Authors Note: Boromir's dream was delayed a little bit, but I just didn't have the time to fit it into the second chapter. Actually, it seems that this story is going to be rather longer than I had originally intended. I am going to try and update often, but I am also writing another story at the moment which includes Boromir (I don't know WHAT has gotten into me).

Thank you to all who reviewed; you really highlight my evening when I see such wonderful feedback.

Gaslight: LOL! You kind of caught me off guard, there. Actually, I don't really mind you asking: I'm 21, and hanging in there!

One last thing. . . Isn't Boromir wonderful in the extended DVD? I thought so.

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Chapter 3: What Dreams May Come

The soft glow of daylight warmed his face. He was wandering alone; he could not tell the time of day, for the sun was not visible from behind the clouds, though the day was unusually bright. He was dimly aware of the fact that no other people were around, a sight that would normally have alarmed him. But he was lost in Dreamland, and such idle fears were replaced by an odd, untraceable bliss.

The great castle of Minas Tirith was visible in the distance, a welcoming sight for Boromir. He walked towards, a playful smile on his face. He continued to walk towards it, until, to his great alarm, it vanished, to be replaced by a tall, dark, menacing tower that would have loomed high above the White City. The sunlight that had moments ago warmed his delighted face was gone, replaced by a morbid darkness that flooded the sky and covered all the land in shadow. A terrible coldness surged through him. The eastern sky was soon completely black, and Boromir, filled with dismay, turned desperately to the west, where a pale light still lingered; a gleam of hope in a forsaken blackness.

It was during his frantic run towards this light that he heard the voice. Remote it was, and yet strangely clear; if he had been more alert (and awake) he would have realized that it was speaking in an Elvish dialect he had heard once before. But to him, it seemed as though it was the only language he knew. The voice spoke in verse, and yet it contained no beauty or appeal; it seemed to be a desperate warning.

* * *

Boromir awoke to an acute ache in his head, and a throbbing pain running up and down his spine. He was aware of a faint voice that was calling someone. . . calling him. . . and yet he could not discern the tone of the voice nor the person it belonged to. He was vaguely aware of a fire burning warmly nearby, and could hear it snapping and smoldering in the dry night air. He groggily blinked his eyes into focus.

Now he knew who the voice belonged to. It was Faramir. And as soon as the young man saw that Boromir was conscious, a torrent of unintelligible words flooded out of his mouth in, what Boromir thought, was a rather childish manner. But Faramir had been intolerably afraid of the possibility of his brother's death.

"Boromir! Thank the heavens, you've stirred at last! I thought I'd lost you there, for a moment. How's your head? You've got a nasty bruise on your brow, you know, and your back is in bad shape from the impact. Are you hungry? You've been out of it all day, it's nearly midnight now. . . Oh, how tired I must be making you, after the fight and all. . ."

"Fight?" thought Boromir, with a new sense of alarm. It was now his turn to let out an untamable flood of words, for the last thing he could remember was the retreat.

"The fight! The Bridge! Faramir, what happened?"

Faramir looked at his brother, unsure of what to say. The anxiety in his bright eyes had been replaced by grief, and the hesitancy with which he spoke instantly put Boromir on his guard.

"You ordered the withdrawal, and most of the men had crossed the Bridge of Osgiliath, when a sudden onslaught of orcs came. The last few dozen men were crossing the Bridge when-" Faramir glanced up at the river, which Boromir could hear flowing mockingly behind him. "-when the cloaked rider came back, leading on the goblins. I didn't see it very well, I just saw a flash of red light, but before I knew it, the bridge had been thrown down from beneath us." Faramir once again met Boromir's eyes. "You were rendered unconscious by the impact of the water, but I dragged you back to the shore, where we are now. Luckily," he continued, with a wry smile, "we weren't far from the shoreline when we fell."

Boromir sighed, at the exact moment that another sigh met his ears. He then became aware of two other men sitting nearby. But these were only two men, and out of a few dozen.

The inevitable truth slowly crept into his terrified mind.

"Where are the bodies of those who were lost on the bridge?" he asked gently, his sense of duty and command coming back.

"The other remnants, who had safely reached the west embankment, are taking care of that," one of the men said quietly, not meeting Boromir's eyes. Boromir nodded, then turned to his younger brother. He was now fully awake.

"Let us go now to Lord Denethor," he said softly, staring into the western horizon, which seemed oddly illuminated by starlight, despite the cold darkness of night.

* * *

The next morning, as the sun was just starting to rise, the four weary men entered the city. They walked silently up the paved walkway that led to the steps of the large, white structure. There destination was indeed the dwelling of Lord Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, to inform him of the disastrous events that had just taken place.

Boromir had lost men before whom were under his command, but time does naught to assuage the pain and guilt that inevitably follows. And this was one more than twenty who were lost. Boromir was unsure that he could handle the responsibility that being a Lord of Gondor so relentlessly bestowed.

Faramir, on the other hand, despite his youthful innocence, had never seemed uncertain or tentative during a battle. Boromir could easily imagine his younger brother being a Steward of Gondor. He only wished he had such great confidence in himself.

And now, these horrific dreams! Boromir, after much reflection and thought, could still not decipher the agonizing riddle that the mystical voice had imparted to him. He had resolved a while earlier to approach his brother on the matter, though he wished to wait until they were alone. And perhaps he would approach his father, whom was a great reader and lore master.

* * *

"Report," the noble, aged man said briskly.

Boromir had always had a close relationship with his father, a bond that was borne of respect. Boromir highly esteemed his father's knowledge of history and wisdom, as well as his endless experience concerning civil matters of court and commerce.

"The goblins retreated yesterday morning at dawn, my lord, to be followed by an assault by the man of Harad and the Easterlings. This second attack took the lives of five of our men. At sunset, the orcs attacked us again, but joined by a cloaked horseman."

"A cloaked horseman?" Denethor asked skeptically.

"Ai, my lord," Faramir spoke up. Unlike Boromir, Faramir had always had a rather brittle relationship with his father. "He was robed in black, and held a rod of steel in his hand. Wherever he went, fear filled the hearts of even our boldest warriors, and our foes fought on with a new fury at our state of terror."

Denethor looked suddenly grave, as though recalling an old, submerged memory from the past.

"Is this true?" he asked Boromir grimly.

"Ai, it is, my lord. I saw him myself."

Denethor nodded, dismissing the two soldiers who had accompanied his sons. He turned to Boromir. "You had something to ask of me?"

Boromir nodded, and described his dream to his listening father and brother. In his fervent speech, he missed the look of wonder and disbelief that came across Faramir's face.

Once he was done describing his dream, including the odd voice, Faramir suddenly spoke.

"Seek for the sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

That doom is near at hand,

For Isildur's bane shall waken,

And the halfling forth shall stand."

Denethor looked oddly pensive, while Boromir stood frozen in shock.

"Those are the words that were spoken, are they not, Boromir?" Faramir continued.

"Yes, indeed, brother; those exact words. How do you know this?"

"I have had that exact dream on two previous occasions. Long have I wanted to speak about them, but there was no time during the attack." He turned to his father. "What do you make of them, my lord?"

Denethor hesitated, a look of unconcealed wonder in his old features.

"Of these cryptic words, I can say only this: Imladris is, from what I have read in the lore of our land, the name of a far northern dale. In this valley dwells a great Elf-lord, Elrond, Halfelven, greatest of lore masters." He looked as though he were about to say more, but then seemed to think better of it, and fell silent.

All three stood there for a few moments, each lost in his own thoughts, when Boromir's resolute voice broke the silence.

"I will go to Imladris. I will find this sword that was broken, and I will speak to the renown Elrond, before my travels are over."