Thanks to Raksha the Demon and to my husband for their helpful comments!


Suddenly wide awake, Haldan rolled onto his side and sat up, wincing as he moved his injured arm. Where Boromir had been sleeping, the blankets were empty. He felt a surge of dread until he saw that the hideous orc shield was still leaning in the corner. Wherever he was, the heir had not gone far. Nearby, a cavalryman lay quietly snoring on his back, his head pillowed on a knapsack. He still wore his mail shirt, and he had left his helm and shield within easy reach. Haldan carefully stepped over the sleeping men and their gear. He passed the oak tree that grew by the hearth; a ranger leaned against the trunk, smoking as he kept vigil over the wounded. By the front steps, another ranger tossed a few sticks of wood on the fire. He nodded in greeting. "'Tis quiet out there, Captain."

Limping slightly, Haldan walked around the corner of the farmhouse. Though the eastern sky grew light, the world was still empty and grey. Near the massive stone chimney, a tall man sat alone on the ground; his knees were drawn up, almost to his chest, and his hands were clasped together in front of them. The old officer had guessed that here he would find the heir.

"My lord," Haldan said in a low voice.

Boromir did not look up. His eyes were fixed on the dead men, laid out on the grass, several paces away-the two cavalrymen and his cousin. Two other men were killed in the retreat to the farmhouse, but their bodies were still out there, one in the woods and one in the river. He had known these men, known their faces and voices, but hidden under blankets, they became nameless and strange.

"I brought them here to die," Boromir said quietly.

"My lord, you brought them here, but you did not take their lives. Before ever they left Osgiliath, this was meant to be."

"Do not give me false comfort," the younger man replied. He had lost men before, but this seemed somehow different.

"It is neither false nor even much comfort, my lord. We all move toward our appointed fates," Haldan said evenly. He did not know what solace Lord Denethor would have offered his son, but this was the truth that thirty years of war had taught him. "It is fit that you should grieve for them, but do not burden yourself with their deaths."

Boromir ran a hand through his hair and said, "This was on my orders. Not by my father's command nor by Lord Brandir's. And my cousin-he would still be in Osgiliath, if not for me. He should never have been here." He bowed his head until it almost touched his knees; his dark hair fell forward until his face was hidden.

"Oft the Lord of the City must send his men to their deaths," Haldan reminded him. "This is the hard duty to which you were born."

The heir was silent, but his head sank even lower.

"My lord, your brother had reached the end of his strength; think you the enemy would have troubled to bear him when he faltered? We set out in haste, yet we came none too soon. Thank the Valar that you did not wait for Lord Brandir to send rescue."

Boromir's face was pressed against his arm so that his voice was muffled. "Still I would that none had died."

These losses have always been hard for him to bear, Haldan reminded himself. The old soldier sat down and settled his back against the cold stones of the wall; he wished that he had had enough sense to bring his cloak. Not for the first time, he thought that he was getting too old for this.

While Haldan sat and watched, the light grew stronger and, slowly, the world became clear. Leaves and branches appeared in the shadowy trees, and blades of grass sprouted on empty stretches of ground. As he watched, the full moon faded in the dimly luminous sky. Now he could see the dry dirt on the soles of young Eldahil's boots. A blanket had been drawn over the dead man's face, but his feet were left uncovered. Certainly not a cavalryman, Haldan thought sadly. The heels of those boots are too flat; they would slide right through the stirrups.

Boromir's breathing was slow and peaceful; dozing, he had drooped to one side until he gently toppled over and landed in the grass. Behind the ruined farmhouse, the flowering trees glimmered in the half-light with an otherworldly beauty.


Pots and spoons clattered, water splashed and sizzled on the fire-the familiar, early morning sounds of camp. The men rolled up their blankets and stowed other gear in knapsacks. Before sunset, they had to reach the Anduin and start their journey up river. Most likely, scattered groups of orcs still roamed the woods, and they would be bolder after dark.

A young ranger appeared with a pair of rabbits, taken at great risk from the nearby fields. Ragnor shouted at him for his recklessness then took the rabbits from his hands. Boromir noticed that the other rangers did not even look up from their tasks. Try as he might, he could not guess who was in command of this patrol. No one or everyone, it seemed; yet still the work got done.

Boromir's back ached from a night on the bare ground. The short rest had done little to cure his weariness; he felt so tired that he hurt. Stiff and sore in every joint, he climbed the stone steps of the farmhouse. The rangers had said that Faramir was awake during the night, but when Boromir had last looked in on him, his brother was still sunk in a heavy sleep.

Just inside the doorway, two rangers were giving Hirluin a drink of water. With their help, the wounded man was able to sit, though his face was very pale, almost white. Dropping to one knee, Boromir knelt beside him. He thought this ranger looked young, even younger than Faramir. "I hear that, armed with only a dagger, you defended my brother then hid him from the eyes of the enemy," Boromir said in a voice that was grave but kind. Leaning forward at the waist, he dropped his gaze and bowed slightly. "You have rendered great service to Gondor and also to our house."

The two rangers, their faces sun-burnt and scarred, smiled proudly at their young comrade, while Hirluin bowed his head to hide his confusion at such high praise from the heir. Boromir would not have deemed it possible but, after being bled nearly white, the young ranger still managed to blush.

"Yes, sir," Hirluin whispered, looking somewhat dazed. The rangers had clothed him in a heavy, brown tunic; it hung loosely from his shoulders, and the ends of the sleeves had been rolled up. Boromir noticed that he now wore a swordbelt and the silver dagger hung at his side. The orcs had stripped their prisoners down to tunics and woollen leggings, so the rangers must have taken the belt from one of the dead. Though Boromir had many questions, he could see that this man was weary and the answers would have to wait.

"That was a brave deed, and I will not soon forget it," he said, resting a hand on Hirluin's arm before he rose to leave.

He crossed the rubble-strewn floor to where his brother lay by the hearth, sheltered by the young oak tree. When Faramir weakly turned his head to look at him, Boromir grinned, overwhelmed with relief. Though Falborn had told him not to despair, he had feared that his brother would not wake again.

"Boromir," Faramir murmured, only half-awake. His face was still flushed with fever, the shadows under his eyes like dark bruises. Then he caught a sharp breath and tried to look about him. "I was made prisoner; the orc—"

"Rest easy now," Boromir said, trying to calm him. His heart was wrung with grief to see his younger brother so shaken and fearful. "That creature will do no harm to you or any other; he lies in the field, awaiting the ravens." He felt his brother's warm forehead then drew the blankets more closely around his shoulders.

"What happened?" Faramir asked. After the orc had bound him, the darkness had risen and his memory failed.

"That young ranger killed him. He must have come from behind and taken him by surprise."

Faramir turned his face away so his older brother would not see him weep. Hirluin had trusted him, and, in the end, he had failed to save his life. He thought of the quiet ranger, his blond head bowed, reciting the song about the horselords, as he was driven like cattle by the orcs.

Shaking his head, Boromir said quickly, "You need not grieve for him, Faramir-he is still very much alive. And ready to fight more orcs unless we stop him. Haldan says he was still clutching the dagger when they found him, and he was loath to part with it."

Surprised and relieved, Faramir gave a shaky laugh; in truth, this did sound like Hirluin.

Boromir added, "His shoulders were badly scored, but he will soon heal. He is awake, though he has scarcely said a word."

"He seldom speaks, and even then he says little. That is the way with him."

"Then he has the makings of a fine ranger. You people spend far too much time on patrol, with naught for company but rabbits and other rangers," Boromir said with a short laugh. "But silent or not, he is valiant, and well he knew how to use a knife." He had noticed that Hirluin had wisely finished the enemy by cutting his throat. "That orc was slaughtered like a…" Boromir frowned, searching for the right word. "Like an orc," he finished, his voice trailing off a little uncertainly.

"Down from the north, rode the fair horselords," Faramir murmured. "I ordered him to hide in the fireplace. That orc would not have seen him."

Boromir gave a fierce grin. "Even so. Like Eorl the Young, he fell on the enemy from the rear." He looked toward the doorway where Hirluin still sat with the two rangers. "That fair hair. He was born in Rohan?"

"No, but his grandmother came from there."

"I wonder if he was taught to ride."

Faramir did not miss his brother's curious glance at Hirluin. "Perhaps you could find him a place in your troop. I would not blame him if, after this, he had no wish to be a ranger." He smiled ruefully.

"No, he needs to stay in Ithilien so he can watch over you, Faramir. He seems a man of some sense." Boromir did not speak entirely in jest. "So you ordered him to hide. Why did you not order him to carry you into hiding as well?"

"He was wounded, and he seemed too weak for that task. Besides, I hoped if they found me, they would turn aside from their search and look no further. I did not know how else to protect him."

The other man said nothing. Of course. One of them would have had to stay behind, like the chess piece that was given up in place of another. This was a logical move, yet still he was troubled. Not for the first time, he thought, We face the same foe, but we fight two very different wars.

"Where is our deer-hunting cousin?" Faramir asked suddenly. He could hear Captain Haldan's voice outside, but he had neither seen nor heard their kinsman. With his drawling southern accent, Eldahil's voice was not easy to miss.

Reaching out his hand to pull a stalk of mint from the ground, Boromir looked down. "He is outside," he said. This was not untrue. Eldahil's corpse was laid out only a few feet away, on the other side of the farmhouse wall. He deemed that this news could wait for a time. He was grateful to see Falborn approaching.

"Good morning, Captain," the ranger saluted Boromir. "And I am glad to see you awake, my lord," he said to Faramir. He left and came back with a cup. With Falborn's help, Boromir lifted his brother and held him so that Faramir's head rested on his shoulder.

"Yes, it is terribly bitter, my lord," the ranger said as Faramir choked on the healing draft.

Faramir knew that sour taste. Willow bark for fever, he thought light-headedly, watching the leaves fluttering above him. It seems the bitterest herbs are the only ones that heal. Rue, hemlock, foxglove, willow. Yet why is that so? Out loud, he murmured the old teaching rhyme,

Willow tree for aches and fever;
steeped with honey, bark and leaves.

The ranger nodded. "You have studied with the healers, then. Yes, this should help cool your fever." They slowly eased the injured man back to the ground.

Boromir reached down to tousle Faramir's hair in his time-honored fashion then stopped; instead, he just laid his hand on his brow and said, "Now you must try to rest." Then Boromir and the ranger left.

The branches of the oak tree swayed in the wind, until sunlight and shade danced in a pattern of leaves on the ground. Empty of thought, Faramir watched the flickering movements from under his lashes. His head felt very strange; there was the slightest pressure and tingling under his scalp, as if the inside of his skull were numb. Then weariness won out over pain, and he closed his eyes and drifted away.

Thyme and lavender, crushed by the soldiers' boots, scented the air. Breathing the sharp, clean fragrance, he remembered the healers' garden in Minas Tirith. When he was fourteen years of age, Faramir had been sent to learn such leechcraft as was needful for a soldier. Every day, from first light until dusk, he had helped the healers at their work. Fascinated, he had learned to sew wounds with fine silk or gut string and to weigh and grind the pungent healing herbs.

One morning, as he helped the herb-master set out a row of seedlings, his father walked into the garden. Denethor bid them good morning then spoke with the herb-master for a few moments. He had always kept close watch on his sons' studies, and now that Boromir was in the field, Faramir bore the brunt of his attention. Shaking the dew from a tall stalk, Denethor bent a leaf until it snapped then offered it to his son. "What herb is this?"

"Foxglove in the common speech, Father. Named nelledhel in the noble tongue and nyellelda in the Valinorean," he replied, a little proud that he could name this plant in three tongues. "Known by its hairy leaves, growing along a single stem, and by its bitter scent. Its flowers are purple bells, speckled with dark spots."

Denethor shook his head. "This is comfrey, also called boneset."

The herb-master turned from his seedlings. "May I see, my lord?" He took the leaf in a calloused hand. "No, they are very like, but Lord Faramir has the right of it. Foxglove. Comfrey leaves are coarser and make the hands itch. Beware confusing the two; despite its healing virtue, foxglove is strong poison and must be handled with care." He gave the herb back to Faramir.

His father praised him for his learning and keen eye, yet Faramir saw a hint of wariness in his glance.

When the steward had left, Faramir rubbed the furred leaf between his fingers and held it under his nose, breathing in the bitter, musty scent. He thought it strange that both healing and death could be held in one plant.


Leaning over the dead man, the ranger told his companion, "Just leave the blanket over him. You get his feet." Under his breath, he added, "Gently, Captain Boromir is watching, and this man was his cousin."

Darting a look at the heir, the other ranger murmured, "I do not envy him. He will have to tell their families that we threw their sons down a well." They had neither the men nor time to dig graves, so it had been decided to lower the slain into the old well. With the woods full of orcs, they could not tarry in this place; a patrol would have to be sent later to bury them properly. The ranger slid an arm under the dead man's knees. "Ragnor, this is not that cousin, is it? That captain who led the hunting party to Emyn Arnen?"

"The very same," Ragnor said sadly. "Though he has downed his last stag, I fear." By all accounts, the expedition to Ithilien had been planned with great foresight and care. After scouting for sign of the enemy, the hunters had unleashed a pair of long-haired deerhounds then followed behind on foot with their bows. That night, this Captain Eldahil and his friends had feasted on the enemy's venison, washed down with bottles of good Lossarnach wine. Though the rangers had shouted with laughter at this tale, it was said that the lord steward had found it less amusing.

Ragnor grunted as he tried to move the body. "I have him under the arms; now hoist your end." Though not as tall and broad as either of the two dead cavalrymen, Captain Boromir's kinsman still made a heavy burden.

As the rangers started to lift the dead man, there was a faint groan from under the blanket. Startled, they dropped the body onto the grass. As they stared, it moved slightly under the makeshift shroud and murmured weakly, "Why is there a blanket on my face?"


When he felt the warmth of the sun and smelled the sharp scent of lavender and thyme, Eldahil at first had thought he was in the garden at home. The low murmur of voices seemed to merge with the buzzing of insects. When the speakers drew closer, he had done his groggy best to ignore them, until there was a strong tug at his arms and the flash of pain made him flinch wide awake. A heavy cloth covered his face; someone drew it aside, and sunlight dazzled his eyes.

Two men, dressed in mud-splattered green and brown, stared down at him in astonishment. Who in Middle-earth are these people? Eldahil wondered. And why am I lying on the ground? Squinting up at the rangers, he tried to remember. The battle had turned against them, and he had been shooting at the enemy, then his memories came to a skidding halt. Thinking hurts too much, he told himself, I had better stop.

"Fetch Lord Boromir," one of the men said. He leaned down to touch Eldahil's hands and then his face. Taking a small flask from his belt, the ranger unstoppered it and gave the injured man a few drops of brandy, just enough to wet his lips.

Eldahil swallowed then murmured, "Terrible." The brandy tasted like that vile stuff they bottled in Pelargir.

"Help will soon be here, Captain," the ranger reassured him.

Swift, heavy footsteps drew near, then a tall shape loomed over Eldahil. His cousin Boromir, face smudged with dirt and shadowed with weariness, stared at him round-eyed, his mouth fallen slightly open.

"Eldahil! How can this be?"

His green eyes wide, Eldahil stared back.

"Boromir! But you are dead!"

He had last seen his cousin, poorly disguised as an orc, slipping away with the retreating foe. Even Boromir could not have single-handedly defeated that many orcs. Then this is the afterlife? Eldahil thought in dismay. I am doomed to drink wretched brandy-wine with a troop of horse soldiers from Minas Tirith? He pondered this for a moment. No, if I were dead, I do not think I would feel this queasy. How is it that I am on dry land yet feel seasick?

Captain Haldan and another ranger appeared, followed by several cavalrymen. I am drawing quite a crowd, Eldahil thought hazily.

"He was tangled in branches when we found him; they must have slowed his fall," Haldan said to the ranger as they knelt beside the injured man.

"He was stone cold. I would have sworn he was dead," a soldier said loudly. Eldahil thought he sounded slightly aggrieved, as if he had lost a wager.

The ranger muttered under his breath, "Fool. He was lying on the bare ground, of course he was cold."

"I am sorry to disappoint anyone," Eldahil told them with a lopsided grin.

"No one is disappointed to find you are still alive, Captain," Haldan said kindly as he peered in the injured man's face, watching the movement of his eyes. "And, in truth, stranger things have happened." He frowned when he saw Eldahil's right arm. "My lord," he said to Boromir, "we will need a few sticks for splints." Boromir, still looking a little stunned, nodded and turned to leave.

Drawing a small knife, the ranger carefully cut away the tattered tunic of blue silk. After asking Eldahil to wiggle his toes and move his head, the ranger gently felt his skull and then his limbs and ribs, taking note whenever he groaned.

"Nothing is broken that will not mend," the ranger declared in a cheerful voice.

Eldahil fought the urge to hit him with his uninjured arm.

"That arm is doubtless broken, and the shoulder has pulled free from the socket." The ranger looked at Haldan as he spoke. "I say we splint the arm first then deal with the shoulder. Do you agree?"

If they ask Boromir what to do, I shall get up and run away, Eldahil told himself. He brings me nothing but trouble. His kinsman had returned with a handful of sticks and now stood waiting behind Captain Haldan. So much grass was twined in his hair that Eldahil thought it looked like some birds were trying to build a nest up there. As the old captain and the ranger discussed him as if he were a side of beef, Boromir looked at him and smiled, clearly overjoyed. In spite of himself, Eldahil could not help grinning back at his noble and annoying cousin.