rooting through Boromir's pack, fighting for possession of it as Cirion reared and kicked beside them. "Leave that!" Faramir protested, but they didn't react. Apparently he was inaudible as well as invisible. Seething with frustration, he stormed over to the gluttonous creatures, powerless to stop them as they tore the pack asunder, spilling its contents.

The smaller orc greedily scrabbled in the dirt for the provisions, but the larger growled and stomped at his hands. "Ow!" he whined in protest, scuttling away. His darker-skinned comrade sneered in triumph as he plopped down and began to stuff the food down his maw. Overcome with helpless fury, Faramir gave an incoherent snarl and aimed a kick at the pale orc...

"Gah!" The creature jumped bolt upright and scampered away. Surprised, Faramir watched as the orc rubbed his side and cried out, "I felt something!"

"Hnh. Good for you, Snezgog." The helmeted orc picked up Boromir's waterskin and tipped it to pour out the contents. Disappointed that it contained only water, he flung it away. "I feel things all the time."

"Sha! It's the truth! Just before, I felt something cold on my neck, an' there it was again!" He rubbed his neck and darted his watery eyes back and forth, whimpering, "I'm telling you, Ufwúrz, there's something here!"

The other gave a nasty chuckle. "Maybe it's an Elf in disguise." He chomped messily on some bread, crumbs spilling down his chin.

Snezgog bared his teeth at his indifferent companion. "Fine." Then his expression turned calculating as he squinted back at Cirion. "So now can we eat the horse?"

Faramir startled at this. The second orc swallowed and smacked his lips thoughtfully. "Why not?" he finally replied, with a snaggletoothed grin. "He won't need it any more."

"What? Where is he?" Faramir demanded. But of course, they made no reply. Snezgog drew a narrow, curved knife and stalked towards the panicking animal, licking his lips in anticipation.

Ufwúrz called out, "Save some nice bits for Cap'n Azkresh, though!"

Snezgog muttered, "Boot-licker," then drew his blade back, preparing to slash the horse's belly.

Faramir shouted, "Where is Boromir? What have you done with him?" Half-mad from anger and fear, he lunged forward and grabbed the orc's neck as if to throttle him. With a loud, long gasp, the orc froze in place as his eyes went wide--

--Faramir's mind recoiled beneath a wave of revolting sensations. It was like choking on a long draught of scummy green water. Gagging in disgust, he stumbled back, shutting his mind against the loathsome feelings. He fell to all fours, clapping a hand to his mouth as his stomach heaved, barely aware that the orc was convulsing and screaming behind him.

By all the powers, he thought in mingled awe and terror, I entered his mind...for that one instant, I was in his mind... He shook his head sharply and checked an urge to spit, rubbing his face as if trying to clear the memory of some clinging, repulsive stench.

Ufwúrz grudgingly rose and approached his thrashing comrade, demanding, "Now what's wrong? You got the foaming sickness or something?"

Snezgog clambered to his feet, gibbering in terror, a long rope of mucus dangling from one nostril. "Something was in my head!" he shrieked, clutching his forehead. "Something horrible!"

Faramir arched his eyebrows at this description of himself. "Indeed?"

Oblivious to his comrade's attempts to silence him, Snezgog flailed at the air in mindless panic. "This place has a demon! Help, save me, hellllp!!" With a final scream, he took to his heels and ran as if all the armies of Middle-Earth pursued him.

"You worm-eaten filth!" Ufwúrz roared as he pursued him. "Captain'll rip out your guts!"

But the other paid him no heed as he fled. Faramir scrambled to his feet and pursued the pair into the undergrowth, thinking, Boromir, if they have you, I will save you...I swear, I will save you...!

--

Half-unconscious from the pain and smothering heat, roasting alive over the flames, Boromir distantly became aware of a hideous caterwauling. Sounds of commotion came from throughout the camp as the noise grew closer. Then there was a crashing of underbrush and piercing screams as something burst into the clearing. Azkresh spun around with a curse, jerking Boromir back as he rasped, "What is this?" Then Boromir felt a moment of vertigo as he was flung through the air. He landed hard on one shoulder and tumbled over, coming to rest face-down in the dirt.

With all his remaining strength, he struggled to rise. But he could only lie gasping for breath, thoughts whirling on the edge of consciousness. Distantly, as if through an echoing tunnel, he heard a babbling high-pitched voice, mingling words of the Black Speech with the Common Tongue as if frightened beyond sanity. Boromir vaguely wondered what could reduce a creature of Mordor to such terror, and whether it boded well for himself. Considering how his luck had run so far, he thought with faint exasperation, it most likely did not.

And at that, he blacked out.

--

Faramir burst into the clearing just in time to see the hysterical Snezgog viciously backhanded across the face. The skinny orc spun clear around before collapsing like a pile of filthy rags. The tall, bone-studded orc that had hit him rubbed a fist smeared with black blood, and bared jagged fangs in a sneer of contempt. However, Faramir took only the briefest notice of this as he saw his brother.

His blood nearly froze in his veins at the sight. Boromir lay unmoving along the periphery of the camp, face covered with a tied cloth, arms bound behind him. He cannot be dead! But no, Faramir could see the slight rise and fall of his shoulders; he was still breathing.

He rushed over to him, heedless of the orcs as they gathered around their leader and the moaning Snezgog, all snarling and shouting questions. He vaguely perceived their leader ordering them to silence in a strange, whispery voice, then questioning the fallen orc, who could only whimper in reply. Faramir knelt down beside his brother. He was relieved to see no blood, nor obvious wounds. But that didn't mean he hadn't been beaten, or tortured...

Faramir forced aside such thoughts. Instinctively, he reached for the bonds that held Boromir's arms, only to have his hand pass right through the ropes. With a strangled noise of frustration, he looked around desperately for anything that might be of use. For the moment, the orcs were ignoring their prisoner, as Azkresh had lifted the pale orc by his neck and was shaking him violently. Faramir spotted a rough-edged blade lying in the dirt, not far from them. He couldn't touch it himself, but perhaps...

He shivered at the thought of what he was about to attempt. It seemed almost a violation to enter his brother's mind, but he saw no alternative. Hesitantly, he reached out and placed his hand against the other man's shoulder, barely making contact. Boromir, he thought, can you hear me? There was no response. He tried again, more forcefully. Boromir! The other stirred and gave a muffled groan, but that was all.

Faramir sat back and blew out heavily in exasperation. "Brother," he observed, "you are as perceptive as a cave-troll." He glanced back at the crowd around the campfire. They were arguing over their comrade's wild tale, but they wouldn't stay distracted forever. Narrowing his eyes, Faramir took a deep breath, steeled his will, and reached out with all his might:

BOROMIR!!

--

Boromir jerked back to consciousness, startled out of his wits and feeling like someone had blown a trumpet directly in his ear. Wake up! he heard a voice in his mind shouting, and he muttered in irritation, "I am awake!" Then he wondered whom he thought he was talking to. Feeling a bit foolish, he dismissed the incident from his mind and focused on more urgent matters.

He was still bound and blinded, although he seemed to have been left undisturbed for the moment. He could hear what sounded like a skirmish, which didn't surprise him; the forces of Mordor could scarcely go an hour without fighting amongst themselves. Still, he probably didn't have much time. If only there was some way to cut the ropes, he would have a chance...

There's a blade behind you, to your left.

Boromir drew in his breath in utter astonishment. Faramir? The words had come from inside his head, like a memory of his brother's voice. But why did he think such things now? And how could he possibly know what was behind him, never having seen his surroundings? Deciding he had nothing to lose, he rolled over on his side and edged backwards, feeling around behind him.

To your left! Now back! Quickly!

His questing fingers made contact with cold metal. Bewildered, but not about to question his good fortune, he fumbled to get hold of the blade; his hands were so numb he could barely move them. He managed to seize the blade awkwardly between his fingers, and dragged the rough edge back and forth across the ropes.

Good. Hurry. Your friends have almost finished their parley.

Indeed, he heard a sickening crunch of bone and a plaintive squeak, followed by roars of approval. Boromir assumed these sounds meant nothing good for whatever creature had made them. He could feel the ropes fraying under his efforts, but they were thick and not easily cut. Hurry! Before they see you!

He continued to work the blade back and forth, growing faint and dizzy from his exertions. As he did, Boromir worried that a voice inside his mind--one that sounded uncannily like his brother--was giving him directives. Perhaps he'd struck his head too hard when he'd landed, or was hallucinating from lack of breath. Meanwhile, the orcs quieted as their captain demanded in a dangerous rasp, "Anyone else hearing things in his head?"

Boromir froze in astonishment, but quickly returned to his task. Finally, the ropes parted, and his hands were free. Quickly, he grabbed the cloth at the back of his head, and tried to undo the knot. Just cut it! the voice snapped. You haven't much time! Boromir felt around for the orc-sword, snatched it up, and held the knot in one hand while he cut at it with the other. If it was Faramir who spoke to me, he thought in exasperation, I would cuff him for such insolence...

The knot tore free, and Boromir yanked the cloth from his face, drawing a deep, grateful breath. He squinted and blinked as his eyes were assaulted by the firelight, painfully bright after the long darkness. As his sight cleared, he found himself facing a throng of orcs, none of whom appeared pleased by his escape.

"Well now," the tallest--and most hideous--observed, in a whisper he'd come to know all too well. "Looks like this beast needs to learn some manners."

Boromir rose unsteadily to his feet, clutching the hilt of the orc-sword. The Mordor-blade felt alien in his hand, but he had no chance to search for his own weapons. A drooling, cross-eyed orc demanded, "Now can we kill 'im?"

"You're welcome to try, vermin," Boromir shot back, raising the sword in defiance.

A low hiss sounded from the captain. "No," he grudgingly decided. "It'll be all our heads if we disobey the Tower. But," he added, the line of bones on his forehead wrinkling in an ugly grin, "they won't mind if there's a bit less of him than when he started." He gave a sharp nod in Boromir's direction, and ordered, "Bring him down."

--

Faramir watched his brother defend himself from the onslaught of ravening orcs, blades flashing red in the flickering firelight. His immediate impulse was to draw his own sword. Then he paused, sighed, and sheathed it again. However, it occurred to him that if he could affect the other orcs the way he had the late, unlamented Snezgog, he could aid in his brother's fight. Bracing himself for the experience, he reached out a hand.

However, the decision was made for him as an orc was hurled bodily in his direction. Faramir flinched as the creature passed intangibly through him. Then he staggered and almost collapsed as the nauseating sensations washed over him again. But he focused his will, and managed to stay on his feet. He glanced at the fallen creature, which was convulsing just as his previous victim had. Then he turned back towards his brother and complained, "Mind where you throw things...!"

His voice trailed off as he saw his hand. Raising it to his face, he stared at it in disbelief. It had become transparent; he could see the glow of the fire right through it, as if through colored glass. He felt light-headed and weak, and his senses seemed dulled. Faramir looked back at the orc, who was rocking back and forth, moaning and holding his head in anguish.

So, Faramir realized, looking down at himself as the melee continued all around him. It seems the lady's gift comes with a price. Every time he made contact with another being, it seemed to drain him of life, of his very existence. He shivered at the realization that if it happened again, he might simply cease to exist. What an end for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, he thought with morbid amusement. Wiped from the face of the world like a spilled stain.

Groaning, Ufwúrz rose unsteadily to his feet. Glancing towards Faramir, his jaw dropped open in shock. For an astonished moment, Faramir thought that he had somehow become visible. But no, the orc was looking through him, and the man turned to follow his gaze.

Boromir stood breathing hard and perspiring heavily, hair plastered damply against his forehead. He was surrounded by the strewn, bloody corpses of fallen foes. None of those who had attacked him remained alive. Slowly, Boromir turned to face the helmeted orc. He raised the curved Mordor-sword in both hands, its entire length dripping with dark blood. And slowly, gradually, with a dangerous gleam in his eye...he smiled.

For a moment, Ufwúrz gaped in silent horror. Then he sprinted away as fast as his legs would carry him, vanishing swiftly into the night.

Faramir allowed himself a grin of triumph as Boromir exhaled heavily in relief. Then the brothers whirled in unison as a voice spoke in a low, dangerous rasp.

"Not bad," it observed. "But now...

...are you ready for a real fight?"

--

Boromir, drenched with sweat and weary to the bone, glared a defiant challenge at the evil captain. Azkresh hadn't moved once throughout the entire battle; he'd only watched with apparent disinterest as his warriors were cut down. The tall orc's eyes glowed like burning coals in the firelight. Shadows of the flames danced across his mutilated face, giving him the semblance of some ancient demon brought to life. His lips pulled back in a snarl as he demanded, "Who are you?"

"I am Boromir, son of Denethor," he replied, standing proud and tall. "From the city of Minas Tirith, in the land of Gondor. Long have my people fought against your foul breed, and always have we triumphed!"

"Gondor, eh," Azkresh replied, very quietly. For an instant, his eyes flickered out of focus. "That's interesting."

Wordlessly, he reached for the cords that bound his black leather vest. He undid them one by one and shrugged the vest free, letting it drop to the ground. His muscular torso, sharply outlined in flickering red, was slashed by a wide, crooked scar from ribs to collarbone. Another scar, jagged and hideous, coiled snakelike around the width of his throat.

"A filthy tark, a Gondor-man, gave me these," he whispered, running a finger along the gash on his neck. The bone-slivers that lined his forehead bunched tight, his face twisting in a snarl of remembered hatred. "Cost me my voice, but not my life."

"Pity," Boromir retorted, shifting position as he held the blade at the ready. "But I will finish what that noble soldier began."

Azkresh hissed like a snake as he drew his curved, serrated blade from its scabbard. "You'll die cursing his failure before I'm through." With that, he snarled and charged forward.

There were no more words now; only the clash of metal as the combatants circled the glade. Boromir was the more skillful fighter, and would ordinarily have had a clear advantage. But he was drained to the point of collapse from his long ordeal...the beating at his capture, the torment at the fire, and the pitched battle had all taken their toll. Meanwhile, the orc was at peak strength and driven by inhuman rage.

Unseen by either combatant, Faramir stood helplessly on the edge of the fight, fists clenched as he danced from foot to foot in furious agitation. "Come on!" he urged, knowing he'd never be heard, not caring. He glanced wildly around, saw Boromir's sword and shield lying only a few steps away. "Here, over here!" If he made contact with Boromir, he could tell him where they were...but in the heat of battle, even a moment's distraction might prove fatal...

Oblivious to his brother's dilemma, Boromir found himself on the defensive as Azkresh forced him back with a relentless barrage of hammerlike blows. He stumbled over the body of a fallen orc, and fell. The back of his skull struck the ground, hard. Spots danced before his eyes as he tried to rise, only to have his right wrist painfully stomped beneath a heavy, booted foot. The blow forced his hand open, and the sword slipped from his grasp and was kicked away. The orc whipped his blade forward and halted with the ragged edge pressed against Boromir's throat.

Azkresh gave a raspy snicker of satisfaction. He ran the edge of his blade almost gently along Boromir's skin. The man glared back at him, heart pounding in his chest, refusing to show his fear. "Now, Gondor-man," the orc almost purred, eyes slitting in cruel delight as his muscles tensed for the kill. "Let's see how much you bleed..."

"NO!" Faramir rushed forward and grabbed the orc in a choke-hold, wrapping his arm around the scarred neck. Azkresh went rigid as Faramir's mind made contact, and...

...it was like being plunged into a vat of boiling tar. Faramir was completely unprepared for the absolute purity of the evil he encountered, flooding over his thoughts like a black tide. The other minds he'd touched had been small, wretched things, all cowardly meanness and dull-witted hunger. This was an older, stronger mind, forged in cruel cunning and long-nurtured hatred. Faramir felt himself drowned within a self that had never known light or love or joy, consumed by an unquenchable rage against everything that lived and breathed.

Faramir fought with all his might to hold on to himself, felt his humanity slipping away beneath a tide of boundless evil. He could barely remember who he was, or what he was fighting for. He only knew that he could not, would not give in. You will not have me...you will not defeat me...!

The sensations, the thoughts, were poisonous, loathsome, unbearable. He recoiled from them, fought to escape a tangled snare of memories. Memories of violence and death, belonging to a monster that shrank from sunlight, scorned laughter and kindness, loathed the sight of green and growing things. It delighted in cruelty and malice, the smell of blood, the sound of screams. The creature knew no true pleasure, only hunger and lust and pain.

He knew nothing of friendship, and felt only contempt for the sniveling worms he commanded. He felt no loyalty, only the brutal certainty that to serve his master meant power and victory, and to disobey meant death. And above all, he felt a ceaseless, consuming, unending hatred. Hate was life itself, hate was the very blood rushing through his veins. It was his only reason to live, his only reason to die. He hated his enemies, hated his allies, hated himself...and most of all, beyond anything else, he hated the one who had created him...

...NO!!

Something inside him leaped up, fought back. I do not belong to Mordor! his soul screamed into the darkness. You will not defeat me! He felt torn against himself, no longer sure of who or what he was, only knowing that what he felt now was evil, was alien, was wrong. He had to defeat it, or be lost to it forever.

I am Faramir of Gondor! He grew stronger, more certain, felt his will returning. You will not have me! Memories came rushing back to him; of his city, his friends, his family. He remembered his mother's smile, the smell of her hair. He remembered sparring with Boromir, laughing as his brother reached out and tousled his hair in mocking affection. And he remembered his father, looking down at him with his usual stern glare. But then, he remembered as Denethor slowly allowed himself the barest hint of a smile, and grudgingly said, "You did well...my son." And Faramir held on to that moment, when he'd felt that his heart would burst from pride and joy.

Now it was the other mind's turn to recoil from sensations it could not endure, from love and friendship and joy, from victory and sorrow both. The evil soul shriveled away like paper blackening in fire, unable to withstand the power it now faced. For one moment, Faramir knew himself as he truly was, stripped of all self-deception, freed from fear and doubt. He saw that his love and kindness were not weakness, but the truest kind of strength; felt the power of a soul that was both gentle as water and unyielding as a steel blade. In his mind, or aloud, he cried out in defiance:

"You...will...never...have...ME!"

Faramir tore himself free and staggered back. He collapsed to earth and lay unmoving. Azkresh stood rigid and convulsing, the whites of his eyes showing as foaming saliva bubbled from the corners of his mouth. Then his body spasmed, and a choked gurgle rose in his throat. Bewildered, the orc captain slowly looked down at himself, and at the length of straight, shining blade thrust deep into his chest. Then he looked up into the eyes of the man who had killed him.

For a moment, Boromir held the orc's gaze, his eyes showing neither mercy nor pity. Then he wrenched free the sword--his own, true sword--with a wet sound of tearing flesh. Stepping back, he watched impassively as Azkresh took a long, shuddering breath. The whispery voice, now small and terrified as a child's, spoke one final time:

"I...don't...under...stand..."

He was dead before his body hit the ground.

All was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the slowly dying fire, and Boromir's deep, heavy breaths. He lowered his sword, gazing impassively down at the black blood dripping from its edge. Then he wavered and almost fell, raising a hand to his face as his eyes half-closed of their own accord. He took a step back, then another. Then he sat down hard in the dirt, letting his sword fall from his grasp as he braced himself up with both arms. Boromir let out a long, slow breath, shoulders sagging. He lowered his head, his sweat-soaked hair dangling over his face as his eyes closed.

The forest was still, and silent. Almost imperceptibly, the sky began to lighten with the first hint of dawn, and the last traces of the orcs' bonfire died away to smoldering embers. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called, and was answered by another. Still Boromir remained where he was, as though he would never move from the spot again.

Only a few feet away, Faramir stirred from where he had fallen. With a weary groan, he managed to sit up. As his thoughts returned, he braced himself for the horrible rush of sickness that would no doubt result from his mental battle. However, the moments passed, and he felt nothing of the kind.

In fact, he no longer felt anything at all.

Faramir willed his blurred vision to focus. Flexing his hand, he saw it had faded almost completely. His thoughts seemed faint and distant, and he could feel nothing but a vague chill, as if he was made up of cold air. So, he realized. This is how it ends.

Almost idly, he wondered what it would feel like when he finally vanished, his spirit scattered like smoke on the wind. Still, he thought, looking over at his brother...if he had purchased Boromir's life with his own, there was nothing to regret. This world needs him, and not me.

Then he heard a voice in his mind, saying, Do not be so sure, my young captain.

He recognized the voice of the Elf-woman who had sent him to this place. It seemed somehow appropriate that she should return to him now, at the end. You have done all I asked, my lady, he calmly thought back, never taking his eyes from his brother. For that, I thank you.

The clearing grew brighter as the sun continued to rise. "Now let me fade, if that is my destiny," he said softly. "At least I shall die with honor, and as myself."

Your destiny is not yet written, Faramir, son of Denethor, she replied. Faramir couldn't tell if her words were meant as comfort, or warning, or neither. And perhaps you are not yourself...not yet.

"What? What do you mean?"

There was no answer. As his vision faded and the world slowly went white, he turned his final gaze to Boromir--

--he was looking back, sitting bolt upright, his eyes were wide with recognition, he could see him, he could see him...!

"Boromir...!"

Boromir blinked repeatedly in disbelief, and his mouth dropped open in shock at what he saw. "It cannot be!" He tried to rise, stumbled and fell, reached out a hand in desperation, calling, "Faramir!"

Boromir saw Faramir's eyes meet his, saw his young brother reaching out to him, mouth open as if to speak, to impart some urgent message...their hands were inches away from touching, then...

...the image faded, and was gone.

--

The morning had grown bright, and still Boromir remained where he was. He sat stubbornly gazing out at where he'd seen his brother, concentrating with all his might, willing the image to re-appear. But time wore on, and still he saw nothing...nothing at all.

Eventually, Boromir could only conclude that he'd imagined the entire thing. After all, he was utterly exhausted from the night's trials. It was unsurprising that he would come to see dream-phantoms with his waking eyes. Perhaps I will tell Faramir of this when I return, he thought, with a faint smile of remembrance. He was always fond of such fanciful tales.

Then he ran his gaze around the clearing with a scowl of disgust. The strewn bodies of his fallen foes were beginning to stink...worse than they had in life, at any rate. It was high time he departed. Heaving himself to his feet, he gathered up his possessions, slinging his shield across his back and fastening the Horn of Gondor in its place at his side. Taking a last look around, his attention was drawn to the body of Azkresh, lying face-down in a congealing pool of dark blood.

Boromir had to wonder what had caused the orc captain such inexplicable agonies, just at the moment to aid in his triumph. But dwelling on such thoughts made him uncomfortable, so he simply put them aside. If fortune favors my errand, he told himself, then that is enough.

Stifling a yawn, he turned towards the edge of the clearing, and headed for the orc-trail that led into the camp. Finding his way back would not be difficult; when they'd brought him in, the Mordor-filth had trampled a path clear enough for an army to follow.

After a walk that seemed endless to his aching muscles, he finally emerged from the forest. His first emotion on observing the scene was relief that his horse was alive and unharmed. But this was swiftly followed by chagrin at the sight of his pack torn asunder, as if savaged by a herd of wild boars.

Cirion snorted and tossed his mane as Boromir approached and patted his neck, murmuring soothing words. The horse gradually calmed, and Boromir moved to gather what was left of his belongings. Picking up his discarded waterskin, he saw that it was empty, but undamaged. All his remaining provisions, however, had been ruined beyond hope of salvage. It would be a lean journey to Rivendell.

No matter, he thought. He had endured worse. At any rate, the Elves would see that the Men of Gondor did not shirk from hardship.

He untethered Cirion from the tree, tossed the reins back over the horse's neck, and hauled himself up into the saddle. As he guided the horse back onto the road, Boromir pulled his mount to a halt. Cirion pawed the earth and sidestepped, clearly impatient to be away. But Boromir hesitated, and gazed back in thoughtful silence at the forest, towards the light in the eastern sky.

It was clear to him now that the threat of Mordor was greater than he'd believed; perhaps even greater than his father had suspected. Boromir realized he no longer had the luxury of doubt or second-guessing; the time had come for decisive action, or all would be lost. If Gondor was to have any future...and if those he loved were to live to see that future...then he could not fail in the duty assigned to him.

So much depends on me, he thought, with a surge of panic in the face of a task that seemed overwhelming. But then his fears were forced down, subsumed beneath a stony, unyielding resolve. Then I will see it done.

But for one fleeting moment, he lowered his gaze in sorrow and regret. "And after all," he whispered to himself, "it was only a dream."

Then he looked to the road ahead and urged his mount forward. The horse started off at a brisk trot, hooves stirring up the dusty road with their rhythmic motion. The wind blew Boromir's cloak back from his shoulders and stirred his hair as he rode on, his eyes fixed on the path before him. Boromir rode off into the morning, disappeared around a bend in the road, and was gone.

--

"Captain! Captain! Are you all right?"

The voice hit Faramir's ears like a thunderclap. As he woke, he felt light-headed and nauseous; the return of physical sensation was overwhelming after his ephemeral dream-existence. He coughed and squinted, blinking to clear his vision as he felt himself roughly shaken by the shoulder.

"It seems I'm not dead, then," Faramir observed, his voice rather slurred as he tried to focus on his surroundings. Several of his men were crowded into the small room with him. One of them was Madril, his second-in-command, who had left off trying to wake him and was staring in concern and bewilderment. Faramir rose unsteadily to a seated position.

However, this proved unwise, as Faramir suddenly clapped a hand to his mouth and doubled over with a retching sound. "Fetch a bucket!" Madril called urgently, but Faramir shook his head, trying to speak.

"Nn...no," he finally gasped, breathing deeply as he managed to sit back up. "I'm all right." The older man looked skeptical, but Faramir insisted, "T'was a brief illness. It passes."

Faramir made as if to stand. Madril and Damrod grabbed him by either arm and helped him to his feet. "We feared for your safety, my lord," Damrod explained, still looking worried. "We called to you, but you would not wake."

"I..." Faramir's gaze went distant, and he seemed to stare at unseen sights. How could he explain what had transpired, while they'd slept unknowing all around him? I can scarce believe it myself. Finally, he assured, "Worry not. I am well now."

Madril peered intently at his young captain, clearly suspecting there was more going on than Faramir wished to discuss. But he only gave a dry half-grin, and suggested, "Perhaps you had some bad food, Captain."

Faramir, grateful for the diversion, smiled faintly in return. "Perhaps."

Irolas looked suspiciously towards Damrod. "It was your turn to do the cooking last night, was it not?"

"No, it was Mablung," the other retorted. "And like as not he'll poison the whole camp ere long."

Madril snorted at this prophecy, and shook his head in mock sorrow. "My advice, Captain? Find yourself a wife who can cook. Else these louts will put you in an early grave."

"Enough, all of you," Faramir ordered; but there was no anger in his voice, and he smiled as he spoke. "Go, make ready to leave. We have a long day's march ahead."

The others bowed and made their farewells. As they left, Faramir heard their footsteps grow faint, and the sound of conversation faded away. He waited one, two, three heartbeats. Then his eyes wavered shut and he staggered sideways, collapsing against the wall.

Breathing hard, he braced himself upright against the cold stone, his head swimming with exhaustion. A fine night's rest, indeed, he thought wryly. A march to Harad and back would seem a comfort after this.

Thinking back on the night's strange journeys, he could hardly begin to make sense of it all. But there was one truth he knew for certain; Boromir was alive and well. Faramir knew this beyond any doubt, and no longer thought to question why. Though it still tore at his heart to be separated from his beloved brother, he accepted that for now, at least, they each had to walk a different road.

However, it still seemed he'd been left with more questions than answers. With a heavy exhalation, he turned and pressed his back against the wall, pondering in silence as his strength slowly returned. What was the meaning of the dream that had plagued him for so long, and the horrific visions it had spawned? Who were the strangers in his vision, and what was the terrible power each had claimed for his own? Or, Faramir thought with a flash of insight, that had claimed them? He remembered his vision of Boromir returning to Gondor...not in triumph, but in darkness and despair...and felt a chill in his bones at the memory.

Isildur's Bane...

Somehow, Faramir sensed that the recurring dream had served its mysterious purpose, and would trouble him no more. For that, he supposed he should be grateful, at least. And perhaps the answers would come to him, in time.

He stood up from the wall, tucking in his rumpled tunic and running his fingers through his hair. As he prepared himself to depart, he tried to set aside his musings and focus on the day ahead. But as he strapped on the last of his Ranger gear and fastened his sword belt, he hesitated. Slowly, he drew his sword from its scabbard and gazed at it in silence, tilting the blade to see his own reflection in the shining steel. Unbidden, the elf-woman's voice returned to him: Perhaps you are not yourself...not yet.

Faramir lowered his gaze. "Then who am I, my lady?" he quietly asked.

He had finally acknowledged the power within himself, yet he was still uncertain of what it could do, and whether he could control it. It had taken him places he'd never imagined, shown him things he could barely comprehend. He'd stood on the plains of Mordor and fought unseen at his brother's side, spoken with an Elven queen and seen the Eye of Sauron himself. And he had done battle within the mind of a deadly foe, gazed into the blackest depths of an evil soul...and had seen his own soul reflected back.

The sword quivered in his hand as he clenched his shaking fist ever tighter. I fell so easily, he thought, his heart crying out with guilt and self-loathing. How then can we be so different? Did that hatred, that darkness, belong to that filth of Mordor...

...or did it belong to me?

With a surge of anger, he tore his gaze away and sheathed his sword in a violent motion. No more doubts, he ordered himself, flinging on his cloak and tying it at his throat. Everything was clear to him, now. Mordor must be destroyed. By any means, by any method, no matter the cost. He grabbed up his quiver and bow, strapped them to his back. Boromir would take any risk for Gondor's sake. I can only hope to follow in his footsteps.

Faramir stepped forward as if to exit, then hesitated. Deep in thought, he stopped and ran his hand along the curved stone wall of the doorway, then glanced back into the small room. For a moment, his eyes reflected the anguish within his soul.

"You were right, Father," he said in a toneless whisper. "You were right all along."

Then his face set in an expressionless mask. Faramir turned and strode from the room without a backwards glance. He had made his choice, set himself on a path from which there was no turning back. Some hidden part of his soul hoped that one day, he would see the truth beyond the lies...even, perhaps, the lies he told himself.

But for now, he could not see it.