First I would like to thank you for a kind welcome.
Secondly, I seem to have neglected the standard disclaimer, so here goes it
All characters, places, and most of the situations presented are Professor Tolkien's.
All liberties taken with above characters, places and situations are completely my own.
Ithilien
The Southrons were on the move. Great battalions of them had been seen, marching straight through Ithilien on roads his people built long ago; roads deserted as the Enemy drove them back, step by hard fought step. But where strength would no longer serve, stealth would do, Faramir thought grimly. Before the day was over there would be one less company of them to join their Dark Lord. In the meantime there was the little matter of this small, rapidly dissipating plume of smoke; too small to be an orc fire. The Haradrim were usually arrogant enough to dispense with the precaution of sending scouts ahead, but if this was a southern spy, he would not be returning to his unit. This was going to be a nasty bit of business, and he cursed the distraction. The strange creature that had slipped their net earlier had disquieted him, and his unease was growing. There was something amiss in Ithilien, something more than just the rampaging of the orcs and the tramping of the Haradrim on the ancient roads of Gondor.
In his dream, Boromir felt the same clear anger as his brother at the thought of the Enemy using the art and craft of his people for their own foul purposes, but he could feel something else in Faramir as well. Boromir valued Ithilien for the memories it held of the might and pride of his ancestors. Faramir, he realized now, loved Ithilien in its own right. He loved not only the history of it, but also the scents and sights and sounds of it. Even in the midst of war, Ithilien retained a faded beauty that touched his heart with an unnamable bitter-sweet emotion; something almost elvish. He would defend it to the end of his strength, but to defend it he must now set aside his love for it. He would need a clear mind for the upcoming action.
Boromir felt the shadow of an old sorrow touch his heart. Faramir had learned to detach himself from his emotions at a very young age. He had been five when their mother died, and their father's thunderous grief had frightened him. He became very good at hiding; often Boromir was the only one who could find him. Faramir could not hide from the Steward, his lord, forever, but he became wary in their father's presence. During the day Faramir grew to be an extraordinarily solemn and inscrutable child; at night he crawled into Boromir's bed and wept with his arms around his brother's neck.
When they reached adulthood they took their place as captains of the guard, as befitted their station. Denethor did not expect much from Faramir. He felt his younger son was better suited to scholarship than combat, and Minas Tirith needed warriors, not scholars; but Faramir proved to be an excellent soldier, second in his people's esteem only to his older brother. He took no pride in bloodshed, and he hated needless killing, but he fought for his land and his people with a deadly efficiency and unwavering valor. He would never be as big or as strong as Boromir was, but he was a shrewd military strategist, and an expert shot with a bow. He remained somewhat aloof, but he had the full loyalty of the guard. He treated every soldier with unfailing respect, no matter what their station and in return he earned the trust and respect of every man who ever served under him. Only Boromir still saw within the soldier the little boy who had cried in his bed.
Faramir and his men worked almost as one. As Faramir approached the place the smoke had been seen, three of his men were silently converging on the same spot. As the four hunters closed in, their prey gave up on the notion of concealment, stepped out of the brush, and prepared to defend themselves as best they could. Faramir was momentarily shocked by what he saw, but he recovered quickly. While his men were still debating what they had found, his keen eyes were thoroughly raking his captives. They did not seem to pose any immediate threat, but wariness was a deeply ingrained habit. Even so, he could not help feeling a certain admiration for the valor of the pair before him. They were half the number, and the size of their captors, yet they would sell their lives dearly if need be.
Boromir was nearly as startled as his brother to see Frodo and Sam in Ithilien, but he felt a shock of something like hope. The Ringbearer had made it to the eaves of Mordor. He looked closely at the hobbits through Faramir's eyes. Frodo was thinner than he had been when they left Lothlorien. His face was pale and determined. Boromir could only imagine what the Ring was doing to him, this close to the Dark Land, yet he answered Faramir unwaveringly, even surrounded as he was by tall grim men with weapons. And the Halfling forth shall stand. Looking back he marveled over how completely he had misjudged the Ringbearer. It was not Frodo he had betrayed; it was himself. He felt a tendril of fear wrap itself around his heart .It was only at great cost that he had defeated the Ring, and now the Ring had come to Faramir.
Faramir's mind was working furiously, although he would not let his captives know it. Halflings; they could be nothing else, but what were Halflings doing in the woods of Ithilien? Mithrandir had once, in a rare gentle mood, entertained the Steward's youngest son with amusing tales of the Halflings of the north. Boromir had not been there; he had no time for children's tales. He had been with their father, shouldering the burdens of the heir to the ruler of a kingdom at war. Faramir had not thought of those tales for a long time. Then the dream had come; the first dream he had shared with Boromir for some time, and a particularly vivid one; the dream that had taken Boromir away from him. His questioning of the strangers was cold and to the point. When Frodo spoke of Imladris, Boromir felt the involuntary catch in his brother's breath. Faramir's eyes were boring into the Halfling, his mind flooding with history and legend. Seek for the sword that was broken, in Imladris it dwells. The sword that cut the Ring from the Dark Lord's hand had long ago passed into the north, along with the remnants of Isildur's line. Into the north, to Imladris, Boromir had gone, and from Imladris he had set out in a strange company; not two, but four Halflings, an elf, a dwarf, and a man from the north with a Numenorian name and a reforged sword.
It was clear that this Halfling knew many things about matters that affected Faramir deeply. It was also clear that Frodo, son of Drogo was not being entirely candid. There was much he wished to learn from this little one, but the Haradrim would not wait. He could spare two men to guard such precious guests, but he could spare no more time. He gave the Halflings one last searching look. Frodo's servant Samwise returned his gaze with obvious distrust. Boromir found himself smiling. He knew that look well; it had been turned against him plenty of times. Frodo bowed to Faramir with grave courtesy. For a moment Boromir felt wonder blossom in his younger brother's heart, but wonder was a luxury he could not afford right now. Even as Faramir inclined his head in acknowledgement, he was tucking the feeling away, to examine later at greater leisure. He was a Captain of Gondor, and he had business to attend to.