This is updated to fix an inconsistency that had been pointed out.
This use to be longer, also involved parts of a chapter that will end up being at least two chapters from now.
Boromir lay in the boat, looking at the stars above. His broken arm he had been able to set himself (indeed a very painful task) and it lay limply beside him. The makeshift splint would suffice for now, but, he needed real doctoring. The stars twinkled above him, and the moon shone though it was hiding behind a cloud. Boromir had put almost all his stuff on the banks for safekeeping.
"Again," he said to himself, "I am sorry Frodo."
He didn't know if he slipped into dream or not. But, the next thing he knew, there was a large scrapping sound. He bolted upright and discovered to his utter dismay that the boat had left the shore and was now at least thirty yards from where his stuff was. He went to grab the paddle but, just as he set the paddle in the water to get back to land, the boat capsized, plunging him into the cold water.
The current was stronger then he had thought. Before he was able to grab for the boat, he was being dragged down the river, far from the boat and water surged into his mouth and nostrils and eyes. The water pulled him under and he struggled to get out. His head barely exploded out of the water, and he had no time to gasp from air as the boat bashed him upside the head, knocking him back under. Water poured into his mouth and he went unconscious.
Faramir stood on the banks of the Anduin, listening to the water lapping against the shore in the pre-dawn hours. It was bitter cold and he drew his heavy dark green cloak around him closer. He would have thought the the broken down buildings beside him would have sheltered him, but the cold seemed to be trying to claw at him. He hoped that morning would come soon; for as soon as the morning came, he could return to head quarters.
He looked around the river, and saw a glint of silver in the water. Something was out in middle of the river. He raised an eyebrow, wondering if he should go and retrieve it. But, he dare not for fear of arousing the orcs on the other side, for not even here, West Osgiliath was he safe.
It could have been an orc that had been killed near Cair Andros, indeed, orcs were ever seen trying to swim across the river, one or two at a time, to cause mischief and murder. They had so far prevented any orc from crossing the river. But, who knew how long it would last.
But, he did not need to worry too much. Something massive, an overhanging wall of a broken building in East Osgiliath, fell with a crash into the water. On both sides soldiers rushed to the river bank to prepare for battle, and for a few tense moments archers shot arrows at the opposin banks, but they soon came to realize what had happened and returned to the little rest they could get before the morning.
Suddenly, at Faramir's feet came the thing that was in the water. Forced by the gentle ripples, it had been pushed to the banks. Faramir bent and discovered a great man, near drowned from a lot of time being submerged. He saw one of the arms was broken, and the splinter had come off. He hurried and retied it, and there was an unconscious groan from the man. Lifting the man in his arms, he dragged him back to his head quarters. He put the man on his bed and suddenly collapsed from delight. It was Boromir, returned to Gondor.
Denethor looked kindly at his son, who had recovered from nearly drowning. Boromir was ravaging a leg of chicken as he was eating. Faramir sat apart from them, knowing well enough he was not really wanted here. Denethor listened to his son, who between bites of chicken told of his journey (but stayed clear of the purpose of the quest.)
"A good tale, my son," Denethor said, sitting comfortably on his small stone throne, "But, you do not tell all you know."
"I will not reveal all I did," Boromir shrugged his shoulders, "A man is entitled to his own secrets."
"Even from the Steward of Minas Tirith?" Denethor asked, for the first time suspicion entering his voice.
"You may ask questions," Boromir shrugged, filling content as he finished the leg and tossed the bone to the dog lying by him.
"Indeed I will," Denethor said, "Did you discover the meaning of Isildur's Bane?"
Boromir shrugged. "I might have," he said evasively.
"And what of the Halfling?" Denethor pressed onward.
Boromir nodded. "I saw him."
"And," Denethor leaned forward like a cat on a mouse, "Who was this Aragorn you speak so highly of?"
Boromir nearly grimaced. How was he going to break it to his father? His father was a proud man, and would not take it lightly the news of one coming to take his place. He had also had a spasm of pain from his broken arm.
"He was-a mighty man," Boromir said, choosing his words carefully.
"Was he from Gondor?" Denethor pressed.
"No," Boromir shook his head, "He was a ranger from the North."
"A ranger from the north," whispered Denethor, "You admire a ranger?"
"He was not just any ranger," Boromir said with fierce devotion to Aragorn, "He was the best."
"I see," muttered Denethor, "Indeed the wizard Gandalf taught you well."
Boromir frowned at that comment as his father withdrew inwardly to his own thoughts. He didn't need to talk badly about Gandalf. Gandalf was a good man. Or, at least, had been, before Fire and Shadow had come.
"Let us go enjoy the good weather Faramir," Boromir finally said, standing up and taking leave from his father to go.
Faramir understood what that meant. It was a code phrase they used when they needed to have a serious talk. They both strode out of the great cold stone hall and into the courtyard.
Faramir was automatically struck with awe at the white tree. Even though he had seen it many times; the white tree, though it was dead, still held respect. A symbol that indeed, the king would return.
They walked to the wall, bypassing the stiff backed guards. Boromir leaned against the wall and stared out towards the north. Faramir watched his brother, knowing his face only masked the turmoil inside. Finally Boromir spoke.
"Aragorn is more then I said," Boromir said.
"How so?" asked Faramir.
"He is the Heir of Isildur," Boromir whispered.
"What?" demanded a shocked Faramir.
"I know," Boromir agreed, throwing up his good arm, "I didn't believe it myself until he showed the sword that was broken. It has been reforged."
"Then," Faramir muttered, "Father must know."
"Father," growled Boromir, "How can I tell him someone has come to claim the throne? He is a stubborn man. He will never accept this."
"I don't think he will have a choice," Faramir thought out loud, "It is his duty to surrender the office."
"Are you thinking clearly?" demanded Boromir, "Father would never accept the King has returned. Especially from the north."
