Nindalf

Legolas was troubled. He had heard his companions fighting, but had not gone to them, and wondered now if he had erred. It was not an unusual way for Men to work out their differences, he knew, and neither man was likely to try to do real damage, nor succeed if he did try, for they were well-matched. But when they had returned... both had been bloodied, but neither badly, and Aragorn had been calm enough, even affectionate towards Boromir. The Gondorian, though, was another matter. When Boromir had arisen that morning and they had spoken, Legolas had found him as irritating as ever, but the warrior had seemed to have thrown off the strange submissiveness which had allowed him to hear Aragorn's words in the night without reacting. But upon returning from the riverside, he had had the look of a man who has seen one battle too many, his shoulders rounded, and his gaze turned inwards, and filled with confusion, and pain that did not come from the hurts to his body.

Legolas had heard others remark on the vacant gaze of men who had been too hurt by some battle or by being too long at war, but he was amazed at their lack of perception, for the gaze was far from vacant. No, indeed, the trouble was that it was too full. Such was Boromir's gaze now, and the warrior had looked at neither Legolas nor Aragorn as they broke camp, nor as they brought the boats to the water, nor as they pushed away from shore and back into the swift-flowing Anduin. It was not until they had traveled some miles that Boromir seemed to waken to his surroundings, and even then, he did not speak unless asked a question, and then answered in as few words as possible, his voice soft.

Aragorn, in contrast, was as bright as the sun, seeming happier and more at ease than Legolas could recall having seen him. He remarked on the beauty of the shoreline they passed, and on the crystal water, remarked that he wished to come back here one day after all was done and perhaps stay a while, fish in the clear river, walk under the trees, sleep in the warmth of the afternoon.

That he took no note of Boromir's distress worried Legolas at least as much as the Gondorian's silence, and he hoped he would soon have an opportunity to speak to Boromir alone, and he eyed him watchfully, wondering.

Boromir was aware of the Elf's eyes on him, but was too consumed by the tumult of his mind and heart to do more than simply be aware. He felt shattered, scarcely able to focus on even so simple a task as seeing that his small boat stayed on its course. His eyes were drawn increasingly to the Ringbearer, who seemed now to him to be always cast in a dark and shining glow, as though he were hidden in shadows that made the light around him twice brighter than it should be, blinding but black. He tried to remember what had happened between them - an argument, blows, the knife pressed to his throat. The indescribable violation and intimacy of the Ringbearer's voice in his ear, the fire and ice that had seemed in his touch. Had Aragorn truly tasted his blood? truly put lips to the wound that Aragorn himself had inflicted? And what, Boromir wondered suddenly, had he been thinking to attack the other man? Had he not known this would be the way of it? The Ranger was battle-hardened and now mad; perhaps that madness had infected him as well, to think he could do violence to Aragorn and expect it to come to good. Though indeed, he had not had such an expectation. No expectation at all, only rage.

Faramir had been the goad, the final spur to Boromir's frayed and ragged temper. Now in the bright sunlight that filtered through high clouds and silvered the water of the river, Boromir recalled the black look in the Ranger's dark eyes when he had threatened the life of the one whom Boromir loved above all else. He glanced at the Ranger, far ahead on the river, and reached for some measure of calm to help him gather the scattered thoughts that assailed his mind. Faramir. He clung to the thought of his brother as a drowning man clings to a spar. Not for the first time he wondered if he had been wrong to insist on making this journey himself, for Faramir was the diplomat, Faramir the politician. He would not have made the errors Boromir had made; might not have been one whom Aragorn regarded with so much mistrust as to take the Ring himself to protect it. For surely it had been Boromir's desire for this thing which had forced the Ranger's hand, and now he felt a hot shame and misery when he considered that he had brought this trouble upon them himself. And now, was Aragorn lost to them? was the true king of Gondor lost because the son of the Steward had been too unguarded in his desire?

The Anduin flowed away southward, carrying them towards the mouths of the Entwash.

Minas Tirith

Faramir arrived in Minas Tirith in the late afternoon, the fading sunlight streaming across the stones of the White City and turning it to gold and flame, but he took no notice of that beauty. His long legs took him from the stables to the Citadel, and from there to his brother's chambers, which he unlocked quietly in the cool dimness of the hallway, entered, and shut the door softly behind himself.

He stood for a moment, feeling the still air of the room which had not been disturbed since Boromir had left to find Imladris. He took in the surroundings - the tapestry of a hunting party which graced the wall across from the window; the furnishings now shrouded in white linens to keep the dust and grime from them, for though none had known how long Boromir would be gone, there had been no hope of it being a short journey; the lamps on the wall, unlit for almost half a year. Yet beneath the dust and in the stillness of the air, there lingered his brother's scent, warm and sweet and familiar, and Faramir was struck by a wave of dizziness at the memory of what he'd felt that morning, and his gut clenched in anger at whatever it was that had caused Boromir such distress. For he knew it was no fancy.

He strode to the desk then and with a quick movement flicked back the linen that covered it. Opening the heavy bottom drawer he removed a leatherbound book that rested near the top, then took out a sheaf of papers that lay beneath it, and a map case. Closing the drawer and settling the linen back in place, he set the papers and the book on the floor and opened the map case, slipped out the thin leather scroll and unrolled it carefully, smoothing it out on the linen that covered the desktop, grateful that he'd marked out Boromir's route for himself, even though neither of them had been able to think of a good reason he would need it. There was no likelihood that he would be following that route himself.

Still, his eye traced the path his brother would have traveled, then considered how best one might return if secrecy were needed. For surely whatever had struck Boromir so heavy a blow would not be something that rode in the light of day like a conquering hero. There had been a terrible power and need in it, and grave secrecy - something which both wished to be found and had stayed hidden in shadows. And though Faramir had as yet no clear idea what he searched for, nor how he could affect the situation, still he searched the map, searched through the notes in the book and the papers, as though these might show him where Boromir was or how he could be reached, or held some clue as to the nature of the thing that had caught him.

But all they had known before Boromir had left had been so little, and so little had been added to that knowledge in the months that had passed. The dream, the lore of Imladris, the few things Faramir had gleaned about Isildur's bane, none of these revealed any secrets to him now in the fading light.

Finally, Faramir rolled up the map and tapped it back into its case, gathered the papers and the book, and carried all with him back through the corridor to his own chambers, where he lay them in an uneven pile on his own desk. Then he sat down heavily in the chair by the window and gazed outward for a moment before closing his eyes and trying to recall that quick vision which had so disturbed him, trying to somehow call his brother to him.

Letting his mind wander into all the places where Boromir dwelt, he remembered his brother's laughter, his open regard, his impatience with the intrigues and manipulations of the Council. Boromir's strength was in the open conflict and the open friendship, and Faramir wondered now whether he and Denethor had done the elder a disservice by not pushing him to learn... well, to learn deception. To learn to bend others through manipulation rather than command; to come in through the un-used side door of the heart, steal in and twist as a politician or a lover, rather than confront and fight in the open as a soldier.

And then they had sent him to the Elves, with his open heart and his open regard, his unsubtle strength and his straightforward honesty. Faramir knew nothing of the Elves of this Imladris; had he sent his brother into a danger that was beyond him?

Sent, no, that was wrong, for Boromir had insisted on the task, but still Faramir wondered if he should have resisted further. Wondered if he should have used those skills he'd learned so well from Denethor. For a time he had considered it, had even begun to gently turn Boromir towards the path Faramir wanted him to take, but he had not been able to bring himself to finish the task, for in Boromir's easy response he had seen all the trust that either had ever bestowed upon the other. Faramir's heart had turned away from abusing that trust. Instead, he had hoped that Denethor's determination to keep Boromir near would overwhelm Boromir's stubbornness, but it had not happened so.

Now, he thought, perhaps it would have been better to abuse Boromir's trust than to send him on this errand to the Elves. Imladris was no enemy, but neither ally, for their two lands had had no contact in many lives of men. And without doubt the lords of Imladris, if such they were even called, had purposes Gondor did not know, and which Boromir was ill-suited to discover from a race not famed for plain-spokenness. Go not to the Elves for counsel, he had heard it said, for they shall say both no and yes, and what would Boromir say to that if it were true of the Elves of Imladris?

"How short-sighted have we been, father?" he murmured. "For all our vaunted wisdom, we have sent Boromir into the hands of those he is least suited to treat with, and now...." He whispered his brother's name in the fading light, and opened his eyes again, gazed out the window towards the west.

"'Seek for the sword that was broken.' What can it be?" he wondered aloud, not for the first time. "The broken sword, Isildur's bane, they must be connected, but how? Have the Elves Isildur's bane, and what is it? And what significance a broken sword? It seems an ill omen, indeed, but apart from that?"

Faramir chuckled. "Talking to myself in a darkening bedchamber," he muttered, "when I should have gone already to the libraries for an answer rather than trying to conjure one out of the air. What would Boromir think of me if he knew?"

And that sense again, he recalled it now, that sense of power, and fear, and surrender, and he wondered, what power might the Elves have? what power might these tokens have, this broken sword, this bane of Isildur? What power might they have over his stern-willed, open-hearted brother? He rested his head on his hand, and watched the night fall, already missing the green-dappled shadows of Ithilien.

The hour was late when Faramir finally left the libraries and approached his father's chamber. Apprehensive, but determined to keep his temper regardless of the Steward's mood, he knocked twice, and waited for the answer to come muffled through the heavy door before opening it. "Father," he said as he entered. Denethor half-reclined on a settee beneath the window, and glanced up at his younger son's voice.

"Faramir," he said. "Come in. Sit. What news from Ithilien? Why have you returned to the city?"

Faramir made his way through the dimness to the chair at the foot of the settee, feeling the muscles of his shoulders begin to relax. It seemed the Steward might not be in one of his more foul moods. Denethor had suffered only one lamp to be lit, and with the moon shadowed by clouds only that lamp cast any glow into the room. He touched the seat of the chair before taking it, to be sure no papers lay there in the dark. "My report awaits you on the morning," Faramir replied, "but the reason for my return is not within it."

"What, then?" asked Denethor, fixing a steady gaze on his son.

"I seek your counsel, Father," he replied, "regarding Boromir."

"Your brother has been gone very nearly half a year," said Denethor. "What counsel could avail us now?"

Faramir paused before answering, then said, "You have little patience with what you call my fancies, I know, but I know as well that you have had such yourself, and I believe in your heart you know when they are true, and when they are imaginings."

Denethor shifted slightly to face Faramir more fully, but he did not sit up. "What has happened, Faramir?" he asked. "Be direct, though I know you dislike it."

Faramir smiled slightly, considering the irony of that accusation coming from the Steward. "On the shores of the Anduin," he said, letting his smile fade, "I had a vision of my brother," exaggerating somewhat but only so Denethor would understand. To say he had had a feeling would hardly sway the Steward. "He was in peril - he is in peril. I begin to suspect the Elves of Imladris are not the allies we might have hoped."

"Why?"

"Isildur's bane," Faramir replied. "The broken sword. I have been to the libraries this night, and found that it is written Isildur took up his father's broken sword to strike at Sauron. I think the mention of Isildur's bane in the same dream which spoke of the broken sword may mean the sword is Isildur's." Faramir wanted to stand, and pace, but restrained himself, keeping his hands folded in his lap and letting show none of his agitation. "The dream tells us that the sword is in Imladris, but why would the Elves have this heirloom of Men?" He did not say what he wondered - that the Elves, who had witnessed Sauron's defeat, might well have wrested it from Isildur, and who knew what else they might have taken from him? Isildur's bane, as well?

Denethor waved a dismissive hand, motes of dust dancing in the flickering lamplight and swirling in the slight breeze made by Denethor's disregard. "Ancient history, my son," he replied. "It can have no bearing on what we face now." But the Steward's gaze remained on Faramir, watchful.

"I think it can, and does," Faramir replied, trying to cool the heated tone that his voice reached for. It would not avail him with his father to be too insistent. "I felt a power and a threat on the shore of the Anduin unlike any I have felt, and -" but he hesitated then, and Denethor looked at him.

"'And' what, Faramir?" His tone was cool.

Steeling himself, Faramir went on, "Boromir is in peril, father, I am certain of it. I felt his distress as though it were my own. Something has, or will, overcome him."

There was a long silence as Denethor considered this, and Faramir felt his apprehension returning. Finally, Denethor spoke. "Had you not always been your brother's strong support, I might wonder if this were jealousy rearing its head at last," he said. "I find it difficult to believe that Elves could overcome the Blade of Gondor."

Faramir nodded. "As do I, my lord. But you and I know that Boromir lacks patience with intrigues. I fear if these Elves are not well-disposed towards Men - towards Gondor - and they bear these heirlooms which I think may have power beyond that of tokens, it may be that we have sent Boromir into a danger against which he is ill-suited to defend."

Denethor sat up, swinging his feet to the floor and resting his arms on his knees. "And you think it is the Elves who may be behind the distress you felt?"

Startled by his father's acceptance of the notion that anything Faramir felt might have significance, Faramir replied, "I suspect it."

After a moment, Denethor said, "The Elves may have the broken blade, Faramir. They may have more than that."

Faramir tilted his head, his eyes narrowing on his father. "What do you know, father?"

Denethor sighed heavily. "Little enough, but some," he said. "Years ago, in my youth, one came here called Thorongil. You have heard me speak of him."

Faramir nodded. "You did not trust him."

"No, I did not. Unbeknownst to Ecthelion, nor to any but the men I sent 'till now, I did send men to find the truth of his history, for he told no one and it troubled me." Faramir was quiet, waiting for his father to continue. Finally, Denethor went on. "They learned he was from the North," he said. "Rumoured to have been fostered by Elves. They said he went by many names, among them Estel, and Aragorn."

"'Hope'," said Faramir. "That might bear out rumours of his fostering."

"And 'Aragorn'," said Denethor. "A name not known, but it seems not without significance."

Nodding thoughtfully, Faramir said, "Particularly when considered alongside 'Estel' - but what hope might the Elves have in a dead line of the kings of Men?"

Denethor smiled. "I had wondered if I would need to tell you of the significance of that name; it seems I underestimated you, my raven."

Faramir chuckled. "As I have so often complained of. But if the line did not die with Arvedui...." Faramir hesitated, then said, "When you discovered this of Thorongil, what did you do?"

"Nothing," Denethor replied. "He was scarcely grown to manhood, and had he claimed the throne then it would have meant disaster. I did not confront him, for had I, and had he told me he was Isildur's heir, I could not have withheld that knowledge from Ecthelion. It would have thrown many things into turmoil, which we could ill-afford." He shook his head. "No, as long as Thorongil chose to keep his secret, I did not intend to force his hand."

"So the broken blade may indeed be the ancient sword Narsil, and token of this Thorongil's lineage?" Faramir asked.

Denethor nodded. "Perhaps, though I had not thought of Thorongil in many years, nor Isildur's sword for many years before that. If the Elves of Imladris are the Elves which fostered him, it may be."

"If his blood is true enough, he could still live and be hale, even after all this time."

"Live, yes," said Denethor, and Faramir heard an uncertain anger in his father's voice, "and return to Gondor. As for what hope the Elves might have in a king in Gondor, what hope would they not have in forcing an alliance between our peoples?"

Faramir looked at the Steward uncertainly. "You speak as though you know more of this than you have shared with me."

"You are not my equal yet, Faramir," said Denethor, and Faramir flinched at the tone that had entered his father's voice - sharp, cold, and all too familiar. "It will be long before I share with you all that I know."

Bowing his head, Faramir replied, "Yes, my lord Steward. I should not have questioned."

Denethor scowled. "We are not in council Faramir, you need not pretend such submission."

"I do not pretend," said Faramir irritably. "I am your faithful servant, my lord, and your obedient son."

"Yes, yes," said Denethor, fluttering his hand dismissively again, again making motes dance in the lamplight. "But you are here in my chamber tonight as neither of those things, but as your brother's protector, are you not?"

"I would search for him, yes, if you would give me leave."

"And do what when you find him?"

"That will depend entirely on what I find."

On the Anduin

Grey-clad and silent as the shadows on the river, Haldir and Orophin navigated their light boats by what moonlight shone. Keen eyes pierced the darkness easily, and they needed little rest, but even so, the brothers each doubted they could reach their Northern cousin and his companions before the three entered Mordor. Yet Mithrandir had requested it, and Celeborn and Galadriel had agreed, and so they went, and swiftly, to try to undo the damage that had been done by the Halfling's moment of weakness.

Haldir's heart had gone out to the erstwhile Ringbearer, for he had seen grief in the small one's eyes, and defeat. Frodo had asked leave to come with them, to try to redeem his error, but it could not be - swift as two Elves alone could go, they might still not be in time, and to bring the Halfling with them would have only ensured their failure. Yet Haldir had ached at the misery that he'd seen in those eyes, eyes older than they should have been from having borne the weight of that burden only to surrender it before reaching the goal.

"Poor little Periannath," he murmured to himself, and Orophin heard his brother's low voice.

"You think of Frodo," he said softly, and Haldir's keen hearing plucked the words from the rush of water.

"Mithrandir is gentle with him," Haldir replied, "but I think he will not forgive himself even if all ends well."

"Perhaps he should not," said Orophin mildly. "He surrendered his task to another, and if the other should fail, then all will perish. It was his burden, yet he kept it not, nor the faith that was placed in him."

Haldir felt a moment's irritation with his brother, then said, "Then let us not fail the faith that has been placed in us, if forgiveness is withheld for a moment's weakness."

"And if we find them?" asked Orophin, ignoring his brother's tone. "Do we truly intend to murder the foster-son of Elrond Half-elven? what then for the love between Imladris and Lórien?"

"It does not concern me," said Haldir, though Orophin thought he had the sound of one trying to convince himself. "If need be, I would murder every Man in Middle-earth to destroy this thing."

Orophin chuckled. "Then let us hope it need not be, for we would surely never rejoin our people if we undertook such a time-consuming task. They breed like woodmice."

Haldir smiled. "Then if I did, you would aid me?"

"Always, brother," Orophin replied, "though my temper might become short after an age or two."

Nindalf

The western shore of the river bore slightly more in the way of solid ground than did the eastern, but it was full dark before they found a patch of earth on which to camp. The night was not as cold as the previous night had been, but the Men still felt the chill, and the wetness in the air seemed to seep in through the weave of their clothing, bringing the cold with it. Boromir sat huddled in his cloak on the opposite side of Legolas from Aragorn, and tried to keep his gaze averted, or downcast, thinking it would be better if Aragorn forgot his presence altogether. Yet his eyes were drawn again and again to the Ringbearer.

On the river he had felt some measure of peace return to him, but now, here, so close to the Ring and its bearer, he began to fracture, the fire of the Ring licking at the edges of his heart, sending sparks flaring into the shadows of his mind, lighting thoughts he had not wished to see. He felt the soft, cool strength of the Elf beside him, and wanted at once to shy away from it and to press close - away from the arrogance, away from the coldness, yet that very coldness soothed him somehow, as though shielding him from something he could neither claim nor deny.

He had a sudden and irrational desire then to wade out into the middle of the Great River and let the current sweep him away. It called to him to leave the burn of that circle of gold, leave the lightning that flared around the Ringbearer, leave the mistrustful and arrogant Elf, abandon all and sink into the silken waters, let the river carry him home. Home to Faramir, to his father, to the White City cool in the starlit night.

It wasn't until he felt the hand on his shoulder and turned to find the Elf's ancient eyes gazing into his that he realized he had risen and started towards the water.

"Boromir," said Legolas, his hand at once gentle and firm. He looked into the Gondorian's face and watched as Boromir's eyes began to clear, his gaze to turn outward again.

"Legolas?" Boromir said, quietly. "I did not - " but he hesitated then.

"It is early in the season for swimming," Legolas commented, the smallest smile curving his lips.

Nodding sharply, Boromir took his gaze from the Elf's and dropped it to the marshy ground, then raised his eyes again. "Aragorn," he said, the words almost inaudible though Legolas could not tell whether from fear or simple caution. "He is falling."

"We shall not let him fall," said Legolas, his voice barely a whisper, pressing the other's shoulder reassuringly. "But Boromir, what has happened between the two of you? I would help you if I can."

Boromir shook his head, irritation rising. "Nay, 'tis not I who needs your help, but he. He is overcome, he - " but he found himself hesitating, suddenly unwilling to speak of what had occurred. How could he explain to the Elf, one who seemed made of light, the darkness that had gripped him, the darkness he had felt trapping him and burning with the light of the Ring?

"Please, my friend," Legolas said softly, "for I would have us be friends and stand together against this threat. Tell me what has happened."

Feeling an unfamiliar nervousness, Boromir tried to answer, wishing at once to unburden himself to this strange immortal creature and to be away from him, and choosing the former only because 'away' meant returning to the Ringbearer. Or, indeed, throwing himself into the Anduin, which no longer seemed a wise course of action. "He - we fought," he began. "He threatened my brother, drew his blade. He - ah, Legolas," Boromir whispered, closing his eyes, and Legolas was strangely relieved to hear his name on the other's lips. "He was as a man gone mad," Boromir went on. "He tasted my blood as though it were - I know not how to tell you. And all the while his knife at my throat and the Ring between us like fire and ice."

Legolas ducked his head and caught Boromir's gaze again. "He - tasted you?"

Inexplicably, Boromir felt heat rising beneath his skin, and was grateful for the darkness, wondering if Legolas could feel his shame. "Aye," he said between closed teeth, his throat constricting with the effort to keep his voice low and even. "Aye, he put his mouth to the wound at my temple and tasted the blood there," and he turned away and said softly, almost thoughtfully, "He said he tasted all of Gondor."

Legolas had never heard the Man admit to any part of fear, but clearly he was afraid, and Legolas began to understand why. He did not know how best to soothe the Man, so kept his hand gentle on the warrior's shoulder and said softly, "His blade at your throat, and he mad? There is no shame in fear at such a circumstance."

Boromir choked back a bitter laugh. "'Tis not my fear that shames me, Legolas," he said, "though I was afraid. No, 'tis not my fear that shames me, but that I crave that fear again, as much as I crave to escape it." Boromir shook his head, his lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. "You should leave us to our fate, Legolas," he said in a sigh. "Go back to your forests, and leave the would-be king and the Steward's heir to walk into Mordor and die, for that very power which provokes such fear in me is the power which can save my people, though I know - or I have been told - it will doom us all."

Legolas felt the blood drain from his face. "No, Boromir, no. No, the power which can save your people is that of Elessar, not that evil thing he bears."

"Is it?" Boromir asked, and Legolas thought there was sincerity in the question, as though it was something Boromir had not considered before. "I know not how to tell one from the other," he said after a moment. "He is mad, he would -" and Boromir hesitated, reluctant to give his fear voice. Aragorn would kill Faramir, if he believed Faramir a threat. And Denethor, Denethor was a threat indeed, and no love was lost between the Steward and the one once called Thorongil.

Elessar, Thorongil, Aragorn, the Ringbearer. Which approached Mordor? Which would come to Minas Tirith? Finally Boromir raised his eyes to Legolas' and said, "What is the power of Elessar that he can save us when my father and I and Faramir and all our soldiers cannot? What is the power of Elessar that can save us if he cannot save himself?"

But before Legolas could formulate an answer, Aragorn's voice reached them and Boromir started violently.

"Boromir, Legolas," he said, and they turned. He had stood and was approaching, and Legolas winced inwardly that he had failed to hear the Man rise. "Such quiet conferences," he said. "What do you discuss?"

"Nothing of import," Legolas answered lightly. "Boromir was telling me of Minas Tirith."

Aragorn smiled. "She is worth telling of."

"She is worth all things," said Boromir, his voice soft. All things but one. Worth the struggles, worth the fear, worth the bloodshed, worth the blade. Worth all things. All things but the Raven.

Aragorn had insisted Legolas sleep that night, and now in the darkness he stood watching his two companions. The Elf lay with his eyes half-open, the dreaming gaze cast upon far shores, and Aragorn wondered, as he often did, what dreams Elves dreamed. Of growing things, and music, and the scent of sunlight, he supposed. Boromir slept a little ways away, wrapped, as always, in his cloak and blankets, and this time the Ranger could discern that he did sleep in fact, not just in seeming. Soft as a fox he stepped through the night to stand over him, and saw that even in sleep his face was troubled. He dreamt not of sunlight.

The dreams of Men Aragorn knew. The dreams of Men he understood. He had dreamt of the Evenstar for many nights, her smooth, cool skin, her infinite eyes, her lips which he had felt pressed so often to his brow, his cheek, his eyelids, his hands, but never to his mouth. Her hair a cascade of midnight, wrought in silk and stars.

And he had dreamt of the White City, her splendour, her towers, the gleam of her stones in the misty mornings. He had dreamt of Ecthelion, and of the child Boromir, and of the man. He recalled now the taste of him, the rich, warm fragrance, the strength in his body and his heart. He would be a great Steward, Aragorn thought. He wondered about his brother, Faramir, and recalled the mad look on Boromir's face when Aragorn had mentioned killing him. He had not thought to provoke quite so violent a response, but he knew now where the weakness was. The only uncertainty was how, and whether, to exploit it.

For he had also dreamt of the flames which would consume the City and all within her if Sauron was not destroyed. Aragorn bowed his head then, closing his eyes against the pain that threatened. The White City, the man before him, Imladris, the Shire - all in the world that Aragorn or Thorongil or Strider had ever loved would be lost if they did not find a way. He brought his hands up and clasped them behind his neck, shutting his eyes so tightly he saw stars, and his gut clenched when he thought of doing harm to Faramir or Boromir or even their father, but all - all was allowable if it meant Gondor and the West were safe. Boromir had said so himself - the White City, and all that she represented, was worth all things.

Time was running short, and he alone would have to find the way. Even now, he knew, it was likely that Saruman moved armies against Rohan, and even if Saruman were defeated there, the combined armies of Rohan and Gondor could not stand against the terror that would flow from the Black Lands if the Ring was not destroyed. And how soon, how soon? He knew not. He wished again that Gandalf had not fallen.

All of Sauron's mind would be known to him, and Sauron's servants would become his servants. And it would not take him in a day....

Aragorn shut his mind against the thought, but around his neck, the Ring grew warm, and heavy, and he touched it with his finger, traced the curve of it. After a long time he knelt to a crouch beside Boromir, wondering what he and Legolas had been speaking of by the river. He had known Legolas dissembled, but had not wished for hard words between himself and his friend. He could know, if he wished, from Boromir. But he did not want to wake him only to ask after a conversation which, in all likelihood, would make no difference in the end.

As he crouched there, watching the soldier, Boromir's eyes opened.

Aragorn smiled.

Confused, Boromir turned slightly to face him. "Is it my watch?" he asked.

"Not for some hours," Aragorn replied. "I did not mean to wake you."

Shaking his head, Boromir half-rose on one elbow. "I do not think you did," he said, his voice heavy with sleep. "I merely woke. I dreamed, I think."

"What did you dream?"

Boromir frowned, trying to remember, his mind still fogged. "Of Minas Tirith," he said at last, "and my father. Faramir, on the river."

"You fear for them," said Aragorn, that vision of the White City in flames, of Sauron rising to the height of his power, flaring in his mind again. "You fear what will happen to them."

Boromir tensed, feeling a chill run down the back of his neck. He shook his head. "No, Aragorn," he said gently, "I - I know it is right that you take the throne, that my father step down. I know you will be a just king."

Surprised, Aragorn suddenly realized Boromir had mistaken him. And also, that Boromir feared him. Feared what he might do when he took the throne. Feared that he would not be a just king, after all. He felt his anger rising.

There was a silken pause. "Lie to me again, Boromir," said Aragorn at last, his voice low. Boromir looked at him sharply, and refused the impulse to back away. "Lie to me again, if you feel you must," said Aragorn, "but I am finished with telling you not to. If you do it again, the consequences will be severe." One finger strayed to the warrior's hand where he gripped his cloak, and the touch made Boromir's skin shiver and his breath catch in his throat. "Tell me," said Aragorn, "do you fear for them?" A long moment passed while Boromir tried to formulate an answer that would not lead to violence. "Answer my question," Aragorn said.

Boromir still hesitated. This was the man Legolas said was the salvation of Gondor, the salvation of the West? What salvation was here? Where was Elessar in whom Legolas had such faith? What hope did he have, when the king desired more to be conqueror than savior?

"Then yes," Boromir said, anger creeping into his tone. "Of course I fear for them, Aragorn. You come to take the throne, and from you I still receive violence and threats, mistrust and - and these fey moods." He sat up fully and faced the Ranger. "Of course I fear for them, and no less so for having spoken truly. What do you expect of me?" he asked, his voice rising. "I tell you it is right you take the throne and I do not lie - you have the power, the lineage," and he started to rise but Aragorn's hand on his chest stopped him, and he bit back a snarl. "And you have the weapon of the enemy - who else to take the throne but you? But know this, Elessar," he said, the name a curse and a prayer, and this time when Aragorn put his hand out to push Boromir away the warrior brushed it aside and brought his face close to the Ranger's. "If you harm any in my family," he said in a low growl, his eyes locked on Aragorn's, "any of my people without cause that I know to be just, I will see you dead and your body left for the carrion birds." He let out a short bark that might have been a laugh, and sat back. "You will be a just king, my lord," he said, "for if you are not, you will be a dead king."

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A/N: Thanks to Tay ("fileg" - h t t p : / / mywebpages . comcast . net / gryphonsmith / write . html and please pardon the wacky spaces in the url - it's fanfiction.net not letting me even display a url) for Boromir and Faramir as the Blade of Gondor and the Raven of Ithilien. Used with permission.