Chapter Two

The soldiers returned to the camp, weary and bloody. Boromir looked on as the fallen were buried, adding nineteen to hundreds of dead men who fell in this cursed place.

Boromir looked at the darkened mountains to the east. He smiled bitterly. How easy it was to be Sauron! To just send thousands after thousands of orcs to invade whatever land he turned his eye to.

Boromir looked back to the soldiers. They shouldn't be suffering the way they were. Some, no, most, had family somewhere, and some would never see them again. Boromir felt a sudden wave of guilt, as if it was his entire fault. Did he push them too hard? Would they mutiny against him? What would his father say? The last thought chilled Boromir to the bone, as he knew what a hard man his father was.

Suddenly many orc-voices were heard as they approached the Gondor camp. Boromir sighed inwardly, but outwardly, he yelled the battle cry as he mustered a company of soldiers to repel this attack. Orcs never ran away for too long.

Boromir was showing the most heart. Many an orc lay dead at his feet, and he killed more and more.

The orcs pressed forward, bent on killing the captain of Gondor, and destroying the garrison that fell back more and more every day.

Even Boromir noticed the change in the tide, and strove to fight harder. It was no use. It would take a miracle to win this now.
And it was a miracle that happened. In the form of a hail of arrows hitting the orc arrows. However, when Boromir saw them, he recognised not the arrows of a Gondor archer, but the arrows of the Rangers of Ithilien.

Joy flooded into his heart, "Faramir! Faramir has come!" He yelled in joy as he clove an orc in two. Another hail of arrows, and another hot on the first one's heels. Every one counted as more orcs died. The soldiers of Gondor, heartened by the arrival of the Rangers, fought to rally round their leader.

The orcs broke and ran. Defeat had come again in the same day. But this time, cheers of victory rang among the Gondorians. The Rangers were welcomed, as was the longhaired man who led them. He was Faramir, brother to Boromir.

The brothers clasped hands. They had loved each other since their births. And now they helped each other out in war.

Faramir smiled, "Boromir! A joy it is indeed to see you alive. I've brought three hundred Rangers to aid you in this conflict."

Boromir smiled, "You bring reinforcements at no better a time than now, little brother."

Faramir looked grave, "Ithilien is a battlefield. My Rangers are hard pressed. Three hundred is quite a drain in our manpower, but we seemed well established enough."

Boromir grunted, "Then you have better times than I. Osgiliath is on the verge of being overrun. My men are dying every day."

Faramir looked troubled. His brother was weary, and his men were exhausted and dying. Osgiliath would surely fall, "Father pushes you too hard."

Boromir shook his head, "I can save this city! My men just need encouragement. I must go and prepare the next watch." He got up, calling to the nearest soldiers. He yelled out cheerfully to his army. They called out in joy.

But Faramir had noticed that Boromir had not met his eyes as he had brushed away the subject of their father.