April 17th T.A. 3018

The tidings of war grew ever louder to Boromir's ears. For though the Enemy was ever watchful and numerous beyond count, true war, as in the days of Kings, was rare.

The foul spawn occupied themselves with raids and skirmishes, not true sieges and battles as sung of in the feast-halls of old. It was this fact which the Captain of the White Tower was thankful, for though the strength of Gondor was mighty, and her sword arm well practiced, the uncountable darkness would surely overwhelm them in true war.

It was a rarity where the heir of Denethor II could rest in the Ithilien, the camp of the Guard being undisturbed for the night, their vigilant guardians – Rangers of Ithilien under his brother – assuring them of the distance of the Enemy.

Much was sung of the heroics of the Guard of the White Tower, most famed of all the guardians of Gondor, for even the least of the brother-guards were skilled in war and could survive where lesser men would fall like wheat. But even the hardiest of men, most storied of warriors and hero of innumerable lays, could be borne low by orc-hordes in time. Boromir himself was nearly clove by a lucky blow mere hours before, save for the actions of a young ranger – Baran, whose father was killed ere he was born in a far off raid. Faramir himself swore to see to young Baran's hurts, though it was unlikely the boy would ever lift a sword with ease, Boromir said he would teach the youth what he could in pale repayment for his deed.

Whilst Boromir went about dreaming of how to teach the boy, with an ear ever-open for hint of strife, he heard his men whispering.

"It's mighty strange, the Enemy feel less numerous this spring, where last year, even just last autumn they fell upon us like water. Maybe they have their own strife."

"Iluvatar be thanked if that is true, we all need this respite!" came the rejoinder.

"Nay" a third voice entered, its tone familiar and reproaching. "Strife amongst them would be little enough reason to send so few to harry us, mark my words, there is deeper reasoning for the ease of our patrol."

"Ease of patrol?!" the fourth voice, barely a whisper for the suppressed fury it contained. "We lost two Rangers, and a third is injured badly. No this patrol was not easy, but maybe it was meant to hold us here while something comes by our flank -"

"Don't be foolish!" the first voice came back in anger "Of all of us, the Captains would know of such a threat, yet here they are. No this was no diversion, I heard tell from Lord Boromir himself that we were to scout to strike at the enemy not merely-"

But Boromir could here no more, he guessed the reason though. Even in the darkness of half sleep he could recognise his brother's steps, and could picture clearly the look he wore, directed against the speakers. Few men could look upon the graven faces of the heirs of Númenor and not bid themselves to quieten if but for a moment.

With that thought, Boromir's dreams of training young Baran turned into true dreams, of the valour of Gondor, of his brother and father, and finally blessed sleep took him, guarded by his brother, ever vigilant men of Gondor, and the light of Eärendil's star.

When the grey of morning arrived, heralded by the larks and songbirds, the camp was already being removed. Boromir, having woken minutes earlier, was dismantling the tents alongside Furlong and Amroth, who joined the Guard scarce five years before. Whilst idle chatter distracted the men – discussing the length of their task, whether Amroth's niece would still recall her promise to be good whilst her beloved uncle was away – the Captain-General couldn't help but turn his mind to the interrupted conversation the previous night.

Yes, no patrol or strike against the Enemy was ever easy, but this patrol could be called quieter than previous ones. It was rare the north Ithilien could be safe, but the week of patrolling has so far not resulted in attacks on their camp, regardless of where they had slept. Even Faramir – often the more hopeful of the brothers – expressed something near dismay that no tracks were found, even the decoy camps the men set up as bait were unmolested. It was strange, when both brothers had been explicitly sent to harry an unusually large raiding party of orcs and uruk-hai threatening Cair Andros, yet there was little evidence of orc-work among the lands. Such a force of orcs, both brothers knew, could not be gathered in secret, their want of blood and flame soon revealed their presence, and the Guardians of Ithilien were ever watchful for such times that it seemed almost impossible for a large orc party to suddenly vanish.

Yet that is what appeared to have happened. A week of patrolling, ready to strike against another foul host, had shown nothing save minor raiding parties, excitable deer, and the misery of hunting orcs in April. Even that rangers, guardians of Ithilien and men used to hunting orc in weather fair and foul, were growing weary of chasing mist without reward. Young Baran however was the most optimistic, a feat it was confided in Boromir that was due to his father being killed by orcs near the isle, so the boy took it upon himself that this orc party could have slain his father, and thus it was his duty to slay them in turn.

Whilst Boromir could sympathise with the youth, all men of the White Tower Guard knew the dangers of fighting in anger, where rage and lust for revenge would limit the mind, overburden the strikes, and ultimately lead to death against a canny foe.

Resolving to speak with the Ranger as they were moving out, Boromir went to find his brother, to let him know that the camp was near fully cleared, and that the rangers could then work on covering the traces of their presence – a feat that Boromir would readily admit was beyond his skill. Finding his brother in conversation with their northern watchman – Hithur was the man's name Boromir thought – Boromir waited for their chatter to die down before informing his brother of their readiness to depart.

No sooner had the men moved to make ready their journey, a patter of footsteps grabbed their attention – looking to the Rangers, Boromir could see from their faces this was unexpected – all three warriors moved their hands to their weapons and strained their ears.

Then barely visible, another ranger – Forlas? Brego? Boromir could not recognise the man from this distance – called out quietly, his voice barely traveling to the three men

"Orc party, scarce a league north from here, maybe a good two score"

That was maybe half what they expected, but still was double the next largest party they had seen in the week. Maybe they were finally on the trail of the larger body.

Hithur was already moving to warn the other rangers to follow the host, the merest look from Faramir giving the necessary commands, and Boromir was about to make ready to follow and warn his own men when Faramir stopped him.

"Brother, you would be able to hold the orc party until the rest of us could come and assist you, we need to track and hold them so they do not join with their main force – Forlas can help you track them, and if you are discovered you are capable of holding them until the rest of us arrive." Faramir looked at his brother, both knew that two men could move faster than a dozen, no matter the skills involved. And the orcs needed to be found quickly, the rains of April would sap a man's strength faster than an orc's in the wilderness, and coming against eighty orcs after two weeks of rain would be far worse than against forty orcs with one week of rain. Boromir was already moving toward Forlas, speed was of the essence here.

"Aye brother, but tell Baran to mind his fury yet, I would like to repay him not as a corpse."

Still moving, Boromir shot a grin at Faramir, both recalling their first battles and how the fires of rage drove them but luck barely kept them alive. Without waiting for a response Boromir and Hithlum both hurried north, the Captain-General careful to follow exactly in the elder ranger's footsteps.

Barely half an hour later, they fell upon an orc party, moving quickly northwards to the long abandoned rubble that used to be a fort standing between the forest and Cair Andros. The party numbered barely a half-dozen, but they were carrying logs, game and axes, most likely a scavenging group then. Although with such waste, with barely hewn trees, discarded game and foul poisons clogging the ground, Boromir had to check his rage at these creatures damaging his homeland to further their destructive wants.

Both men knew that the orc party must always stay in sight, so Hithlun followed close at the rear, Boromir following further behind the ranger but so that he could no longer see the party, so that they could act to warn their own group of the numbers of orcs up ahead.

Not ten minutes later, the low call of a nightingale – a sign agreed upon by the group before they departed – called Boromir's attention behind him, seeing nothing, but knowing a ranger was close, the Captain-General whistled lowly. After a dozen steps more, a ranger appeared near his left, and Boromir could whisper what details he knew of. Boromir noticed a strange tree that looked as if a face could have been peering out, discarding this to focus on keeping Hithlum in sight, the two Gondorians watched the ranger crest a small hill.

And the two men saw Hithlum's body pierced with half a dozen arrows.

Knowing the time for subtlety was gone, the ranger beside him drew an arrow, and prepared to loose it at the nearest enemy to appear, Boromir reached for his own sword and shield.

Cresting the hill, a dozen orcs then ran, screaming and baying for the blood of Men.

An arrow was released, then another from the ranger, and knowing that an orc party at least ten strong would be upon them, Boromir reached instead for the Horn of Gondor, and sounded a call.

Moving the horn from his lips, Boromir grabbed his sword and shield, and charged the foes of men, making ready to drive them back to the strange tree he had just seen the hint of a face in.

With a roar, the forest came alive at some unseen signal. The sounds of a baying orc party – now far more than a mere dozen – coming over the hill from there secret hiding place was met by the cries of the Rangers and Guards of the West, swords and deadly arrows shining like rain. The crash of arms and screams of man and orc alike soon filled the wood, the biting of steel into flesh driving Boromir on, his heart singing to destroy this foulness.

A dozen men of the west, lead by two captains of high renown, would easily brush aside an orc party twice their number. But what happened next would be recorded in the annals of the White City evermore.

Boromir the tall had driven back the orcs to the strange tree, slaying half of their number, and leaving one gasping for breath from a bloody throat, it was then that an unnatural wind picked up, and the sounds of a convoy walking soon rang out close to the tree. Boromir then felt, so strongly he knew it was an enchantment, that he must get to that tree.

Further and further he drove the orcs back, as more fell to arrows and blades of the Gondorians, yet more poured over the hill – this was the group they were scouting, but how they had evaded detection Boromir did not know. But all thought was driven from him when the next group of orcs pushed toward him.

The rangers fought from afar, and the Guard of the White Tower were formed in a shield wall – except for Boromir who was driving all the orcs upon him to the strange tree. Seeing the man without his shield wall and companions, the orcs strove for Boromir, eager to cut down this mighty man, as his men tried to move to him. But the line of the House of Húrin, like their forefather's namesake, was steadfast and yet strong on the field of battle.

Boromir drove to the tree, laying a path of orc dead behind him, beheading the orc in front of him, and then turned to smite the next, when he was pushed back himself. The actions of his men to get to him had forced the orcs between themselves and their captain, Boromir now had his back to the strange tree – the sounds now louder, ringing in his ears, he could even make out words

"You're traitors and rebels, so thank your gods that Lord Tywin's giving you this chance. It's more than you'd get from the outlaws. Obey, serve, and live."

That voice sounded foul, the commands were more suited to orc than man. Boromir knew that once this party was finished with, he would seek out that black voice and end it, times were dark enough without men too adding to the darkness.

But that was all he could think of, for the next moment, a queer noise arose, and Boromir, son of Denethor of the House of Húrin, vanished like mist in the wind.