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Isildur ground his teeth. "If I must make a single other eagle noise, I shall slay Anormir as soon as he comes back to camp," he said angrily, turning to Gil-galad. The Elf shifted his weight, as if he was not sure what to say. And when Gil-galad knows not what to say, we are all doomed! Isildur thought. "Curse it, where is he?"

Gil-galad sighed. "So you do not slay him, I suppose I must do the honors." It was with a smile that Isildur looked down at Gil-galad, the proud Elven-king, shrieking like an eagle. To his credit, it was very accurate, but that did not stop him from looking rather ridiculous.

The two waited. The fire behind them spat sparks into the air and hissed. Owls hooted above them, and insects buzzed and chirped. But the sound of Boromir walking through the woods was not heard.

"I do hate to suggest this, Ithilmir," said Gil-galad regretfully, "but perhaps we should go find him. Perhaps he is in some kind of trouble."

"Nonsense!" Isildur said frustratedly. "He has just gone and passed out somewhere while collecting water, that is all! There is no need to worry over it!" Isildur did not think much of Boromir's taste for liquor.

Suddenly, there was a quiet voice behind him: "Ithilmir."

Isildur had his sword at ready before he was done turning around. He found himself staring into the face of Faramir, the Steward. Beside him was Boromir's broad form, bearing two large buckets of river water. The son of Elendil sheathed his sword.

"Greetings, Ithilmir, Galadhmir," said Faramir civilly. "I come here with tidings from King Elessar."

"And you would have walked right into the Anduin if I had not found you and led you here," Boromir muttered, setting down the buckets.

"There has been a dark figure sighted roaming very near to here," said Faramir, ignoring his brother. "The figure was not any of you. The King commands you to come to Minas Tirith, for your own protection."

"We can defend ourselves perfectly well, little brother," Boromir said.

"I agree. There are three of us, and only one of them," said Isildur firmly, his pride a bit wounded.

"Be that as it may, the King commands it," Faramir repeated. "There are three of you, yet the mere sight of one of your faces would cause rumors to spread. You must come to Minas Tirith."

Isildur could not deny that he wanted to be in the White City. When he had first set eyes upon it, he thanked the Valar that his heir had restored it to its former glory. And Faramir's point was valid- there would be terrible consequences if they were seen.

"We shall," Gil-galad said. He turned to look at Isildur and Boromir, as if to ask if they agreed. Isildur gave a nod.

"Good," the Steward said. "I shall have to smuggle you there- I cannot take any chances. I have room in my former lodgings from when I lived in Minas Tirith, if you do not mind sleeping in a rather small room."

"It shall be the first room I have slept in for quite a long time," Gil-galad said. "We thank you, and we do not mind in the slightest, Lord Steward." That was Gil-galad: constantly calm and polite. Isildur had gotten very used to the Elf doing all the apologizing for the Three Riders.

As they prepared to leave the camp, Isildur walked to the fire to put it out. A strange thing happened: as he got closer to the fire, suddenly a cold feeling came over him. It was as if he was standing on top of a windy mountain, when in reality, Isildur stood by a blazing fire on a pleasant autumn night. He felt, for a second, as if someone was staring at him. He looked into the surrounding trees, alert. But Isildur saw no one and nothing. His brow furrowed, and he put out the fire. It became yet colder.

Oddly, when he walked away from the trees behind him, the warmth came back.

Some beings could not stand being out of doors. Gil-galad was not one of those beings. Indeed, the Steward's dwellings were cozy, rich, and actually had beds. But the room in which the Three Riders were staying was, as Faramir stated, 'rather small', and it seemed as if the walls were closing in around them. Gil-galad felt as if he was trapped in the city of stone, which made him rather restless. Still, he forced himself to remain calm, feeling that his notion of being trapped was extremely childish.

Gil-galad settled back against the headboard of his small bed, watching his companions. Isildur seemed asleep, but at random intervals, he kept sitting up and looking around as if trying to spy a possible enemy. The instincts of Men are better than I assumed, Gil-galad thought. He turned his gaze to Boromir. The Steward's brother was awake. His hood was thrown back, showing his open eyes. Occasionally, he would rub his temples as if feeling a headache coming on. Gil-galad supposed that was because of the liquor he had drunk.

Gil-galad got up suddenly, seeking to quench his restlessness in familiar flames. There was a fireplace in the room, with a stack of logs, a piece of flint, a piece of metal, and a poker. Gil-galad laid the logs in the hearth, and struck the flint and metal together. A fire was lit. It brought cheer and snug warmth to the room, and, satisfied, Gil-galad moved to sit back down. As he did so, he heard a voice:

"Put it out."

The voice was Boromir's, and sounded almost sharp. Gil-galad did not know why.

"Please put it out," Boromir repeated. Yes, his voice was very sharp.

"Why?" Gil-galad asked, confused.

"Just put the fire out, Valar damn you," Boromir's voice said edgily.

"Is it too warm? It was rather cold in here before I lit it," Gil-galad said. Momentarily, he could not decide whether to take offense at his words or be concerned. He chose the latter, not seeking to start an argument. "Do you have a fever? Is this some strange mortal side effect of drink?"

Boromir sat up in bed, an angry look on his face. "Put it out," he repeated.

"Why?" Gil-galad asked again, still perplexed by Boromir's odd behavior.

The Man swung his long legs out of his bed and stalked over to the fire. He grabbed the bucket of water beside the hearth, and upturned its contents over the flames. Gil-galad noted his sickened expression as the ashes flew into the air. Boromir coughed, as if choking on them, looking for a second as if he might retch. He sat down heavily on his bed.

"Do you not know, Gil-galad?" Isildur's groggy voice said from his own bed.

"What?" Gil-galad said, feeling a bit as if his mortal companions knew something he did not.

"No," Boromir said quietly. He sounded considerably less angry. "And I do not expect you to know, either." He was silent for a second. "I could scarcely believe it at first, myself." His voice was even quieter, and his face was sad. "After all, who would believe that Denethor son of Ecthelion was the first in the line of Stewards to take his own life?"

Gil-galad felt guilt gnawing at his heart. Perhaps Boromir was grieving for his father. Gil-galad knew grief quite well himself. The Elven-king opened his mouth to apologize, but Boromir went on.

"It was the palantir," Boromir said. "But it was also the fire. The fire he built himself, intending for not only himself, but also Faramir, to burn on. Every night I thank the Valar I was not there to witness it. I thank the Valar that Faramir escaped with his life. But then I think of my father... the seeing stone in his hands... burning... the smell of burning meat filling the air... ashes floating everywhere, but ashes born from human flesh and wood..."

The Elf shuddered slightly. Boromir's voice was haunted and melancholy, and the images Gil-galad saw were enough to curdle water. Boromir looked sick as he turned back to Gil-galad. His face was a bit discolored.

"I apologize. I had no idea, Boromir," Gil-galad said, striving to sound kind.

"And you do not need to," Boromir said. He stared at the fireplace. "You did naught. When I am outside, it does not matter. Inside... it is trapping me, choking me." There was a tremor in his voice. Gil-galad was quite a bit shaken by that.

The smell of a fire filled the room like a poisonous wind, and Gil-galad did not want to imagine what Boromir was thinking about that. The Man was leaning forward, his fingertips at his temples, eyes shut. "I should apologize," Boromir said finally. His voice was hard again. "Perhaps it is the liquor that is making me think about such things. I am sorry, Gil-galad." He laid down on his bed and flipped over so he was lying on his stomach, muttering something under his breath.

The Elf looked at Isildur's bed. The Man was fast asleep, though he clutched the sides of his bed, his face tight and tense. "Father! No, this cannot be!" he cried out in his slumber.

Gil-galad suddenly felt deeply sorry for the all Men and the pain festering within them.

"Is it a custom of your brother's to constantly wander off?" Isildur grumbled to Faramir. The Steward smiled under his dark hood.

"I suppose you could call it that, Ithilmir," he said. He could scarcely believe that he, Faramir, was actually talking to Isildur son of Elendil. All his life he had learned of the man, and he realized much of what he'd learned was exaggerated. Isildur was not constantly noble and cold. He could act, at times, like any other man.

"He certainly did so quite often on our journey," said Aragorn's voice from under his own hood.

"And as he travelled with us," Gil-galad agreed.

The King, his Steward, Isildur, and Gil-galad, donned in black, walked down the streets of Minas Tirith in search of their hooded friend. They had all been walking together, talking quietly and gazing upon the sights of Minas Tirith. Boromir had been keeping quiet the whole time, but that was to be expected, after all. He was hungover, and rather rattled by a nightmare he had had.

"You look pale, Boromir," Faramir had said as his older brother struggled to choke down his breakfast. "Is aught the matter?"

Boromir had sighed. "It is naught, little brother," he had said in a tired voice. "Just a nightmare." When Faramir had asked Boromir's companions about the matter, they had both looked him over with their wise eyes and said, "It is best that he tells you himself."

Boromir was at the back of their little group, and no one had turned around to keep track of him. Suddenly, as they turned a corner, Faramir had noticed his brother's absence. Ever since, they had backtracked their steps, searching for Boromir.

"That answers your question, then," Faramir told Isildur with a smile. Then he thought of something, and a frown came over his face. "He typically wanders off when he is angry, or sad." King Elessar looked startled at that. Faramir knew he was thinking of Boromir's attempt to take to Ring, and how he had wandered off right before it.

"I believe I have found him," said Gil-galad. He pointed with a gloved hand at a man sitting on the side of the street.

Faramir felt like laughing. "No, that cannot be him."

The man had a cluster of small children around him. He was hooded and cloaked in the same way Boromir was, but there was no way he was Faramir's brother. Boromir would never be sitting among children, and... what exactly was he doing?

"And so they all sat 'round," the man said, "and began to speak of many things. Of Moria, of Gondor, of the Last Alliance, and of the One Ring of Power." The man's voice sounded exactly like Boromir's.

Faramir looked closer. The man's black hood had slipped a bit, revealing the outline of a pale face. There was a broad smile on the man's face as he looked at the children. The children had eager smiles on their faces as the man spoke, attentive to his words. "Lord Elrond of Imladris is long gone from Middle-earth, but I can assure you, he was one of the wisest beings known," the man continued, "and he was hosting this Council."

The Steward realized just what this man was speaking of: the Council that had decided the Ringbearer. And it was quite an accurate description of the Council...

"He knew first-hand the events of the Last Alliance, and how Isildur son of Elendil took the Ring from the Dark Lord Sauron, for he was Gil-galad the Elven-king's herald," the man said. "The beings present at the Council listened carefully. When Lord Elrond spoke of Gondor, Boromir son of Denethor felt the need to speak, and told more of the White Land and its valiant battle against Mordor."

The children looked startled at the name of the Steward's elder brother. One of the youngest of them, with a scared look on her face, climbed onto the man's muscled leg and wrapped her arms as far as they could go around him.

"Mordor is vanquished, little one," said the man gently.

"Mama says Boromir was a bad, bad man," said the little girl, not caring about Mordor. "She says that he was mad."

The man fell silent for a second. He had stiffened slightly. "I see," he said. His voice was sad, almost disappointed. "Well, I shall speak no more of my- him." He had corrected himself quickly, but not quickly enough. Faramir knew what he had nearly said: myself.

Before he could alert Boromir's companions of his presence, Aragorn walked forward. "Hello, there!" he said in a gentle way to the children. "What do you tell of, Master...?"

"Anormir," said the man. Yes, he was definitely Boromir. "I speak of the Council that determined the fate of the Ring." The little girl on his leg squeezed him tightly.

"Mama says the Ring was terrible! She says that it made Boromir crazy. Is that true?" she asked Boromir.

Faramir, Gil-galad, King Elessar, Isildur, and Boromir flinched slightly at her seemingly innocent question.

Boromir's voice was tight as he answered her. "Yes," he said quietly, "yes, I suppose it did." He reached up and pulled his hood down a bit further, hiding his face yet more.

Faramir felt like shooing away the children and embracing his brother. He felt like telling him that not everyone remembered him in such terrible ways, he felt like reassuring him. But that was not true. Most everyone in Gondor spoke of Boromir in hushed whispers, speaking of a man that had gone suddenly mad with desire. And for what? A small golden ring. The people of Minas Tirith thought such a thing was dishonorable.

"Do you know any stories of him?" the small girl bravely asked Aragorn. Another child climbed onto Boromir's lap as if seeking shelter from these stories.

"I do indeed," King Elessar said, "but perhaps some in our company would not like hearing them." He exchanged a shadowed glance with his Steward, as if to ask, will you be all right? Faramir gave a small nod.

"I do not mind," Boromir said. "I only request that you tell them as they are."

"Very well," Aragorn said. "The most commonly known is a poem. It is quite simple, but I shall recite it:

'Pale were his eyes, but sometimes dark as coal

Boromir of Gondor was warm in body and cold in soul.

A soldier brave and loyal to his land

Was mad by the time of his last stand.

Loved by many, hated by more

An arrogant creature was this son of Denethor.

Upon the grasses of Amon Hen he lost his mind

Leaving reason, courage, loyalty, and love behind.

Attacker of beings smaller than he

Did from many great orcs flee.

A small gold band was Boromir's Bane

And, lusting for it, rightly was he slain.

He drifts o'er the Sea and thankfully far away

Allowing no stain of his madness in Gondor to stay'-"

Aragorn was cut off by one of the children bursting into tears. They buried their face into Boromir's long cloak and wept. Faramir had heard the poem many times, and always became quietly angrier with every recitation. He clenched his hands tightly.

"If I may take my leave..." said Boromir quietly. With his strong hands, he lifted the children off him, stood up, and walked off abruptly. His strides rivaled King Elessar's, and soon he was out of sight.

There was a tugging at Faramir's tunic. He looked down to see one of the children. "Can you tell any stories?"

"I am afraid not," he said. "My companions and I must leave now. Good day." Faramir walked off after Boromir. Isildur, King Elessar, and Gil-galad were at his heels.

"I apologize, Faramir," said Aragorn in a low voice. "I did not mean to offend you or your brother."

"I know," Faramir said. "He himself asked for you to tell the poem accurately."

The sound of their footsteps echoed, the only sound in the street for a second. Then Aragorn sighed softly and said, "Thank the Valar he did not hear the rest of it."

Faramir was quite glad for that two. The rest of the poem described how Boromir was an evil madman who had been corrupted by a simple ring, and told that he had 'Shaken the Ringbearer nearly out of his skin' and 'tried to take the Ring and doom all of his kin'. Faramir had a feeling that if he knew the poet who had written such an untrue poem, he would glare at them every time they passed each other on the street.

"I hear something," Gil-galad reported from the back of the group. "Coming from down that alley." The Elven-king stepped ahead of the others and began to lead them down the alley. Faramir walked at the rear of the group with a nervous face as he thought of what his brother was feeling at the moment.

The alley opened up to a small dead end, presumably where citizens could hide themselves in a possible raid of Minas Tirith. The small room was empty, save for one man and a stone bench. Boromir's hood was thrown back like he couldn't care less who saw him. His hands were clasped together so tightly he seemed to be trying to dislocate all his fingers. He paced back and forth, muttering things under his breath that Faramir couldn't hear. When Boromir heard footsteps, he turned around. His eyes were angry slits. Faramir hadn't seen his brother in such a rage for a long time, and it troubled him.

Before he could speak, Aragorn stepped forward. "My friend, I apologize," he said kindly.

"There is no need to," spat Boromir. His hands were trembling in anger. "It is not your fault I heard those words, that I saw that day. I see it every night; there is no need to apologize." He sat down on the bench.

Faramir didn't know what to say. He hadn't been there when Boromir had, as the stories told, 'gone mad'. No one had, save the Ringbearer. Faramir hadn't been there when Boromir spoke his last words. Aragorn had, but Aragorn looked as if he didn't know what to say either.

Surprisingly, it was Isildur who spoke. "Anormir," he said in his usual gruff tone, sitting down next to Boromir. "The people do not know. They think the Ring only controlled those who had a darkness inside of them. They know naught. Perhaps you have forgotten, Anormir, that I, too, fell to the power of the Ring. The people did not know this until only a few years ago. If they knew, doubtless they would have called me mad and arrogant also. But I am not. Nor are you."

Boromir's white-knuckled grasp on his hands loosened a bit. "I thank you, Isil- Ithilmir," he said, quickly correcting himself. He still looked furious, but he put his hood up again. He said naught more.

Faramir suddenly felt as if he did not know his own brother. The Boromir he knew would not sit and tell stories to children, and he most certainly not be so quiet. Perhaps he had changed during his time among the dead, or perhaps he had been a changed man ever since he set out on his quest with the Fellowship.

Boromir seemed to think he was acting oddly also. "I have no idea what is the matter with me," he said in a frustrated tone. "I hear a voice in my mind, reminding me of things I normally would not dwell on. It sounds almost like the R-"

"Silence!" Faramir said suddenly, turning around as he heard footsteps "We have company." A terrified-looking woman, cradling a baby, was running down the alley, right at them. She looked quite shocked to see them.

"Are you in league with him? Or are you hiding from him, too?" she asked, her voice desperate.

"Hiding from whom?" Faramir asked her.

"I do not know, but he wears blue robes, and carries a shining staff. He has done something terrible to the guards at the gate," she said nervously. "They all lay on the ground, not a trace of a wound on them, but they all seem dead. He demands an audience with the King."

Faramir saw Aragorn exchange a glance with the Three Riders. Gil-galad murmured something quietly in Elvish. Isildur and Boromir looked at each other anxiously. Then Isildur spoke:

"The Blue Wizard."