Boromir tiredly leaned his forehead against the wall. He was back in his room because the Warden had threatened to keep him out of Faramir's sickroom indefinitely if he did not get some rest. Irulan would take care of Faramir, and she is a very good healer, Hamir informed him firmly.

But sleep would not come – not when they had come so close to losing Faramir tonight. He sighed and made his way to his bed. He sat on the edge and stared at his hands as if he could find a cure to Faramir's illness in the calluses of his hands.

He had held Faramir in his arms, feeling the searing heat seeping through Faramir's thin night shirt as he tried to reason with his brother … the weak, ineffectual struggles, then suddenly nothing as Faramir suddenly went boneless in his arms. He had thought that his brother had died then and it had stabbed his heart with terror.

"Boromir."

Boromir turned to see Denethor walking into the room. The steward looked as exhausted as he – and he should be. For over an hour, the Steward had joined the healers in fighting Faramir's fever.

He had arrived just in time to see them lowering Faramir, naked, into the tub of water. Faramir had awakened then and started screaming about fire, struggling with surprising strength against Boromir's grip.

Denethor had paled then, and Boromir had wondered what went through his father's mind then to see his younger son in such a bad state. Nevertheless, he snapped out of his shock to join Boromir in holding Faramir down in the tepid water – not caring when Faramir had struck him in a surprising burst of strength at one point. The shock of being in the relative cold of the water had pained Faramir, and he had cried out, twisting feebly in their grip. But the fever was stubborn, and would not abate, so they had to subject Faramir to the cold over and over again. Soon his cries became moans, then helpless whimpers. And Boromir had clung to his brother throughout the whole ordeal, his heart breaking to see him in such pain, praying that he would hang on.

It took them an hour to lower Faramir's fever. By then Faramir had fallen into a deep stupor, his breathing ragged and his body limp, devoid of strength. When Boromir had carried Faramir back to his bed, his brother had looked so pale and lifeless that Boromir feared that they had only succeeded in hastening Faramir's end. But Hamir assured him that although the fever was not broken, it was now not dangerous, and Faramir was better, merely exhausted. By the time Faramir was dressed in a clean night shirt and placed in bed once more, Boromir and his father were both drained of their strength.

Boromir returned his gaze to his hands and whispered, "We nearly lost him."

"But we didn't," came his father's voice, steely and grave as always.

"How long will he remain ill, father? How long can he hold on? Eru, it's my fault that he is dying!"

"He is not dying!" his father barked. Then remorseful at the harsh tone he had used, he added gently: "Your brother is strong. And he will recover, I am sure of it. And what manner of logic is this – that you think his illness is your fault?"

"I should have believed him. We should have believed him. We should have sent troops to help him fight the orcs."

"Do you have the gift of foresight?"

Stunned at his father's strange question, he shook his head.

"Then it is not your fault. For if you have foreseen the battle and have ignored it, then you are at fault. But you did not. The Numenorean gift is fickle – it selects its bearers at will. Your brother had the gift but hid it from us. If only I had known."

It was the closest thing to regret Boromir had heard the Steward express. But Boromir was not comforted. He shook his head violently and got up from the bed.

"It is not his fault that he hid it from us … Ah, after what I did dare I blame him for his fear? Eru, he told me about the dream, Father! I chose to treat it lightly! I even mocked him for it in the end! I called him a fool and betrayed his trust, and sent him unblessed into battle! I was so blinded by my hunger for vengeance that I forgot about my brother's pain. How can it not be my fault then?"

"If blame is to be given, it is not yours alone to bear, my son," Denethor said. He was silent for a while, then, "But 'tis is not about who is at fault. Your brother knew his responsibility to Gondor, and it was the same for you, Boromir. My sons did what they did for Gondor and I will not fault them for that. We will, however, remember this lesson and we shall not ignore another dream from your brother."

Boromir nodded half-heartedly.

Denethor placed a hand on Boromir's shoulder. "He will recover. I have foreseen it," he said quietly.

Boromir raised his eyes in wonder and he read knowledge in his father's grey eyes. With that, his father left the room and him, leaving him alone to his thoughts.

ooOoo

The servants have changed the bed linens. They have also cleaned Faramir; his matted hair, though still limp and lifeless, has been combed. The night shirt which had been drenched with sweat has been changed. But all this gave false hope for Faramir lay terribly still in his bed and his face was still flushed with fever.

Boromir took Faramir's limp hand in his and reached out with his other hand to brush a stray lock from his burning forehead.

"You do me proud, Faramir. You're a better man, brother. No matter what Father says – you're the better man."

But Faramir showed no sign of having heard him. His chest rose and fell shallowly as he took laboured breaths. Boromir bowed his head in despair and gripped Faramir's hand.

"Do not give up, little brother. For I do not know what I would do with your death on my shoulders."