**Thanks for the kind reviews! The Anborn in this story is not intended to be the man in LOTR; they just share a name because I couldn't decide on one. This is as far as the story is written, but more to follow.—B.**


A strong wind bent the river grasses and broke the shining surface into a thousand, glittering ripples. Slowly swaying and turning on the water, a flock of swans rested near the shore. Further south, an otter dug for mussels in the sand. Otherwise, the river was empty.

When his thoughts and eyes drifted to the far shore, Denethor forced himself to look away, lest he draw the gaze of the Enemy. Even in his practiced hands, the palantir could be treacherous. He watched the gleam of light on the water and emptied his mind of all else. He dared not think of his sons, for fear that he might see their deaths; instead, he stared at the river, watching for white sails.


"This is no rabble of mountain orcs," Boromir thought as he watched them advancing in orderly ranks. "Fall back!" he shouted to his men. They scrambled down the steep path beside the bridge then turned and ran west. The soldiers splashed downstream until the orcs were nearly upon them, then they stopped and unslung their bows.

"So, this is what he's playing at," the orc captain said to himself. "A losing game." Earlier in the day, this ploy might have worked. A slow retreat down the river, using archers to hold them back. His troops could endure more sunlight than those mountain maggots, but it would eventually wear them down. However, now the sun was setting, and as soon as it was night, they would run these tarks to the ground.

Already tired from fighting and running, Varag jogged along behind the Mordor orcs. They've got that fancy armor; let them stand in front and get shot at.

Drawing the bow, Boromir chose a target and sighted along the arrow. The orcs were shouting so loudly that he felt, rather than heard, the sharp thud of the bowstring as he released the shot. Whether by chance or by skill, his arrow found its mark and one of the enemy fell with a black-feathered shaft in his chest.

After several orcs were hit, their captain halted the advance. Once again, Boromir and his soldiers turned and ran.

For a league or more, they led the orcs downstream. While his men could run more swiftly, Boromir knew that the orcs could go for hours without tiring. Already, he felt a little short of breath, and he could see that the others also began to flag. The shallow water dragged at their feet, and the wet stones were slippery and uneven.

Ahead, the river spilled over a low wall, the broken remains of a dam. As the orcs began to close the gap between them, the men slid and dropped over the wall. Taking what cover they could behind the stone blocks, they drew their bows and aimed at the enemy. Several orcs had strung their heavy bows and were shooting back.

"Aim for the archers and that captain," Boromir shouted. Their leader was easy to spot as he barked orders at his troops.

"Get that tall one in the black surcoat," the captain from Mordor snarled at his archers. He didn't like this fight; his troops weren't trained to do this kind of precise shooting. Accuracy took years of practice.

Dropping his bow, the man next to Boromir slid to his knees. Boromir grabbed the back of his mail shirt to keep him from falling over. The soldier did not make a sound; he just stared in confusion at the black-feathered arrow buried in his arm

Ducking as he ran, the ranger hurried over. Anborn slapped the wounded man sharply and splashed water in his face, then he pulled him to his feet. "No time to draw the arrow; they are too close."

Arrows hissed around them as they ran from the shelter of the stone wall. Anborn took the soldier's uninjured arm, steadying him as they hurried along the edge of the river. Boromir looked over his shoulder; their marksmanship had taken its toll and several more orcs had fallen, but their captain did not give up the chase.

With a sharp intake of breath, one of the men staggered then collapsed facedown in the shallow water. A soldier took his arm then let it drop back into the river. He saw that Boromir was watching, so he shook his head. The shot had gone through the mail shirt and several inches into the man's back. Keep running; you must grieve for him later, Boromir told himself as stumbled onward with his head bowed.

Good. We're slowing them down, the orc captain thought. Suddenly, he clenched his fists and growled at his sergeant to find Varag. Grabbing the mountain orc by the throat, he pointed at the retreating men. "Where are those two rangers?" He had a sneaking suspicion that he had just been lured away from the prisoners. And if this troop of regulars had come halfway across Ithilien to get them, at least one was a very high-ranking officer. "Tell me or I'll gut you like a fish, where'd your friend get that pretty knife?"

When Varag told him, the captain struck him in the face, shouting, "What! You fool!" Trust a free company to totally foul things up. Now he and his lads had to find those two rangers. "Aim for their legs," he growled to the archers. "I want some prisoners to question."


The light was beginning to fade when they halted for a short rest. The path had once been a narrow road, running from the eastern highway back to the Anduin; now saplings grew between the paving stones, and the woods were slowly closing in on either side. The tree branches met overhead, so that the path ran through a green tunnel.

One of the soldiers spread his cloak on the ground, and they lowered Faramir onto it. Except for the movement of his breathing, he seemed lifeless. Haldan knelt beside the wounded man and laid a hand on his forehead, then he carefully pressed against either side of his throat and underneath the arm on his injured side. Nearby, Eldahil stood watching. He knew what the old officer was looking for; if the wound had turned bad, there would be swelling under the skin. When he was finished, Haldan glanced up. "Have you any skill as a healer, Captain?"

"No, sir, none whatsoever."

"In this wilderness, there is little we can do for him," Haldan said, drawing the edges of the cloak around Faramir.

A slab of stone, crumbling and overgrown with ivy, stood by the path. Eldahil pushed away the vines; it was a milestone marking the distance to the Anduin. The graven words were nearly worn away from a hundred years of rain and neglect. The air seemed still and heavy under the trees, but if Eldahil closed his eyes, he could see the dull gleam of sunlight on the open water. A handful of small stones had been set on the upper edge, left by rangers for luck and to mark their passage. He picked up two round pebbles from the road and added them for himself and Faramir. There, now we shall safely return to our homes. He found another stone. Better put Boromir up there, too.

He hardly knew these cousins from the White City. Years ago, the steward and his sons had journeyed to the southlands and stopped at his family's home. He remembered little Faramir gazing into the tidal pools, watching the sea creatures drift in the warm water, while Boromir marshaled Eldahil and his four brothers like an army, launching an assault against a seaweed-covered rock. He did not see these cousins again until three years ago, when he was posted to Osgiliath.

They could stop for only a short while. The men sat on the ground, talking in low voices and passing around a waterskin. Sitting against the milestone, Eldahil pulled off his boots and stretched his toes. Neither he nor these horse soldiers were used to long marches.

"Is it already dawn?" Faramir thought drowsily. Around him, he heard quiet voices and the rustling of knapsacks. He was lying on his back, and when he opened his eyes, he saw the dim sky crisscrossed by green branches. The morning was getting light, and it was time for them to be leaving. For a moment, he thought he was still out on patrol with Lindir, Brannon, and the others, and they had camped in the woods. Then suddenly, he was wide awake; he remembered those men were dead.

Eldahil heard his cousin murmur a few indistinct words. He hurriedly knelt beside him, calling over his shoulder, "Captain, he is waking."

"Where is my brother?" Faramir tried to raise his head enough to look around. A cloak was wrapped around him so that he could hardly move.

"Steady, cousin. He will meet us shortly."

"Where is he?" He tried to recall what had happened. Evening was falling so the light no longer pained his eyes, but he still felt weak and confused. "The enemy was in sight." He recalled Boromir shouting at someone.

Eldahil looked hopefully at Captain Haldan. He had no illusions about his own ability to deceive Faramir. His cousin had more than twice his wits, so even when he was half out of his mind, he was still sharper than Eldahil.

Haldan looked back at the young captain. His recent attempt to lie to one of Lord Denethor's sons had been something less than successful. "Lord Boromir stayed behind, but you need not worry. Captain Eldahil's men are with him, so they are more than a match for the enemy. My lord, are you too warm?"

Faramir shook his head slightly, and Haldan continued, saying, "Your lord brother thought it best that you be taken out of harm's way, but he will rejoin us soon." Turning to Eldahil, he said, "Captain, would you bring some water?"

"Why are you not with him?" Faramir asked the old officer. Between the troop of cavalry and Eldahil's company, there would be at least a hundred men. Boromir had been left to lead them by himself, while his second-in-command fled into the woods?

"Because I lost that argument, my lord," Haldan said in an even voice. This, at least, was not a lie, and Boromir's own brother should know better than anyone how unyieldingly stubborn he could be.

"He is not alone, Faramir," Eldahil added quickly. "My lieutenant went with him. He is an old campaigner, and there is none better in a fight." Very convincing, he told himself. And if only it were true.

They sat Faramir against the milestone, and his cousin held the waterskin so he could drink. He could scarcely lift his head, and his failing strength made him uneasy; he feared this weakness would become heavier and heavier and, at last, drag him under. Beneath the trees, a wild creature rustled furtively in the dry leaves. He flinched at the sound; it seemed strangely loud.

"Just a rabbit taking cover," Eldahil reassured him. "A white owl just flew down from those branches." He nodded toward an ancient linden tree that leaned over the path.

He would hide it, yet he is worried, Faramir thought, watching him closely. Indeed, he had never seen Eldahil look so serious. He spoke lightly, yet there was a wary look in his green eyes. Faramir wondered if his mother had spoken in that manner, drawing out some of the sounds while clipping others short, but he could not remember. He knew that she did not have the green eyes; that color was rare among their people, though less uncommon in the lands near the sea.

"Can this milestone still be read? How far to the Anduin?"

"Eighteen leagues, along a straight and fair road. We will be there by midday tomorrow."

"Then, at least, we are not lost," Faramir said wearily, leaning his head against the milestone.

"Cousin, we brought two rangers with us. How could we lose our way?"

With a start, Faramir looked around. "Hirluin?" He was ashamed to realize that he had completely forgotten him.

"Fast asleep." Eldahil pointed to where the fair-haired ranger had collapsed in the middle of the path; his eyes were closed, and his mouth was slightly open. "He walked all the way; I think that stubbornness alone kept him on his feet."

Faramir stared at Hirluin, and he wished that his brother were there. "Eldahil, I would ask a favor of you." For all that they were kin, Faramir did not know this cousin very well, and what he knew filled him with doubt. The deer-hunting expedition was only the latest of his misadventures. He thought of Eldahil, with his wild friends and his elegant clothes and his ready wit, and then he thought of Hirluin sitting alone under the stars, watching the charcoal fire burn down. "It is not a month since this man came to Ithilien, and he still has much to learn."

"Like when to keep his head down?" Eldahil said, remembering the ambush. "You need say no more, Faramir. I will look after him until you recover your strength. And I swear to you that I will neither take him to the taverns nor teach him to play knucklebones." This ranger looked even younger than his cousin.

"My thanks," Faramir said, smiling wryly. "Truly, you have set my mind at ease."


Boromir turned when he heard a cry close behind him. He and Anborn hauled the wounded man between them, stopping in the shelter of a dead oak which had fallen across the river.

"Hold them off!" He had to shout to be heard above the rushing water. Crouching behind the tree, the cavalrymen shot over the fallen trunk.

The barbed point of the arrow was buried deep in the man's leg. Quickly, Boromir broke the feathered end of the shaft several inches above the skin; they would have to draw the arrowhead later. Tearing a strap from his quiver, he leaned down to tie it around the leg, just above the wound. Dazed and in pain, the soldier feebly tried to push him away. In the back of his mind, he wished for a cavalry horse to sling this man across.

"You waste time." Anborn said sharply, "He cannot stand, let alone run."

Trying to knot the strap so it would not slip loose, Boromir said distractedly, "What?" Glancing up, he saw Anborn quickly draw a knife and, grabbing the man's hair, pull his head back. Eyes wide with horror, he struck away the ranger's hand.

"You would leave him here for them?" Anborn asked him.

Struggling to keep his voice even, Boromir replied, "We can bear him between us." He still needed this ranger's help to get back to the farmhouse; they could not find the way without him.

"He will slow us down, and you put all your men at risk." The ranger glared at Boromir in disbelief.

"Then it cannot be helped," Boromir said tersely. His anger was the greater because what Anborn said was not entirely untrue. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he drew the injured man's arm across his shoulder and lifted him; after a quick, sidelong glance at Boromir, the ranger took his other arm.

Though dark woods grew close on either side, the stony course of the stream was open to the sky. Night was swiftly falling, but Earendil already shone above the trees. Its faint light glittered on the water, and the moon, nearly full, would soon rise. Between moon and star, Boromir thought, there may be just enough light to shoot by.


"We dare not drink from it," Haldan told him. "The water is likely fouled with poison or carcasses." The cover was missing from the old well; Eldahil could not see the bottom, so he tossed in a stone and listened to it rattle against the side then land with a splash.

"Did we bring enough water, sir?" Eldahil looked up from the mouth of the well.

Lowering his voice so the men would not overhear, the old officer said, "Enough to last the night, Captain. And I do not foresee the need thereafter." He rubbed a hand across his forehead; the battle lay ahead, yet he was already weary.

A garden once surrounded the farmhouse, and as they walked, the smell of crushed thyme and lavender filled the air. Long ago, a low wall of closely-fitted stone was built to defend the herbs from wild rabbits. After orcs began to raid the farms of Ithilien, layers of rock were piled on until the fence was waist-high. Though fallen in places, the sturdy walls still encircled the house.

"We could hold this with a dozen good archers," Eldahil said thoughtfully, then shrugged. "Until darkness falls, anyway." He pulled up a stalk of mint and chewed on the end.

As they rounded the corner of the house, the two men halted and looked at each other. They both had forgotten the apple orchard behind the house. While a few of the old trees were white with flowers, most were skeletons of dry, dead wood. Eldahil ran to the orchard and drew the heavy orc sword. With both hands, he swung the blade into a tree trunk; the wood cracked and split with a sharp thud. Eldahil and his mighty sword Tree-slayer; the minstrels will sing of us. Or so I hope.

They heaped piles of wood near the front and back doors of the farmhouse. If Boromir and his men made it back, the enemy would follow close behind them. At the sound of orcs crashing through the woods, the fires would be lit. Dry pine needles and cones would start the flames quickly.

One cavalryman had a sword cut in his leg, but if he leaned against the garden wall, he could still shoot. So, counting him, there were six to man the defenses. Haldan thought, If Boromir loses more than a few men, this will be a short fight indeed, but all he said aloud was, "Keep the firelight behind you or it will spoil your night eyes. Let it blind the enemy instead."


The floor of the farmhouse was strewn with broken crockery and hunks of slate from the fallen roof; Eldahil tripped and nearly fell in the dim light. Sweet herbs grew from cracks in the foundation, and a tall, young oak tree pushed up the flagstones in front of the fireplace. They had carried Faramir into a corner, away from the windows and empty doorways. Eldahil leaned over his cousin and felt his forehead; his dark hair was soaked with sweat, and he had not moved since they laid him down. He noticed the young ranger sitting near by. Dropping to one knee, he told Hirluin, "You must tend to Lord Faramir; we can spare no one else. He is fevered and cannot be left alone." That ought to keep him safe and out of the way, Eldahil thought as he hunted around for a waterskin. "Keep a wet cloth on his brow to bring down the fever. If he wakes, give him water. If you are cold, there are more blankets in that corner. And, in the name of the Valar, stay away from the windows or they will shoot you dead."

"Yes, sir." Hirluin murmured. In the twilight, his face looked very pale.

He is frightened, Eldahil thought, which means he is not entirely without sense. Now that he had stopped running for his life, Eldahil found that he was starving. And who knows when this ranger last ate. He unbuckled the top of a knapsack and rummaged inside, pulling out a loaf of three-day old bread.

"Captain, they took my sword." Hirluin spoke so quietly that the other man did not hear him.

Eldahil held up a hunk of dried meat wrapped in a pair of socks. He stared at it. I hope these are clean socks.

Hirluin tried again, somewhat louder. "I need a sword."

"Uh, yes. Indeed," Eldahil replied, looking at the bandages around the young ranger's forehead. Dark circles shadowed Hirluin's eyes, and his shoulders were bowed with weariness. Eldahil considered for a moment. "I have no sword to give you, so this will have to serve." He drew Boromir's silver dagger. "Have a care; it is very sharp. Here, let me get the scabbard for you."

In the knapsack, Hirluin found a linen shirt; he tore off a strip of cloth, soaked it with water, and spread it across Lord Faramir's brow. Then, clutching the unsheathed dagger, he sat and waited next to the other man. When the enemy broke through, he would do what little he could to defend him. As Lord Faramir had ordered, he repeated the old verse over and over. "Down from the north, rode the fair horselords, driving the foe into the flood." He felt sick with fear, yet he thought of his hopeless journey with the orcs, and though he still die, this seemed a better fate. He gripped the hilt more tightly to stop his hands from trembling.