Hello all! Sorry for the long delay here, it's been a busy and rather difficult few weeks. Anyhow, I'm back now, just with one chapter I'm afraid. I hope that you enjoy it, and please do forgive any silly typos that I've missed.

Chapter Ninety-Three: The Edge of Night

Mordor was even worse in the night-time. The dark had swept down and stolen what pale light day had leant to the land, and with it had come the cold – a chill that bit through to your bones, and left the stifling, stuffy heat of the day a distant memory. Nelly and Sam had covered Bróin and Frodo with capes and blankets, keeping only the thinnest cloaks for themselves, but Bróin still shivered. He was not sure if it was incessant cold, or the lingering fear, or the swirl of sickness in his gut, but it was something. Sam point blank forbade Bróin or Frodo from taking a watch that night, but Bróin was awake much for much of it anyway. His stomach was churning violently, his guts writhing as though caught in the midst of a fever, and every few minutes, he felt an urge to vomit rise within him. Every few minutes he ignored it, clamping his mouth shut and dropping his head onto his knees.

Sam watched from the mouth of the cave, so Bróin managed to keep his suffering a secret, but when the weary hobbit woke Nelly for her turn, Bróin did not have even a chance to hide. She did not watch from the edge, instead sitting up beside Bróin and weaving her arms around him, guiding his head down onto her shoulder.

"Sleep, Bróin," she murmured. "It's alright now. You're safe. I'm here."

She kept whispering to him, murmuring comfort after comfort until he was slowly pulled into sleep, but it was less than four hours later that she woke him up, and told him that it was probably time to move on.

"If you and Frodo are feeling well enough. I don't think we should stay here any longer than we must. They're bound to be looking for you two by now."

Bróin shuddered violently at the thought of that, and Nelly pulled him close again, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"I said looking, not finding. They won't find you," she murmured, smiling a little, but when she reached up to brush Bróin's hair from his forehead she frowned. "Bróin, are you feeling alright?"

He pulled his face into a smile, ignoring the flaring of the nausea and the growing ache in his head. "Fine," he said, wincing a little as the word caught in his throat. He added a sore throat to the list of maladies he would keep hidden inside him.

"You're very warm," she said, pressing her the back of her fingers against his forehead with a frown. "Are you sure?"

He nodded, trying not to wince as the movement hurt. "Let's just go," he rasped, wincing again at the sound of his voice. He had hoped it would be better in the morning, that sleeping would have taken away some of the lingering pain the orcs had left him with, but it felt like someone had filled the inside of his neck with a bucket of coarse sand.

"Not before you eat and drink," said Sam firmly, and Bróin's stomach clenched at the thought. He fought back a gag and shook his head slightly.

"I'm not hungry," he said – too quickly. The others turned to look at him, concern in their eyes, and he dragged a smile onto his face. "My throat hurts."

"Well, you should still eat a little something," said Nelly, passing him a small pouch. "These are the last of Faramir's berries. They're a little softer."

Bróin wanted to refuse, but doing so would make the others worry, so he took the berries and nibbled on them slowly. He was half-sure that he could feel them swimming through his stomach, egging the nausea on, but he ignored it. He ate a little bread, too, to stop Nelly from worrying, and barely winced when cramps began seizing through his stomach. When she passed him the water, he sipped at it without flinching, and tried to pretend that it was soothing and sweet, and not making everything worse.

"You and Frodo can ride Toothy for now, Bróin," said Nelly, finally putting the bottle away. "We'll move much faster that way. Come on…"

Taking her hand, Bróin struggled to his feet, ignoring the sway of his stomach, and they crept out of the cave and into the dull cold light of morning. In a few hours, Bróin guessed, Mordor would become hot, and horribly so, but for now it was still cold. Cold and grim and grey. Toothy gave an odd, contented sort of growl when he saw Bróin, nuzzling the dwarf's neck and licking his chin, and Bróin smiled weakly.

"Morning," he murmured. "Good boy…" Even as the swoop of his gut and the pain in his head grew worse, the fact that Toothy had followed after them sent a surge of happiness through Bróin's heart. Sam helped Frodo up onto Toothy's back, and then Bróin clambered up behind him. He closed his eyes.

"Alright," Sam murmured. "The coast is clear. Let's go."

Nelly led the way, setting off at a brisk, silent jog, and Toothy followed, his loping movements doing nothing to improve how Bróin felt. He could hear the light jangling of Sam's cookware as the hobbit jogged along behind them, and he could hear Toothy's almost guttural panting, but around them all else was quiet.

They did not speak. They did not dare. Instead they hurried along in silence, as fast as they could, and the speed did nothing to help the nausea rising higher and higher in his chest. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, hanging his head and trying to pretend that everything was alright.

He was home, he was safe, and yes, he was sick, but the swaying beneath him was not a warg, it was his Ama, cradling him in her lap and rocking him back and forth. There was not silence around him – Ama was singing a lullaby, and he could hear Ada humming along in the background.

Bróin felt tears begin to build beneath his eyelids, and he clenched his jaw tighter. He was beginning to wonder what would happen if he never returned, how his parents would react to the news that he was dead. It felt like lifetime ago that he had spoken to Boromir in Moria, confessed that his parents had his brothers and sisters to soften the blow if he passed. He did not want his parents to mourn, and by no means did he want them to be in pain, but the idea that they would not miss him for long, that they would find comfort in his being a spare – it hurt worse than his head and his throat and his stomach put together. It was worse than imagining them screaming and wailing, worse than imagining them fainting or losing weight – worse than the thought of anything but their deaths.

But then a thought even worse than that took Bróin's breath away.

What if they could not take comfort in Bróin's siblings because he was not the only one gone? In Lothlórien, Galadriel claimed Glorfindel was certain Bofin would survive, but she had also said he was severely injured. If something that gone wrong, if the elves could not heal him – if his brother was gone and his parents and lost their firstborn –

And Saruman had sent orcs to the Shire – if Orla and Ola and Bodin were captured, if –

A thrill of cold flooded over him, and his hand clenched over his gut.

If his little siblings were dead already -

He bit back a sob, clenching his teeth. Through his nose, he dragged in a deep breath, trying desperately to grapple for a sense of calm, or an ounce of hope. All he could think of was that his youngest three siblings were still safe, were still home. He thought of Bolin, who had been so bitterly disappointed when he discovered that his broken leg would keep him in Erebor, and Bowin and Olin, who were so young that they probably would not remember Bróin if he never came home.

The sickness rose higher in Bróin's stomach, pressing up against his chest and his lungs, and he shoved his arm against himself tighter.

Come on, Bróin, he thought, keep it together. Keep it together.

He breathed in again, slowly, and let his eyes open. They were beginning to make their way down the mountain and into Mordor, but it did not look like they were following any road. Instead, Nelly and Sam seemed to be tracking their own winding path between the fierce rocks and crags of the mountainside.

Because the whole tower of Cirith Ungol is out looking for you. They'll find you, and drag you back, and this time when they hold your head under water you won't come up again.

Bróin's stomach seized violently, the new pain so sudden and fierce that he doubled over, hitting his head against Frodo's back. A cloud of darkness bloomed before Bróin's eyes as the nausea rose up his chest, up his neck, and he clamped a hand over his mouth -

"Bróin? Bróin!" whispered Frodo frantically, twisting around and grabbing at Bróin's wrists. "What's wrong?"

Bróin gagged, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his hand against his mouth so tightly that he could feel his teeth through his lips. His whole body was shuddering violently, and his insides felt ready to tear themselves apart. He clenched his teeth together, tried not to even breathe, and he felt himself slump further forward.

"Bróin! What's happening? Bróin?" Nelly's urgent voice was quiet as a sleep-sigh, but her fear rang loud as thunder in Bróin's ears, and he felt her strong arms wrap around him, pulling him down from Toothy's back. "Bróin-"

His knees hit the dirt and Bróin choked, and then he felt the burn of bile rise higher, and his palms smacked down onto the sharp stone, like a beast on all fours.

"What's going on?" Sam cried, and as he did, Bróin lurched forward.

Black vomit poured from his mouth, relentless, ceaseless, and when his lungs begged for air it still did not stop. Terror wracked through him, and he tried to gasp down some air, but he choked and gagged, and his body jerked and spasmed, and then the stuff began to stream out of his nose as well.

"What's happened to him? What happened, Frodo?" Nelly begged frantically, and Bróin felt her arms tighten around his chest, holding him up as his own elbows buckled.

For a moment, the vomiting stopped, and Bróin dragged in a few haggard breaths, but then he felt it rise again, and he barely had time to sob before it overtook him. Trembling, sweaty hands pressed against his forehead, pulling his hair away from his face, and Nelly's arms continued to hold him upright until the horror stopped with a last, shuddering jerk.

For a moment, he did not dare to breathe, but when his lungs wailed, he sucked in a little air, a sob of relief breaking from him when the vomit failed to follow.

"Is it over?" whispered Sam, his face paler than white moonstone. "Is – is it?"

"Bróin…" Nelly's voice cracked on her lips like a sob, and he felt her arms trembling around him. He wrenched in another gasp of air, not daring to even try to speak, and he felt himself sink down towards the ground. At once, Nelly's grip shifted, and she pulled him gently towards her, resting his back against her chest, and wrapping her arms around him. His head lolling to the side, Bróin tried with all his might just to keep breathing, as Nelly turned to the others. "Frodo, what happened to him?"

"They – they held him so long," sobbed Frodo, and the raw pain in his eyes was too much for Bróin to bear. He closed his eyes, trying not to sob himself as Frodo continued. "Underwater. They held his head underwater, for so long… I – I thought he…"

Bróin remembered the black water flooding into his lungs and he shuddered, whimpering when his stomach fluttered. He could hear Sam sniffing, hear the pain clinging to the whisper of Nelly's voice.

"They… they drowned him?"

Wincing, Bróin grappled for Nelly's hand, squeezing it with what little strength he had. He felt her jump, felt her squeeze him back.

"Is that – is that what that is?" she asked. "Is that, is that what he…"

"I – I think so," Frodo said, his voice hollow as bone. "The water… it was filthy, it was, it was black and cold and it, it stank and he – he must have swallowed some…"

"So ,what do we do?" demanded Nelly, her fear tightening in her voice. "Frodo, what do we do?"

"I – I don't know, I don't-"

"What do we do?"

Bróin choked, lurching forwards as he gagged once more. This time, he vomited thin black bile, and Nelly rubbed his back and Sam held his hair from his face, and pain seized across Bróin's stomach. After a moment, it dulled slightly, and he fell back against Nelly again. He was panting heavily, choking on every third breath, and he felt tears burn in his eyes as his head lolled back.

He was tired – he was so, so tired. It felt like every ounce of energy within him had left with the contents of his stomach. He coughed, and then drew a deep breath, and coughed again.

"Here," croaked Frodo, holding out a water skein, but Bróin cringed away and Nelly shook her head.

"No, no, it's too soon for water, it'll upset his stomach," she said, her voice wavering.

"Then what do we do? I don't, I don't know what to do," said Frodo, a tear weaving down his cheek. He staggered back against a nearby wall, sinking down to the ground and shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Bróin. I'm sorry."

"Oh, I wish old Bofur was here. He'd know what to do, for certain," said Sam, and Bróin closed his eyes again before the others could see his tears. Yes, he wished Bofur was here too. So, so badly. "If… if there was still water in your stomach, do you… do you think there could still be water in your lungs? It's just, I've heard stories, you see, of folk who got themselves drowned hours after leaving the water, and-"

Bróin whimpered, and Nelly's arms tightened around him. "How'd we get it out, Sam? If there's water in his lungs, how'd we get it out?"

The colour drained from Sam's face, taking with it the strength in his voice. "I… I don't know if you can."

"It's alright," Nelly whispered, her lips so close to Bróin's ear that the hair on the back of his neck stood up. "It's alright, you're going to be fine. I won't, I won't let you drown, Bróin, you're going to be fine."

"If… if it's just the water upsetting his stomach this might be over," said Frodo, his voice void of hope. "But if it's an infection… I don't know what we should-"

Toothy dropped to the ground, growling low and quiet in the back of his throat, and the dwobbits froze, staring at the warg until he fell silent. Then, Bróin heard it – a clanking, stomping and jeering, the sound of orcs on the move – orcs getting closer.

"We have to move!" Sam hissed, springing into action at once. "Frodo, get on Toothy, now!"

"But-"

Sam whirled around with eyes wide and wild, and signed the word "Now!" with such force that Frodo scrambled to his feet, and onto the warg's back.

Scurrying over to Nelly and Bróin, Sam took the dwarf's arm in his. "Help me get him up, Nell. Frodo will hold him, we can run." She hesitated, and Bróin's stomach rolled uncomfortably, but Sam jerked his head towards the sound of the orcs. "If we stay here, we're all dead."

Nelly nodded, rising to her feet and lifting Bróin with her. His gut roiled and his toes curled against the dirt, but he let them pull him up onto Toothy. Frodo's arms locked around him much like Nelly's had, and Bróin closed his eyes.

Just be alright, he begged his battered body. Please, just be alright enough to get there and back again. There and back, that's all I ask, please, please, please…

"I've got you," Frodo murmured, but his voice was hurt and weary, and his arms were already trembling. Bróin could feel the hard metal of the ring pressing into the back of his neck as he lay against the hobbit's chest, and he winced. "I won't let you go. I won't let you go."

And then, for their lives, they ran.

Boromir was ten years old the first time he heard his father scorn his brother. It was a month to the day after they buried their mother, and one of the servants had served Faramir his dinner on a plate that had been a particular favourite of hers. When he noticed, Faramir had burst into tears, pushing away his food and wailing for his mother. It was not long before Denethor had brought his fist down against the table and snapped at his youngest son to act like a man and keep his tears to himself.

"Look at Boromir," he had growled. "He doesn't weep like some pathetic maiden, does he?"

Boromir still remembered hanging his head, feeling the blush of shame on his cheeks. He did cry, and Faramir knew it. He had cried himself to sleep for the last four nights, and Faramir had been the one to comfort him. The only difference between them was that Boromir knew better than to cry in front of their father.

In hindsight, Boromir had long chalked that moment up to grief, and since then he had made a thousand excuses. Their father was busy, their father was stressed. He did not think about what he was saying, he just wanted Faramir to achieve his best potential. Yes, he could be cold, but he was not uncaring. Faramir was so much like their mother in looks and manner and soul that it must hurt Denethor to look at him sometimes, and that had to be why he was so hard on him. It had to be because Denethor did not want to lose Faramir as he had lost Finduilas.

Except that was not true, and now Boromir knew it.

Madness, that was what Gandalf said, and what Pippin had claimed to see in Denethor's eyes. Perhaps that was true. It would be easier to believe that it was all madness, but Boromir could not make excuses. Not anymore.

Because even if it was madness that had pushed Denethor to act as he had, Boromir knew in his heart that his father had been sure of what he said. He would have traded Faramir's life for Boromir's in the blink of an eye, and he would have done so with all his wits about him.

There was a great, aching pain in Boromir's chest, as though he had been speared by the lance of a cave troll, and he did not know if he wanted to rage or to weep. Maybe both. What he did not want was to face his father – the man who had condemned his brother to die, the man who had ordered the murder of Pippin. The man who had encouraged his every move, had praised any victory. The man who rocked him to sleep after his nightmares.

The man who had betrayed him.

But he had no choice. Whatever Aragorn said, this had to be done now. Now, while the anger and pain still seared through his veins. If it was not done now, Boromir did not know if he would ever have the strength to do it.

He nodded at the guards, determinedly not looking at their faces. If one of them was Amras, Boromir might just strike him. Instead, he waited as they pulled open the door, and then he stepped inside. The room was dim, with but a little light seeping in beneath the curtains, but Boromir could see perfectly clearly. He could see Denethor sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands bound behind him in soft cloth, and then tied to the bedposts. His face was turned away as he glared resolutely towards the covered window, and there was nothing but fury in his eyes.

When Boromir did not speak, Denethor scoffed.

"I have nothing to say to you, wizard, other than that you will burn for your treachery."

"Gandalf has committed no treachery," said Boromir, his heart stumbling as his father froze. "Not against the realm of Gondor, nor the realm of men."

Denethor turned, his face void of all colour and his mouth falling open. He looked almost like a skull, gaping in the darkness, but there was a light in his eyes. A light of joy – and of fear.

"Boromir?" he whispered, raising his bound hands up to rub his eyes. "My son – it cannot be!"

"It is."

Denethor's pallid face broke into an almost crazed grin and he let out a laugh, standing up. "Boromir! My boy, my boy!"

Pain wrenched Boromir's heart into pieces, and he turned his face away. For months, almost a year, he had been yearning to hear his father say that. Waiting, often impatiently, for his family to welcome him home. Even on the battlefield, he had smiled at the thought of finally being able to embrace his father – and his brother.

"I thought you were dead," Denethor whispered, his voice pained and afraid. "Word came from Rohan… oh, my boy, my boy!"

Boromir turned back to his father and folded his arms across his chest. The desire to throw his arms around his father and hold him as tightly as he could was growing within him, but so was the desire to punch him in the jaw. When he said nothing, concern pinched at the steward's face.

"Boromir, you must help me!" insisted Denethor urgently. "There is a conspiracy against me, and traitors among our own High Guard who have bound me and left me here – it is a disgrace! They plan to usurp me, to replace me with that ragged ranger, Aragorn! Come, untie me! Gandalf is at their head, the treacherous snake, and has poisoned even Prince Imrahil against me. Thank goodness you've returned. Untie me, Boromir."

The anger within him flared hot, and Boromir breathed in sharply. "Do not lie to me."

Denethor shook his head slightly and blinked. "Lie?"

"Do not lie to me," Boromir repeated, his voice rasping a little. "I know what you have done. I know why you are bound, I know everything!"

"What you've been told – whatever you've been told, it is lies!"

"Stop!" Boromir growled, his voice trembling with the effort not to roar. "I know everything, everything. Don't you make me play this game now. Don't you pretend that you've done nothing wrong, don't you… don't you lie to me, too."

Red blotches of anger rose onto Denethor's pallid cheeks, but even as his chest puffed out, his voice sounded more pained than it did furious. "You – you would not hear your father's own words, your father's own account of what happened? You are my son, Boromir, my son, and you, I know are no traitor. What has he done to you? What has the wizard done to you?"

"Tell me then, if you wish me to hear your side," said Boromir, ignoring mention of Gandalf. His father had never trusted the wizard, and Boromir did not have time to go down that road now. "Did you, or did you not tell Faramir to reclaim a fallen city with fifty weary men?"

"I tried to save your brother," spat the Steward. "The Halfling – the Halfling drew his blade and kept him from me, he-"

"Did you, or did you not send Faramir to Osgiliath knowing that it was hopeless?"

Denethor straightened, a scowl descending onto his face. "I will not be interrogated by-"

"Did you?" roared Boromir, satisfaction surging within him as his father flinched. "Did you send my brother to die?"

Silence fell between them, prickly and cold, and when Denethor finally spoke, his voice was even colder. "I did what I thought was best for my city. Faramir betrayed the kingdom, Boromir – he let the Ring of Power potter into Mordor in the hands of a weak, witless halfling. If I were a poor father, I would have had him executed on the spot for his treason. You will listen to me, Boromir- "

"No," Boromir snarled. He could feel his anguish burning behind his eyes, but he did not care anymore. "I have listened to you all my life, and I have made excuses for you… excuses… Now, I speak, and you listen. Faramir did not betray us. You did."

The veins on Denethor's forehead bulged, and anger flamed in his eyes. "What did you-"

"I said listen!" Boromir roared, and Denethor flinched back, his face falling slack with shock. "You will listen to me now – listen as you never have before. Faramir – Faramir did what I could not. He defended our city, protected our people – if the Ring had come to Gondor, our kingdom would fall. No man can wield that thing, but it can destroy a man without ever touching him. I know this better than anyone. It poisoned my heart, took my mind from me, and I – I tried to take it. I attacked a soul I had sworn to protect, and I drew my sword against one of the dearest friends I have ever had. If Frodo was weak, and witless, he would be dead, but he is neither. He is far nobler than any man I have ever met. When I realised what I had done, I was ready to fall on my own sword from the very shame of it, but Frodo – Frodo saw the madness, and he forgave me. I have spent every moment since trying to earn that forgiveness. But Faramir – Faramir did not even try to take it. He has always been brighter, been braver, even if he will never beat me in the sparring ring. Faramir is the strongest of your sons, and he always has been." He broke off, breathing heavily, and Denethor shifted. A look of bitter sorrow twisted onto his face, and he sighed.

"Faramir-"

"I have not finished!" snapped Boromir. "And do not speak his name – not after what you have done. You almost killed him – you knew Osgiliath could not be won with fifty men, and you heard that soldier beg for the order to retreat. You heard the boy beg, and you sent Faramir anyway, you would have preferred to lose both your sons to accepting Faramir as your heir. And you always have. Always. Gandalf believes this to be madness, and Imrahil grief, but you have loathed Faramir since the moment our mother grew ill."

Denethor opened his mouth, but Boromir let out a wild, bark-like sob. He could feel the sting of salt on his cheeks now, and he made no attempt to hide it.

"Don't try to deny it – I have denied it in my heart for the last twenty years, but I know it to be true. I know it's true. You blame him for what happened, but it was the fever that took Mother, not Faramir, and it almost took him too! You look at him as though he murdered her, but he was six years old! Six! And then he committed a crime almost as dark as murder, didn't he? He dared to grow to look like her, to love like her – he dared to be gentle and cautious and calm and you couldn't stand it! That is why you sent him to die. You have not cared for Faramir in twenty years, and I – I could not accept that, because I love you. I loved you, Father, I loved you and defended you, and I was always too afraid to believe that you loathed him. But the minute, the minute it looked like I was dead you sent him to die too! And you cannot claim madness for that. I wish it was madness, I wish it was, but we both know it is not. And that, that I cannot forgive."

He drew a deep breath and turned away, trying to regain some composure. He was trembling like a frightened child, and anger and grief and fear were waging war within his veins.

"Boromir," pleaded the steward, his voice cracked and broken. "Please… you do not understand. I…"

Boromir's lip curled in disgust as his father fell silent, and he spun around. "What? You what, father? Tell me – what is your defence?"

"I have never loathed your brother," said Denethor. Boromir let out a sharp laugh of disbelief, but his father continued. "I only worried – he was so much softer, so much weaker – he always needed the extra push. That was all. I did not loathe him. He is my son, and he is dear to me."

Boromir growled. "I told you not to lie!"

"It is no lie! When I believed him dead, I made to join him – I had no way of knowing he was alive!"

"Oh, yes you did," said Boromir, his entire being trembling with rage. "You knew full well he was alive. Even if you could not see it, if you could not hear the healers, Pippin screamed it at you! He screamed it, and you did not check – you threatened Pippin, ordered him killed! You did not want to join Faramir – you wanted to make sure that I never found out what you had done. But I know. I know."

"The wizard has manipulated you, Boromir, he has not told you the whole truth. You do not understand. Yes, a madness took me, but I fought it off. I fought it alone! When I sent your brother to Osgiliath, I knew nothing but despair. At great cost to myself, I have been spying upon our enemy with one of the great Seeing Stones, but the night before your brother came to me, I was spied myself. You cannot understand… the things he showed me… Doom was upon our people. There would be no escape, not for Gondor. I saw our deaths, the destruction of man. Even I was afraid – the darkness swallowed us whole, and gutted our soldiers one by one. The orcs came down upon our cities and ravaged our women, and ate our children alive, and I saw it. I saw it all."

An eerie horror gazed out of Denethor's eyes, and Boromir swallowed. That, he could believe. That, he could imagine driving someone to madness – but the thread of new hope was thin, and fragile, and Denethor ripped it apart with his next sentence.

"Such horror – it was more than I could ever have imagined, and I… and I thought… I thought that Faramir might have had a chance at glory before-"

With a roar, Boromir turned, letting out his fury on the door fame. The wood splintered beneath his fist as pain blazed across his knuckles, and behind him Denethor fell silent.

"If that is true," snarled Boromir. "Why did you not give him more men, more horses? More importantly, why did you tell him that you wished him dead? Why did you tell him not to come back? The Palantir did not make you say that, or put those words in your mouth. Pippin fell afoul of a Palantir, I have seen how they work – your horror did not make you say those things. You did. Yet still, Faramir forgives you. Faramir, the man you tried to kill, did not want to tell me what you said because he didn't want me to see you differently. But I pushed, and he told me. He told me everything. Because he is loyal, and he is true, and he is nothing like you."

Denethor shook his head slightly, a look that could only be described as terror dawning in his eyes. "Boromir… Boromir please… You're my sons, I love you."

"It's a little too late to claim love now," Boromir growled, but his voice broke, and he pursed his lips, closing his eyes tightly. He took a deep breath, and then turned to his father, staring deep into Denethor's cold, fearful eyes. "Here's what's going to happen now. Due to your abandoning your duties during the crisis of battle, and leaving the defence of the city of Minas Tirith to others, you have already been stripped of your role and title as steward. As your legal heir, that 'honour' now falls to me, and I will ensure that Aragorn, Son of Arathorn is welcomed into our city and onto the throne of Gondor. He has earned it through more than just his birth-right, and if any man can lead our people through the darkness to come. it is him."

"Never!" spat Denethor, anger instantly flashing over his face. "I will not bow to that Ranger from the North!"

"You will bow to him!" Boromir bellowed. "You will bow to him, or you will be banished from Gondor and all its lands until the day you die!" He paused, taking a moment to catch his breath, and then he nodded. "Now – if you wish to live the rest of your days without seeing either of the men you once called sons, you do as you will. Deny Aragorn, denounce Gandalf, sing of our doom to the kingdom. But know that if you do, I will deny and denounce you." It felt as though his own words were tearing Boromir's heart apart, but he let his tears fall and he kept talking. "I have loved you, Father, as any good son would. Defended you. Remained loyal to you. But now you are a threat not only to our family, but to our people. For the safety of us all you will be moved to a secure room as soon as the healers have the space to facilitate it. There you will serve a sentence for your neglect of your duties as steward in battle – or receive treatment for your 'madness.' Whatever the king and council deem fit. But you will not see me or Faramir me until you can find some form of penance to prove to us that you are truly sorry for what it is you have done. And you will have to prove it. Without words. Your words have done damage enough."

Denethor was shaking now, almost like one having a fit, and tears and snot were streaking down his pallid face. "You... you would betray me like that?" he rasped.

A part of Boromir wanted to roar back, but his sorrow was draining his anger away with the speed of the falls of Rauros. He had felt this way only once before – empty, and hopeless, and utterly stricken by grief. The last time, he had been ten years old, and he felt that age again. He felt like a frightened, helpless child, a child losing a parent in front of their eyes.

Only this time, their father was not dying. This time, if he left them forever, it would be of his own volition.

"Mother would be so ashamed of you," he murmured. "Don't accuse me of treason now – you are the one who has betrayed your family. I am going now, Father. Next time we meet, I hope you have found your humility, and lost your madness."

Boromir bowed his head and turned to the door, walking with his hands clasped in front of him so his father would not see them shake.

"No!" yelled Denethor. "Boromir! Get back here! Don't you dare – don't you dare turn your back on me! Boromir! Boromir!"

But Boromir, Steward of Gondor, did not look back.

Thank you so much for reading this chapter! Please do let me know what you think – I found the Denethor conversation so difficult to write and I'm not sure that I 100% nailed it, so if anyone has any critiques or criticisms please do let me know.

I honestly have no idea when the next chapter will be – ideally next Monday, but with how busy my life is right now there could be another wait on our hands. Until then, thank you for reading, and take care!