Boromir's Return

by Osheen Nevoy

Boromir awakens from his death and finds himself in an unexpected situation. Basically book universe with some AU bits, but inspired by Sean Bean. Complete, after nine years as a work-in-progress.

14. Chapter Fourteen: Homecoming

Author's Note (April 2003): Hello, all! And thanks so much again to everyone who's reading and reviewing! This chapter somehow ended up being the longest one yet, believe it or not. It's nearly as long as the Council of Elrond, and that's saying something. But at least it took me less than a month to post it … Anyway, read on for the various scenes of Boromir's homecoming, and let me know what you think. Next up, the Battle for Minas Tirith!

Chapter Fourteen: Homecoming

My father broke our embrace and took a step back from me. He let go of my arms reluctantly, as though he feared that when he severed our physical contact I would cease to exist.

For another moment he stared as if to devour me with his gaze. Then he took a deep, shuddering breath. He straightened his shoulders and moved his hands to rest upon his belt, reclaiming his customary air of authority.

As I stood there and struggled to think of something to say, the Lord Steward looked me up and down with a critical eye. With an effort I stopped myself from smiling, to avoid having to explain to him what I considered so humorous.

My father's judgemental gaze, I reflected, was all that had been wanting to make my homecoming complete.

I told myself, Now, that is the father I remember.

"You are not injured?" he inquired briskly.

"Nothing to speak of, sir."

"Good. We must get these Men out of here as swiftly as may be. Saving a few additional crates of dried fruit will hardly be worth the lives of any Men of Gondor sacrificed to secure them."

"That is my belief as well, sir," I said wearily, vowing to stop all impatience from sounding in my voice.

"Then let us have no further delay." He turned and strode toward the South Warehouse, where the three carts that had most recently returned from the City were being loaded by Ivarr and his fellow guildsmen.

I looked over at Pippin and rolled my eyes. Pippin stared at me in astonishment, then he broke into a grin.

"Come along then, Master Peregrin," I told him, "our Lord has spoken." I set out after my father, Pippin hurrying to fall into step beside me.

The evacuation of Waterfront proceeded swiftly, as such operations go. At my father's command, the loading of the three carts ceased – they had, indeed, been close to full at any rate – and the guildsmen piled into the carts themselves or hastened to the stables. The carts pulled through the gate and waited on the road for any who should not prove able to find a place upon a horse.

As soon as all civilians made it through the gate, my father passed on to me the order that our archers should fall back as well. The commands I shouted were obeyed with alacrity, with no pockets of resistance such as that of the milecastle commander on board the Eärendil.

Respected I may be, I thought with some annoyance, but I haven't achieved the obedience that my father's presence commands. My father would not have had any trouble from that fellow on the ship, I would bet crowns to acorns.

I told myself, That difference is because the Men don't fear that you will reduce them to ashes with the disdain of your glance.

There was a confusion of horses beyond the gate, the steeds of the Citadel Guard milling about with our last remaining horses brought out from the stable. Once again I wished for the aid of the Rohirrim, as far too few of our Men stood, clutching multiple horses' reins, fighting to hold them calm and ready for those of us yet afoot.

I leapt to the saddle of one such steed and looked about for Pippin. He had been just behind me, but I saw no sign of him now.

I demanded of the Man nearest me, a Citadel Guard just swinging himself into the saddle of the next horse, "Have you seen the halfling Peregrin? He was here a moment ago."

"Ernil i Pheriannath, My Lord? He is there, on the black steed with Beregond."

Even as I caught sight of the two he pointed out to me, Beregond of the Third Company urged his horse through the crowd toward me. Perched in front of the guardsman, Pippin waved. "Here I am, Boromir!" he called.

Beregond looked a trifle scandalised at Pippin's casual use of my name, but he did not comment. "Good," I yelled back. "I was afraid you'd got trampled."

The Hobbit attempted looking jaunty, but his smile was a bit queasy. "Not yet, anyway," he said.

The two catapult crews remained on the wall until the last moment, when all others were safely ahorseback and ready to depart. It seemed that the crews had done well at keeping their enemy counterparts pinned down; at least few others of their shots made it through to the Harlond besides that which had staved in the Eärendil's hull. During the evacuation, one fiery ball had smashed into the Customs House, setting its roof alight. Another had ended its journey in the water a few metres short of the dock.

"All Men clear of the dock, My Lords!" reported a lieutenant of the Citadel Guard, saluting us as he rode through the gate from one last horseback sweep of the Harlond. "Permission to close the gate?"

"Permission granted," my father replied. The Harlond Gate creaked closed. Over the noise of it the Lord Steward shouted in his best battlefield bellow, such as none had heard from him in a good score of years, "Catapult crews! Abandon the wall!"

I manoeuvred my steed toward the stairs, seeking Svip amid our Men who now leaped from the catapults and started for the stairs at a run. Another fireball from the enemy's catapults slammed into the Rammas wall as they raced down the stairs. It did no damage save to the masonry, but it caused me a dark moment or two while I sought a glimpse of our small green comrade.

At last I saw him. He and one of the catapult commanders were the last two to run from the wall.

"Svip!" I shouted. "Do you want a ride?"

Svip paused on the steps, eyeing the crowd of horses in trepidation. He called back, "Do I have to be on a horse?"

"There should be room for you on one of the carts." I addressed the catapult commander, standing beside Svip. "Will you see to it that Svip gets safely aboard a cart?"

"Of course, My Lord."

"I'll see you at the City, Svip. I want to introduce you to my father."

We set out at the best pace that the three carts could muster, the rest of us matching our speed that no stragglers might be isolated by a strike of the enemy. Even as we rode out along the Harlond Road, the enemy's catapult shots commenced pummelling the Rammas like burning hail. Most shots yet seemed to strike the dock or the wall, but a few made it over the wall, sending horses rearing and grass at the roadside smoking and sizzling.

Our column made it out of range before the shots took any toll. But we had scarce any time left, I knew, before our opponents forded the River. Once on the Harlond, the Rammas wall would cause scant delay for them. If they chose, they could be on our heels before ever we covered the three miles to Minas Tirith.

The three carts at the centre of our procession were surrounded by horsemen on all sides, several of the horses double-burdened. My father rode at the head of the column, and I brought up the rear. Several times I thought I saw my father, in the faint light of the dying day, turn his head to look for me, as if to assure himself that I was still there.

I should ride up and talk with him, I told myself. But I felt a leaden reluctance to do so. I had no desire to explain to him how I had died and returned. I had the feeling that he would take me to task for letting myself be slain by a mere dozen or so Orcs, not to mention faffing about in the River for weeks instead of coming straight home. Still less did I wish to recount to him the adventures of the Fellowship. Particularly the presence in the Fellowship of one Aragorn Son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain and self-proclaimed Heir of Isildur.

Hello, Father, good to see you. Guess what, I just travelled from Imladris to Amon Hen in the company of a Ranger who claims to be the King, and who expects he can just swan in to Minas Tirith and we'll hand him the crown.

To be fair, I argued with myself, I did not in fact know what Aragorn expected. He and I had never spoken of it, chiefly because the prospect of the Ranger becoming King made me feel alternately livid with jealousy, and sick to my stomach.

He would be a fine king, I insisted mentally, as I had many times before. He'd be a fine king, and you really don't need to worry about it, because chances are, we'll all be dead or enslaved by Sauron before Aragorn gets to press his claim, anyway.

I told myself that I needed to do something cheering, like talking with a Hobbit.

I located the black horse of Beregond a few ranks ahead of me, and manoeuvred through the column to ride alongside them.

"I hear you are Prince of the Halflings now, Pippin," I hailed my old travelling companion.

"I am?" Pippin asked.

"Ernil i Pherriannath. It means Prince of the Halflings."

Pippin looked comically relieved. "Oh. Good. I was afraid it was something rude." He shook his head. "A lot of people have been calling me that, around the City. There was a story that I'd come to Gondor's rescue with an army of halfling warriors, but I had to tell them that it's only me."

My plan to talk only of cheerful topics had swiftly come to naught, but I supposed that it was better to talk of things that mattered. "How did that come about?" I asked him. "How were you parted from Merry?"

Pippin stared down at the horse's neck. "After the battle at Isengard, I … there was trouble with a flying Black Rider, and we split up to get away from him. Merry went with Strider and the others, and Gandalf took me with him to keep me out of trouble."

I raised my eyebrows at that. "He chose a strange method of doing so, by taking you to a City on the brink of siege."

"Yes, well," Pippin shrugged. "He is a Wizard."

For some minutes, now, I had been eyeing a smudge of red light to our north, where ruddy cloud or smoke broke the monotony of the growing dark. As I glanced in that direction again, I noted Beregond staring at it as well, a grim expression on his face.

"The Pelennor is burning, then?" I asked. "The enemy has made it past the Rammas?"

"Aye, My Lord," Beregond said heavily. Pippin turned around to face him and the two of them shared a worried look. The guardsman visibly took charge of his emotions before asking, "My Lord, have you been told of the Lord Faramir?"

Ice shot through my heart. "Told of him?" I repeated sharply. "Told what?"

Beregond spoke, "The retreat from the Causeway reached the City less than an hour ago. They were harried every step of the way, by enemy troops upon their heels and by the fell riders of the air. But the Lord Faramir held the retreat together until the last. The Lord Steward sent forth the Knights of Prince Imrahil in a sortie, to rescue the retreat and put their pursuers to flight. It was then that our Company received the order to arm and set forth to aid in the evacuation of the Harlond. We were nearly at the Great Gate, on our way out from the City, when we met the Prince Imrahil's forces returning. In his arms before him on his horse, the Prince carried the Lord Faramir, wounded and insensible. I heard the Prince tell your father, My Lord, that he had found Lord Faramir upon the battlefield, stricken by a Black Rider's dart."

"Did you learn anything more of his condition?" I asked, my guts going cold with dread.

"Nothing, My Lord. He was very pale and did not appear to move, but that was all I could tell. We rode forth and did not have any more time to speak with the Prince or his Men."

Joining my dread was now an all-too-familiar feeling of outrage and fury. "My father as well?" I demanded. "He did not remain to learn more of Lord Faramir's condition?"

The guardsman and Pippin were both eyeing me miserably. Beregond said, "He exchanged a sentence or two with Prince Imrahil, ordered that Lord Faramir be taken to the Houses of Healing, and rode forth from the City."

"Hell and damnation," I snarled. "Bloody son of a –"

I bit off my words at the last instant, not quite furious enough to profane my father's name or my grandmother's memory. But it was a near thing.

"Excuse me," I said to Beregond and Pippin. "I must consult with my father."

I urged my horse forward through the column, fighting to calm myself before I confronted the Lord Denethor. Not that it would do much good, I reflected grimly. Even if I started out entirely calm, I was certain to be gibbering with rage by the time our conversation was ended.

The two Guards riding nearest behind my father must have seen the expression on my face. They glanced at each other, and of one accord they slowed the gait of their steeds, to leave a wider space between the Lord Steward and themselves.

"My Lord," I called out, signally failing to keep the anger from my voice. As I rode abreast of him, my father looked over at me. For a moment his face seemed not the face of the father I knew, but instead an unfamiliar mask of doubt and grief. Then that brief impression vanished, to be replaced by his look that said "What do you want now, Boromir? I am very busy".

I demanded, "When did you plan on telling me of Faramir's injury?"

His mouth tightened into a thin line of impatience. But he kept his voice calm as he said, "I intend visiting the Houses of Healing when we return to the City. I presumed that you would wish to accompany me. To have told you earlier would be of no assistance to your brother, and I saw no sense in distressing you with it."

"Distressing me!" I echoed in disbelief. "I am pretty nicely distressed now, thank you."

"Precisely my point."

"Sir," I argued, "if harm has befallen my brother, I have the right to know. And I should appreciate it if the news came from the Lord our Father, rather than from a guardsman who clearly holds Faramir's welfare more closely to his heart than does our father."

The Steward fixed me with a gaze of icy annoyance. "Calm yourself, Boromir," he ordered in freezing tones.

"I am calm, sir," I snapped back at him. I counted to twenty before I spoke again, but the pause did little to bolster the calm of which I boasted.

I tried again. "Did you take the time to learn what is amiss with him?"

Still looking as though this conversation were supremely unimportant to him, my father answered, "Your uncle stated that he found Faramir unconscious upon the field, his shoulder pierced by some dart of Southron or Nazgûl. Perhaps you will explain to me what you would have had me do? It would hardly have aided your brother for me to pester the Prince with further questions."

"It might, sir, have aided him to find his father at his side when he awoke. Though to be sure, the shock might just have killed him."

My father's eyes sparked dangerously for an instant. Then he gave a mocking, bitter little smile. "I am sure his uncle's presence will afford him more comfort than mine would. Do you think me so far sunk into decrepitude, that I must flutter about the Houses of Healing like a wraith while the foes of Gondor march to our very doorstep?"

"I think, My Lord, that we have sufficient Men to hold off those foes, long enough for you to show some concern for your son!"

"And will you tell me what good that would do? Shall I wring my hands weeping for the son I cannot aid, while the son who yet stands upon the battlefield has written entreating my assistance?"

Damn it, I thought, now he's making me responsible for this. He couldn't be bothered with sticking around long enough to learn whether Faramir lived or died. And now it's my fault, because I wrote begging Daddy to come and rescue me.

I was about to snap out some angry comment to my father, when I again caught sight of an unfamiliar weariness on his face. He looked as though it were he, not I, who had been to the Realms of the Dead and back again – or perhaps, from the look of him, he had not yet fully made it back.

I asked, sorrow and weariness of my own draining my anger as I spoke, "Does it never occur to you, sir, that Faramir might need you more than I do?"

My father sat up straighter in the saddle and cast me a haughty glare. "Faramir is a grown Man, and a warrior of Gondor. I can see no cause to insult him by coddling him as though he were some puling infant."

In an instant, my anger was back again. "It is hardly coddling him to show that you care if he lives or dies!"

"I need no lecture on this subject from you, Boromir. I have some experience in facing the deaths of my sons."

I did not know how he expected me to react to that. He thought that I would get caught up in grief and apologies, perhaps, and let myself be turned from the topic at hand. That, I told myself, was not going to happen. "What has your experience taught you, My Lord?" I demanded. "One might think it would teach you to let your son know that you love him, for if you wait, you may lose your chance to tell him before he is dead!"

The Lord Steward sneered. "It is plain to see that you have sojourned in the lands of the Elves. This is no Elven realm here, where we can wile our days away hugging each other and composing sonnets of love. When this war is over, I will gladly go through the list of people that I love and inform them in detail of my affection. But until then, I believe we have more pressing matters confronting us."

I shot back, "You would have no need to make an appointment to inform Faramir that you love him, if you would occasionally show him that he means something more to you than the dust upon your shoe!"

"Lower your voice," my father ordered.

"You are right, sir," I answered bitterly. "It makes no difference how loudly I speak, since whispered or shouted, you refuse to hear me."

"Boromir," the Steward said, in a tone of weary impatience, "will you tell me what the purpose is of continuing this discussion? We have held this debate for thirty years. We could hold it again every day of our lives without either of us changing the opinions of the other. You have made your stand and I have made mine. Let us leave it there; or, if you choose to continue speaking of this matter, you will be speaking of it to yourself."

Yes, damn it, I thought, we've argued this for thirty years, and for thirty years you have given me no better answer than "This discussion is ended."

"Answer me one last question, sir," I said, staring into my father's face and wondering if I would ever truly understand the workings of his mind. "If our places were reversed, if Faramir wrote for help and it were I that Uncle Imrahil bore insensible from the field, would you yet act the same? Would you go to Faramir's aid, and leave me to my fate?"

He met my gaze steadily, his dark eyes unreadable. "Yes," he said. "I would. And that, my son, is the truth. Though you seem to have become as unwilling to believe in my word as your brother is."

With that, he set the spurs to his horse and drew forward, leaving me behind. The two Guards who followed us quickened their pace to keep up with their Lord, carefully not looking at me as they rode past.

I stared after my father open-mouthed for a moment, then I clamped my jaw shut and commenced grinding my teeth. I saw little of our murky surroundings or the horsemen about me as I rode on, fuming.

I thought furiously, Why did I bother coming home?

I should have stayed at Rauros with Svip. We could have passed our days happily collecting trinkets and going swimming, instead of fighting through the Enemy's darkness just so my father can ignore me and treat me like a child.

I shook my head then, as much at my own reaction as at my father's behaviour.

What are you complaining about, Boromir? I asked myself. He's always been like this. Did you expect anything different from him, just because you've died and returned?

Dying and coming back didn't change you, did it? So why did you expect that it would change him?

But it had changed him, came a sudden contrasting thought. My death had changed him, or something had. I thought of his strained and pallid face, and prayed with a surge of desperate fear, Let me be able to take that strain away from him. Let my return be all that is needed, to take the pain from his gaze.

Before us in the dusk, there rose at last a wan ghost of my City.

I saw none of the torches that would normally line each rank of the City's walls. On any ordinary night the torches would have greeted us in their hundreds, seeming to gleam out of the night sky as they glowed upon each level of Minas Tirith. We should be able see the City rise from the dark like a glimmering crown.

This night, only a faint wash of light told that the White City stood before us. My father must have ordered the lights in the City dimmed, permitting only the lighting of the torches on the interior of each level's wall, that would not shine out to provide targets for our enemies. That was the order I would have expected him to give, with the City facing attack, but it was not a sight I had ever truly thought to see.

It was not the homecoming that I had imagined. But it was better than any imagining, for at last it was real.

Minas Tirith yet stands, I thought.

Though I could barely see it, my City yet stood, and I was home.

"It's beautiful," came a quiet voice at my side.

I looked over to find that Beregond and Pippin had ridden up beside me. I smiled down at Pippin, who had spoken.

"Yes," I answered. "It is."

The Hobbit smiled shyly up at me, and ventured, "Your father's a little bit frightening, isn't he?"

There was a snort of strangled laughter from Beregond, and I chuckled in my turn. "Believe me," I said, "there is no 'a little bit' about it." I thought for a moment, then told him, "But you don't need to be afraid of him, Pippin. He likes you, or he'd never have appointed you his Esquire."

"Do you think so?" Pippin asked frowningly. "Gandalf says it's because he wants to keep his eye on me and find out what I know."

"Well," I agreed, "he probably does. But he likes you as well, or he'd not have appointed you to a station that places you ever at his side. He says he will not suffer any fools about him; he has fools enough to deal with as it is. He has no need of them waiting on him in his chambers, into the bargain."

As I gazed at the pale light of the City, the determination came to me not to wait until the whole of our column reached it. To be sure, we should all stay together, to reduce the risk to each of us should we come under enemy attack. But this close to the Great Gate, I thought that I could take the risk.

I glanced around for the carts, which were a few horses behind us.

"I'm going to ride ahead," I told Pippin and the guardsman. "Ride over to the carts with me first. I want you to meet someone."

We found Svip perched atop a tower of flour sacks, conversing cheerfully with the catapult commander. "Svip," I hailed him. "I'm going to ride ahead to the Houses of Healing in the City. Faramir's been wounded; I'm going to go check on him."

Svip frowned in worry. "Do you want me to come along?" he asked. The Men and Hobbit around us listened in open curiosity to this conversation of Captain-General and water creature.

"Probably better not," I said. "I will want to make all haste, and we don't want you scaring the horse. But you can meet me there when you arrive at the City." I turned to Pippin and Beregond. "I can count on you two to escort Svip to the Houses of Healing, and bring him to me?"

"Yes, My Lord," Beregond said, and Pippin nodded, gazing at Svip in fascination.

"Svip," I went on, "this is Peregrin Son of Paladin, a Hobbit of the Shire, one of my comrades from my journey before I met you. Pippin, this is my friend Svip of Anduin, of the Duinhirrim." I added, thinking that all would have to know the story eventually, "Svip brought me back to life."

There was a slight stir and murmur from the Men within earshot. Wide-eyed, Pippin asked Svip, "Really? You did? That's wonderful! How did you do it?"

I left them with Pippin scrambling from Beregond's horse onto the cart, and Svip commencing to launch into his answer.

As I rode through the ranks, another horseman made his way to my side. "My Lord," called Captain Cirion of the Rangers. "I had the barrels of River water sent to your townhouse, with orders that they must not be meddled with and must be kept for your return."

"Thank you, Cirion," I told him, his words bringing back to my mind the grim question of whether having River water at Minas Tirith would do me any good at all.

I hastened forward until I reached the Steward, in his lordly isolation at the head of our column. "I'm riding ahead, sir," I told him curtly. "I'll see you at the Houses of Healing." Then I spurred on, without giving my father the chance to favour me with a reply.

Within minutes my steed stood before the Great Gate. As the guards at the Gate recognised me, voice after voice took up my name. The cheers that arose from along the wall of Minas Tirith brought a smile to my lips, despite the images of my brother's lifeless face that were playing hauntingly through my mind.

It took longer for the Great Gate to open than it would normally have done, with the numbers of our Men who pressed forward to bow to me in salute or to briefly clasp my hands. But the black iron doors groaned open at last.

As I rode beneath the Gate, the trumpets along the wall rang forth in the fanfare for the Steward's family, bidding me welcome to my home.

It was a strange ride up the shadowed Hill of Guard that evening, more like something from a dream than a scene of waking life.

As ever, I cast a few mental curses at the wisdom of our ancestors that led them to build the Citadel Road as they had, weaving back and forth from southeast to northeast and back as though some drunkard's path up the hill had been copied in the road's creation. To be sure, I knew that should ever the foe make it through the Great Gate and should combat become street-to-street, we would be grateful that there was no straight, un-fortifiable road from the Gate to the Citadel's heights. But until ever that dark day should come, the road's course was a profound annoyance, tripling the time that would be needed to make one's way through the levels of the City.

I had followed the Citadel Road and the tunnels passing through the Keel of the Hill sober and drunk, hale in body, ill, and wounded, alone and with our armies, and at all hours of the day and night. I could most certainly have made my way up that road in my sleep. But no matter how many times I scaled the levels of Minas Tirith, I yet felt a niggling longing for some straight path to the top of the hill.

This time the longing was made all the sharper by the thought of my brother lying in the Houses of Healing a few City Levels above me. But that journey had strangeness in it enough to at least partly distract from my fears.

The evacuation had left the City weirdly stilled, the few noises that sounded on its streets echoing hollowly from one level to the next.

Never in my life have I seen Minas Tirith populated to the extent that its builders intended. There have always been empty houses, some still owned by families that dwell now in Lossarnach or beyond and tended by a few of their servants, others bought by the guilds and turned into warehouses. Others again, usually the smallest and least valuable residences, remain boarded up and empty, tempting playgrounds for the children of the City, against all the strictest warnings of parents and nursemaids.

The oldest citizens claim that they have seen the City's population decline even in their own days. I have thought of it myself, trying to recall if there was noticeable difference between the City I remember from my youth, and that of later days. I could only think of a few houses that I remembered being inhabited. which were now not so. But I did think there were fewer children in Minas Tirith than in the days of my own childhood, as if fewer and fewer of our people were willing to risk bringing a child into our darkening world.

Always the City as I knew it had its empty houses, and its streets empty enough that no one could call to their neighbours in greeting without their voices echoing from the walls. But this evening as I rode through each darkened level, it seemed ghostly in its silence, as though Minas Tirith were already fallen and lived now only as a dream of memory.

The pockets of activity through which I passed, served to throw the City's stillness into even sharper relief. In the First and Second levels with their many guild warehouses, Men toiled at unloading the supplies that we had so laboriously moved out of Waterfront. I saw many that I recognised among the workers, including young Boromir Son of Rađobard, who was just walking out from one of the warehouses as I rode past. The young Man's face lit up like a beacon when I told him that his father was safely on his way home.

"Did you have any trouble reaching the Lord Steward?" I asked the boy, as his fellow workers drew near to get a closer look at the Captain-General who had returned from the dead.

"Nothing too bad, My Lord," he said, blushing as usual. "Only I kept stammering too badly for anyone to know what I was saying, and I had to just wave about the letter with your seal on it until someone realised what it was. I was sent to the Steward himself as soon as they recognised your seal. The Lord Steward said 'Give that to me,' and after he'd read the letter he did take the time to order that I be taken to the kitchens and allowed to take whatever I wanted." Young Boromir grinned ruefully. "Now I don't know whether to eat the mince tartlet they gave me, or save it as a keepsake."

"I should eat it, if I were you," I advised. "I'm sure you will have other exploits, and more permanent souvenirs to keep from them."

Besides the Men working at the warehouses, the others I saw throughout the City were those striving to prepare their homes or businesses for withstanding the siege. Many were outside, hammering boards over windows and doors and taking down banners, awnings, and anything else that might prove an easy target for destruction.

At every level, cheers broke forth as soon as my approach was seen. I smiled, shook hands, and took a moment here and there to reply to the citizens' greetings and questions. Several asked if I had heard of the Lord Faramir's wounding, and when I answered that I was going to see him, they begged that I let him know their hopes and prayers were with him.

A scant way beyond the south door of the Fifth Level tunnel, I rode into a flurry of activity around a building that I knew full well.

The gate to the courtyard of my townhouse stood open. Into the courtyard was creaking one of the ramshackle carts that we had built just hours before. Several Men lay within the cart. More walked just behind, three sets of stretcher-bearers carrying Men swathed in bandages and blankets. Another two Men limped along from the gate of the Sixth Level, supporting each other and striving to keep up with the stretchers.

As the stretcher-bearers caught sight of me one after the other, I knew a moment's concern that in their startlement they would drop their wounded comrades to the paving stones. But they merely froze for a moment, staring at me. Then, as one, they commenced cheering my name. The Men on the stretchers took up the cry, two of them struggling to prop themselves up on their elbows as they cheered. The third, though not managing that much movement, grinned broadly as he gazed upon me.

Before I could muster the words to answer them, another Man hastened through the courtyard gate toward me, almost breaking into a run.

"My Lord!"

Old Gavrilo Son of Gardar, the Seneschal of my household, reached my horse's side more swiftly than I would have thought him still capable of walking. He seized my hand and pressed it to his lips. As he did so, I realised to my astonishment that the old Man was crying. In the torchlight his tears glistened upon his face and shone on my leathern gauntlet like a sprinkling of diamonds.

I gripped his shoulder with my other hand. "Gavrilo," I said. "It's all right. I truly am here."

"My Lord." He relinquished my hand and gazed at me with a wondering smile. Of a sudden, Gavrilo began almost to babble, as I had never heard him do in all of my days.

"They said you were on your way here, My Lord. We heard the reports of the Men returning from the Causeway and from the Harlond, and heard of your letter yesterday, and today, when the Lord Steward rode out to meet you. But still I could not – I did not dare to believe that –"

His words choked on a sob. He seized my hand again in both of his.

"Gavrilo," I repeated, barely trusting the steadiness of my own voice. "I am sorry. I am sorry to have grieved you."

A sudden loud burst of sobbing from the direction of the courtyard gate startled both of us. I was not any the less startled when I saw who was doing the sobbing, for Dame Weltrude, Gavrilo's wife and the mistress of my kitchen, is scarcely more given to tears than is her husband.

Beside Weltrude stood three more of my household: Gavrilo and Weltrude's daughter Sigyn, the upstairs maid, who clutched an armload of blankets, the downstairs maid Bettris, who is Gavrilo and Weltrude's niece, and their youngest nephew Balamir, the esquire of my chamber.

Balamir raced from the gate to join Gavrilo, and the three women followed an instant later. As I grinned and tried to shout reassurances over the general clamour, I had to admire the horse's composure at standing there stoically while surrounded by sobbing, cheering and laughing people whom he must surely presume had taken leave of their senses.

I asked laughingly when I could finally make myself heard, "What catastrophe struck our household, Gavrilo, that none of the women managed to leave in the evacuation?"

"We would not go, My Lord," proudly stated Sigyn, a dark-eyed damsel of eighteen or so, whom I strongly suspected was the cause of the increased number of young Men I'd observed over the last couple of years finding excuses to run errands to my townhouse and then loitering about in kitchen or laundry until Weltrude sent them packing. "There is work aplenty to be done in the City, for those with the courage to remain."

"She is right, My Lord," Sigyn's younger cousin Bettris declared. "Most of the women in the Houses of Healing have stayed, and we're at least as brave as they are." The girl added in sudden worry, "You'll not send us away, will you, sir?"

It was too late to do so, I knew; to send the women outside the walls of the City now would be condemning them to death and worse. But I thought that I probably would not have ordered them to leave in any case. "No," I assured them. "No, I will not."

Gavrilo, having had a few moments to recover himself, had regained control of his voice. He spoke now with almost his usual calm. "My Lord," he said, "I authorised opening the house as an annex for the Houses of Healing. The Healers sought a place to house those whose wounds are less severe, and who are not under the thrall of this cursed dark sleep. They have no certain theory upon the sleep's cause. But on the chance that it may be spread from one victim to the next, they wished those who have not fallen to it, and who do not need constant observation, to be moved farther from the dark sleep's victims. I trust I have done as you would wish, My Lord. When we first made arrangements for opening the house, we did not know of your return …"

"You did well," I assured my Seneschal, gripping his shoulder once more. "You were right to choose as you did. My return should change nothing of this."

"Lord Boromir," another voice hailed me. "Welcome home."

I turned, to see that the two injured Men who'd been walking behind the stretchers had reached my side. The Man who had spoken, I was delighted to realise, was Captain Eradan of Cair Andros, wounded in our retreat from the island fortress.

"Eradan," I greeted him. "It's good to see you. And good to see that you are still awake and walking. There are few left, then, who have not fallen this dark sleep's prey?"

"Very few, My Lord," Eradan answered grimly. "Of those wounded at Osgiliath, the Causeway and on the retreat, I would say three quarters at the least lie in the accursed sleep. A few of our wounded from Cair Andros have fallen to it as well. Those who yet speak, do so only in dreams, and from their words, they must be dreams of horror and despair. Seven have died of it thus far, I was told a few minutes ago when I spoke with the Warden of the Houses."

The Captain cast a troubled look at me and then over at Gavrilo and the others. Reluctantly, he said, "My Lord. Have you been informed that the Lord Faramir may have fallen under this black shadow as well?"

My fists clenched as nauseous dread coursed through me. "No," I answered, sternly fighting down my panic. "I have heard of his wounding, nothing more."

Eradan hurried on, as if to soften the shock of the words he had already spoken. "I have not seen him since he was brought to the Houses, but the Warden told me that they are beginning to fear his condition may be the same as that of the others. They say he has not awakened from the moment Prince Imrahil found him. Yet his wound seems relatively minor; certainly not grave enough to explain why he does not awake."

"I see," I said flatly. "Thank you."

"I am sorry, My Lord. If there is anything at all that I can do to be of help, to Lord Faramir or to you …"

I forced a wan smile onto my face. "I know," I assured him. "Try not to worry, Eradan. Faramir has a thicker skin than some give him credit for. He will pull through this."

"I know it, My Lord," Eradan agreed, with a matching pallid smile.

"Take care of yourself. Your first duty is to regain your own strength. You may need it soon enough, if the siege does not go well for us."

I turned to Gavrilo. "Have some barrels of water arrived for me from Waterfront?"

"They have, My Lord. Four barrels were delivered perhaps five hours ago."

"Good. Have one sent to my quarters in the Citadel. I will stay there tonight."

"Yes, My Lord."

"I am glad to see all of you again. More glad than I can say."

As I urged the horse forward once more, Dame Weltrude called after me, "We are all praying for Lord Faramir, My Lord."

I turned and waved farewell to them, not trusting my voice to answer.

It is scarce a minute's ride from my townhouse to the gate of the Houses of Healing. Leaving the horse for one of the guards at the gate to lead to the Citadel stables, I hastened within.

The alcove just off the main corridor was empty, lacking the clerk usually stationed at the desk there to answer visitors' inquiries. I could hear voices from some of the rooms, but for the moment, the hallway was deserted, a sure sign of the seriousness of our plight.

I hurried around the desk to take a look in the massive book lying open upon it. Here the clerk records the names of those brought to the Houses of Healing, the time and day they were admitted, and the room assigned to them. Scanning the names and notations, I saw that nothing had been written down for that day after late morning, when the clerk's notes spoke of the wounded brought in from the Causeway Forts.

The clerk's pen and ink pot, I noticed, were missing along with the clerk himself. Most likely he had gone to consult with the Healers on those patients most recently admitted, to catch up on his record-keeping. All well and good, I thought, but it was no use to me at this moment. I would just have to locate my brother on my own.

Taking the stairs at a breakneck pace that would normally draw instant complaint from the ever-present Healers' Assistants, I made my way up the two flights to the rooms reserved for the most high-ranking patients.

As I started down the corridor, a flustered-looking young Man rushed from the other direction. A writing desk and an untidy bundle of papers clutched in his arms identified him as the absent clerk.

"My Lord!" he squeaked as we drew nigh each other. He executed an awkward bow. "My Lord, I beg your pardon for leaving my post; there were so many admitted today that I could not keep up with all of their names –"

"What room has the Lord Faramir been taken to?"

"The Vardamir Room, My Lord. In the south hall, second room from the end –"

"I know it," I interrupted him. It would have been no great challenge for me to have guessed the room, since the Elros Tar-Minyatur Room was always reserved for the Lord Steward himself, should he require it, and all other highest-ranking patients were generally assigned to the Vardamir, Tar-Amandil or Tar-Elendil rooms.

"Get back to your post," I ordered. "You do not wish to be absent from it when the Lord Steward visits."

The young Man paled. "Yes, My Lord!" he said in another squeak, and he barrelled down the stairs at an even faster rate than I had taken them.

As the sound of the clerk's running steps faded, the quiet, empty hallway echoing with my footsteps began to send foreboding down my spine.

I assured myself that the emptiness meant only that the Healers and their Assistants were busy in the common rooms downstairs, where they must be housing our soldiers suffering under the dark sleep. But, like the stillness and silence of the City, the Houses' abnormal quiet seem to speak to me of doom, of a day perhaps not long in the future when Minas Tirith would house nothing but memories.

Two Healers' Assistants bustled out from one of the rooms as I passed, and nearly dropped their buckets and bundles of bandages in their surprise at seeing me. I could just about have kissed those two young ladies in my relief at seeing other living beings besides myself. The young women curtsied in reply to my bow, then hurried in the opposite direction, whispering I know not what.

I grinned to myself as I hastened onward, speculating on what they'd have said if they knew what I had been thinking. Not to mention my father's reaction if he were to hear that I was running about behaving inappropriately toward the Healers' Assistants.

At last I reached the Vardamir Room. I knocked cautiously on the door, then, receiving no reply, I opened the door as quietly as I could and stepped within.

Faramir lay on the bed, apparently asleep. His face and hands, about the only portions of him visible, seemed near as pale as the white sheets of the bed. There was a damp cloth on his forehead, and a basin of water on the table at his bedside. And sitting by the table in one of the room's chairs carved with scenes of Númenor, was a Man who looked up as I stepped into the room, and who uttered an oath that would doubtless have shocked the Healers and their Assistants, had they the misfortune to hear it.

Smiling as I crossed toward him, I said, "Really, Uncle, your language."

Uncle Imrahil jumped to his feet. He grinned and shook his head, and demanded, "Boromir, you rapscallion, where in blazes have you been?"

"You do not want to know."

His grin broadened. "I will be damned."

We embraced. Just as every other time that we had met since I reached adulthood, I thought that it still felt strange to be the same height as my uncle, instead of being able to run to him and have him grab me up and swing me about through the air.

"Boromir," Imrahil said, still gripping my arms tightly as he stepped back to look at me. "It rejoices my heart to see you." The grin turned wry as he went on, "We had all but given up hope of even getting back a corpse to which we could pay the proper respects. I cannot tell you how much happier I am to welcome you home in this fashion."

"Thank you, sir," I said, grinning back. One thing at least had not changed while I was away, I thought, and that was my Uncle Imrahil's decidedly quirky sense of humour.

"How is Faramir?" I asked then, all trace of the grin vanishing from my face as I looked over at my motionless brother.

Imrahil sighed grimly. "I wish I knew. He seems little changed from the moment I found him."

The Prince sat down once more and reached to re-wet the cloth that lay on Faramir's forehead. I appropriated the chair at the other side of the bed and carried it to set it down next to my uncle's. I sat, then reached out and took Faramir's hand.

At the touch of his skin, I swore under my breath.

"Valar, Uncle!" I murmured in horrified surprise. "He is burning up."

Imrahil nodded. "The fever came on him as we bore him back to the City. It did not hit him as soon as he was wounded, but it came on swiftly; just as we reached the gate, I realised how hot his skin had become. I can only think it must be the effect of some poison on the arrow. But yet his wound seems clean and shows no sign of infection or poison. I suppose perhaps it may be some spell of the Enemy, just as this sleep of the black shadow of which the Healers are speaking."

As our uncle gently dabbed the wet cloth over Faramir's face, I asked, "What happened to him?"

"As we charged into the ranks of the enemy, I saw Faramir in the press of the fight, holding at bay a mounted champion of Harad. In that duel Faramir was victorious. But even as his foe fell, he was struck by some Southron arrow, and plummeted from his steed.

"My Men and I barely got there in time to save him from death by the Southrons' swords or by the horses' hooves. He was already unconscious when I reached him. I drew forth the dart and bound his wound as best I could, while my Knights held off the foe from us. The Healers cleaned and re-dressed the wound just a few minutes ago, and it still seemed as healthy as ever one could hope. This fever and this sleep do not come from his wound except by some poison or sorcery."

I nodded, rubbing Faramir's hand and hoping that somehow the lower temperature of my skin would do something to cool his. I remembered something that Captain Eradan had told me, and asked, "I have heard that Men under the black shadow are speaking in their sleep. Has he said anything?"

"Very little, thus far. He has called your name a few times. And a few times he has called for your father."

For the next minutes Prince Imrahil and I sat with Faramir, taking turns re-wetting the cloth and trying to cool his burning skin. The fever brought forth no sweat upon him, only a dry, scorching heat. We managed to get him to swallow a little water, Imrahil supporting his shoulders and head while I held the flagon of water to his lips. Imrahil said that he had drunk a bit of water earlier, as well, when the Healers were tending him.

I knew a moment's hope, as my brother swallowed the water, that he would open his eyes and awake. But there was no change in him. Nothing except that a frown passed over his forehead, and he murmured, "Boromir".

In quiet tones, my uncle and I conversed as we watched over Faramir. I told Imrahil briefly of our defence of Waterfront and my meeting with my father. Then I spoke of my fatal battle, my death and my return, and my adventures with Svip along the road to home.

The Prince commented little on my tale. He nodded occasionally, and now and then he smiled at some detail of Svip's encounters with the strange world of Men. But when my words ran down and I fell silent, Imrahil asked me, "Do you recall anything of it? Of being dead?"

I dipped the cloth into the water basin once more, pondering the question. I had wondered about it more than once myself, and had tried to force some trace of memory to the fore. But try as I might, it seemed that there was no memory to answer me.

"I don't think so," I said, as I settled the cloth upon Faramir's forehead again. "There seems to be nothing between the fight at Amon Hen, and then a few memories that must be from when Svip was bringing me back. I seem to have lost at least a minute or two just before I died, as well. Mithrandir told me that I had some conversation with one of my comrades just prior to my death. But I don't remember any of that."

Imrahil nodded. We sat in silence, both of us watching Faramir with troubled gaze and troubled hearts.

Though my uncle did not pursue the question he had asked, I thought I could guess what had been in his mind as he asked it.

I was almost certain that what he wondered most was whether, in death, my mother and I had been reunited.

Perhaps half an hour after I had reached Faramir's room, his next batch of visitors arrived. I had to smile a little at the sight of them, for they were assuredly the most strangely assorted band upon which I'd laid eyes since I was parted from the Fellowship.

First to stride into the room was the Steward Denethor. Imrahil and I got up from our chairs and bowed as he entered the room. The Steward was followed closely by the Warden of the Houses, Pippin, Svip, and, stepping into the room a few moments after the others, Mithrandir. There was no sign of the guardsman Beregond, presumably sent about his regular duties in the Citadel.

Our father paused by the foot of the bed, and studied Faramir with his standard unreadable gaze. It was impossible to tell if he felt concern for his son, annoyance with him for being so careless as to get himself wounded, or simply utter indifference.

At last he crossed to the side of the bed opposite Imrahil and me, and reached down to take Faramir's hand in his. I did see a twinge of emotion from him then, a flash of concern as he felt the burning heat of Faramir's hand.

"How does he fare?" the Steward inquired, his voice calm and cold as he set Faramir's hand down again and turned to address the question both to Imrahil and me and to the Warden.

"As you can see," Imrahil said, striving to keep his voice as emotionless as that of the Lord Steward his brother-in-law. "As he has been since we brought him here. He is fevered and unconscious. The wound itself appears clean and relatively minor, but perhaps the Warden can speak to that."

As the Warden of the Houses delivered his report, confirming the good appearance of Faramir's wound and the unknown cause of his fever, Pippin and Svip both crossed cautiously to Imrahil and me.

Mithrandir stood a ways apart from my father, the Warden and my unconscious brother, as if he sought to avoid awaking the Lord Denethor's wrath by appearing too closely concerned with Faramir's welfare. The Wizard nodded to me with a slight smile, then he turned his gaze back onto my brother. Sorrow and the weight of responsibilities and years seemed carved deep into the Wizard's face, reminding me sharply of those unfamiliar signs of age that I saw now on my father's countenance.

Svip interrupted my contemplations, asking in a whisper, "He hasn't woken up at all yet?"

"No," I answered. "Not yet." I glanced from my two diminutive friends over to my uncle.

"Uncle," I said, "I know you have not yet met Svip of Anduin. Have you been introduced yet to Peregrin Son of Paladin?"

Imrahil smiled as he replied, "Not formally, no; I have not yet had that honour."

The Prince of Dol Amroth knelt down to shake hands with each of them as I performed the introductions, first of Pippin and then of Svip. As he shook hands with Svip, Imrahil said, "Boromir has already told me much about you. It is an honour and a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Svip nodded eagerly. "He's told me about you, too. Do you still build sandcastles?"

"Well," Imrahil said, with a wry glance up at me, "I haven't had the chance to build too many of them recently. Perhaps we will all have the chance to do that, after this war is over."

My father's sharp voice forestalled any further pleasantries. He said, "I have summoned the captains to council in my chambers in one hour's time. We will take council as we dine. All have already been informed, except for those here. Boromir, I have asked Master Svip to attend the council; his services to Gondor should place him in the ranks of our nearest councillors." The Steward paused, then added pointedly to me, "Perhaps that hour will give you the opportunity to clean yourself up and change your clothes."

"Very gladly, sir," I said, too happy at the thought of a bath and some clean clothes to even bother being annoyed at my father's criticism.

Pippin glanced wistfully at Svip and me as we started for the door. My father, catching the glance, said, "You will remain with me, Master Peregrin. I may have need of you."

I looked back from the doorway, at my brother lying motionless and pale as a statue of marble, and at Pippin looking very small and unhappy indeed as he stood surrounded by the great lords, the Healer, and the Wizard. I caught Pippin's eye and gave what I hoped was an encouraging smile. As Svip and I left, Mithrandir was saying, "I would learn more of Lord Faramir's wounding. My Lord Prince, can you describe to me the arrow that struck him?"

No sooner were we out of the room, than Svip asked in worried tones, "Do you think Faramir will be all right?"

"I don't know," I had to answer, as we walked swiftly along the corridor. "Everyone seems confident of his recovery from the wound; there seems little danger from that. But the fever … that, I do not know." I sighed and made an effort to sound more hopeful. "He will receive the best care in Gondor; our Healers here are the most skilled in all the kingdom. And perhaps Mithrandir will be able to help. He is no healer, as far as I know, but he knows dark secrets more than any of the rest of us could guess. Perhaps he will know some way to combat this dark sleep of the Enemy. I do know that he will not let Faramir perish, if he sees any way to save him."

So I told Svip, at any rate, and the answer seemed to comfort him. But in my own mind, I did not know.

That Mithrandir cared for my brother as he would for his own child, of that I was certain. But he was a Wizard, with the cares of millennia upon him and the fate of the ages ever in his mind. How much would one mortal Man matter to him, I wondered grimly, when battles that might settle the fate of all ages to come still hung in the balance?

I tried to turn the conversation to lighter topics. "You met my father, then?" I asked, as we started down the stairs.

Svip nodded. "Someone must have told him that I was telling Pippin and the others about how I brought you back to life. He rode back to the cart and asked if I would start the story from the beginning. So I told the whole tale again." With a sudden concerned glance up at me, Svip asked, "Is it all right that I told him?"

"Yes, certainly," I said. "I'm glad you did. He would have to hear it all eventually, and the more he's heard from you, perhaps the less I will have to tell him." I smiled at the image of the Lord Steward riding along and listening while Svip enthralled his audience of Men-at-arms, guildsmen and a Hobbit. "Did he say anything to your story?" I asked.

"Not much. He smiled a few times. But at the end of it he thanked me and told me I'd saved Gondor."

"Did he?" I shook my head in wonder. "It is not quite saved yet, but it was nice of him to say."

Leaving the Houses behind us, Svip and I made our way along the streets of the Sixth Level and into the tunnel that leads to the Citadel Gate. On this black evening, the tunnel was more brightly lit by far than the City without, under the edict of reduced lighting and the foul shadow of our Enemy. As we walked up the tunnel's slope, I started telling Svip of the builders of the Hill of Guard, of Anárion's command that a fortress be built here which no foe could take, and of how Anárion held the Dark Lord back from our borders in the days before the Last Alliance.

I had to interrupt my tale to give the passwords and answer the greetings of the guards at the Seventh Gate. Then, when we had climbed the steps beyond the Gate and stood at last before the White Tower and the Court of the Fountain, there was no call to continue the tale. Svip had found something else to capture his attention. He stopped for a moment, gazing about him, then he scampered across the greensward to the Fountain and stood at its very edge, delightedly watching the water.

I followed him, and for a few moments we watched and listened to the Fountain.

"I like it," Svip said finally. "It sounds a little like home. Like the waterfall, if you're listening to it from very far away."

"Yes," I murmured, thinking about it and hearing in my mind the distant roar of Rauros. "Yes, I suppose it does." I took a deep breath and recalled myself to the present. "We can come back and spend some more time here later. I had better get a move on, if I don't want to arouse my father's ire. You really should see the Fountain in the sunlight," I added, as Svip and I started onward. "Well, that is if we ever get any sunlight again."

Getting Svip from the Place of the Fountain to my chambers in the King's House was something of a challenge, as his first walk through a true city of Men had him scuttling about, wanting to investigate everything, disappearing into alleyways and poking into such curiosities as the flowerboxes beneath some of the buildings' windows. I had finally to remind him again of our daymeal date with my father and the captains, and promised that he would have a full tour of the Citadel later. A perfect assignment for Pippin, I thought, if my father would give the poor young Hobbit leave for long enough to be Svip's guide.

It was a strange feeling, stepping through the doors of the King's House and starting up the stairs toward my quarters. The familiarity of the route I was following seemed to make everything normal, to tell me that this homecoming was just the same as any other time that I had walked up those stairs. Yet I could not keep from thinking of how very close I had been, this time, to never coming home at all.

My rooms, I saw with relief, seemed unchanged. I had started to wonder, partway up the stairs, what might have been done to them when I was known to be dead; if I would find all the furniture shrouded in dust-covers or, Valar knew, if my father might have ordered the rooms emptied in the attempt to remove all painful reminders of his slain elder son.

But whatever he might have ordered done to them eventually, it appeared that my father had not yet got around to it. The only thing different that I noticed was a large barrel set on one of the tables, with "Orc's Head, The Harlond, Ivarr Son of Yngvarr, Proprietor" inscribed upon it. I gave mental thanks to Ivarr, Cirion and Gavrilo, and promised myself a good long drink of River water before facing this daymeal with the Steward and his captains.

My bed, I thought as I gazed around with satisfaction, looked very tempting. But more tempting by far was the prospect of a real bath, in actual hot, soapy water instead of another dunking in River, harbour or swamp.

I yanked on the bell-pull, plopped down in one of my armchairs, and started on the somewhat uncomfortable process of struggling out of my boots.

"Svip," I said to my comrade, who was looking ready to burst from curiosity as he eyed my room, "you can look around all you like. I don't mind if you touch things and open things up, but please leave everything the way you find it. Men don't keep house in quite the same way as you do. I don't like my clothes in piles; I like them folded up and stored in chests and cupboards."

Svip nodded happily and sped to explore the nearest chest and its contents, and I reflected that my father and brother both would have some snide comments to make if they heard me say that, considering the view they held on my standards of tidiness. But then, my father and brother had not seen Svip's place. If they had, perhaps they would finally agree with me that I was really very tidy, after all.

One of the servants appeared in answer to my bell. He was unable to keep from grinning as he bowed and welcomed me home, but otherwise he remained unflappable, not even appearing troubled by the unexpected sight of Svip. I gave orders that Svip was to be granted free run of the King's House and was to be admitted to my quarters at any hour of the day or night, then I commanded that a bath be brought and readied at once.

I really must not let myself be late to the council by luxuriating too long in the bath, I told myself, when at last the bath was prepared and I had peeled myself out of the clothes that I'd worn for the past eight months of walking, swimming and fighting across half Middle Earth.

"I do not want those back, thank you," I told the valet, as he collected my clothing from the chair where I had flung it. "They can be discarded, or they can be laundered and given away, if you think there's use yet to be had out of them. Those clothes and I have spent far too much time together."

"Yes, My Lord," he said, while I settled into my bath. As I was climbing in, I thought that I saw the valet notice the arrow holes in my shirt and tunics, and look in alarm from the arrow holes to me and back again. But I closed my eyes and let myself slide down into the water, and the valet did not comment.

Two considerations, above the desire not to annoy my father by being late, prevented me from lingering too long in that bath. One was the continual rustling and creaking noises that I heard as Svip poked through chests, desk drawers and I knew not what else, and I imagined emerging from my bath to find all my possessions in piles upon the floor. The other was my anger and sour guilt at the thought that I was comfortable and well, while my brother might be upon the brink of death.

Svip had not, it turned out, rearranged all of my belongings, though when I got out of the bath and went looking for him, I was a trifle alarmed to see only his feet sticking out from the opened chest beside my desk. I inquired if he was all right, and received his muffled reply that he was fine, he was just counting the documents in the chest.

The water being jumped out from the chest and slammed it shut again as I was getting dressed. He asked eagerly if I wanted help picking out clothing, which offer I politely but firmly declined. My small green friend then perched on the steps leading up to my bed, and watched in fascination while I donned my clothes.

I thought, I am going to have to find something useful for Svip to do around this place. Perhaps I can get him to inventory the entire contents of the Citadel.

Before leaving for the council I went over to the barrel of River water, drank down two goblets of it and used a little more to rub over my hands and face.

"How are you feeling?" Svip asked. "Are you missing the River yet?"

"Not really," I said. "Not too badly. Maybe we're still close enough to the River that it won't be as bad as last time."

Svip eyed me suspiciously. I could not help fearing that he was right to have his doubts. But I truly did feel fine, I told myself. I was a slight bit tired, perhaps, but it was hardly the sort of indisposition that would compel me to fight my way through Sauron's armies in my need to get back to the River.

I led Svip downstairs to my father's chambers. We were not quite the last to arrive, as Duinhir of Morthand and his sons hastened into the room just after we did. I was still responsible for the daymeal commencing a minute or two later than my father intended, for many of our captains clustered about me, gripping my hand, slapping me on the back, and boisterously inquiring how I had managed to avoid becoming crebain-bait this time.

Old Forlong the Fat of Lossarnach advised me that I was looking too skinny by half and I ought to put some flesh back on my bones, and Húrin Keeper of the Keys told me at least five times how good it was to see me home again, and said that his sister had cried for a week straight, when the news came of my death. That last comment I did not take too seriously, for since their father's death made him the head of the household, Húrin has been constantly trying to marry off his sister to every nobleman of Gondor, Faramir and me included. He did wait a respectful amount of time after the deaths of our wives, but I had lost track of how many times over the past few years Húrin had enumerated to me all the delightful, wifely qualities his sister possessed, always omitting to mention her rather shrewish tongue.

"Gentlemen," my father interposed at last. "I appreciate your wish to welcome my son home. But we have urgent matters requiring our attention."

A long table and chairs had been set out. My father took his place at the head of the table, and with seeming graciousness he requested Mithrandir to sit at the far end. With a smile and a bow the Wizard accepted the honour of presiding at one end of the table, but I had little doubt he knew as well as I did that the Lord Steward preferred Mithrandir as far away from him as possible.

Pippin stood behind my father's chair as the rest of us sought places at the table, but the Steward was feeling generous that evening. "Master Peregrin," he said, "I will not require your attendance for this time. You may dine with the rest. I suspect it is no easy task for your people to stand and watch while others eat, and you have borne that hardship bravely in my service."

Pippin blushed and bowed, and my uncle Imrahil offered the Hobbit the seat at his left, across the table from Svip and me.

Before we sat to the table, my father led us in turning to face the west, where lost Númenor sleeps beneath the waves. I was a little surprised to see him make that nod to tradition, for seldom had I known my father to perform that ritual save at the highest state occasions and the Yule and Lithe Day feasts. But, I reflected, if there was any night when the custom should have meaning to us, it was this night, when the darkness again rolled in upon the west, and the destroyer of Númenor once more reached out to close his hand about our throats.

In keeping with the times, our meal that night was more suited to the camp of a campaigning army than the table of a great nation's master. There was bread and wine, cold mutton and a couple of rounds of cheese. As we commenced to pass the food about the table, my father stood from his chair. Startled, those of us who had noticed started to get up from our chairs again. He waved us back down.

"Be seated, all of you," the Steward commanded. "Before we consider the peril even now encircling us, I must acknowledge a debt, and strive to give some token of our country's thanks. Master Svip, will you come here now to me?"

Svip cast me a nervous glance. I smiled at him and squeezed his shoulder, and with a little shrug he hopped down from his chair and padded over to the Lord Steward.

Standing beside the Steward, Svip was barely tall enough to be seen over the table. I saw several of the captains smile in amusement as they sat up straighter to get a better look at the unusual pair of tall, dignified Steward and green horse-faced halfling.

"My Lords," my father said in strong, ringing tones, sounding again as I remembered him from the days of my childhood, "I present to you Master Svip of Anduin, who has restored my son Boromir to his father's arms and to the hearts of a grieving nation. There are no thanks great enough to repay such a debt. But I ask of you, Svip: what reward would you desire of us? What can a father do to thank the one who restored the son who was lost to him?"

"I –" Svip began. He glanced uncomfortably at me again, then looked hesitantly back up at my father. "I – I don't know, My Lord," he said. "I don't need a reward, really."

"But there is something you desire," the Steward said, smiling at Svip with more patience and warmth than most at that table would ever have expected of him. "There is something for which you wish, my friend. Ask it."

"Well," Svip tried again. "I – the fountain by the tower. I was wondering … might I be allowed to sleep in it?"

There was a stir of movement and whispers around the table, which my father silenced with an icy stare. "Go on," he said, turning to Svip.

"Well, you see, I sleep in water at home. And the fountain's so beautiful and clear, and the sound of it is like the waterfall, where my house is … I just thought it would be good to sleep in. That's all. But I really don't need to, if people aren't supposed to be in the fountain …"

"Do not be afraid," my father told him. "You have asked nothing wrong."

The Steward turned to face the assembled company.

"Be it known to all present," he declared, "and be it proclaimed throughout our land: from this day forward, Svip of Anduin is appointed bodyguard to my son and heir the Lord Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor. I, Denethor Son of Ecthelion, grant him the freedom of our City and our realm. He may travel through Gondor as he pleases, and will be welcomed as a friend wherever the Men of Gondor dwell. I decree that he has leave to sleep in the Fountain of the White Tree, and to spend all the time in the Fountain that he may desire. Svip," he continued, kneeling down before my friend so that he, too, could barely be seen beyond the table, "I thank you as a father and as the Steward of Gondor, for you have restored the hope and future of our county."

My father reached out his hand to Svip, and after a moment's hesitation Svip clasped the Steward's hand in his.

I know that I was blushing then, and I am almost sure that Svip was too, for his face was certainly a darker shade of green than usual. I think that was the most effusive speech I ever heard my father give, and I nearly wanted to hide beneath the table in my embarrassment that my return had been the cause of it.

It was an immense relief to me when one of the captains, I know not which one, leapt up from his chair and started cheering the names of Svip, my father and myself. The others followed suit, and I stood with the rest of them, glad of the upsurge of cheering and applause that gave me a moment to recover from my embarrassment.

Eventually order was restored. Svip made his way back to his chair and boosted himself up onto it, and the rest sat to the table again. Before the company was fully ordered once more, young Derufin of Morthand, on the other side of Svip from me, inquired curiously, "No offense intended, but, will folk not think it a bit strange that your father has appointed you a bodyguard as small as Lord Svip?"

"They will not once they have seen him fight," I assured the young captain. "He can be very formidable. Many of our Men from Osgiliath and the Causeway will tell you that. As would many Orcs and Southrons, had you the power to make the dead speak."

"Then I look forward to the chance of fighting at your side, My Lord," Derufin told Svip.

My father's voice cut through the general conversation once again. "What then of the foe's advance? Húrin, what is the latest news from the walls?"

Húrin of the Keys stood up at his place to give his report. "The Gate is closed," he said. "It was shut at last, shortly after the Lord Denethor's sortie returned from the Harlond. The last word we have from without the walls came from our Men retreating along the northward road. Lieutenant Ingold of the Forannest Garrison led those last Men to reach us before the Gate was shut. They report that they received no word from the Rohirrim. But they saw ample evidence of the host that took Cair Andros, advanced now upon us by land. Ingold and his Men report that this host is strong: battalions of Orcs of the Eye, reinforced, they say, by companies of Men of a new sort that we have not met before. Not tall, but broad and grim, bearded like Dwarves and wielding great axes. These and their Orc brethren hold the northward road, and there is little chance that the Rohirrim could fight their way through to us, even did they bring all the fighting Men of their country."

As grim glances were exchanged around the table, Húrin continued. "From the fires spotted across the plain, we must assume that at least some vanguard of the foe is near upon us, two miles from the wall at the very farthest. We cannot guess in this darkness how many may already have crossed the River. The watch upon the walls is doubled, and will remain so throughout the night. All the garrison of the City are on the alert and ready to join their comrades on the wall should the enemy launch an attack this night. If they do not, then it seems we can only wait until the day brings us more light, and we can see more fully how our foes are deployed."

My father put in, as Húrin took his seat again, "Even when the day, or the shadow of it, does come to us, there is little hope that any further sortie on our part would now succeed. Particularly now that the road from Rohan is blocked – and since we cannot, like our foe, send forth portions of our cavalry on wings, but must risk letting the enemy in our front door, if we open the Gate to send forth our horsemen. Our only possible strategy seems that of defence, to hold the wall at all costs, and to keep our Enemy's forces cooling their heels upon the Pelennor. If need be, we will hold them until they run out of food and plunder, and nothing remains of our fields to keep their army alive. Dark Lord and Black Captains or no, their troops are mortal, and there is no magic strong enough to hold together an army that is without food."

The Steward cast a challenging gaze about the table, as if daring any of us to point out that our own food supply was limited as well, and we had less hope of replenishing it than did the hosts of our foe. No one spoke, though I saw a brooding frown draw together Mithrandir's brows.

My father, I was not surprised to learn, had noted the Wizard's scowl as well. "You have an objection to make, My Lord Mithrandir?" the Steward asked, with venomous sweetness. "Perhaps you see some way of escaping the trap in which we find ourselves?"

For a long moment Mithrandir's deep, blazing eyes held the gaze of the Lord Denethor. But for this time, at least, the Wizard seemed more angry at himself or at fate in general, than at my father. "I'm afraid I do not, My Lord Steward," he answered. "Though I cannot but think that too long have we chosen the path of defence, and that there are times when victory must be seized, rather than simply waited for."

"We are in agreement," my father countered. "Show me a way to seize victory without needlessly sacrificing all the blood of our City, and I will gladly take it."

Fearing we would spend the entire night with my father and Mithrandir locking horns, I interjected, "If I may, My Lords: if our strategy is to hold the wall at any cost, then we must be sure that we use all weapons and all forces available to us. We must ensure that all remaining citizenry are armed, and ready to join in the defence if necessary. Húrin, is it not so that we have more weaponry in the City garrisons than we require to arm our troops, and that these surplus weapons would be available for distribution to the citizens?"

"It is so, My Lord," Húrin assented. "I can set members of the City Guard to distributing the surplus to our remaining civilians tonight, if that is the Steward's command."

"It is my command," agreed my father. "Let the surplus bows be distributed first to those who have skill with them, for we must hope it will be some time before we are compelled to fight in closer quarters than those to which archery will answer."

"What is our supply of arrows?" Lord Duinhir of Morthand inquired. "We must consider that, as well. We of Morthand have brought with us, we estimate, arrows enough to supply our archers through three solid days of hard fighting. We should be able to somewhat replenish our supply by scavenging those arrows that the enemy sends at us, but I would hope that we will be able to keep them out of the range to succeed in many of their arrows reaching us. Has Minas Tirith more to give us, and all of its guards and citizenry, when our arrows run out?"

Húrin stated, "Were all the troops of the City, its remaining citizens and the warriors of the Outlands firing at once, I will hazard that we have arrows enough to last a week. Since we may have to keep up this fight a good deal longer than one week, it seems we will be well advised to make the replenishment of our arrows a priority for any Men off duty. May we count upon your Men to aid in that effort, Lord Duinhir?"

"If Minas Tirith will supply the materials, Morthand will supply the artisans," Duinhir answered.

"My Lords," spoke up Imrahil of Dol Amroth. "The Enemy will have other weapons at his command, that arrows will not answer. We must consider the risk of fire within the City. Since the populace is to be deployed in the City's defence, then here, perhaps, is a role that many may more usefully fill than as additional archers. While the City Guard are distributing surplus weapons, may they not also organize the citizens into fire-fighting companies, that we may be the more ready when the foe sends fire against us?"

"Let the manpower of the guilds be enlisted in this cause," I suggested. "Speak to the guildleaders and leave the task of organizing each Level's fire-fighters to them. Even the least warlike of guildsmen should be motivated to protect his own stock from fire. Let us put that to good use."

"You speak wisely, Nephew," My uncle said, nodding to me. "My Lord Húrin, I will serve as liaison to the guilds and will take responsibility for the fire-fighting effort, if you wish it."

"I thank you, My Lord Prince," the Keeper of the Keys replied.

For the next moments, none of us spoke. The voice of the Steward broke the silence. "If we are agreed that we have our preparations well in hand, then I would beg the captains' indulgence a few minutes longer. Some of you may have wondered at the Grey Wanderer's presence in our council. And many have been the speculations, these eight months past, on the mission that sent my son and heir beyond our borders at this time of our country's need. If you will, My Lord Mithrandir: the time has come to let the captains of Gondor know in what hope the Council of the Wise have placed their trust, and what struggles rage elsewhere while we hold this embattled island."

I caught an alarmed glance from Pippin. He looked from my father, to Mithrandir, to me, and back to the Steward again. Like the Hobbit, I found myself looking from my father to the Wizard and back.

Mithrandir sat unmoving and made no reply, fixing the Steward with his stormcloud gaze. That gaze, my father returned in kind, answering the storms of Mithrandir's eyes with a stare as piercing as lightning.

It was far from the first time that I had watched this jousting between Mithrandir and my father. As always, I felt like a dull-witted child watching them, struggling to keep up with the adults' conversation that I would never fully comprehend.

Some of it, this time, I thought I could understand.

My father knew of the quest to destroy the Ring. Or, he knew some of it and he had guessed the rest.

But what else might lie behind the challenge that Wizard and Steward glared at each other – if they had argued over the fate of the Ring, if my father blamed Mithrandir for the peril in which we now stood, if Mithrandir feared that my father's knowledge betokened some new challenge to the Ringbearer's quest – on that I could only guess.

"As you say, My Lord Steward," Mithrandir said at last. "As Gondor is to bear the first brunt of our Enemy's fury, her captains should know on what we have pinned our hopes."

The Wizard stood. Pippin looked unhappily at me. I shifted in my seat, trying to find some comfortable position in which to endure a repeat performance of Lord Elrond's Council.

Mithrandir's speech was a good deal shorter this time, without the hours' long contributions of Lord Elrond and of Frodo's uncle. For that, at least, I was grateful.

In a quiet voice that yet carried to all of us at that long table, Mithrandir spoke.

He spoke of the forging of the Rings of Power, of Sauron's rise, of the Last Alliance and Isildur's fall, of Gollum and of the Ring's finding, of the perils met by Frodo and his friends on their path to Imladris, and at last of the decision of the White Council, that sent forth the Fellowship of Nine to cast the Ring into the Mountain of Fire.

As the Wizard's words rolled on, I slouched further and further down in my chair. Several times I nearly stood up and excused myself from this portion of the council, on the grounds that I had sat through Mithrandir's history lesson before. But, I reminded myself, it would be scarcely fitting if the Steward's son walked out on a report that the Steward himself had commanded.

I strove to pass the time by watching the captains' reactions, studying each of their faces with their varying expressions of disbelief, dread, awe, amazement, and boredom. But as Mithrandir's tale drew into the segment in which I had played a part, I came to realise that I, too, was under scrutiny.

Pippin kept glancing almost guiltily at me, studying me with worried eyes as though he feared what I might do in response to Mithrandir's words.

Svip must have caught the Hobbit's worried looks. And he noticed something else. He put his hand on my arm, and when I looked down to see what he wanted, Svip was staring toward my father, like a trembling rabbit staring at a fox.

I followed Svip's stare. My father's gaze was riveted on me, with a blazing intensity that did not alter as our eyes met.

Of a sudden, I wondered, Was that his only purpose in ordering Mithrandir's recital, to see how I reacted to it?

I swiftly looked away. I forced myself to sit up straight, and glared at a point in the air somewhere beyond Mithrandir's shoulder. With an effort I stopped myself from drumming my fingers on the tabletop.

Bloody hell, Father! I thought. If you wanted to know what I think of this damned fool quest, you might have just asked me!

The Wizard's tale was drawing to its close. He made no mention, I noted, of the identity of Aragorn, nor did he touch upon the manner of the Fellowship's breaking. He said only that our company came under attack, the attack in which I was killed, and that the Ringbearer and his servant escaped, setting out on their own into Mordor. He spoke, then, of Faramir's meeting with the Ringbearer in Ithilien. And there the story ceased, with the Enemy's Ring and its bearer passing into the Black Land and out of our knowledge.

The captains stirred in their chairs, glancing at each other as though all hoped that someone else would have something to say.

Forlong of Lossarnach spoke first. Looking about him with an expression of growing incredulity, he finally exclaimed, "That was the choice of the Wise? To let the One Ring stray into the land of the Enemy, with only two halflings to guard it?"

Taking all of us by surprise – except, I suppose, my father – Pippin leaped to his feet.

"You do not know Frodo!" he cried out. "He's got more strength in him than you think. He's carried the Ring safely when no Man or Elf could have done it!"

The young Hobbit looked abashed as everyone turned to look at him. But he held his ground. For some moments Forlong studied him with raised eyebrows. Then the massive chieftain heaved himself to his feet.

"I meant not to offend you, Master Perian," Forlong said, bowing to Pippin. "It is not the choice I would have made, that is all. But I was not asked to make the choice."

My uncle Imrahil put his hand on Pippin's shoulder. Pippin stared angrily at Forlong for another moment, then he bowed to the chieftain in turn and sat back down.

As Forlong went through the decidedly lengthier process of sitting himself down again, Golasgil of the Anfalas spoke in troubled tones. "Yet Lord Forlong may be right," he said. "We should cast no blame upon the halflings, but there may be much blame to be cast upon the White Council. Was it, then, the only way, to send the Ring into Mordor with so scant a guard? Why not send it with an army, that at least might have a chance of fighting through to Orodruin's flames?"

"What army would have that chance?" demanded Hirluin the Fair of Pinnath Gelin. "Better to send a small force that might sneak through, than an army that would be slaughtered before ever they reached the Morannon!"

"Why send small force or army?" young Duilin of Morthand cried out excitedly. "If the Wise feared to keep this thing themselves, let them send it to Gondor! Our Lord would not fear it, nor would he fail to guard it from the Enemy's clutches!"

A burst of exclamations and argument followed the young lord's words. My uncle Imrahil's voice cut through the tumult.

"Why do we argue it, My Lords, when the choice and the Ring both are beyond our reach? We sit here in a City besieged, unable to set foot beyond our walls. Why, then, squander our time in debate upon what might have been?"

Svip sat huddled close to me, watching the captains in dread, as if fearing at any moment to see them start slaying each other. I squeezed his arm and whispered, "It's all right, Svip. Men just shout a lot at each other. You're liable to hear a good bit of this sort of thing, if you stay with us."

As Svip managed a sickly smile, Húrin of the Keys addressed me. "My Lord Boromir, you were there when this course of action was chosen. What do you think of this quest to destroy the Ring?"

It is no new experience for me to have the gaze of many upon me. But that night, I felt three pairs of eyes upon me as though their gaze burned holes in my skin: those of Svip, of Pippin, and of my father.

"It was the will of the White Council," I stated, knowing full well that I had not truly answered the question. "I pledged my assistance to the quest, believing it the duty of Gondor to support any effort against our Enemy. If the quest seemed a forlorn hope, that was nothing new to me, or to any of us. It is long since we have had any but forlorn hopes to which we may cling."

For a moment I was answered by silence. Then Forlong the Fat grumbled in exaggerated disgust, "I suppose it's too late now to get the Ring back."

The suggestion was preposterous enough to break through the tension. Amid smiles from many of the captains, I bowed to Forlong and declared, "My Lord, if you can break the siege, rout the Dark Lord's armies and seize the Ring from the bowels of Mordor, you can be Captain-General and I will retire to Lossarnach."

"I thank you, My Lord, but I couldn't live in the City. I'm too fat to manage all these stairs."

"Enough," the Lord Steward decreed, getting up from his chair. Either my father had learned all that he wished to learn, or he'd decided he would not learn it from banter over Forlong of Lossarnach's weight.

All of us stood. The Steward said, "Whatever our choices might once have been, we have none now. We have only our duty, to hold the foe here and prevent them from taking one step beyond our walls. If the bearer of the Enemy's Ring yet lives, perhaps we may hold the Dark Lord's attention long enough to give the Ringbearer the chance he requires. Come what may, in three thousand years and more no foe has yet trod upon the Hill of Guard. Remember that, and vow with me to ensure that this does not change. The Dark Lord has never triumphed over Gondor. It is our duty to see to it that he does not triumph now."

My father paused then, studying us with his commanding gaze that seemed to burn into each Man's soul. Then he said, "We have our appointed tasks. Let us set about them. For Gondor."

"For Gondor!" The assembled captains took up the battle cry.

As our captains began to disperse, my father strode toward me. "Boromir," he said briskly. "Will you stay a while? We have still much to discuss, if you can spare the time."

"Of course, My Lord," I said with a bow.

The Steward turned and addressed Pippin, who looked slightly lost standing amid the captains of Gondor. "Master Peregrin, I have a task for you that may be more to your liking than running an old Man's errands. I believe Master Svip could use a tour of the Citadel. Will you be his guide, and see, as well, that he has whatever he requires when he wishes to retire to the Fountain? If you will do so, then I free you from all other duties until the morrow. If that meets with your approval as well, Master Svip," he added.

"Of course, My Lord," Svip said, and Pippin bowed and said, "Very willingly, My Lord."

Svip smiled a bit tentatively at Pippin. The Hobbit hesitated a moment, then smiled back.

Turning to me, Svip asked, "You will wake me up when the battle starts, won't you? You won't go into the fight without me?"

"I'll wake you up," I assured him. "I won't let you miss anything."

My two small friends set out, leaving my father and me with only the servants who hovered waiting to clear away the table.

"Leave us," my father ordered. "You may clear up later."

The servants bowed and departed. I went to refill my wine goblet, smiling a little as I thought of Pippin and Svip.

It seemed there was every chance of them getting along well, for which I was deeply grateful. I had feared, when first I thought of it, that Svip might become jealous of Pippin, since the water creature had not yet had much to do with other beings that I considered my friends. But hopefully, as it now seemed might be the case, the inherent good natures of Pippin and Svip would draw them together instead of dividing them.

As I poured the wine, I noticed my father watching me with a disapproving eye.

"I have had one goblet with my meal, sir," I said in weary irritation. "I hardly believe that another will incapacitate me."

"You know best, I am sure," my father replied, in his tone that said just the opposite.

I drank down a hefty swig from the goblet merely for the sake of annoying him, then inquired, "What did you wish to discuss?"

With startling suddenness, my father's disapproval and annoyance seemed to vanish, replaced by an aura of utter exhaustion. "Boromir," he sighed, shaking his head. He sank down into his chair, and gestured to the chair that I had occupied before, at his right hand. "Will you sit down?"

I obeyed, and took a more civilised sip of my wine. "Are you not well, sir?" I asked suddenly, unable to stop myself, although I knew full well how my father hated any suggestion that he was not in the peak of health.

"I am well," he said, giving a bitter smile. "Old, unfortunately, but as well as I can expect."

He gazed at me then with an odd sort of wistfulness, as if the fact of my existence were some treasured dream from which he knew he would soon awake. "What of you, my son?" he asked. "Are you well? I have heard tell of some restrictions imposed upon you by your resurrection, and of barrels of River water sent to your quarters."

I knew my father well enough not to be surprised at whatever he might turn out to know. "It is true, sir," I answered. "Svip used River water in the spell with which he brought me back. It has left me bound to the Anduin, in ways that I do not yet fully understand. I think I have learned, at least, that I cannot remain more than four miles or so from the River for any length of time. At more than four miles, my strength and resilience diminishes the farther I go. Ten miles would seem to be the farthest extreme possible, and the time I tried that, it nearly killed me." I smiled ruefully at him and shrugged. "At the distance we are now, I simply do not know. I'm hoping that we are close enough for me to continue functioning, at least at something near my normal capacity. I will keep drinking River water; that does seem to help."

My father frowned at me in concern. "Do what you must to survive," he ordered. "If you need to return to the River, we will get you there. No matter what it costs."

"I have every intention of getting there, sir," I said, in an attempt at lightness, "at the head of our army, driving the Easterlings and Southrons back into their wastelands."

"I would not count on that, Boromir," he said with sudden derisive pessimism. "We will be fortunate, indeed, if any of us live to see Anduin once more." He sighed and shook his head again, dismissing the topic. "Tell me of your journey," he commanded.

"What would you hear of it?" I asked, still trying to say something that would lighten his mood. "I should think after Lord Mithrandir's saga, you would have heard more than enough."

That comment did, at least, induce a minimal smile. "More than enough from him, certainly. But I would hear it from you." Before I could begin to think of what to tell him, some new trouble seemed to darken my father's gaze. "What of this Aragorn Son of Arathorn?" he asked. "What is your judgement of him?"

Wonderful, I thought. I can always count on my father to pick out the topics that I wish least to talk about. I took another drink, then asked, "Of him, sir? Or of his lineage and his claims?"

"Of both. Has he stated publicly his claim?"

"He has. At Lord Elrond's Council he declared himself the Heir of Isildur, and showed, as proof of his claim, the sword of Elendil, broken in combat with the Dark Lord himself and passed down through the line of the Kings and Chieftains of the North. Or," I amended, "he showed the two pieces of a sword that he claimed was Elendil's, and that has the style and markings of weapons of that era. That is all I can say of it beyond the shade of doubt."

My father demanded, voice hard and cold, "And did he lay claim to Gondor's throne?"

I sighed, trying to think back to what actually had or had not been said. "No," I said slowly. "He did not in so many words, I think, though he did ask me if I wished the House of Elendil returned to our land. He said that he would bear his re-forged sword to Minas Tirith, and join us in our fight against the Dark. To the throne he laid no claim, I believe, at least not while I journeyed in his company. But I assumed that he would seek the throne when he had proved his worth to us in battle."

There was a strange expression on my father's face; a bitter smile as though he had tasted something loathsome, and in his eyes a look of coldly burning hatred.

"What is his appearance?" the Steward asked.

"His appearance?" I repeated, wondering what on earth my father might be driving at. What could Aragorn's appearance contribute to the discussion? There was nothing about his countenance, surely, which proved that he was or was not the rightful King.

Nonetheless I replied, "About my height, but a good deal skinnier. Black hair with some traces of grey. Grey eyes. A worn face, as though he has lived too well or not well enough. He prefers going clean-shaven, I would assume; at least he shaved regularly both at Imladris and Lothlorien. His age could be anything from thirty to sixty; the years lived out-of-doors may have aged him more than his actual years warrant."

Seeing that bitter look still blazing in my father's eyes, I sought some way to distract him from whatever had roused his hate. "I hardly see how knowing his appearance helps us," I remarked. "He has the look of a Man of Gondor; what of that? It does not prove him the King. We do not dwell in the world of fairy tales, where all the long-lost kings are identified by distinctive birthmarks on their backsides."

My joke was rewarded by a small smile, that did at least seem to hold some actual amusement. "We can be grateful for that, at least," my father commented, "for it is not a proof of kingship that I should care to investigate."

"In that, sir, we are in full agreement."

The momentary trace of humour vanished from the Steward's face. "And what was your opinion of him?" my father demanded. "You must have formed some conclusions regarding him, if you spent four months in his company."

"Aye, sir," I said irritably, beginning to grow very tired of this questioning, "I formed the conclusion that four months was four months too much."

Immediately I regretted speaking quite so harshly of one with whom I had endured so many perils. I sighed. "He has courage and fortitude," I said. "He is a strong and skilled fighter. A leader of some skill, and much loved by those to whom he appears in the role of protector. Somewhat lacking, I would say, in the skills of working with others. Perhaps he did not require those skills in the northern woods. He does not share command easily, and has little patience for any who may differ from his beliefs. A good king, perhaps, for those who need to be led. Somewhat less satisfactory for those with the skills to lead themselves."

My father gave a satisfied smile, as though my words had banished some doubt from his mind. "Enough of him," he said. "We will have time enough to think of him later, if he lives to grace us with his presence, and if we live to receive that honour."

The Steward got to his feet then and began to pace, a thoughtful frown settling on his countenance. Watching him, I wondered, Which topic of which I don't want to speak of is he going to pick out next?

He did not leave me long to wonder. Pausing and eyeing me keenly, my father said, "You did not answer the question that Húrin of the Keys put to you. What do you think of the quest to destroy the Ring?"

"I told Húrin the truth," I said stolidly. "I thought it my duty to aid the quest. As the only representative of Gondor at that Council, I felt that I could not leave our country unrepresented in their efforts."

"So you said," my father persisted. "And you and I both know that it is no answer."

I took a swig that emptied my wine goblet, and stood up, glaring at my Lord and father.

"Very well, sir," I said. "There were times when I believed that the choice to destroy the Ring made sense. A few times, and very far between. The rest of the time, I felt that I was there to protect the others, to provide them safe passage for so long as our roads were the same, and because I liked not to abandon the Hobbits, the Elf and the Dwarf to the reckless knight-errantry of Mithrandir and his Ranger protégé."

I laughed bitterly, my father now having steered me onto a topic concerning which I could rant for hours. "Do you know, sir, what the Wizard proposed doing? He would have led the halflings and the rest of us into the Pass of Caradhras in the teeth of a snowstorm, without bringing so much as one twig of firewood! I should have thought, at least, that the Ranger would have spoken against that; but perhaps they do not have snow in the forests of the north."

My father smiled at that, though without a great deal of mirth. "And what of the Ring itself?" he asked, his gaze fixed upon my face as he awaited my answer. "If you did not believe in the wisdom of destroying it, what then did you believe?"

I had a strong feeling that I would not enjoy where this conversation was heading. "I believed that it would have been wiser to bring the Ring here," I said, my voice sounding flat and heavy to my own ears as I spoke. "To secure it in the Citadel, and to take counsel to determine if we were better advised to keep it in hiding, or to use it against our Enemy and strike him before he could strike us."

I forced myself to hold the Lord Steward's gaze, though I did not at all like the predatory gleam in his eyes as he watched me. "I made no secret of my opinions, and several times advised the Company that we should make for Minas Tirith, not Mordor. They did not share my view of the matter."

My father asked softly, "And did you do nothing more than give your advice?"

I clenched my fists, as anger and shame rushed into me with the memory of that day. Forcing my voice to remain steady, I said, "When the moment neared when our Company must part ways, choosing the road to Gondor or to Mordor, I sought to convince the Ringbearer of the wisdom of my arguments. I am not proud of my actions on that day, My Lord. The Ringbearer refused to turn his path toward Gondor. I attacked him and sought to take the Ring by force. I failed."

"Failed?" came my father's quiet, knife-like voice. "How? I was under the impression that the Ringbearer was of no greater size or strength than my young Esquire. How is it that a mere halfling managed to defeat the foremost warrior of Gondor?"

I eyed him angrily, stung by the scorn that rang through his words. "The Ring has the interesting property, My Lord, of rendering its wearer invisible. So, at least, we were told by Frodo's ancient uncle, and so I saw for myself when I assaulted Frodo. Invisible, he fled from me."

"And you could not track him? There were no fallen leaves and branches upon that forest floor, then, to crack beneath his invisible feet? You astonish me, Lord Boromir. I would not have thought my Captain-General so easily turned from his purpose, that a terrified Hobbit could succeed in escaping him, invisible or no. When the survival of Gondor is at stake, I would have expected more of you."

I snapped, "I would have you try it, My Lord, before you chastise me. It is no easy matter to pursue invisible quarry through unfamiliar terrain, particularly when –"

I stopped short, for the words that would have followed were not ones that I ever wished my father to hear. I would have said, Particularly when you are weeping too hard to be able to see through your tears.

I sought another means of ending this line of discussion. "The pursuit was interrupted, My Lord. It was nigh upon that time that we were attacked by several dozen Orcs. When the Ringbearer and his servant set out toward Mordor, I happened to be dead."

My father winced as though from the pain of an old wound, and swiftly looked away from me. I thought, at first, that I had succeeded in ending the interrogation. The Steward sank into his chair and sat a moment in silence. But when he spoke, his quiet, haunted words still lingered in the forest of Amon Hen.

"You might not have been slain," he said, "if you had persevered in your pursuit of the Ring. With the One Ring in your grasp, will you have me believe that even an army of Orcs could have withstood you?"

"If I had?" I echoed quietly. "You have told me often enough that such words are useless."

"Useless? Yes. As are all our efforts, now that the one weapon which might have saved Gondor has passed beyond our grasp."

His words tore at me. I pulled my chair closer to his and sat down, gripping his hand where it rested upon his chair's carven arm. "What would you have had me do, sir?" I asked, hearing a note of pleading in my voice far more desperate than I had expected or intended. "Should I, then, have pursued Frodo with no thought of my oath to the Company, or of his safety? Would you have had me seize the Ring at any cost, even if I had to murder Frodo to achieve it?"

The blackness of my father's eyes was unfathomable, as deep as the dark of Mordor that had swallowed our skies. He asked me, still in that hollow, hopeless tone, "Was your oath to the Company, then, of more meaning to you than your oath to Gondor? Did you place more value upon the halfling's life than on the lives of our people?"

"Sir," I argued, "you did not bring me up as a brigand, to seize whatever I am strong enough to take with no thought for any weaker creatures hurt or destroyed in the process. If that is the way that Gondor is to survive, should we not also command the presence in our armies of all the Men of our tributary lands, and enslave or slay any who refuse to serve us? And if that is the way we are to rule, will you tell me in what particulars our rule is preferable to the rule of Sauron?"

My father's mouth twisted in a sneering smile. "Noble words, my son. Noble and meaningless, for when the Dark Lord devours our land, there will be none left to debate the morality of our actions. If I had wished to place Gondor's fate in the hands of one who would count moral paradoxes and the philosophising of Wizards of more value than the lives of our people, I would have sent your brother to Imladris. I see now that you are as lost to me as he is."

I clutched my father's hand harder, desperate to find something to say that would make him believe me. "Neither of us is lost to you, My Lord. Neither of us will be lost to you, if we live. You have our love and our obedience. As you have always had and always will."

"What is your obedience worth, if you held the salvation of Gondor in your hands and let it slip through your fingers?"

"Would it have been the salvation of Gondor? Can we know that? If I had brought the Ring to you and concealed it here, would we be any more secure than we are at this moment? Or would the Dark Lord simply strike at us with more fury, not resting for one instant until he'd dismantled our City stone by stone and could hold his Ring once more?"

Desperation on the edge of hysteria glimmered in my father's eyes. "How would that differ from where we are now?" he demanded. "Have you not seen their fires creep across our plains? Have you not heard the voices of our enemy, closing about us in the dark?"

Of a sudden, he took a shuddering breath, and rubbed one hand over his face. He stood, and gripped the back of his chair with hands that were suddenly trembling. I jumped to my feet.

"After all," my father said in a voice of aching weariness, almost as though speaking to himself, "it is over. You made the attempt, and it was fate that caused it to fail. Fate and certain of its tools," he added, bitterness again creeping into his tone, "such as Lord Mithrandir and his beloved Ranger. And we are left, with the Dark Lord at our Gate and no shield against him save a stone wall and a handful of arrows."

"My Lord," I protested, hating to hear the desolation in his voice. "It is not quite so hopeless as that."

"Is it not, my son?" he inquired, with a mocking smile. "Is it not?" He sighed, and all emotions seemed to vanish from his face, save for simple exhaustion. "We shall see soon enough," he told me. "And I hope that we will live for me to be able to admit that you were right."

The Lord Steward grasped my shoulder, once again gazing into my face as though he dared not believe in my existence. "You have given enough of your time to an old Man's ramblings," he said. "Go and take your rest. You will need all of your strength upon the morrow."

"We all will, sir," I answered, reaching up and closing my hand around his. "I would give the same advice to you, if I believed there was any chance that you would take it."

He smiled ruefully and let his hand drop away from mine. "As to that," he said, "we must accept what boons the gods of sleep dole out to us. When you leave, summon the servants to clear away the table. We will speak again in the morning."

"Yes, sir," I said, smiling back at him and wondering almost if I had imagined the conversation that had just passed between us.

"Sir," I said, "it is good to be home."

He nodded. "Good night."

I hastened from my father's chambers, sent the servants to him as he had commanded, and made my way back upstairs to my rooms.

Phrases that my father had spoken rang tauntingly through my mind, seizing hold of my thoughts and refusing to let them go.

I wanted to deny that the discussion had even taken place. I did not want to admit that my father had told me I should have killed Frodo if I had to, to claim the Ring.

Nor did I want to admit the possibility that he was right, that Gondor might now face no threat at all if only the Ring were in our hands.

I thought, I failed. Failed to keep the trust that my father and our people placed in me.

When Minas Tirith falls, will it be my weakness that sealed her doom?

Or was there never a chance for anything but failure? Would our doom be just as certain if I carried the Ring now?

If we concealed the Ring in the Citadel or bore it in arms against our Foe, would all paths end in our destruction, just the same?

I strode to the barrel of River water on its table and drew a goblet's worth. Gulping it down, I told myself, Your father was right in one thing he said, at the least. It is over. And we have no choices left to us. No choice, save to stand our ground and fight.

That, at least, is one thing you know you can do.

I drank another goblet full, then glanced about for the means of carrying more River water with me.

The canteen I had carried with me from Svip's house lay on the chair where I had tossed it earlier that evening, along with the golden belt of Lorien and the grey shadow that was the Elven cloak.

I picked up the cloak, looking at it almost as though I had never seen it before. It occurred to me that I'd forgotten all about the cloak's supposed potential to make one invisible, over these last many days that I had worn it. Not since the swamp, when Svip and I were still hiding from parties of Orcs, had I tried to use the cloak's powers, nor had it seemed to render me invisible to any friend or foe since then.

I suppose it only works when you actively want it to, I thought. Swinging it over my shoulders again and fastening its shining beech-leaf shaped brooch, I told myself, You should wear this cloak the next time you go to council with your father, and see if it saves you from such another conversation.

I filled the canteen with River water and fastened it to the belt I wore, one of my belts that I had owned for years, leaving the gold belt of the Elves where it lay. I should give that belt to someone, I thought. Maybe Svip, since Faramir had said he didn't want it, and since it would assuredly not be a gift welcomed by my father.

At that point I should have been ready to set forth, but I paused and looked again at the barrel of River water. On an impulse, I grabbed an old, worn neckerchief from out of my dresser table, and held it under the barrel's spigot until it was soaked through. This I tied about my neck, stuffing it into the collar of my tunic and hoping it would not be too noticeable.

I did not know if that would be of the slightest help, but it probably could not hurt.

Thus fortified, I set out to inspect the walls.

I half expected to see Svip already asleep in the Fountain as I passed it, but there was no sign of him. He and Pippin must still be about their explorations.

I smiled at the thought of them gallivanting about the Citadel in the dark, much like a certain young pair of Steward's sons in what felt like some long-ago age. Although Svip, of course, could see in the dark, which gave them an advantage over Faramir and me. Not to mention that Pippin and Svip had the Steward's permission for their tour, and did not risk a spanking if they were caught.

And never had any night when we crept from our rooms to explore the Citadel, been as dark a night as this.

On the walls, the Men seemed in good spirits; certainly as good as could be expected. There were grim comments among them at the sight of the enemy's fires, glittering in the unfathomed dark. At one instant those fires would seem far from us still, at the next they seemed as near as an arrow's flight. But amidst the dour muttering on the enemy's approach, were spoken words of more cheer. I heard my own name mentioned several times in cheerful tones, before I drew near enough to a cluster of Guards for them to recognise me and snap to attention. And several times I heard the Men speaking in pride of their Steward's ride to the Harlond, the first time he had ridden from the City in force of arms in nigh upon twenty years.

"The Dark Lord doesn't know who he has to deal with," one Guard declared. "He thought Lord Boromir slain and the Steward in his dotage, or he'd not have dared to try his hand against us. He'll find out differently when the wreck of his army comes straggling back to his wastelands."

"We have not won yet," I admonished the Man, walking up to him and his comrades. "And all of us should know full well that overconfidence can be as fatal as despair. Although," I added, "I would rather hear words of pride than despair, this night."

"What is there to despair of, My Lord?" the Guard persisted stubbornly. "It's the Dark Lord who's been overconfident. How can we fail, with both you and the Lord Steward come back to us again?"

"I hope we will not learn the answer to that," I told him.

On the first wall, above the Great Gate, I found my uncle Imrahil and Húrin of the Keys. Both greeted me warmly and assured me that our preparations were well in hand.

"The meeting with the guildleaders went well," Imrahil reported. "We have the fire-fighting companies formed and ready. The guilds have taken charge of organizing the companies on their own levels, and there are a good number of non-guild members among the citizens volunteering to join them. I believe we will be ready on that front, at least."

My uncle eyed me searchingly, and went on, "You had best betake yourself to your bed, Nephew. Perhaps it's the light, but you look about as tired as your father. We will be ready when they strike. That I promise you. Now get you gone; I do not want to be visiting both of my nephews in the Houses of Healing."

"Perhaps you are right," I admitted, smiling wearily. I rubbed my hand over my neck, where the neckerchief sat almost entirely dried against my skin. "The same goes for you two gentlemen, remember. We do not need our highest commanders dead on their feet from lack of sleep."

"Harken to the boy, dispensing wisdom to his elders," Imrahil jested to Húrin – who, it must be remarked, is only about three years older than I am. "What think you, My Lord Húrin? Will we need to tie him up and haul him bodily to his bed?"

"You can try it if you like, My Lord Prince," Húrin replied. "You're his uncle, so he might spare your life. I value my hide too highly to attempt it."

I bade them farewell and took the long, dark road once more up the Hill of Guard.

There was faint light visible through the window drapes on the ground floor of my townhouse, but I did not stop for another visit with the people of my household. I felt nearly like a ghost as I made my way past my house in the darkness.

Fiercely I assured myself that I was no ghost, not yet. I could not afford to be dead, not at least until I had sent a great many of our enemies before me.

At the Sixth Level, I stopped again at the Houses of Healing. This time there was a clerk at the desk, a different lad from the harried youth I'd encountered earlier. The Houses seemed somewhat restored to their normal peace and calm, though the attendants I passed in the hallways greeted me with troubled eyes and mouths grimly set to hold back words of fear.

The Healers' Assistant who sat at Faramir's bedside rose and curtsied as I stepped into the room. She crossed to me, and reported in hushed tones, "There is little change in his condition, My Lord. He has started speaking more now, in this past hour. But he does not wake. We've succeeded in making him drink, but his fever is yet unabated."

I nodded. "I have a few minutes now to sit with him," I told her. "Do you return in a quarter of an hour."

The woman curtsied again and departed. Once more I sat with my brother, holding his hand and now and again re-dampening the cloth upon his forehead.

I told him all the tidings of cheer that came into my mind, as I watched shadows play on his face from the sallow candlelight. I told him of Imrahil's fire-fighting companies, of the good spirits of our Men upon the walls, of Father's appointment of Svip as my bodyguard and his grant to Svip of the right to sleep in the Fountain of the Tree. Of the words that had passed between our father and me, I did not speak.

Only once did Faramir speak as I sat with him. He twisted his head violently, causing the cloth to slide onto the pillow. As I reached to retrieve the cloth, his fingers suddenly tightened about my other hand, where until that moment they had lain limp and still.

"Boromir," he murmured, eyes still closed. "I saw you dead, Boromir. I saw you." His voice grew louder as his forehead furrowed in pain. "Boromir! Where is your Horn? Where are you going? Boromir!" His head tossed on the pillow, then again his words grew so quiet as to barely be heard. "I saw you dead, Boromir. I saw you."

"I know you did," I said, gripping his hand. "I know it. I'm sorry. I'm not dead now, Faramir. I promise you that. And neither are you. Neither of us is going to die in this battle. Do you hear me? Neither of us will die. I will not allow it. Do you hear me, brother? I'm not letting you die."

His grasp loosened from around my hand, and once more his murmurs faded into silence.

When the attendant returned, she assured me that Faramir would not go unwatched for one moment. I emphasised to her that the Lord Steward and I were both to be notified at once if there were any marked change in his condition, then I set out back to the Citadel.

At the Seventh Gate, the Guards who admitted me spoke in tones more hushed than usual. One of them informed me, "Your friend Lord Svip is asleep in the Fountain, My Lord. We've been trying to keep quiet so as not to wake him up." The Man grinned ruefully and added, "Though I suppose I don't know what we're worried about, since there's fire crackling all around and Orcs howling outside the walls. If he can sleep through that, I guess he can sleep through us talking."

Svip was curled up in the Fountain, sleeping as peacefully as if he were in his own house back at Rauros. He had picked out as his pillow the tiny stone island at the Fountain's centre, where the cascading water droplets fell about him like curtain of Mithril.

I stood watching him for a few moments, then I hastened on.

Sleep was long in coming to me that night, as I suppose should have been no surprise to me. Twice I got up from my bed for a drink of River water, and doused my face and hair in the Anduin's water as well. The comfort of lying in my own bed at long last was more than outweighed by the images that raced through my mind.

I saw enemy troops entrenched before our walls. I saw Faramir's anguished face. I saw hatred and despair blazing in my father's eyes. And I saw Frodo, backing away from me as his eyes widened in horror, and my voice grated out in desperation akin to madness, "It is not yours save by unhappy chance. It might have been mine. It should be mine. Give it to me!"

At last I slept, I know not for how long. I do not remember dreaming, but when I abruptly woke, it seemed at first that my waking reality must be a dream.

By the light of the candle clock in its sconce upon the wall, I saw my father, sitting in one of my armchairs and watching me. There seemed infinite weariness and sorrow in his face as he gazed upon me.

I blinked, believing almost that the vision of my father would vanish. In my first distant thoughts at the edges of sleep, I thought that this must be the first time my father had watched me sleep since I was wounded on the Cair Andros Campaign at fifteen years of age. Or at any rate, I knew of no other time since then.

The demands of waking life came back to me in a rush. I sat up, ready to leap from my bed.

"Has something happened to Faramir?" I blurted. "Is his condition worsened?"

"No. No," my father said quietly, waving his hand for me to lie back down. "His condition seems unchanged." A sardonic note entered my father's voice, as he added, "I have just come from visiting him, so you need not give me another lecture just yet on how I care nothing for my younger son."

"Yes, sir," I said. We sat silent for a moment, then I tried again. "Is there anything I can do for you, sir?"

My father studied me a long time before answering. The grief that trembled in his voice wrenched my heart as I heard it.

He said slowly, "If you were not my son, if you were some delusion sent of our Enemy, I could not count on you to tell me so. Could I?"

"No, sir," I admitted. "I suppose not."

"You would look the same. You would sound the same. And when I asked you if you were real, you would give me the same answers. Is that not so?"

"It is true, sir," I said. "And there is nothing I can say to you, that the illusion of me would not also say. Although," I added, "I doubt that our Enemy has imagination enough to think up something like Svip."

The Steward smiled faintly. "In that," he said, "I believe you are probably right."

He gave a weary shake of his head, and got to his feet. "I'm sorry to have wakened you," he said.

For some moments more he stood watching me. Then he flung back the heavy cloak he wore over his robes. He reached for some object that hung from a leathern belt across his shoulder, and had lain across his back, concealed in the folds of his cloak.

"I should have returned this to you sooner," he said, pulling the belt over his head. "I have kept it with me since Anduin brought it to our shore. If you are truly returned to me, then I need it no longer."

I stared, then I hastily got out of bed. And still I stared, at a loss entirely for the words that I should say.

My father held out to me the Horn of Gondor. It glimmered in his hands, as pure and shining as moonlight.

The two halves of the cloven Horn were held together with a strap of silver-bound leather, that in turn attached to the baldric by which my father had worn it. I took the horn in my hands. As I ran my fingers over the carvings that were so familiar to me, I felt for a moment perilously close to tears. Although laughter, too, was not far off, as I thought of the image we must make, the Lord Steward formally presenting the Horn of Gondor to his heir who stood there clad in nightshirt and naked feet.

"I thank you, My Lord," I said. "And I ask your pardon for my failure to bring the Horn home safe and whole."

"You have come home," my father said firmly. "That is what matters." He glanced down at the Horn, and continued, "The Horn of Gondor will not sound again. We will have another made. If we live."

"Yes, sir," I said. "We will."

"I should not have disturbed you," he said then, with an effort at sounding brusque and matter-of-fact. "Go back to bed, Boromir. Good night."

"Good night, My Lord," I answered, to his rapidly departing back. As the door closed behind him, I stood there still, marvelling at the strangeness of things and wondering what on earth I should do with the Horn.

There was no sense in carrying the broken Horn with me the next day, I supposed, yet neither did I feel right about leaving it just lying around in my room.

I told myself that if I lived through the battle ahead I would take the Horn to the Stewards' House in the Mansions of the Dead, and leave it to rest in honour with our ancestors. But for now, any such gesture would have to wait. I set the Horn down carefully on the table next to the barrel of River water, and made haste to climb back into my bed.

When I woke again, the candle clock told me it lacked about an hour till dawn. Or until what would have been the dawn, in any other days but these.

I dressed swiftly, after the now usual drinking and washing with my supply of River water. This time I wore a shirt of chain mail beneath my tunics, but I did not forgo my other, more mystical piece of armour, in the shape of the neckerchief soaked in Anduin's water.

Near the door to my father's chambers, I found Pippin, in one of the chairs usually occupied by those awaiting admittance to audience with the Lord Steward. The guards at either side of the door stood to attention, seemingly paying no notice to the young Hobbit – not that I blamed them for that, as the Steward did not take kindly to conversations outside his door in the wee hours of the morning. Pippin sat hunched forward, staring dejectedly at his feet, which were dangling a good ways off the floor. As I approached, he looked up and then jumped down from the chair, his face brightening in delight.

"Good morning, Pippin," I greeted him. "My father's not called on you to attend him yet?"

"Not yet. But I couldn't sleep."

"You too?" I smiled down at him, and said, "I'm going to take a walk on the White Tower. Would you care to accompany me?"

The Hobbit gave a worried frown. "But if your father sends for me …"

"I will shield you from his wrath."

I walked over to the guards, and informed them, "If the Lord Steward sends for Master Peregrin before he returns, you may report that I requested him to accompany me to the White Tower. There is no blame to be placed on the Perian or on you."

"Yes, My Lord," the guards replied, not looking entirely comfortable at the prospect of making that report to the Lord of Gondor.

"Won't he be angry with you?" Pippin asked, as we set out down the corridor and he hurried to keep up with me.

"Well, if he is, he'll only say something snide. That's the advantage of being the favourite son and coming back from the dead. I can probably get away with just about anything, now."

As we stepped from the King's House into the still and heavy air, I asked, "How went your tour of the Citadel with Svip?"

"It went well, I think," Pippin replied, "though he did give me a fright a few times when he climbed onto the wall and I thought he'd fall off, and when he started poking into places I thought we weren't supposed to go."

I chuckled. "Now you know what it felt like, travelling with you all the way from Rivendell."

"I am not like that!" Pippin protested. "I don't stick my nose into everything I see."

"We'll ask Merry and see what he has to say about that."

We went in by the north door of the White Tower, bypassing the Tower Hall and starting up the thousand spiralling stairs.

"Have you been up here before?" I asked. I wondered if I should offer to carry Pippin as I saw him clambering over stairs decidedly too far apart for him to climb with ease, but I figured that he would probably be offended.

"Not up to the top," he said. "I've been to your father's chamber above the guard room, but not any higher. Svip wanted to climb up here last night, but the guards said your father was in his private chambers at the top of the tower and he wasn't to be disturbed."

Past guard rooms, my father's office, conference chambers and guest rooms we climbed, until at last we reached the final guard room below the battlement. The guard there tapped the butt of his spear against the trap door in the signal that those approaching were friends, then I started up the steep ladder-like set of stairs to the trap door, Pippin scrambling behind me.

Out on the battlement, the air seemed nearly as still as it had at the foot of the tower, though a fitful attempt at a breeze crept up every now and again. The white banner of the Stewards hung limply from its pole at the tower's peak, the breeze tugging slightly at its corners, but not building up enough strength to bear our banner aloft.

The guard posted on the battlement hastened to me and saluted. "Not much to report, My Lord," he said. "But the fires have spread. You can see them now all the way from the Rammas to maybe the crossroads at the White Tree Inn, though it's hard to say for certain in this dark."

"Has the Lord my father been here during your shift?" I inquired.

"Yes, My Lord. For about six hours, all told. He descended once during the middle watch, then he returned and remained in his chamber until about an hour ago."

"Damnation," I muttered. "Did he not get any sleep at all?"

"I couldn't tell you that, My Lord. He has been here most nights for these last weeks, ever since – ever since the word came of your death, sir."

I scowled with dislike at the smaller extension of the tower built atop the battlement, where my father was wont to shut himself up from the world. He had spent most of his nights up here in the year after my mother died. It seemed now that he'd done the same when I died, as well.

"Well, if he's not here now, will you venture into his eyrie and fetch forth a stool for Master Peregrin to stand upon? You'll need something to help you see over the parapet," I added to Pippin. "I don't want you climbing around and giving me fits, the way Svip was doing to you."

Having brought the stool, the guard retreated to a respectful distance, leaving Pippin and me to gaze over the wall into blackness dotted with flame.

For a while, we did not speak. From the plains far below, came an undertone of sound as of distant river rapids, the voices of our foe camped beyond the White City's walls.

"I try to have a few minutes up here every morning, when I'm at home," I commented to Pippin, my voice sounding unnaturally loud to me in the thick, motionless air. "I'm sorry there won't be a sunrise for you to see today."

"I did see the sunrise over the City once," he said, "the morning Gandalf and I got here. It was only the next day that – that the dark came."

I turned my back on our invisible plains and leaned against the parapet, studying my friend.

"Have you got taller, Pippin?" I asked him suddenly. "I don't just mean because you're standing on a stool. I've been thinking it since I first saw you yesterday. I couldn't think what was different about you at first, but I'm sure of it now; you're an inch or two taller than you used to be."

The Hobbit nodded. "That's what Legolas and Gimli said, too. Legolas said it must be caused by the Entish draughts we had from Treebeard."

I raised my eyebrows. "Entish?" I echoed. "I believe you have a tale or two to tell me, Master Hobbit. You've heard a good part of my tale from Svip, but I've yet to hear a word of yours."

Pippin looked bashful and protested that Merry would tell the story much better than he could. But none of the Hobbits that I have met can resist the telling of tales, once one gets them started. He sat down on the stool and I took a seat on the battlement floor beside him, and Peregrin Took launched into a story that, I thought, made my return home sound straight-forward and almost boring.

The tale is recorded elsewhere, I believe, in Pippin's own memoirs and those of Merry. With anger, wonder and not a little laughter, I listened as Pippin recounted their trials at the hands of Saruman's Orcs, their hair's-breadth escape into the Forest of Fangorn, their meetings with the legendary masters of those woods, and the spectacular, unlooked-for fall of the Wizard of Orthanc. When at last he told of their brief reunion with Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn, I found that I was relieved and gladdened to hear news of all of them – although in the case of Aragorn, my gladness was tempered with the thought that I'd be happier still to hear of his good health and safety if he would just go home to the north and not bother bearing his famous sword to Minas Tirith's rescue. He was too late to reach us now, in any case, unless the sword of Elendil gave him speed beyond that of mortals, and the strength of several thousand Men.

The thought of Aragorn recalled my mind unpleasantly to my discussion with my father. I got to my feet and leaned on the parapet again, staring out to where the black spine of the Ephel Duath was just starting to become visible in a sickly hint of light.

Pippin jumped up to stand on the stool. In the corner of my eye, I could see him looking at me hesitantly, as if about to ask me what was wrong. Then, giving up on that notion, he propped his elbows on the parapet, planted his chin in his hands and gazed out.

"There's a bit of light over there," Pippin observed as the silence grew heavy between us. "You can start to see the mountains."

"Yes," I said. Loathing to think of what my next words might do to our friendship, I turned to him and asked, "Have you and Merry been told of what I did to Frodo? And what I tried to do?"

He nodded sombrely. "Legolas and Gimli told us. We only talked of it a little. They said they'd just learned recently themselves, when Strider and Gandalf were talking in Fangorn Forest."

"Then do you not hate me, Master Peregrin?" I tried to take refuge in anger and bitterness as I asked it, but my chief emotion in that moment was fear.

Pippin looked shocked. "Of course not!" he exclaimed. "How could I? It was the Ring that did it, Boromir. It wasn't you."

"That's a very pretty story," I said. "It would be even better if it were true. But it is not. It would be all too easy for me to blame the Ring. But it was I who did it. I thought that the Ring might save my people. It meant so much to me, that nothing else had any meaning. Not loyalty, or friendship, or my sworn word. There was nothing else. It led me to betray all of you. But it was I who betrayed you, not the Ring."

"That's not true," Pippin argued. "If that were all you cared about, you'd have gone after Frodo and – and not stopped till you'd got the Ring. No matter what. But you didn't. You didn't. You came back to save us."

I had to smile at the young Hobbit's earnest defence of me to myself. "I didn't save you, if you'll remember," I pointed out.

"Well, it wasn't for want of trying!" he snapped. "No one else could have done more than you did. Merry and I aren't complaining. And I don't want to hear you say any more about it! You've come back to all of us again and you're not going to spoil it by moping around about what an awful person you are! I won't stand for it!"

His tirade ran down and he clamped his mouth shut. The Hobbit turned away from me and leaned on the parapet, glaring out into the murk.

"Thank you, Pippin," I said, smiling and wondering what I had done to deserve such stalwart friends.

He looked up at me cautiously, with a rueful hint of a smile. "Now you're laughing at me," he accused.

"No," I told him. "I'm not."

We stood there in silence that no longer felt heavy, as morning, or its dim shadow, stole across the plain. And as the ghost of the light crept upon the Pelennor, we had our first true sight of the host our Foe had hurled upon us.

Even as the light spread, the plain was black with their marching companies. Their tents, too numerous to count, sprouted across our fields, like some loathsome fungus growth that would drain the life from all other growing things.

"The day's come, Pippin," I said.