I have never disliked Boromir, but neither have I especially liked him. However, I thought he deserved a little positive recognition. He seems to be villainized (yes, I know that's not a word) far too often, rather than acknowledged for his many chivalrous deeds.

*Note: This story takes place a few months before the Council of Elrond, and I used a ton of information from Chapter 2 (Book 2) in the Fellowship of the Ring. I didn't make up the battle, or the infamous dream, or any of the characters or places described. Needless to say, I don't own anything. Tolkien wrote everything, I'm just using a little artistic license.

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DREAMS AND VALOR

Chapter 1: A Brutal Attack

It rained that night. The heavens poured down mercilessly upon the rooftops and onto the fields, flooding the dikes of the River Anduin that had for a great many years provided water and food to the inhabitants of the presently disgraced and depleted Gondor. The Gondor whose destiny, unbeknownst to all, was at that moment unfolding into a torrent of emotions inside the head of a young lord: the youngest son of the Steward of Gondor. And the name of said lord was Faramir of Minas Tirith.

All that he was aware of in this premonition was a bright light coming in from the eastern shore, and as he watched, it began to fade, giving out a mournful, desperate, almost warning shriek. This dream was unlike most dreams; it was unique, as it was in a language the young man knew nothing of. But, even as he slept, the words took form in the depths of his mind, translating themselves into a language he seemed to understand, and yet which he could not describe.

"Seek for the sword that was broken…"

"Faramir!"

He awoke with a start at the familiar sound of his brother's voice, calling his name. It took him some time to compose himself; the dream was in no way frightening, yet at the same time it seemed to unlock some strange memory deep inside of him. . . or at least some old, submerged feeling. Remembering where he was, he looked sharply at his brother.

"Why have you awoken me at this late hour, Boromir? Are you not content with waking me up at dawn every morning? Must you do it at twilight?"

Faramir blinked in surprise at the reaction he had not received. Boromir's eyes held none of their usual playfulness and mirth. Instead, they simply revealed to Faramir a terrible sensation of dread. Something was not right. He watched as his brother drew in a terrified, trembling, ragged breath.

"We are under attack."

* * *

There were still a few hours left until dawn. The heavy rain had diminished into a light, uncomfortable drizzle, which left the eastern embankments damp, grimy and terribly flooded. However, even in such dismal conditions, the endless multitude of orcs continued to seep through the Mountains of Shadow. They had but one thing on their minds: bloodshed. And, their master had given them only one order: to kill the men of Gondor. Under such circumstances, they were not about to fail in fulfilling that command.

The great river Anduin was in sight below the hilltops, and the fell creatures watched as the men of Gondor loaded weapons, armor and healing draughts, as well as countless warriors, into longboats that were crossing the river in haste. Before long, most of the impressive army would have crossed the river, preventing the orcs from reaching their homes. The orcs had expected this; Gondor wanted to hold a battle in the deserted lands of vast Ithilien, not among the cities and settlements that were still inhabited on the western shore. And the orcs would not have time to cross the river if the men were able to keep them at bay until dawn, when they would be forced to retreat. But the fell creatures of Mordor now had allies. And these allies were not incapable of traveling under the sun. In fact, these allies were mortal.

Amidst the flanks of snarling, putrid goblins, the orc captain scanned the lands below him, watching the valiant attempt of the men to blockade all possible passages into Gondor from the mountains of Shadow. But they seemed to have forgotten about a very old, unused bridge. The orc smiled. He looked for a moment upon the ancient Bridge of Osgiliath.

"ATTACK!" he shrieked. And so the battle began.

* * *

Boromir eyed the dark and menacing mountains warily. Long it had been since such an assault was made on Gondor. And this was a well planned attack. As the orcs charged at the men, who were flanked about a half a league or so away from the shore, he couldn't help but notice that the men of Gondor were dangerously outnumbered. This had not been a problem in the past, but the orcs seemed to have grown stronger. It was as if some evil force was driving them onward, or perhaps it was simply their long-buried desire for bloodshed and war.

As the orcs drew even closer, Boromir gave the signal to charge. With a yell, he joined the fighters as they assailed their opponents. He unsheathed his sword, and attacked the first orc that came his way, cleaving its head. As another orc instantly appeared, Boromir dealt it a fatal blow to the head with his hilt. He continued to fight in this fashion for some time, and despite his concentration on the battle, he constantly found himself hoping that his young brother remained unharmed. Faramir was in no way naïve, and had experienced his share of battle, but he was still young to the world when compared to the endless war that they all fought against Sauron.

The sky seemed to lighten; dawn was near.

The orcs began their expected retreat, and Boromir was pleased as he observed that, amidst the numerous bodies of orcs, there did not seem to be any fallen warriors. With a triumphant smile, he turned around, prepared to help any wounded men. But he stopped short in his tracks as he heard a sound in the distance.

It was a faint yet loud battle cry, and the roar of an army's thousand feet and hooves all racing to meet their foes. Boromir spun around and looked back and the dark mountains that loomed ahead. The minutes seemed to go on for hours, as he stared at Ephel Duath with the terror of inevitable death. And finally, he saw them.

It was a great army. Some were on horseback, others just ran. As they grew closer, he could recognize the infamous Easterlings and the deceitful Haradrim. They were coming, and at an alarming speed.

"Stay!" Boromir yelled to his fellow warriors desperately. "Hold your ground! This is our land. We will protect it, regardless of how outnumbered we may be. Hold your ground!" But even as the words came out of his mouth, Boromir was filled with an undeniable, terrible dread. He stepped forward, sword in hand, ready to fight.

* * *

The battle lasted for a little over two hours. The men were exhausted, on both sides. Words cannot describe the relief that Boromir experienced as their opponents began to finally retreat. The multitude of corrupt men journeyed back into the valleys and fissures of Ephel Duath, disappearing into the shadows of the towering hills. Soon they were lost in the darkness, even as the midday sun shone with an immense brightness.

Boromir had been determined to find his brother, but the second assault, he knew, would require that everyone do what they could to help the wounded. So, despite his fatigue, he assisted the healers by wrapping wounds, administering tonics to the pained, and treating the occasional burns. But he knew that he must report back to his father, and so, placing his lieutenant in command to oversee the post-battle procedures, he set out on his horse, Neldor, and rode for home.

Oh, how the sufferings of his people pained him. He would give much to have the power to give them hope, to show them that there lied a bright, brilliant light beyond this morbid darkness. But he had no such ability, and saw no means of achieving an end to the shadow that polluted Minas Tirith, Gondor, or any part of Middle-earth.

* * *

Boromir had not yet even reached the river when he encountered Faramir.

"Faramir."

"Boromir!" Boromir looked at his younger brother with concern. Faramir looked unusually anxious when compared to the great relief that filled the eyes of the other warriors Boromir had seen.

"Boromir, what news of the fatalities? Hindar told be naught, and Gilhirn is apparently absent from the troops…" Faramir took a shaky breath in a vain attempt to compose himself. "How many?"

It was Boromir's turn to speak openly of the calamity. He spoke as clearly and calmly as he could, for he did not wish to trouble his brother further.

"We lost a only a scout in the first assault," he said softly, "But five and twenty died in the second. Gilhirn was indeed absent from the troops, as he suffered a minor head wound while fighting the orcs-"

Faramir's failed to hide the worry that filled his mind at the news of his comrade.

"-but he will be fine," Boromir continued, flashing a wry grin at his brother's uneasiness.

Faramir sighed, looking into the far east.

"I'm so glad that this is over," he said quietly.

Boromir looked somber. "I'm afraid, Faramir, that they will be back soon."

Boromir himself looked to the east, where loomed the mighty mountains of Mordor.

"Too soon," he thought gloomily.

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Please review, it just takes a few seconds. You can even write simply "Good" or "Bad". I just want feedback!

Anyway, in the second chapter, we have more DREAMS (it's Boromir's turn) and I get a little heavy on the action. . .

Again, Please review! Thanks!