Boromir was greeted at the borders of his land by the shocked, jubilant faces of men of the guard.

"Lord Boromir! This is a joy unlooked for!"

Boromir pulled up to the small company beside the gleaming white hide of Shadowfax. "Why unlooked for? Was there doubt I would return to fight?"

"Doubt in you? Never! But..." The men exchanged looks. "There are tales coming from the seventh level of the city. You were thought to have perished days ago."

Boromir frowned at that, instantly realizing the implications. "Let me pass, then, and my friends with me. I must get to the Steward."

"At once!"

Boromir and Gandalf, and Pippin with him, rode on, Boromir's sudden urgency infecting his tired horse and for the first time they kept up with the pace set by Shadowfax.

At the gate of the city once more they were greeted in shock, and shouts of joy. Cheers heralded their coming, and somehow before even the speedy horses could run them up to the seventh level word of their coming had gone ahead. The gates were opened wide for them, and gathering members of the guard, of Boromir's own company, were assembling with cheers of joy to see him.

He straightened in his saddle as he rode, proud despite exhaustion he had not yet been able to chase away. He waved to the men assembled, and smiled despite himself when a massive shout of his name greeted the wave.

They dismounted as they approached the courtyard, and Boromir was sent ahead with a nod from Gandalf as he had a few quick words with Pippin.

He strode past the bare tree and its guards, and into the hall of the king where his father would be waiting.

Denethor sat alert, in his chair at the base of the stairs leading to the white throne of the king. He stood the moment the door opened, and something fell from his hand to the seat of the chair. "Boromir!"

Boromir strode in, moving across the hall to him. "Father. I heard tale at the gates. I don't have to tell you the tale wasn't true."

"Boromir!" Denethor's old eyes were creased in pure shock, and the beginnings of joy. He met his son, and they embraced tightly.

Boromir could see over his shoulder the thing he had dropped onto his throne. "The horn!"

Denethor released him to look back. "The horn. It came to us on the river thirteen days ago. Boromir, my son! We feared what it meant. There was no word from you, and I have seen..."

Boromir frowned at his father. "You have seen? Father, these visions of yours. I have told you before they are not to be trusted. This should be as sure a sign as any."

But Denethor wasn't listening. He clapped Boromir on his arm. "You look tired. Are you injured, son? An arrow, perhaps?"

Boromir started, but nodded. "An old injury by now, in terms of what I've done since. "

"You will be looked after."

The doors behind them opened again, and Denethor frowned. "Who have you brought with you?"

"Mithrandir, and a companion of ours since leaving Imladris."

"Mithrandir." For a moment Denethor's face darkened and his eyes flashed, but before Boromir could question him the look vanished and Denethor turned from him to greet the guests.

"Mithrandir. No longer shall you be known as a bringer of woe to our city. You have returned to us our greatest treasure."

Boromir waited behind Denethor, and he could see clearly that Gandalf was not fooled by the greeting.

Things were happening in his city; that was plain enough. More than the coming battle, things were boiling inside the hall of the king. Inside the mind of his father.