INTERLUDE
The Anduin
He searched among the rocks on the riverbank for the right stone; found one, smooth, flat, slightly curved at the edge. Taking it between his fingers he drew back his arm and with a flick of his wrist sent the stone skimming across the Anduin, pleased to see it pop up once, twice, three times before sinking. He smiled faintly, and reached down for another. The sunlight filtered through clouds and glittered on the river like a thousand silver coins, and the flat black stone broke the light and scattered it, skimming out past the middle of the river and finally surrendering to the depths. Aragorn sat back on his heels, arms on his knees, gazing out at the swiftly flowing water.
What had possessed him? He recalled the strong planes of Boromir's back, the quick hard pulse beneath his fingertips. What was it in the other's demeanour that brought this strange part of himself to the surface? What was it in Boromir that cried out to him to force the warrior's surrender, when he knew that a hand extended in friendship, even if not taken at first, was a better path to victory with the man? It was Boromir's father who had taken the Oath of Stewards, and Boromir's father who would keep or break it, but it was Boromir whose friendship he had wanted, whose loyalty and support would do much to convince the Steward to keep the oath. And Aragorn did not wish for strife with Denethor, for as much as he disliked the man, he did not want to destroy him, which breaking his will would surely do. And Aragorn would break his will if the Steward denied him.
And what of the Steward's heir, who looked on him with such mistrust?
"I would not break him, either," he murmured to himself, tasting the words, searching for their truthfulness. "I would not break him," he murmured again, thoughtfully, and the words tasted of blood, tasted of the fear that had radiated off Boromir like heat as he had tried not to shy away from Aragorn's touch.
The Anduin swept by in hypnotic currents, the hazy light glimmering, flowing away towards Ithilien, Osgiliath, Minas Tirith.
Such a sweet child Boromir had been. There had been a day, not unlike this one, with the smell of the Anduin on the breeze and the crisp scent of snow high in the clouds. He and Boromir had walked on the Pelennor, the child wrapped in wool and fur with his small hand holding tight to Thorongil's two fingers, sometimes stopping to examine a stone, or some small insect. Why had they been there that day? He could not remember. Finduilas ill, perhaps, and Denethor in one of his rare private counsels with Ecthelion, the nurses persuaded to let the Captain take the toddler for a while.
Such a sweet child, all curiosity and trust. He recalled that Boromir had grown tired, so he had lifted the child in his arms and carried him back to the City cradled against his shoulder. Had sung to him softly, that small body held to him, the smallest, warmest package. Later, he had watched the sleeping child while outside snow had begun to fall, white against white on the stones of the Citadel.
But the child was not the man. Forty years had passed and the child had grown into - into arrogance, into willfulness. The trust had gone, and in its place was anger, rashness, a terrible need, and striving against all that Aragorn knew must occur; striving to claim the Ring as a weapon, to deny the king who had come. Growing to manhood in the shadow of Mordor had taken a toll on Boromir, one that Aragorn did not know if he could reverse, and which he realized now he had little patience for. Too much was at stake, too much depended on their actions now for him to coddle such a one.
And the Ring. Boromir still desired it, he was sure. It felt warm against his skin, and his hand moved to touch it. That golden impossibility, the One Ring, the Ring which ruled them all. What had Mithrandir said? If one of power claimed it, the mind of Sauron and all his machinations would be known to him, and nothing Sauron did would be kept secret from him. The servants of Sauron would become his servants, could be destroyed or used at will. But though the Ring would be slow to corrupt one of power to evil, it would do so, in time.
But how much time? If Boromir claimed it - if one of power claimed it - how much time before the Ring claimed its wearer?
His finger stroked the soft curve of the Ring, the sunlight dancing like silver flames on the river.
Footsteps. Aragorn dropped his hand and and stood, realizing to his surprise how close he had come to thoughtlessly slipping the Ring onto his finger. His skin tingled now where he had touched it, but the sensation was not unpleasant. He recognized Boromir's steps, and turned to see him approaching, but Boromir seemed unaware of the Ranger's presence, and Aragorn watched him move with easy, angry grace through the trees.
Lothlórien
The Lady of the Golden Wood moved quietly as snow falling, Gandalf the White beside her. Their low voices mingled with the soft murmur of clear water over stones in the stream nearby.
"I think he will not claim it," said Gandalf, "though it will weigh heavy on him."
Galadriel did not answer.
"His strength will sustain him," Gandalf said quietly.
"He possesses weaknesses you have chosen to forget," Galadriel responded, her voice gentle, and filled with sadness. "I fear I have done him a wrong, though I meant only to give him hope."
Gandalf hesitated, hearing self-reproach in the voice of one in whom reproach for any was rare. "Tell me what passed while they rested here," he said.
They reached the stairs that led to the Mirror, and Galadriel sighed, the sound like the softest brush of linen on skin. "My granddaughter is beloved of him, but she will leave these shores with her people. I thought to show him joy with another, but even in that he saw hope that he might yet win our Evenstar's heart." She turned liquid eyes to the sky, then to Gandalf. "She was ancient in the years of Men before his father was a child - how can he believe she will yet turn to him?"
Gandalf shook his head. "The heart of a Man can be as constant as the sunrise, or as fickle as the whims of a child," he replied. "Aragorn's constancy has won him much, and will win him more."
"But she does not desire him," said Galadriel, and Gandalf heard the whisper of anger beneath her starlit voice.
"I cannot ease your heart in this, Galadriel," he said. "I can only tell you that he has strength, and power within him which I hope will keep him from evil rather than draw it to him, even while he bears this thing."
The Mirror stood on its pedestal in front of them, though neither moved towards it.
"The other Man," said Galadriel. "I had thought of all of them, he would be the one most likely to fall. His need is so great."
"I watched them in Moria," said Gandalf thoughtfully. "They seemed like nothing so much as two fierce dogs, circling each other, testing for strength, fighting for dominance, yet, now and again, coming together as if for warmth, or companionship in the blackness of that place."
"And they are still together."
"Mmm," and Gandalf nodded. "Yes, though for good or ill I do not know." After a time, he said, "Tell me, Lady, what you saw in the heart of the Gondorian."
"The need I have mentioned," she said. "Love for his City, from whence that great need springs. Love for his brother." She paused, then said, "He did not look for the coming of a king, but in his heart, he does not wish to turn away. He wishes for a king that can save his people."
"He wishes for anything that can save his people," said Gandalf with a wry smile, and Galadriel returned it gently.
"Not for evil," she said. "It calls to him, yes, but he only listens because he does not understand. He does not believe that it is its own thing, with its own purposes."
"He has been told often enough," Gandalf replied with some irritation.
She reached out to touch Gandalf's hand and said softly, "Do not fault Boromir for failing to believe. He is not Elessar. He is not of the Elves, and knows no more of us than his father has told him, which I think is little enough. He trusts himself, as would any who had been raised all his short mortal life to govern such a nation." She gestured then towards the Mirror. "Would you look, Gandalf?"
A long moment passed, and finally Gandalf shook his head. "No, I will not. My path is too unclear already for me to take the chance of muddying it further."
Nodding, she turned her face again towards the sky. "There is great need, yes, but also great strength, and love, in both Men," she said at last.
"Let us hope it is enough."
The Anduin
Boromir strode towards the river in the direction Legolas had indicated, though with what plan in mind he could not say. The further his steps took him from the dubious protection of the Elf, the more apprehensive he became, and by the time he had made his way to where the trees reached the shore, his apprehension had peaked, and there was still no sign of the one he sought. "Elves and Rangers," he muttered to himself and turned to go back to camp, not sure whether they should look for the Ringbearer or await his return, but reluctant to leave Legolas wondering what had become of them.
As he turned, he saw Aragorn not twenty steps away and leaning lazily against a tree, gazing at him. "Welcome back to the world," the other said with a smile. "I had thought you might sleep the day away."
Boromir scowled. "Dreams stole my rest," he said, watching Aragorn approach.
"I know," Aragorn answered. "You called out in the night, though I could not understand your words."
"Rested or no," Boromir replied irritably, "you should have woken me - we have too far to go to coddle me for wakefulness."
"But you seemed peaceful at last," Aragorn said, reaching out to touch Boromir's cheek and turning the other to face him. "Do you not trust me to guard your rest?"
Looking into those steel grey eyes, Boromir flinched inwardly. Here was that mood again, warm now, but volatile beneath, like a comforting evening fire that could leap up at a moment and burn. Cautiously, he replied, "Of course I do."
Stroking his thumb over Boromir's skin, Aragorn's gaze flickered across him, took in the curve of his lips, the creases at the corners of his eyes that bespoke long years of worry, mirth, love, anger. He slipped his hand around the nape of the other's neck, pressed the softness between tendons. "I told you once," he said softly, "no more untruths. Answer me now, do you trust me?"
Boromir hesitated, then said, "I trust you to guard my rest, Ranger," anger colouring his voice. Clearly whoever the Elf had seen when Aragorn awoke had departed, and the Ringbearer had returned.
Aragorn chuckled. "Ah. Very well then," he said. "I will not press you further."
"Good," said Boromir, "for I dislike being pressed." He turned away then to make for camp, but suddenly found himself thrown to the ground, hard. He twisted quickly, getting to his back to escape, but the Ranger flung him back down and in an instant had straddled his chest, and was pinning his arms to the earth with his knees, hands tight on his wrists. He felt gravel digging into the backs of his hands, and Aragorn's face was close to his, dark hair falling about them like a shadow, his eyes glittering.
"I have reconsidered," Aragorn said. "I will press you further."
Boromir struggled to free his arms, tried to buck the other loose but Aragorn's position was firm. "Release me," he said in a snarl. "Or shall I call to the Elf? I'll warrant you would not have him see this side of you!"
"Legolas hoped I would speak with you this morning," Aragorn replied, "and he knows enough of the ways of Men to know our argument may become," and Aragorn hesitated, then smiled, and said,"heated. He will not interrupt us."
A short bark of laughter and Boromir said, "He trusts you beyond reason, Dúnadan."
"Would that you trusted me, Gondorian," the Ranger said. "If you did, I might not find it so compelling a game to test you."
"Then this is a game to you?" asked Boromir, incredulous. The Ranger would make a game of their conflict, when so much depended upon success and their own animosity was the greatest threat to it?
Aragorn laughed. "Yes, a game indeed, and pleasant sport it is." He shook his head then, adjusting his grip but not loosening it. "I know my strength, Gondorian, and I know you have naught to fear from me if you would only believe that yourself. I would not harm you if you believed I would not."
"So I must trust you in order for you to be one whom I can trust?"
He shrugged. "In effect, yes," he said.
Boromir scowled. "You are -" but he hesitated then, and finished, "demanding indeed." It would not be wise, he thought, to accuse one so clearly mad of being mad.
"Is it so difficult, Boromir?" said Aragorn softly. "I served your grandfather. I have loved Gondor since before you were born."
"You show little sign of it now," Boromir replied angrily. "You would have me believe you mean me no harm and that you will safeguard Gondor, but you keep me from her and show me only violence and mistrust!" Jerking against the Ranger, he tried again to sit up, tried to twist himself loose, but the Ranger had the advantage and he could not. "By all the gods, release me!" he said with a snarl of frustration, but the other was calm, unmoved and unmoving. "I know not what to think of you, Aragorn," he snapped. "At any moment I expect you to show me all the gentleness you showed that wretched creature you brought to Mirkwood, bound and gagged and half starved by you to keep him docile!"
Aragorn chucked. "An interesting picture that would make," he said thoughtfully. "But I fear I need you on your feet, and I think even Legolas might find his faith in me tested if I took such an action."
Aragorn could feel Boromir straining against him, but with his own weight and sinew he pressed him still to the earth, felt no fear of the other escaping. He gazed into Boromir's furious eyes, saw the tension there, the struggle. Close enough to smell leather, the sweat and dirt of the hard road they'd traveled, the sweetness of pipeweed and pine smoke which permeated all their clothes though the Gondorian had never taken to the pipe, all mingling with his own scent, intoxicating, and he felt as though time had slowed, and the world narrowed to encompass only himself, the Steward's son, the ground beneath them. He watched Boromir, saw the other's demeanour change from anger, to fear, to confusion, to perplexity as he himself merely waited, hands gripping the Gondorian's wrists, thighs pressed to the hard sides of his body, knees on his biceps. Idly, Aragorn wondered if they would bruise.
"Release me," Boromir said again, his voice raw. He had expected a response. He had expected the other to press an attack, make some move, had thought an opening might reveal itself if he provoked the Ranger, but this, this was strange, this long moment, this long silence. He felt Aragorn's strong fingers digging into the bones of his wrists, the crushing pain in his arms where he knelt, the weight of him pressing on his chest, and the light of the sun through the trees cast a silvery flame around the black shadow of the Ranger's dark hair.
Boromir's heartbeat felt hard and loud. Again he tried to break free, buck the other off and twist loose. Aragorn shifted with him, still trapping him, then tightened his grip and leaned forward, and Boromir's breath caught as Aragorn inhaled softly, the sound of it whispering in his ear.
Breathing in the other man's scent, Aragorn tasted Boromir's skin and was startled by the other's gasp, then pleased. He had almost forgotten Boromir in his questing for the scent, the taste, the blood of the man, but clearly Boromir had not forgotten him. A sound rose in Aragorn's throat at that intoxicating fragrance and the salt on of the other's sweat on his tongue, and he said in a low growl, "You taste of fear."
Feeling as though he was lost in a fever, Boromir turned his face away, casting about for something, he knew not what. Something to bring him back to himself, for surely this was not real, surely he still dreamed, but no, the gravel beneath him, the weight which held him down, the scent of leather and sweat, all were too real, too real to have been conjured by even the most fevered mind. He felt panic rising in him, the Ranger's face so near, and with a sudden violent movement he lashed out with the only weapon at his command, their two heads colliding hard, and Boromir was gratified by Aragorn's shout of surprise and pain. Twisting hard to his left, he threw the Ranger off and scrambled to his feet, leapt backwards and reached for his sword, and swore softly. It was still at the camp.
Aragorn laughed, on his feet now as well, and Boromir regretted not having pressed his advantage instead of reaching for a weapon that he had been too witless to bring. Keeping his weight low and balanced, his ears ringing, he eyed the Ranger warily, and waited to see what the other would do.
"That will leave a mark," said Aragorn, smiling.
"What do you play at?" Boromir snarled. "The game does not become you. Shall we brawl here? or shall we return, and break camp, and continue this journey as though we are both sane men?"
Aragorn circled around the Gondorian, more surprised that the other had caught him off guard than angry at the attack. He considered Boromir now, taking his measure, and saw a man with his back to the wall, looking for an escape; saw a strong man brought to despair by his longing for a weapon he could not wield; saw, suddenly now in those grey eyes, the child that Boromir had been, the grey-eyed child he had sung to sleep in his arms on a cold day some forty years past; the little one who had held his hand on the Pelennor with perfect trust. The grave-eyed child of Ecthelion's son, oh, such a sweet child. Such a sweet child.
"Little one," he murmured now, using Finduilas' name for the boy, a name he hadn't thought of in forty years, circling closer, and Boromir watched him with shadowed eyes. "Oh, little one, how have we come to this?" He heard the sadness starting to rise in his own voice, and he let it come, unashamed. He touched the place on his temple where a bruise would surely flower, saw the matching mark on Boromir, who still kept watchful, ready to defend against an attack that Aragorn suddenly had no wish to press. Shaking his head, he held out a hand to the other, saying softly, "How did we come to this, you and I? We should be friends, Boromir. We have the same goal, and though perhaps you doubt it, I do love Gondor. I loved your grandfather. I loved you, child, and though you were too small then to remember it now, you loved me as well," and he shook his head, remembering.
Boromir did not relax, his eyes still dark, and though he groped for something to say, he could think of nothing. His eyes flickered to the proffered hand, but he did not move to grasp it.
"Such a sweet child," Aragorn continued gently. "I remember holding you in my arms when you were scarcely six months old." He smiled, continuing his gradual approach as Boromir continued to back away. "You looked on me with all the love and trust a child can offer," he said, his voice breaking. "The moon and all the stars are not so vast. Have you no love for me now, no trust left?"
It could be no dream, but Boromir was lost, unsure if the very ground beneath him might give way and plunge him into some other world, which could be no more strange than what he faced now. The name Aragorn used, which Boromir had not heard since the day his mother died, brought with it the wash of memories, of safety, and yet it had been only moments ago that he had felt such peril from one who should have been - would be - his king, and who now spoke to him so gently. Aragorn's voice was cool and soothing as the Great River in high summer, and Boromir was so weary of this constant struggle. The river could be treacherous, he knew, yet was sweet as honey on the tongue, cool and welcome as rain, the very heart's blood of Gondor, and he felt himself being pulled into the easy current of Aragorn's words.
He dropped his gaze, stumbling backwards away from the Ranger, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Are we comrades now, Aragorn?" he asked, "when moments ago we were enemies? These changes in your mood bewilder me."
"Then do not provoke them," Aragorn replied, and saw Boromir turn a sharp gaze on him. Around his neck, the Ring grew heavy, warm and comforting as a hand, and he felt the eyes of the other as if they pierced through linen and leather to see the gleam of it against his skin. "Trust me, Boromir, as you should," he said, "or fight me," and his voice was all menace again, "and know: you will be beaten. Your father could not best me," he went on, those slow steps forward and Boromir watched him come, "though he tried. Your brother would die avenging you if you were to force my hand, or protecting you if you sought his aid, and -"
But he was cut off as Boromir lunged forward and caught the Ranger below his ribs, knocking him backwards and to the ground, the breath leaving his lungs in a rush as the warrior flung himself astride Aragorn and brought his fist crashing into the Ranger's face once - "Never speak" - twice - "of my brother" - three times - "to me again!" - before Aragorn managed to block the attack. Boromir twisted his forearm under the blocking hand and struck a heavy blow with the back of his fist, but Aragorn bucked up with his hips, throwing Boromir off balance and gaining enough space to scramble away, and soon both men were on their feet. But Aragorn barely had time enough to taste his own blood before Boromir attacked again, striking him hard in his already painful abdomen and doubling him over, almost managing to bring his knee smashing into Aragorn's face. The Ranger twisted away, catching the warrior's leg and toppling him to the ground, then lashed out with a savage kick, catching Boromir hard in his unprotected thigh, gratified by the grunt of pain it netted him, and dancing backwards when Boromir kicked out in return.
With Aragorn now just out of range, Boromir swiftly got his feet under himself and almost managed to rise before the Ranger was on him again, and suddenly the two men were rolling towards the river, scrambling for dominance, fighting for an advantage or to create an opportunity. Then, to his horror, Boromir realized that Aragorn had managed to draw his dagger, the arc of it cutting a glittering path through the morning air. Wrenching his hand loose he brought his arm up to block the blow and grasp the other man's wrist, but with Aragorn atop him Boromir could not gain control of the weapon. Aragorn's face was grim, his eyes cold, and with with a quick twist he broke Boromir's grip and brought the knife down, the edge pressing the skin of the Gondorian's throat.
Instantly, Boromir froze, his hands raised in capitulation, his breath coming hard, but shallow from the the other's weight. He felt lightheaded, and wished the Ranger would move, if only enough that he could catch his breath. But Aragorn did not release him. "I yield," he said at last.
Aragorn smiled. "I doubt that." He pressed more firmly, watching Boromir's eyes, and then his gaze was caught by an injury on the other man's temple. Less a cut than an abrasion, raw and bleeding, and Aragorn tried to recall inflicting it, but the fight was a blur, and he could not. The Ring had slipped from within his shirt and hung between them, shining dully in the shadow Aragorn cast. It seemed heavy, hot, implacable, pulling him down. Holding the knife motionless, he leaned forward again, again reaching for that smell, that flavour, the luxurious heat of the other, and heard Boromir's hiss of pain when he licked the wound, felt him flinch, savoured the hot metallic tang of blood in his mouth.
Knife at Boromir's throat, chest to chest, the Ring burning between them, Aragorn spoke softly into Boromir's ear, and Boromir found himself shivering as though with a terrible fever, not from fear, though gods, he was afraid, but only from the sibilant voice of the Ringbearer.
"There are tribes far in the south," Aragorn whispered, "past Far Harad, where it is said that to gain your enemy's strength, eat his heart." He pressed his lips to that wound again, closing his eyes and murmuring, "I can taste all of Gondor in your blood, little one," and in the heat and fullness of it he indeed tasted everything he desired, except for one. Gondor, her children, the lush lands there and the sunlit rivers, the blood of Men, the blood and the strength and the weakness of Men. Tasted the world, except for one. And like a shadow, the Evenstar slipped behind his vision and he turned his face away.
She did not love him.
She did not want him.
The knife trembled, and Boromir tried to shrink further away from it into the hard earth beneath him.
Aragorn felt his movement and smiled, steadied the blade. "I will not harm you unless I mean to," he said gently. "You fear change," he went on, his tone thoughtful. "You fear the change that I bring, you fear the change the blade brings."
"No," Boromir said quickly, feeling the press of the dagger, and in some part of his mind wondering how far the Ranger would go with this game. "No, I - I fear only for Gondor's safety. Change comes. Only a fool fears it."
Aragorn chuckled. "But you would have the slow, cool change of the Anduin, and I bring fire."
Boromir closed his eyes, the press of the dagger like a burn. "Please, Aragorn, take the blade from my throat," he murmured, his thoughts clouded, searching for something, something that would move the Ranger, and suddenly he remembered the Elf. "Let us return to the - to Legolas," he said softly. "He will think we have come to harm."
"And have we not?" asked Aragorn, pressing his lips again to that wound, tasting Boromir's blood. The Ring seemed molten between them, licking in tongues of fire through his veins, burning away the spaces, and he was not sure where he left off and the other began. "Have we not?" he murmured again.
Boromir struggled for breath enough to make an answer. Aragorn's weight held him down, the knife kept him still, the Ring freezing his skin, freezing his blood, pressing against him and so cold it burned, but the Ranger was fire, holding him above the icy chasm of the Ring. Fire and ice flickered about him and within him in a razor edged dance of pain and need, and he heard a voice murmuring some response, some query, but though he recognized the voice as his own, he could not understand the words.
"Shhh, little one," Aragorn said softly. "Would you undo this harm?"
Yes. Yes. "Yes."
"Do you yield to me?" his voice smoke-and-steel, tongues of fire.
Boromir could not find his own voice, only mouthed the word, "Yes."
After a long moment, Aragorn said, "Look at me, little one."
Boromir opened his eyes. In the steel of Aragorn's gaze Boromir saw everything he feared, and everything he had not known he hoped for. Enemy, usurper, protector, comrade. Isildur's heir, and the Ring's rightful bearer; Elendil's heir, and Gondor's true king. Thorongil, Aragorn, Elessar. Fire leapt in Aragorn's eyes, and ice, and beneath it the glitter of power, the glitter of gold. And far away, in those fathomless depths, past the fire, past the Ring, was the sparkle of silver, the swift-flowing waters of the Anduin in the sunlight, far away.
Aragorn withdrew the knife from Boromir's throat, and pressed a gentle kiss to the warrior's brow, then graceful as a cat, he stood, and offered his hand to the other.
Boromir took it, and let Aragorn pull him to his feet, then into an embrace,
Aragorn's arms slipping about his shoulders. His thoughts too muddled to protest,
Boromir returned the gesture, and for a moment the two men clung to each other,
and it seemed there was nothing between them but this strong embrace, and
the trust that lived between the child and the man.
Ithilien
Snow drifted down in sparse flakes that melted as soon as they touched the ground. It was too warm for snow, but the clouds were heavy, and the snow came anyway. Faramir crouched motionless in the shadows of the trees, seeming to watch the river, but Mablung knew him, and knew that look. The Ranger may have seemed aware of every insect that crawled, may indeed have been aware in some part of his mind. Mablung would not wish to be the enemy who tested that awareness, for he might get two feet of steel in his gut for the effort. But the young captain's eyes were distant, and Mablung knew that wherever he looked, it was far away from here.
For his part, Mablung only waited, watchful enough himself for two men, for his captain to move or speak.
The water glittered in the hazy light, and to Faramir it was as though it touched him, the soft press of it against his skin, washing around him, pushing him to movements he did not make. Nearby, Mablung watched and waited; Faramir could feel the other's breath, though Mablung was as silent as the grave, could almost feel his heartbeat, a comforting presence. Even as he felt the current of the distant river, he also felt the soft fall of a snowflake where it alighted on his hand, the dirt beneath his fingers where he braced himself in his crouch, the prickle of dry grass on his skin. He caught the swift skitter of a lizard in the grass, and then in the water a flash of gold. His gaze flickered to where he'd seen it, but nothing shone there now. In the haze of an illusion, Faramir brought his hand to his breast, where his skin suddenly burned, though with cold or heat he could not tell, and there was a whisper in his mind of his brother's voice, a threat and a pleading, and a surrender he had never felt from Boromir; not when their father raged, not when they had faced the Lord of Minas Morgul at Osgiliath, and he shuddered, and stopped his gasp before it left his throat.
"Captain?" said Mablung softly.
Faramir dropped his gaze from the river, and shook his head, the strange sensation passing as suddenly as it had come upon him. The river was distant again, his mind his own, and he turned a troubled glance to Mablung. When he spoke, though, his voice was calm. "I must return to Minas Tirith."
