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.

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 Nineteen

(Southern Gondor Outpost)

Faramir was the first to react to Tanathel's impassioned explanation. "Then the two of you do not attend the negotiations," he stated firmly. He held up a restraining hand when they both began to speak heatedly. "There is much at stake here, too much to risk. They have stained their own honor, and that is a point in our favor."

Boromir settled for nodding curtly. To be excluded from the proceedings galled him bitterly; but he understood the necessity. In truth, Faramir was far better suited for dueling with words. Boromir was much more a man of action than diplomacy. Still, the decision rankled and he wasn't ashamed to show it. His face darkened quickly and his eyes fairly flashed with anger, but he kept it subdued. For him, at least.

He waved away the healer and rose, striding quickly out of the room, his boots sounding a staccato counterpoint to his anger. The echoes followed him through the passages and corridors, giving him no peace for thought, until he burst out onto the parapet. One of the sentries approached him, but he gave the man a simple glare and the sentry backed away, unwilling to provoke Boromir's ire further.

Boromir was in a state, to put it simply. He ranged back over his decisions of the last few days and groaned to himself as his fury turned inward. How could he have been so stupid? Had he lost his edge, his intuition? He had known the Haradrim didn't want to fight, had felt it down to his boots. But why, why, had he gone so far out of range? He told himself that it had been a gesture of good faith, that there had to be a starting point for trust, but that explanation no longer placated him. He had been caught like an unbreeched youngster fresh out of the nursery.

He had misjudged. He had misjudged, and it had cost Borlan his life, and Tanathel…

Tanathel. Eru, but she had endured much for Gondor's sake! Boromir could not fully understand the horror she had suffered; yet he knew in his heart that she had indeed suffered, was still suffering from the Haradrim torments, though she hid it well. His lapse had caused no end of harm.

How, how could he have been so mistaken? He had been a warrior all his life, had been in command for most of his adult life. Yet this mistake… it wasn't to be borne. It couldn't be borne.

Not for the first time, he wondered just exactly what Saruman had done to him. The wizard had resurrected him; had he left something out, had he tainted Boromir's mind in some way, had he perhaps intended such a disastrous turn of events? He was no longer certain, no longer certain of himself, of who he was. He felt the same, he thought, but how to be sure? Something had certainly addled his wits!

Darkness brought no peace to his thoughts; still his doubts twisted and turned within him as the night wore on. Had Faramir been right after all, with his thinly veiled reference to Boromir's fitness for command? He knew his brother well; there would have been no mention of it had there been no question in his heart.

Perhaps he had inherited his father's madness? For Denethor had been truly mad at the end of his life, driven to madness by what he had glimpsed in the palantir. Or had the madness been there all along, needing only the right stimulus to bring it to the fore?

The thought chilled him to the bone. Mad, it had been mad to meet the enemy out of firing range, even under a flag of truce. Madness. He must have been insane to have even considered such a thing, much less do it!

He allowed himself to slide down the wall, seating himself with the cool stone at his back. He hadn't even his armor to protect him from the night's chill; it had been removed in the infirmary and his tunic was no match for the light breeze from the south. The cold seemed to have seeped into his very bones, but was it from the wind, or was it from within himself? He didn't know. He remained on the parapet, his forearms resting on his knees, the brand forgotten, his mind in turmoil.

Faramir started to follow his brother from the room but a lean, tanned hand snagged his arm before he had taken two steps. "Let him go," Tanathel spat. "You've done enough." Her anger rolled off her in waves; Faramir forced himself not to take a step backward from the force of it, though he understood somehow that it was not completely directed at him.

"Not nearly enough," he snapped back as he shook off her restraining fingers. He forced himself to regain his composure, though inside he burned with anger and yes, shame, at what he had done. "He cannot command if he is not himself. That mistake cost all of us dearly, Tanathel, not just the two of you. Borlan is dead. Whether for good or ill, his decision was the wrong one. He should not have ventured out of range."

"What if he'd been right?" Tanathel was steadfastly defending her commander, her friend.

"It doesn't matter." Faramir kept his voice even. He waited until he was certain he had her full attention. "It is my duty to question his decision to risk himself. It is my duty to see that the damage done by his rash decision is controlled. It is my duty to make him question himself and his fitness for command. It is my duty to Gondor, to the King, and to Boromir himself."

Silently he willed her to understand all he had left unsaid. He could not tell her how his duty was twisting a knife in his guts, how he longed to go to his brother and beg forgiveness for doubting him. How he felt ill at the fact that he had to take such a stand, and against his beloved brother. How he hated himself for the doubt in his mind, and yet owed it to these men to protect them from such doubts. They must have a strong leader, a commander, and Boromir could not be strong enough while these doubts remained.

He held her gaze until he saw the flare of comprehension. Her father had taught her well. She understood duty perfectly. "Aye," she said softly. "I see the need for your actions, your words. So will Boromir. But he will also blame himself for the necessity--- rightly so--- and take it too much to heart. But I still think if you go to him, it will make matters worse." Her dark eyes were veiled, now; the anger was well hidden. "He needs time to decide who he is more angry with. You, or himself."

Faramir nodded as he allowed himself to relax slightly. "Of course you're right." He sounded chagrined. She knew his brother as well as he, himself did, it seemed. He gestured for her to accompany him and left the Infirmary, leading her into the Mess instead. He quickly drew off two tankards of ale and set one in front of her firmly. "Drink up," he ordered. "You're as tight as a bow string, and you won't get much sleep if you don't relax." When she had finished the brew, he refilled her mug and settled across from her, his expression serious. ""Now, give me a report. I've heard Boromir's version. I want yours."

He kept her talking for some time, unobtrusively refilling her mug whenever she appeared to be dry, taking judicious sips from his own (though not imbibing nearly so much as he pressed on her), occasionally firing a question or two at her about a point she had made. And when she was finished, he caught her eye again and was surprised at what he saw there.

"You're not nearly as sneaky as you must have thought," she said slowly and with great care. She had known all along what he was up to, and allowed it. He gave her a small smile.

"Well, then, I think that is enough for tonight," he replied evenly. "Get some rest, Tanathel. And report to me in the morning. I have a duty for you."