When the boats were loaded, they pushed off from the pier and headed toward the open water, narrowly missing an empty grain barge that was moored nearby. Eldahil looked apprehensive and with good reason-his hands were still tied behind his back, and Boromir's men were handling the boats with a marked lack of skill. Boromir had spent some time patrolling the lower Anduin so he knew how tricky this kind of boat could be. Even with a small crew, they could move very fast, but they were not easy to maneuver.

Once Osgiliath had disappeared and there were no other boats in sight, Boromir cut the ropes from his cousin's wrists. Before they left, he had remembered to send a soldier back to get Eldahil's sword, dagger, and archery gear. He now returned these weapons. His cousin refused to even look at him. Boromir could hardly blame the man for feeling ill-used, but he would make amends somehow.

As soon as his hands were free, Eldahil traded places with a soldier who was rowing badly out of rhythm with the rest of the boat. After rowing silently for a while, he said, "Cousin Boromir, perhaps you should have kidnapped some of my men to row for you. We would get to wherever we are going much more quickly if we traveled in a straight line." When the soldiers dragged him into the boat, he had demanded to know where they were taking him. They had told him to be quiet or they would knock him senseless. Boromir owed him at the very least an explanation.

His cousin did not stop rowing when he spoke, but he clenched the oar so tightly in his hands that his knuckles were white. "We journey to the south of Ithilien," he said in a low voice, "to find a troop of orcs. If we are not too late, we will find my brother also." He bowed his head to hide his face.

On second thought, Eldahil decided he was lucky that Boromir had done no worse than kidnap him.


Standing in the prow, Eldahil shouted so that he could be heard in the second boat. He had listened to his lieutenant go through this drill enough times that he knew exactly what to say.

"I have volunteered to teach you how to row these boats." The men did not miss the slight emphasis on the word "volunteered," and there was some muffled laughter. "When we are done, you will row like oarsmen and not like a herd of horse soldiers. First, is there anyone here who has never been in a boat before? Sit down! Sit down! Just raise your hand." Several men raised their hands. "All right. The first lesson will be how to stand and walk around in the boat without dumping ourselves and our companions into the river."

After learning how to carefully change seats and move between boats, they practiced rowing backwards and forwards, stopping, and making turns. Boromir's boat had a tendency to go in clockwise circles until Eldahil moved two strong rowers to the side opposite his cousin.

They had enough men to row in two shifts so Eldahil assigned himself and Boromir to take turns leading the first boat. The ranger offered to help with the second boat. Eldahil turned to Haldan and asked, "Sir, would you mind?" He had heard that some grizzled, old captain had been given the dubious honor of keeping Boromir out of trouble. He had no idea who outranked whom, but since Haldan looked old enough to be his father, "sir" seemed like the safest form of address.

Boromir was stepping over a bench to get back to his seat when one of the men stood too suddenly and caused the boat to roll. Stumbling slightly, he caught his foot on a knapsack and was thrown over the side when the boat rocked back. It happened so quickly that there wasn't a sound until he hit the water.

Eldahil remembered that his cousin was wearing a knee-length mail shirt. "He will sink to the bottom like a stone," he thought as he slid down the outside of the boat and into the water. Taking a deep breath, he dove under.

It was only early May, and the cold was a shock as he swam downward. The water was not very clear, but he had no trouble finding his kinsman-he had sunk straight down. Eldahil grabbed at the front of the mail shirt then ducked as his cousin blindly tried to hit him. The armor hindered his movements, and he was panicking as he began to run out of air. "If you hit me, we are both going to drown," Eldahil thought grimly.

The front of the mail shirt was fastened with buckles, and Boromir had managed to get two of them undone. Drawing his dagger, Eldahil cut through the leather straps holding the remaining buckles. His cousin was growing weaker but still kept trying to push him away, so he had to hang onto him with one hand while he used the knife with the other. When he thought he had cut all of the straps, he tried to pull the mail shirt off, but it still would not come free. Eldahil cursed to himself when he realized that Boromir wore a sword belt buckled over the armor. He had to hurry; his lungs ached, and he was beginning to feel lightheaded. The mail shirt protected his cousin from being stabbed as he frantically hacked through the heavy belt. He sliced his own hand, and the blood made a trail of red smoke in the water.

Eldahil felt a little dazed, and as the scabbard and belt sank to the bottom of the river, he thought, "That sword was likely an heirloom from the days of Isildur." Then he threw away his dagger so he had the use of both hands.

When he finally untangled Boromir's arms from the armor, his cousin was no longer fighting him. The pressure in his lungs had become agonizing. He grabbed the man by the back of his tunic and kicked towards the surface. He prayed that the horse soldiers would have enough sense to pull the oars in so he would not strike his head on them.

He broke through the surface and began choking down air. Boromir wore a heavy quilted tunic under his armor. Eldahil held onto him and tried to keep the weight of the wet clothing from dragging him back under. His eyes were closed, and his head kept sliding down toward the water.

The old, gray-haired officer swam over from the other boat. He grabbed a handful of Boromir's hair and pulled his head back, so his face was tilted upward and away from the river. Then he put an arm under the man's shoulder and helped bear him up in the water.

Eldahil heard the ranger shouting, "Get back from the side! You will tip the damn boat! All of you cannot pull him in!" The ranger cursed, then yelled, "Galdor, get over here-the rest of you stand back!"

His cousin was hauled over the side, and then they seized Eldahil by the arms and pulled him in. He lay on his back, still gasping painfully for air. Nearby, he heard Anborn say sharply, "Get your arm under his back. Now help me turn him over. We have to get the water out of his lungs." Eldahil was relieved when he heard someone coughing and retching violently.

Wrapped in blankets, Boromir sat on the floor of the boat, leaning back against the curve of the side. He felt sick to his stomach and had a terrible headache from the water in his ears but was otherwise unharmed. When he tried to thank his cousin for saving his life, Eldahil laughed and said, "This just proves that blood is thicker than water," then he paused and added more quietly, "This morning, did it not occur to you to tell me why you needed my help?"

The question caught Boromir off guard, but he replied honestly, "Eldahil, I do not know you very well. My brother's life was at stake, and I could not afford to trust you."

This was the truth, but not all of the truth. He did not dislike this kinsman, but the man had always seemed to lack the sternness and sense of purpose required of a soldier. Eldahil appeared to be more interested in wine, good food and the company of his friends than in any higher, noble cause. Boromir had heard about the infamous deer-hunting expedition to Ithilien. Indeed, that was a tale that grew in the telling, until there was not a soldier on the river who did not know a friend who had gone along. Eldahil had said, in their defense, that the trip was on their own time and there were no rules against poaching on the Enemy's lands. In private, he and Faramir laughed at their cousin's adventures, but Denethor could not stand the sight of him. Everything about Eldahil irritated him to no end.

Perhaps his cousin guessed what he had left unsaid because Eldahil blushed and looked down, then commented nonchalantly, "I am afraid that your sword is at the bottom of the river and will doubtless stay there until the king comes again." He hunted through a pile of gear then turned to Boromir, handing him a sword which had a belt wrapped several times around it. "Take mine. I have no great skill with it, and I prefer the bow, anyway." He added with a trace of bitterness, "The sword is of no high lineage, but it should be serviceable enough for your use." When he turned to leave, Boromir saw that the sheath for his dagger was empty. He knew without asking how the knife was lost.

"Eldahil, wait." Boromir had found that sometimes plain words were best. "Cousin, I misjudged you, and I am sorry for it." He reached over to where they had thrown his sodden boots and picked up something from the floor. He offered it to his cousin. "Here is my dagger in place of the one you left in the river. Wear it in good health and to good fortune."

The knife had a plain but elegant hilt and fit into a beautiful, silver sheath. It was small enough to tuck inside one of the owner's boots. He waited for a sarcastic reply, but Eldahil bowed and silently accepted the gift.


"I have heard rumors of such things but thought they were just old wives' tales. Stories of man-eating orcs to make young lads practice their archery," Lindir said, shaking his head in disbelief. He was still white from shock, and his face was streaked with sweat.

Faramir recalled what Denethor used to say, that the old tales were often true. Staring down at the toes of his boots, he said, "And now we know why we were spared. Although I did not foresee that we would come to a good end."

They spoke softly to avoid drawing the attention of the guards and to keep from waking Hirluin. Overcome by exhaustion, he slept sprawled face down in the grass. Dead holly leaves were tangled in his blond hair, and the back of his head was matted with dried blood. Faramir thought that he had probably been struck with the flat of a sword. The orcs had been careful not to kill him.

Most of their captors were asleep, and the grove of holly trees was quiet except for the sound of their harsh breathing. Outside, the day was bright, but it was still cool and dark in the shade of the dense branches. The two men sat in silence, until Faramir looked up suddenly and said, "What about the chess game, Lindir?" Back at Henneth Annun, they had left an unfinished game on the board. "How many moves?"

The other man was surprised and, in their desperate situation, he almost laughed at the strangeness of the question. "Three moves and I had your king, Faramir. You open well, but your endgame is still weak." They had left the chessboard under the map cabinet so the pieces would not be disturbed. Faramir wondered how long it would sit there before someone found it.

The orcs stirred from their midday rest and began to break camp. The prisoners were given water and some strips of dried meat. Faramir stared at the meat and reminded himself that his duty was to keep his men alive as long as possible. They were already weak from their injuries and could not endure hunger. With the others watching closely, he forced himself to eat. The flesh was mostly gristle, and the flavor was gamey and a little rancid. Faramir thought it was probably from some beast which foraged in the wild. He handed a piece to Hirluin, "You need not worry. It is just bear meat." He figured the young ranger was unlikely to have tasted flesh from that animal. After the first bite, Hirluin ate ravenously. Lindir gave Faramir a wry glance and picked up a strip of meat.

In the late afternoon, the orcs resumed their journey. One of the two leaders stopped and knelt by some tracks in the soft dirt next to the road. "Rangers have been skulking around here since the last rain. We'd better send one of the lads ahead as a scout."

"What? So he can get picked off by their archers? Maybe we should send you."

"You are a fool, Varag. If he watches himself, the tarks won't spot him. Then he can run back and let us know that there's trouble ahead."

"Fine then, but what do we do about the prisoners? They're dragging their feet. Why don't we just kill them now?"

They tied a length of rope to Faramir's wrists so one of the orcs could hurry him along. He quickly learned to match the pace of his keeper. When he faltered, the rope dragged him forward by the arms, and he had to choke back a cry at the pain in his shoulder.


The shore moved by quickly. Haldan had curtly told him that he needed to rest; he was of no use to them if he was too tired and sick to fight. So Boromir sat and watched the others row. He knew the landmarks along this stretch of the river. As each one passed, he calculated how much longer until they reached their destination. The cool sounds of the water and the steady rhythm of the oars settled his nerves. He felt less on edge now that they had set out.

When dusk fell, they waded ashore and dragged the boats out of the water. They camped on the western side of the river. The servants of the Enemy held the other shore, so they did not dare light a fire.


After sunset, the orcs halted for a short rest. The prisoners sat on the dusty stones of the road. Faramir's shoulders sagged with weariness, and he leaned his face against his hands. His feet were sore and swollen from running on the stone pavement, and he wished he could take off his boots, even just for a moment. So far, they had matched the pace set by the orcs. Hirluin was white with exhaustion, but he put his head down and continued to run. Lindir still kept on his feet but was nearly at the end of his strength. The orcs glanced at each other when he stumbled or tripped on a crack in the road. Faramir did not doubt that he knew he was watched.

The sky was clear, and the evening star had already risen above the trees. Its light cast very faint shadows across the road. "There is Earendil's star," Lindir whispered hoarsely. "It is almost bright enough to shoot by."

Faramir looked at the star. He remembered a winter night in the year after his mother died. Their father had come to bid them good night and had stayed to tell a tale. He and Boromir, already in their nightshirts, curled up among the bolsters at the end of the bed, while Denethor sat on the old cedar chest nearby. He told them how Beren One-Hand took the great jewel from the iron crown of Morgoth, the master and teacher of the Enemy. Though he rarely could spare the time, Denethor was a fine storyteller, with a great store of tales; and when he spoke, he struck each word like a bell. As the werewolf came to devour Beren's men, Faramir huddled under the covers and watched the dark window for the glint of red eyes.

After the tale was ended, Denethor wrapped his younger son in a blanket and carried him out into the winter night. Boromir had put on his boots without any socks and was wearing a coverlet like a cloak. He walked next to his father and held his hand. Faramir was a little afraid of the dark, but he felt safe held in the bend of Denethor's arm. His father had slain hundreds of orcs and could deal with any werewolves. And his older brother, who was strong and brave beyond his years, would protect him from harm.

In the courtyard, the fountain was frozen into silence, and the paving stones gleamed with frost. Denethor searched the black sky then pointed out the star of Earendil to his sons. Faramir remembered his father's voice ringing in the cold air as he told them that the Valar had taken the great jewel and set it in the sky. There it shone as a sign of hope for the defeat of the Enemy.

Boromir's gray eyes seemed to shine with reflected light as he looked up at Denethor, asking in a clear, high voice, "That is a true story, then?"

Their father replied that, indeed, many of the old tales were true, and the world had not changed so much that there was no longer room for marvels. Smiling gravely, Denethor gently smoothed Faramir's hair back from his brow then leaned down to kiss the top of Boromir's head.

Faramir decided it would be better if he did not think of his father and brother.