Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.

Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.

Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.

Author's Second note: I first encountered the Silver Trumpet Tavern in one of Evendim's works. It is borrowed without permission only because I couldn't get my email to send to her. E, if you want, I will change it... just let me know. Thanks.

To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.

Chapter Seven

(The Silver Trumpet Tavern)

Boromir sat and nursed his ale, brooding.

He had begun to entertain doubts of his father's sanity long before he had departed for Rivendell. But to have those doubts now confirmed… he was sorely disturbed by what he had been hearing.

He should have refused his father's order to go to Rivendell, should have forced the issue then. But he had gone, just the same, feeling only a vague sense of unease. And during his absence, his father's sanity had eroded by the hour, or so it seemed. And when news of Boromir's death had reached him, he had become bitter, falling into despair and allowing it to overcome him completely when Gondor needed him most.

The tales that were being spoken to him chilled his very blood. Faramir, who had ever only tried to please their father, being ridiculed and sent to his death simply because he was not Boromir? Denethor repenting only when Faramir was too close to death to realize it, then once more descending into madness and attempting to burn the both of them alive? These were events he could not understand.

The words he had heard, they stole the very warmth of his blood. The exchange between Denethor and Faramir, he could hardly credit it had been his father who had been so deliberately, desperately cruel.

"You wish then that our places had been exchanged, that I had died and Boromir had lived." Faramir, once again striving to understand his father's mind, and despairing of ever receiving, if not approval, at least some sign that he was acceptable.

Denethor, his eyes refusing to meet Faramir's, calculated cruelty in his words. "Yes. I wish that."

Faramir again, despairing of ever being addressed with kindness from his father, struggling with the tears he would not shed in the man's presence. "Since you were robbed of Boromir, I will do what I can in his stead." A quite proper bow later, he moved for the door, and then turned back to his father once more. "If I should return, think better of me, Father." His words had been soft, though clear.

And Denethor, ever cruel to his youngest, had spoken once more, to Faramir's retreating back. The derision in his words cut like knives into the gentle Hurin. "That will depend upon the manner of your return."

Boromir took another long pull at his tankard, only to find it empty. He roared for a refill, caring not that he might indeed be drinking himself into a stupor. He had failed, not only his brother, but Gondor herself. And that failure was simply not to be borne.

A shadow fell across his table and he swore silently even as he grasped the fresh tankard. "I've no use for companionship tonight, wench. Leave me in peace."

"Is that any way to speak to your lieutenant, sir?" Tanathel's voice was a shock to him and he met her gaze evenly. "If you must drink, Boromir, at least let it be for a joyful reason. Let us drink to my release from that dank prison you call an Infirmary, instead."

Boromir nodded acquiescence and indicated the seat across from him. Her presence was, actually, a pleasant respite from the thoughts that haunted him. Anyone's presence would be. "Then let us drink! Come, you are several behind, you need to catch up!" He quickly sloughed off his melancholy. "Drink up!"

Tanathel laughed softly. "I should warn you, I can probably hold my liquor as well as you. I've had practice." Her voice held a teasing note.

"We'll see about that. Barkeep! We'll need a cask or two, and an impartial witness." Boromir handed her his barely touched ale. "This, and the one you have, and we'll start on even ground. Agreed?" He knew it was the ale doing most of the talking; but why shouldn't it? If this woman, no matter how capable a warrior she was, wanted to be equal with the men, he would treat her as an equal. Up to and including getting her totally, stinking, slobbering drunk.

Tanathel nodded her agreement and tossed back the ale, then proceeded to do the same with the second pint. "Agreed. Ready?"

Boromir gave a glance up as the casks arrived and grinned. "I thought I said an impartial witness," he laughed as he recognized his brother. "You'll judge for her because she's one of yours!"

"I would never be anything other than impartial, especially with you," Faramir chuckled back. "I'd heard you were down here drowning your sorrows and thought I'd check on you. And what do I find? My finest Ranger in company with you, about to drink you under the table."

"She's no longer your Ranger, little brother, and I doubt she can drink me blind, either." Boromir was in fine good humor. "Shall we begin, Tanathel? The night is young!"

Faramir shook his head and deftly drew two tankards, handing them off. "You both know the rules. No spits, no spills, first one unable to drink loses. Drink up!"

A short period of time later, both the participants were significantly jollier and Faramir was holding his sides to keep from falling over from mirth. The two had matched each other, drink for drink, pint for pint, without an end in sight, and Faramir would not have wished their impending hangovers on anyone.

"Enough!" Boromir finally roared happily. He nearly collapsed on the table, laughing like a loon, and Tanathel reached over unsteadily to try and support his head, only to miss and poke him rather painfully in the nose. He reared back and the legs of his chair went out from under him, but not before grabbing her hand.

The resulting wreck drew a round of laughter and applause from the spectators as Tanathel was dragged across the table to land on top of Boromir. Both of them were laughing hysterically as they righted themselves, swaying drunkenly against each other companionably. "So I win?" Tanathel laughed as she mock-punched Boromir in the ribs. Boromir responded by putting her in a chokehold and rubbing his knuckles across her hair.

"Not a chance," he replied, making a special attempt to sound much less inebriated than he was. The effect was spoiled by the rather goofy grin he couldn't wipe from his face. "But Tan… Tan… can't get my tongue around y'name…"

"Tan… can't say it either," Tanathel giggled.

Boromir ran an arm around Tanathel's waist, but which of them he was trying to support was anyone's guess. Faramir shooed them both out, drawing his purse to settle the account with the barkeep.

The two made their unsteady way toward the Academy, laughing and staggering occasionally into a wall, only to rebound out with more mirth. Finally they arrived at their destination just outside the Officers' Residence. Boromir abruptly halted, causing Tanathel to slip slightly and fall against him.

Brown eyes met green, and both widened slightly in shock at the contact. Strangely enough, neither of them felt very drunk any longer.

"I think, Tanathel," Boromir began very softly, "that we had best part ways here."

Tanathel nodded and stepped back, her eyes never leaving his. Then, in a lightning move, she placed a light kiss against his cheek and disappeared into her room, closing the door firmly between them. Boromir stood for a few moments, watching the door, and then made his way to his own rooms.