A/N: First things first:

-Angelchick007: I'm so glad that I've inspired you! You have no idea how much it means to hear you say that! (And I'm glad you agree about those Haradrim…makes me feel a little less crazy. But they are pretty damn hot.)

-Ian: Why thank you, kind sir.

-Sarahbarr17: Ah yes…sneaky Southrons. You know how they roll…down in the land of Harad. Haha. Anyway, I'm glad you're enjoying these!

As for my disclaimer, Tolkien's characters still don't really belong to me. But the baby oliphaunt in my yard is pretty damn cute. However, there seems to be a loaf of bread missing from my pantry, and a pint of ale missing from my fridge. I am wondering if there's a hobbit in my house. This curious situation is making my disclaimers seem less and less credible.

Chapter Seven: Just Like an Orc

Faramir lay on the hard wooden planks of his boat. Putting his hands behind his head, he sighed loudly, gazing up at the evening sky. Anborn was resting quietly as well, not too far away. Damrod had helped Faramir remove the arrow from Anborn's upper arm, and together, they'd patched up the wound neatly. Anborn had been brave through the entire ordeal – he did not utter a sound – not even when the jagged tip was wrenched from his skin and fresh blood began to pour steadily down his arm, staining his sleeve.

Now, about an hour later, Anborn lay still, his arm thickly bandaged. Damrod and Mablung were steering the boat while also keeping watch, giving Faramir a chance to rest and regain his strength.

His eyes fluttered shut, and the soft gentle motions of the waves easily lulled him to sleep. His head rolled slightly to the side, and his arms went limp, hands opening loosely, palms up, waiting to receive his dreams.

In another world, or perhaps a different version of the world he already knew, Faramir struggled with a thick fog. He squinted his eyes in an attempt to see, and swiped at the hovering mist with a gloved hand. Tripping over his own feet, he ran forward, although he could not see very far ahead.

As he reached a rocky riverbank, the mist suddenly gave way to a feather-light rain shower, and he halted, kicking up pebbles behind him.

"By the Valar," he murmured, stunned.

He could see a small boat making its way down the river. The boat carried only one passenger – a sleeping man, lying his back, eyes closed. His arms were folded loosely over his chest, and a proud sword lay dormant at his side. Faramir noticed that his shirt was darkened with bloodstains, and began to realize that this man was not sleeping at all.

The boat drew nearer, slightly veering off-course due to the hand of the wind. Faramir's heart practically stopped beating as he caught a glimpse of the man's face.

"Boromir," he whispered, his voice heavy with dread.

Faramir squeezed his eyelids shut, desperately hoping that his eyes were deceiving him – that this was merely some other brown-haired man who simply looked like Boromir. But when he looked at the boat again, the despair in his heart was strong enough to tell him with absolute certainty that it was, indeed, his brother.

His eyes remained transfixed upon the boat as a thousand memories shimmered in the waters around him. But ripples in the river's surface distorted the images until Faramir was left with only his own reflection. He reached out to touch the boat as it passed by, but his fingers fell a few inches short of the wooden side. He tried a few more times, and each time, the boat remained just far enough of out his grasp.

Faramir never took his gaze off of the boat. He watched it faithfully as it continued down the river, swaying gently with the wind. It was only after the boat disappeared from sight that Faramir noticed that he had tears rolling down his cheeks, steady as the rain around him.

"Faramir!" A familiar voice broke into his thoughts. "Faramir, wake up!"

Faramir sat up with a start, looking around in confusion. Damrod was kneeling down beside him, his hands on his shoulders firmly.

"Wh…what?" he stammered, disoriented.

"You were crying out in your sleep," Damrod explained. His puzzled grey eyes searched Faramir's face. "Captain, you are crying."

Faramir raised his hands to his cheeks, which were slick with tears. Slowly, he raised his gaze to meet Damrod's. A long silence passed between the two men. It was a pause so powerful that it could hold an entire story in its grasp.

When Faramir finally spoke, his voice rang out clear, like a new morning. His words echoed in the evening air, inflicting pain again and again.

"Boromir," he said flatly, "is dead."

Pelilas sat by the small fire in his kitchen, watching the flames leap and dance. The heat rose up from the smoke, caressing his face, and he felt comforted by the sensation. But the fire was hypnotizing him, deceiving him. Hidden in the swells and curves of the orange flames, Pelilas was convinced that he could see the dark eyes of Gwarth.

No matter what he did, Pelilas just could not get his encounter with Gwarth out of his mind. The Southron's words repeated themselves over and over in his thoughts, until they were pressed into his brain as though they'd been branded there.

He began to think of northern Gondor, with its white flags and towers, and for the first time in his life, Pelilas felt an indescribable and immediate anger flicker in his heart and spread out through his lungs, into his bloodstream. He began to have instinctive visions of setting fire to those towers, that great city. As he stared into the flames in front of him, he imagined that very same blaze ripping through the ivory flags, turning beautiful trees into ash.

These visions of death and destruction sent a surge of electrical energy through Pelilas's veins, and his eyes widened. Was this how it happened? Was this how good men lost their graces? When he was a boy, he always believed that every evil creature was once at peace with the world; there was always an era before the shadow.

Pelilas leapt to his feet suddenly. He grabbed a full bucket of water from the counter and threw it over the fire, plunging the room into darkness. He stood in silence for a few moments, listening to the hissing sound of the smoke, feeling droplets of cold water against his feet.

Then, he ran for the door.

"This is delicious," Thurandír said, taking another bite of stew. "What is it?"

"Well," Coruwen began, "it is – ow!" She was interrupted as Faeldor kicked her swiftly in the knee underneath the table.

"Pardon?" Thurandír cupped a hand to his ear. "What did you say?"

"Just some scraps that were left over from the lunch I made for Pelilas," she answered, glaring at her brother. Gailrin looked back and forth between her children warily, but said nothing.

Suddenly, there was a loud knock at the door. Faeldor, who was closest, got up to answer it.

"Pelilas!" he exclaimed. "I did not know you were coming for dinner! And we were just talking about you."

"Good things?" Pelilas asked, offering a weak smile.

Faeldor glanced at him, confused. There was something odd about Pelilas's appearance, he realized. His friend's pale eyes were wide, pupils large as a cat's. His gaze was unfocused, and he seemed to be nervous, twisting his hands together in front of him.

"Of course," Faeldor answered slowly.

"Well, I am not here for dinner," Pelilas continued. "I was actually here to see Coruwen."

Faeldor turned to look over his shoulder at his sister. Coruwen jumped up from the table, dropping her napkin on her chair carelessly.

"Coruwen!" Gailrin called. "What about dinner?"

"It can wait," she sang out, grabbing Pelilas's hand. Faeldor watched nervously as his sister lead Pelilas up the stairs, giggling faintly.

"Something is not right here," he murmured under his breath.

"Did you say something, Faeldor?" Thurandír called from the kitchen.

Faeldor stared up the empty stairs, eyes narrowed.

"No," he replied. "Not a word."

Coruwen quietly closed her bedroom door and then spun on her heel, throwing her arms around Pelilas's neck.

"I love your surprise visits!" she exclaimed, kissing him emphatically.

Pelilas gently disentangled himself from her embrace, turning from her. Coruwen bit her lower lip, puzzled.

"Pelilas?" she asked gently. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he muttered, pushing a hand through his shaggy red bangs.

"You do not seem fine," Coruwen said, taking another step to him.

"Coruwen," Pelilas said weakly, still refusing to face her. "Do you ever wonder about your purpose?"

"My purpose?" she echoed. "I do not understand."

"And orcs," he continued. "Goblins. What of them? Do they have a purpose?"

"I suppose," Coruwen said, unsure of where this conversation was headed.

"Do you think their purpose is less important than ours? Yours, or mine? And what of lives? Are our lives more valuable than that of an orc's?"

"Pelilas, what are you saying?"

He finally turned around.

"Forget it," he said, mustering a fake smile. "Where were we?"

"I think," Coruwen said, grinning, "we were right…here." She slipped her arms about his slim waist, raising her lips to his. He took her by surprise, placing both of his palms on either side of her face, returning her kiss roughly. His teeth grazed her lower lip, and the stubble on his chin scratched her jaw carelessly.

"Pelilas," she laughed, pulling back slightly.

"What?" he asked, an unfamiliar flicker in his eyes. "Is this not what you pulled me upstairs for?"

"Yes, but if you--"

"Then we have absolutely nothing to talk about," Pelilas said, leaning in to kiss her again. His hands slid heavily from her hairline to her hips and then back again, tracing the curves of her body and pulling her closer to him. He grabbed hold of one of her wrists suddenly, encircling her delicate arm with his long fingers, and pulled her towards her small bed quite forcefully.

"Wait," she protested, but her voice was muffled as his lips pressed on hers again. Pelilas pinned her against the soft mattress, his hands holding her wrists above her head. His hips were heavy on hers, and she could feel his heart pounding as his chest rested against her own. Coruwen writhed violently beneath him and kicked out with her legs, her feet digging into the quilt.

"Pelilas," she managed to get out, her voice hoarse. "Just wait f--"

Coruwen finally managed to free one of her hands and she lashed out with her nails, scratching him clear across the face. He froze as though she'd stabbed him, and Coruwen took this opportunity to leap across the room. She stood still near the doorway and paused to catch her breath and adjust her dress. Pelilas turned to look at her, and Coruwen glanced at the four jagged crimson lines etched in his pale cheek.

"Coruwen," Pelilas said, eyes wide with terror. "I do not know what came over me, I--"

"Get out," she whispered, fighting back tears.

"But Coruwen, if you would only--"

"I said, GET OUT!"

Her voice rang in his ears, and she pointed a furious finger towards her door. Pelilas nodded slowly, and stood.

"Very well then."

Coruwen followed him with her eyes, her expression cold and unforgiving. Only when she heard his footsteps descending the stairs did she allow herself to cry.

A/N: What a shithead, that Pelilas.