Disclaimer: I don't own anything that was written by Tolkien. As if you didn't know. :o)))

Summary: Weep for him – he deserved that. Weep for him – for not many did. Weep for him – and, may be, he will come back. The waters of Henneth Annûn kept many secrets. Let me tell you about the greatest one. AU. Not MS.

Author's note: Pfff… Each time I have to write the opening words for a new fic, I'm nervous like a student before the exam. :o) Glad to see my faithful readers, and to greet the new ones – if there are such.

From the very beginning I warn you that it is AU. Not a Mary-Sue, cross my heart. I think I wouldn't manage to create a Mary-Sue even if I were burning with such a desire. :o) So no worries.

Be kind – I'm just playing with characters and events. After all, we all are. :o) If you have something against it – read at least two more chapters and then have your say. May be, everything is not as bad as you think. Though I hope that you will be merciful.

Enjoy it. :o)))) And please…. Please-please-please. Review. :o))))

Troubled waters.

Through the rainfall,

Where the stars die

On your moontrack

Hear my voice call,

Hear my heart cry,

Make your way back.

I don't want love,

I don't need life,

I reject peace…

Take the war-glove,

Win the death-strife,

And come back…Please.

Chapter1.

Life for life.

I was there. Always. And forever.

Beaming. Shimmering. Bewitching.

That's what I was meant to be.

I chanted roundelays to the severe sun, and its face was becoming milder, when it looked down at me. I played with the moonlight once it was captured in my hands. I was careless. I got used to being admired.

And one day he came.

In his smile shone the sun that was beyond the power of my spell, and his eyes kept the moonlight that I knew I couldn't win to make my toy.

And all my songs, and all my whispers, and all my laughter, and all my sighs I gave to him – my boy with the brilliant look.

Days came and went, years blossomed and withered, but I was passionless to all. For me, time started its run only when his foot touched the bank, and halted in death-like silence, whenever he left me.

There were others. I endured them. They praised me, worshipped me, grew mute in my presence and walked away, not daring to pronounce a sound… He always found words for me. And if he was silent I knew that troubles ailed him, and spoke myself, comforting him, calming him, soothing him… He would go away, having brushed his fingertips against me – I rejoiced at having been granted with beauty and power enough to brighten his soul in the darkest times. My youth with a violent stare.

A bitter pang I felt when he once brought another to my shrine. She was adorable, that lass – slim and portly, with the deepest and bluest night flickering from under her heavy lashes. She was human. She could own him.

He didn't care to glance my way and see my pain and despair… To perceive my nascent anger, when his arms curled around her waist and forced her to sink down on the cool rock two steps away from me. Forced… Those forced endeavor to resist. She didn't.

His hair touched the detestably white skin of her neck, and the black anger overflowed me… Her head was close enough to reach it in one lunge…

My wave covered her, cruelly slapping that sweet and hateful face. She gasped for breath, drawing the lake water into her lungs. Oh, I wished I had hands then to hold her from jumping up and fleeing away, as if she felt that she had never been closer to her death than in the moment she ventured to want him for herself…

Wretched she was – wet and red in the face, and her flowing hair tousled, like wisps of river-weeds. But he ran after her. He didn't look back.

I broke into jealous weeping…

…I never saw her again. Whether I scared her away from him, or his blaze was weak and didn't suffer a single splash of water – I couldn't say. Since that day he resumed coming alone. I forgave him.

Time began to flow anew, yet not as clear and undisturbed as before. He appeared more and more seldom, and then ceased coming at all. And when at last his steps were heard in my cave, he wasn't a boy or a youth anymore. His body was scarred, and more scarred was his soul. My entire splendor was helpless in repairing that. I sang for him – he didn't listen. I stroke his hands, plunged into my waters – his skin hardened and didn't feel my caress. I ceased laughing, for my laughter was feeble against his sorrows. I couldn't remove the burden from his heart, and I hated myself for that.

And then he left me one last time.

Why, oh why did I allow him to go? Why didn't I see the shadow of doom in his eyes, reflected in the mirror of my surface, as he leaned to touch me good-bye? Why couldn't I hold him, my man with a bitter glance?

"Farewell, my Henneth Annûn," whispered he sadly, "Thank you."

Farewell…

I couldn't believe that he had gone.

I was waiting for him. Wind carried away my tears - I hoped that somewhere they would spill on his aching body to cool down the heat of the battle and wash the blood off his wounds.

Sleepless, restless, I whispered his name to ever-watchful stars, imploring them to bring me the news about his life.

They brought me the news about his death.

There couldn't be any grief cheerless enough to rival mine. Died, died so far away, alone and in pain, torn by the gang of black scum, his last breath filled with guilt and despair… Stranger hands sent him to his final journey, stranger waters ran their cold palms against his boat. Never would he smile at me again, or trust me to soothe him.

I sobbed in the darkness, wishing to cry his image out of my heart, to erase, to forget him... But I couldn't.

Those who drank of my streams then, swore that the draughts were salty.

Why, oh why did I let him go…

I had failed him… I had to make up for that.

Since that day there hadn't been other sounds on my lips, but the words of one entreaty. I chanted it over and over, like a haunting melody, and stopped neither for a day, nor for a night.

Ulmo, my father. The master of life-granting water, the voice of the sea, the shepherd of gulls, the heart of the rain, hear me. You I beg, let him go. Throw ashore the death-bark, release his spirit, awaken his soul. Pray your brothers and sisters for him, for my voice is as weak as my love is great, and the children of eternity do not hark to it. Free him…

I lost count of passing hours. Each minute was a century of torture. Each sunrise was the funeral of another hope.

But once … once my prayers were answered.

I bent in my patron's presence and fell silent in anxious wait.

"What is there in the mere mortal that makes you grieve so much?"

"My life," said I openly, "My sunshine."

The face of the Vala was stony and severe. He was angry with me, I sensed that. But I wouldn't give up, be it Iluvatar to chastise me.

"He won't pay you back for these sufferings. He won't know what you did for him."

"I care not."

"Very well," my patron nodded in agreement, and I lit up with joy, but my hope died as soon as he spoke again.

"We can breathe back his spirit, my child, yet his body is too injured for now to keep it. Your interference will bring him nothing but several instants of another painful dying. He isn't meant to live on."

Light dimmed in my cave. So all my sufferings had been in vain.

"Can I do something to change it?" asked I desolately.

"You can pay the highest price an immortal can give away for a man of earth," the answer didn't come easily to him, "The one that is too stiff for a creature as fragile as you are."

"Call your price," I was obstinate. How could he call me fragile, he who knew me better than anyone else? A heavy sigh escaped his lips.

"Your gift," responded he quietly, "Your powers and your beauty. Your everlasting nature."

I had been expecting this, and wasn't surprised. I'd have asked for it myself, had he evaded my question.

"If it can make him return, take it. Let him live."

"But you will be mortal then. You will obtain a body and drag your existence until death breaks it after decades of ageing. Are you ready for such an end?"

I didn't answer. Why would I? My stubborn silence told him, that I was firm in my decision.

"I must warn you about one more thing," his voice was but a rustle of wind against the gray winter waves, "You will never approach him, after the change is done. As soon as you come too near, your powers will spill out of him to return to you. And then there'll be no other hope for him."

I was ready to confirm my agreement, when the sense of the said dawned upon me. I would not approach him. I would be gifted with the body and the age of his race - and deprived of the only one, to whom I had dreamed to give them.

Foul…Unfair…

My resolve faltered, but only for a blink of an eye. I had always known he wasn't for me. I had lived with it as a spirit, why wouldn't I live with it as a human? What was one wound, delivered to my selfishness, in comparison to the value of his life?

"I accept this. Pray, don't refuse me," how hard it appeared to say that…

"That's what I would do with the greatest pleasure," the sadness wavered in the glance of my patron, as he lowered his head, refusing to look at me in my resoluteness, "Yes, I would, but it is not in my powers. I was told not to hinder you from the sacrifice. Won't you change your mind, while you still have your choice?"

"I won't," I assured him.

"Be it then," from his belt he unhinged the silver-clad horn, I knew as the one which gathered my kin in his realm, and blew it, sending the mighty ringing over the waking world. Fear winced in me, when I felt my depth respond to it with strange shiver.

"Good bye, Henneth," whispered he ruefully, having taken the dutiful herald away from his lips, "I'm sorry that you are leaving me, but from now on I'm not your master anymore."

My mind was screaming with fright and doubts… My waves were quavering and moaning, peeling off my newly-born body, as scales of one of my fin-bearing dwellers.

The image of Ulmo was fading, for my human eyes were no longer able to see his blessed features. I smiled at him.

My choice was made.

Much water has flowed under the bridges since the war was over for good, but the world was far from peace and calmness. Orcs were still lounging about the borders of Gondorian domain and the lands of Ithilien. Weakened by the dethronement of their Master, they didn't dare commit open assaults, contenting themselves with occasional looting in villages, which with time almost ceased due to joined efforts of the King of Gondor and his right hand, the present prince of Ithilien, Faramir, son of Denethor.

The morning was crisp and chilly. Harsh Northern wind made Faramir shrink in his thin clothes and tardily regret that he hadn't chosen a more proper outfit.

The fog of the night was sinking down, crying with dew, the drops of which reminded of liquid hailstones. It wasn't yet the time for the sun, and the skies were steely and unfriendly.

He had a strange and disturbing dream this night. He saw himself a little boy, playing hide-and-seek with Boromir. His older brother was more than skilled in this game. There hadn't been a time, when he would be found before he wanted that. But now Faramir felt that he had all the chances to win – at the wharf where they were amusing themselves, there was only one shelter to conceal oneself in. A long high-boarded boat, so old that its wooden sides rotted through, and were grinning with large shapeless holes.

He crept up to it as quietly as he could, half-expecting his brother to notice this shadowing and reveal himself before his refuge was discovered and he was dishonored as a bad player. But nobody moved inside the decaying vessel.

The oppressive smell of stale fabric struck his nostrils, bringing the instant nausea. His widened eyes caught sight of someone's hand on a hilt of a rusty sword, which loomed through the crack in the mouldering wood…

The roar of a horn delivered him from the further discoveries. Whipping around, he beamed with relief at seeing his laughing brother… The distance made his features blur, but it was Boromir – there couldn't be any mistake.

The man waved his hand, and quickly marched away into the goldish haze, not waiting for his younger brother to follow him…

Faramir shook his head, driving away the futile reveries. Reluctantly they swept away, leaving the ever-lingering flavour of sadness, which neither grew no abated with years. It just was there, like a jag on the blade of a sword, used in many battles. Some wounds were too deep to heal up.

"I miss you," told he to the wreathing clouds on the horizon, "If you only knew how you are needed here."

He had to come back to his duties. There was no use grieving over the past, when the present gave no less reasons to worry. The group of scouts he had sent down the Anduin to patrol the distant areas of the harbour, was to return three days ago. However, the third sun was on its way to the top of the heaven-arch, but not a single warrior had come back.

A cloud of dust dove out of the skyline and headed in the direction of the fortress– Faramir frowned, peering into the vague contours of the moving spot.

His brow smoothed out, as soon as the banner of Gondor glimpsed in the timid morning rays. They still returned.

The warriors rode very slowly, as if the horses carried double burden. A careful study showed him that it was almost true – the four leading steeds formed up a straight square, in the middle of which was swaying a cloak, hastily turned into a makeshift stretcher. The riders were holding at two ropes, presenting the handles of this temporal bed.

His heart sank at the view. Someone was wounded, and wounded heavily, since the fellows had to come into such troubles to carry him.

But all the horses were mounted by their owners.

In a hurry Faramir left the balcony, running down the stairs into the long gallery, and into the hall outside. People were bowing to him, their greetings remaining unanswered. He simply didn't notice them, absorbed in sharp anxiety.

His wife was already at the gates, where warriors were dismounting from their foamy horses. Their glances met, and she quickly averted her eyes. A pungent twinge of offence stirred in his chest. He had tried to remember when he had last saw her smile – and failed, much to his hidden bitterness. With each day she sank back into the proud stillness and sadness, he had hoped was forgotten for good. She kept looking in the opposite direction, and he turned away, a sigh ready to pass his lips.

"Greetings, milord Faramir," the leader of the troop made a quick bow.

"Greetings," responded Faramir calmly, "What news have you brought us?"

"No news, milord," the Captain hesitated, uneasily shifting from one foot to the other, "We found a wounded man at the approaches to the harbour. He had walked for sometime, but his injuries had overtaken him earlier than we came. We carried him here."

The warriors stepped asunder to give way to their lord. Not having made two steps, he suddenly froze still, his face filling with ghastly pallor. It couldn't be… Just couldn't…

"What is it?" asked Eowyn anxiously, "Who is he? Do you know him?"

With an inhuman effort Faramir tore his gaze off the body, prostrate on the stretchers at his feet.

"He's Boromir," muttered he with a dead voice, "He's my brother."

Throw stones. I suppose I deserved it. And if not – drop at least a couple of words. :o)))

Yours, Adamanta.