This chapter has been rather difficult to write. I tried to focus on Faramir a little more in this installment, because it might be a while before he appears again (but he will, I promise!).

Also: I know there must be a rule against this somewhere, but I have changed the name of Boromir's horse. "Neldor" is elvish for 'beech', and was only meant to serve as a placeholder until I thought of a name. But I got caught up in the story, and I completely forgot to change it until now. So, from now on, the horse's name is Thalion.

Thanks to those who reviewed! I appreciate it far more than you know.

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Chapter 4: The Parting

It rained again that night. But it seemed to the inhabitants of Minas Tirith that the otherworldly rage that had beaten down upon their city had ceased. The endless torrents of rain was no longer a sign of mirthless scorn, but a different kind of divine emotion: grief. The land of Gondor was now more than ever tainted by the growing occurrence of death. War had taken its toll on the desolate land, leaving its mark in all parts of the country. The usually blissful summertime of June had done nothing now to ease the pain of a mourning people, for the sunlight was mingled with the shadow of the East. And the nighttime was mixed with the evil of Mordor.

The people of Gondor expected their inevitable doom, but none more than the Steward of Gondor. And he had more reason to than any, which wasn't a good sign.

The Steward had understood more about Boromir's dream than he had told his sons. Denethor was not ignorant; nor was he unwise. He knew of Isildur's bane, the name in the North for Sauron's ring. "But it had perished from the world in the ruin of Barad-dur," he reflected, "else it would have been found by now, and the shadow would have ended long ago." So, how could it have awakened?

He thought of his eldest son's plan to seek out the Lord of Imladris. Elrond, if the legends were true, would certainly be able to completely translate Boromir's dream. But did the Elf-lord still dwell on Middle-earth? And if he did, would Boromir be welcome in an elven realm? Perhaps Faramir should go, he knew much about the ways of elves, having studied them endlessly.

Denethor instantly caught himself in his folly. Faramir had a terrible lack of combat skills, from what he had seen watching his sons in friendly sparring. His youngest son's immaturity would get him killed if he went abroad. Denethor admitted that he would rather have Boromir absent from the battles on the Anduin than risk Faramir's life in foreign lands.

* * *

Faramir had much more to say about Boromir's plans. His father had not looked pleased with Boromir's decision, but Faramir was completely distraught. That night he sought out his brother, caring not about the late hour. He knocked fiercely on his brother's chamber door.

"Boromir!" he called, as loudly as he dared, not wishing to alert any guards or servants.

There was no answer from inside. Faramir knocked again.

He heard, from within the room, Boromir stand and quietly (and rather clumsily) make his way to the door.

He opened it only partially, wearily peering out into the dark corridor.

"Faramir, what--"

Faramir pushed his brother into the bedroom, quickly closing the door behind him. He turned to his now wide-awake brother, who was standing there, in his bedclothes, staring at his brother.

"Faramir, what is going on?" he demanded, slightly miffed at being awakened when he was leaving for a long trip the next day.

Faramir had prepared his announcement. Or, perhaps it would be more appropriate to say speech, because he knew Boromir would also have much to say on the matter.

"I don't want you to leave tomorrow, Boromir. Hear me out," he warned, as Boromir opened his mouth to interrupt. "Our situation is dire, and our people are desperate. You are needed here, and, more importantly, wanted here. We are on the brink of war with the Black Land, it would be folly for you to leave now, when you are needed most. Let me go to Imladris."

"You?" Boromir asked incredulously. "You have never even left Gondor! At least I have more experience when it comes to traveling abroad."

"Abroad? You have gone no farther than the Gap of Rohan!"

"Do not speak of Rohan as though it were without risk. Its lands are riddled with peril; I nearly did not make it home!"

"That is hardly the point! Faramir snapped, his anger increasing. "I am the one who had the dream first, and on more than one occasion! It came to you only once, and yet you are determined to heed its cryptic words."

Boromir glared at his younger brother. "You wish to travel, brother, and I understand that, but this is far too dangerous! We do not even know where Imladris is, if it even exists outside of song and myth."

"If you are so full of doubt, why are you so eager to go? Father is against your going, he wants you here to hold the fell beasts of Mordor at bay. If the Anduin is taken, all will be lost. I could not handle the responsibility of such matters, let alone the pressure of having father hovering over me at every waking moment, waiting for me to make a mistake. I cannot live up to his standards, nor can I lead our men in the pious and heroic fashion in which you do. Your place is here, Boromir, but mine is not."

"You know nothing about that which you speak of so openly," Boromir said, alarmed by his brother's words. "I have always known you to be a great leader, when it comes to it, Faramir, as well as a great asset to every battle. You say that father scorns you into compliance, but it is due to your doubt alone that you have such little faith in your skills."

"Boromir, you cannot claim to know my troubles; you have always been father's favorite. I do not begrudge you for that fact--" he added hastily, seeing the growing alarm on his brother's face, "--but it has still had an effect on my spirit. Please, Boromir, let me go to Imladris."

Boromir hesitated. His brother's words took a heavy toll on his conscience, for a few moments causing him to doubt everything he had ever known- or at least thought he had known- about his younger brother. But in the end, his mind won over his heart, and his choice was made.

"I am going, Faramir. It will be for the best."

* * *

It was all Faramir could do not to break down in frustrated sobs as he abruptly left Boromir's room, stealthily making is way through the empty corridor, back to his room.

He could not believe his brother's stubbornness. Boromir and Faramir had always been extremely close, especially after the death of their mother when Faramir was only five. Boromir had always been there to help, console, and comfort him. But in this case, Faramir had a terrible feeling that something was very wrong.

But the bottom line was, he felt uneasy at with the knowledge that Boromir was leaving when their people's situation was so serious. The attacks in Ithilien had ended with tragic results; it seemed too dire a situation for Boromir to leave.

"I am deceiving myself," Faramir thought. "Perhaps I am simply jealous. Or perhaps it is my own personal disappointment at missing the opportunity to leave Gondor. But, loth as I am to admit it, Boromir's absence from our army wouldn't bother me greatly."

He reached his own chamber, and entered it with a gloomy heart.

That night, the dream came again.

* * *

As the night grew on, the rain stopped, and the obscuring clouds passed away. The western skies were unusually bright, the dim light of the stars reflecting off the white stone buildings and the muddy, wet ground. Mount Doom was not alight in the distance, for the first time it was completely dark and silent for the first time since the battle a few days before. But its mere presence tainted any feeling of peace the people of Gondor might have attained.

Boromir, for one, couldn't sleep that night. He was greatly agitated by the conflict between himself and his brother; Faramir was not usually of a mind to argue, least of all with Boromir.

Faramir had truly wanted to go to Imladris, that much was obvious. Faramir was far more studious than Boromir had ever been, and had read much about elves, among other things. Boromir, under any other circumstances, would have gladly allowed his brother to take his place in this undertaking. But Boromir had a strange feeling that he should be the one to go. And as a warrior, he had a tendency to stick to his instincts.

Still, the fact that Faramir was truly grieved by Denethor's actions upset Boromir. When they were younger, their father had bestowed upon them much affection. But after the death of his wife, the Steward of Gondor had hardened, even among his own family. Boromir did not place all the blame on his father. But he couldn't help but feel that Lord Denethor was at fault.

* * *

The next morning proved less inclement than the night before. Indeed, it was the bright sun upon his face that had awoken Boromir that day.

After a quick breakfast, he made his way to his father's study.

He found his father at his desk, pouring over old documents and records. Denethor looked up as his son entered. He gestured for Boromir to sit down.

Denethor was more at ease about his son's decision than he had been the night before. However, that did not mean that he was entirely at ease about the mission itself. He had a few last minute bits of advice to share with Boromir. He peered into his son's face for a moment, and his son looked evenly back. Denethor was pleased.

"You have grown to be a fine man, Boromir," he said softly. "And I have my full confidence that you will succeed on this expedition. But I have some information that I wish to share with you before you go."

Boromir had expected this; his father was a great reader of lore, and accounted as being specially wise among the men of Gondor. He remained silent: he needed all the help he could get.

"Imladris, I am certain, is to the west of the Misty Mountains. But it will not be easy to locate. It is hidden in a secluded mountain valley. Without outside aid, you will never find its gates."

"Therefore," Denethor continued, after a moment's pause, "I suggest you seek the aid of the men who live up in the north. Perhaps if you encounter any Rangers or Breefolk, they will lend you their aid. But be wary of whomever you may choose to trust."

Boromir nodded. "I will." He got up to leave.

"Just one last thing!" Denethor said quickly, walking around his desk to stand closer to Boromir near the doorway.

"You must remember, Boromir, that the might of Elrond is not in weapons, but wisdom. You may overestimate the charity of his folk, because you have a good heart, and wish to aid your people. But remember, he will give you no more than advice and a few wise words. He will not give you aid for battle."

Boromir nodded again. 'Thank you, father."

Denethor placed a hand on Boromir's shoulder. "Be careful, my son. Return to us."

* * *

Boromir made his way to the stables, his things already packed, and his saddlebags swung over his shoulder. He was filled with a strong determination; he did not want to fail his father.

At his side walked a less-than-merry Faramir, who looked more like a reluctant follower than the new Captain of the Guard.

Faramir stood in silence as Boromir saddled and mounted Thalion. The sunlight had grown no less intense; the miserably humid summer weather seemed to have returned.

Boromir knew better than to break the awkward silence. He could always tell when his brother was in a bad mood. But he at least had to say goodbye. Who knew when he might see his younger brother again?

"I'm sorry, Faramir," he whispered. "But I have to do this."

Faramir said nothing. He avoided his brother's eyes.

Boromir sighed and started Thalion at a trot.

"Good luck, Captain," he called out to Faramir, his shaky voice betraying his anguished heart. He passed through the iron gates, riding away from his home and towards the northern White Mountains.

"Good luck, brother," Faramir whispered, watching the retreating form of his brother disappear from view beyond the city wall, never to return.

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