"Poor bastard. She's knocking seven shades of shite out of him. I'm beginning to feel a bit sorry for the bloke." Anborn sat on a tree stump watching the bout. Even with blunted swords with the points filed down, the man had to have felt that last blow.

"Nope, no sympathy," said Mablung. "Arrives here fresh from the Citadel, all full of himself, ready to 'show you pretend soldiers how a real one does it.' Told him I'd pair him off with the best sword we had, see how he got on."

"You also said you'd let him start out with a woman. Led him up the garden path right and proper with that one." Anborn gave his sergeant a hard stare.

"Well, if he was too thick to realise that the two were one and the same, that's his look out."

"You meant to mislead him, and you did." Damrod's voice came from behind them. Once he'd got over the shock, Mablung reflected on the fact that like all decent long-serving officers, Damrod seemed to be capable of materialising out of thin air at just the wrong point in a conversation. And (as his next words confirmed) making you regret what you'd just said. "Of course, it's just as well the lady didn't hear you say that – otherwise you'd have been next in line for a pummelling."

The new arrival was beginning to realise he was outclassed with a sword and decided to resort to a mixture of blade and gutter fighting techniques. Éowyn having pushed him onto the back foot, he reached out with his left hand and grabbed a handful of her hair which had come loose from its leather thong, pulling her in too close to deliver another stroke. Éowyn gave an angry grunt of pain, then twisted her wrist, bringing the heel of her hand down. The hilt of her sword struck him hard in the groin. He turned pale, then green, and crumpled to the ground in a heap.

The three watching Rangers all gasped in sympathy, Anborn involuntarily crossing his legs.

"Shit!" said Mablung, adding, "For the Valar's sake, don't tell her I may have let the bloke think he was getting an easy warm up with me. I don't fancy being next in line."

They looked across the clearing to where Éowyn stood, nostrils flared, looking down at her victim with utter disdain.

"We've got to get her and the captain back together somehow," Anborn commented. "I'm not sure how much more of this I can take. Her mood's been blacker than the dungeons of Angband ever since you stopped them shagging." He gave Damrod an accusatory look.

"You've got to admit the lad's right. So far we've managed to give her new recruits and preening, overweening pricks like that one to take out her frustration on, but sooner or later she's going to find a reason to lose it with one of us. And I dunno about you two, but I'm rather attached to my crown jewels." Mablung's tone left Damrod in no doubt that he too held his superior responsible for the current situation. The jilted, sexually frustrated, highly dangerous shieldmaiden situation.

But Damrod wasn't taking responsibility. "You two are just trying to adjust the odds in your favour. Just because I bet it would be a matter of months rather than just days or weeks before his reserve crumbled."

"Alright then, fix her up with someone else in the mean time. Kill two birds with one stone. She stops feeling so bloody grumpy and it makes him jealous enough to try to win her back," Anborn offered.

"You really know bugger all about women, don't you?" Damrod stared at Anborn in disbelief. "She doesn't want just anyone. She wants him, you plonker. She may not realise it herself yet, but there's more to this than just having an itch she has to scratch."

"Well, whether it's just an itch or true love the likes of which hasn't been seen since Beren and Luthien, you owe it to the rest of us to at least try to placate her. A friendly fatherly shoulder to cry on about how the captain's thrown her over." Mablung wasn't letting Damrod off the hook that easily. But Damrod hadn't been a soldier for nigh on twenty years without learning a thing or two about how to counter attack.

"Father figure? To talk to about her love life? Are you daft? No, what she wants is a tankard or six of ale with a big brother figure while she tells you how bloody awful men are – present company excepted - and what a bastard he was for jilting her and how much she hates him."

Mablung looked daggers at Damrod, realising he was well and truly out-manoeuvred.

"But if she hates him, she'll never get back together with him, and we might as well not have bet at all," Anborn interrupted in a slightly whiny tone.

"She doesn't really hate him, you twerp. She just thinks she does." Damrod shook his head at the naivety of youth. Surely even at the age of twenty, he had not been that daft.

~o~O~o~

"That bloke Damrod fobbed off on us was a prize arse. Think you could stop him sending us any more like him?" Boromir raised his tankard of ale in salute to his younger brother.

"Daeron? Damrod made the decision while I was away – away here in fact," Faramir answered. Please the Valar, let him drop this topic.

"Did you ever find out why he sent the bloke our way."

"Fight between two of the soldiers." Faramir really didn't feel like discussing the matter further. The conversation was far too likely to stray into areas he was doing his best to forget. "Daeron was the one who started it, so Damrod decided he was the one that should be moved." Faramir shifted to the attack in an attempt to distract Boromir. "You say 'was' – isn't he here any more?"

"Man was a bloody liability. Petty squabbles, fights – though not within sight of any of the officers, seemed to have learned that lesson at least, constantly teetering on the brink of insubordination. In the end I gave him the Steward's shilling, sent him off as oarsman third class in one of Imrahil's galleons."

Faramir felt a satisfied grin spread across his face, and quickly tried to hide it by taking a long pull of his beer. Not quickly enough, though: Boromir homed in on the look with the quickness of someone who'd been reading his brother's face for over thirty years now.

"Damrod transferred him, but he'd done something pretty major to piss you off, hadn't he? Come on brother, spill the dirt."

Boromir regarded Faramir from grey eyes with a steady gaze that made Faramir realise why his own troops complained so bitterly about his ability to read their sins on their faces. Family trait, he thought, remembering unsuccessful attempts to lie to his father about childhood apple scrumping expeditions. Deflect his attention, somehow.

"No, you were right, it was just that the man was a complete arsehole. Like I said, the final straw was an incident while I was away, but I was glad to see the back of him." Faramir took another swig of beer. Steady, don't overdo it. The last thing you want is to let your guard down now Boromir's curiosity's piqued.

"Still, at least it's put a bit of a smile on your face. You've been a right miserable bastard since the moment you arrived. Are you going to tell me what's up?" That gaze again: curiosity mixed with concern.

"Just a lot on, orcs on the prowl, worrying Haradrim and Easterling movements – and we both know what that leads to... too much bloody paperwork." Faramir gave what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug.

Boromir grunted. "You know what, next time we go to see father, we should go out on the town. I know you're all up your own arse about paying for it, but swallow your pride for once. You could really do with getting laid."

Faramir couldn't help himself: he jolted as though someone had jerked the stool he sat on. Boromir raised his eyebrows and assessed his quarry.

"Ah, that one's hit the mark dead centre, hasn't it? What have you been up to, little brother?" Then Boromir's face fell, a look of shock slowly spreading over his features. "You haven't been partaking of the warrior's comfort, have you? I mean, I know you say you don't like visiting tarts, but surely that's not because..."

Faramir was dumbstruck. Unable to speak, he settled instead for shaking his head furiously. Unfortunately it seemed that Boromir mistook this for an excessive and therefore insincere protestation of innocence.

"Bugger me... Oh fuck, bad choice of words." Then Boromir paused, a second wave of shock apparently hitting him. "Bloody hell, tell me it wasn't that arse Daeron. Tell me you've got better taste in catamites than that."

"For the Valar's sake, you've known me since the day I was born, Boromir. I don't do blokes, you know that." Faramir found his voice rising, annoyance with his brother's stupidity threatening to explode.

Boromir held his hands up in supplication. Then, slowly at first, but with a deep rumbling noise that echoed round the room, he started to laugh. Laugh until tears began to roll down his cheeks.

"I'm glad you find this funny." Even to his own ears, Faramir's voice sounded pissed off beyond measure. The fact that he failed to share the joke seemed finally to penetrate his brother's mood. Boromir frowned, as if trying to piece together bits of an intricate wooden puzzle. Finally, the crease between his brows smoothed out, and he gave Faramir a sly grin.

"If it's not a catamite, that narrows the field down to just one candidate – that Rohir lass."

Faramir glanced down at his beer, trying to avoid his brother's gaze, but once again he wasn't quick enough.

"You've got the hots for her and Daeron was shagging her," Boromir concluded, triumphantly.

"No," said Faramir, his voice abrupt. He kept his eyes fixed on the tankard.

Boromir gave a low whistle. "Then it must have been the other way round – you were shagging her and he had the hots for her. You sly old dog, you kept that one quiet, didn't you? There was me thinking you desperately needed to get laid, and all the time you've been screwing our friend the horselord's sister." Boromir frowned once more as he assessed this latest thought. "Bloody hell, Fara, you're a braver man than I am. He'll cut your balls off and feed them to his horse if he catches you."

"Just fuck off, will you?"

"Ah, and there goes your customary eloquence. I've really hit a nerve, haven't I?" Boromir looked at his brother, then to Faramir's surprise, stretched out and placed his hand on his arm. "So how come you're so bloody miserable? Has it all gone tits up?"

"In a manner of speaking. Between the incident with Daeron and me almost missing spotting a troop of orcs because I allowed myself to get distracted, I realised it couldn't go on – it messed up discipline, it interfered with my decision making, it just wasn't... professional."

"Valar, you really are the biggest prude I know." Boromir took another mouthful of beer. Then he looked again at his brother, who was still staring down at his own tankard. "Oh shit, forget I said that. I'm sorry."

"Morgoth's balls, Boromir, not pity. I can handle you laughing at me, but not pity."

"No, it's not that... well, it is that... but... You've really fallen for her, haven't you?"

Faramir pressed the palms of his hands over his eyes, wishing he could take shelter in the blessed darkness. His tongue would hardly obey him, but he did manage to mutter his answer.

"Yes."

~o~O~o~

Faramir woke feeling as though an oliphaunt was sitting on his head. But although his head might ache, his heart felt lighter than it had for several weeks – almost a month, in fact – since that last carefree afternoon on the flet with Éowyn. Boromir had plied him with tankard after tankard of ale, and refused to allow him to sulk in mulish obstinacy. And gradually, over the course of the evening, Faramir had told him everything, or almost everything: his first impression of the woman with hair like spun sunlight, the long period of trying to ignore what he felt, his jealousy, the fact that they had finally snatched a few months of happiness, then the fateful day when only luck had stood between him and the gravest dereliction of duty imaginable, and finally his decision to end things between them.

Boromir had listened patiently (unusually patiently for him). When his brother's long tale of seemingly unrequited love, brief passion and lament for his loss had finally come to an end, he had contented himself with a brief but pithy comment: "You are a daft bugger, you know. Damrod was right. You should just have moved the lass into your quarters."

He sat up, feeling as though his head was going to split in two, then swung his legs gingerly over the edge of the bed. Upright... good start... now keep your balance while you get your breeches on... Finally satisfied that he was half-way presentable, Faramir drew back the curtain on the alcove and stepped into the mess hall beyond.

Boromir greeted him with a steaming mug of the hot drink from the Harad that he favoured in the mornings. Normally Faramir turned his nose up at the bitter brew, but this morning it felt like the only thing that would keep him on his feet. The mug and a large bowl of porridge sweetened with a dollop of honey (he put some in the drink too) left him feeling slightly more like himself. Just as well: Boromir, true to form, was apparently entirely unaffected by the previous night's beer.

Breakfast finished, Boromir took him over to the chest where he kept the collection of maps of Ithilien and the surroundings of Osgiliath. He spread a large map across the nearby table and weighted the corners down. Then he produced a bag of polished pebbles.

"Grey for Haradrim, black for Orcs, red for Easterlings," he said. Between them, drawing on the reports Faramir's rangers had drawn up and the intelligence some of Boromir's scouts had pieced together, they carefully laid out the pebbles on the map to get some sense of the enemy's troop depositions. It took some time to finish, then the two brothers stepped back and looked at the picture revealed. Boromir gave a low whistle.

"That looks bad, very bad," he commented.

"That looks like an attack within the next fortnight at the outside," Faramir replied. "An attack which they're probably going to win."

"And then they sweep over the bridge, breach the Rammas Echor, then straight across the Pelennor. Shit. We're fucked."

The brothers stood in silence contemplating the bleakness of the situation. Then both spoke simultaneously.

"Unless..."

"The only thing we can do..."

They stopped and looked at one another. Then Faramir finished his sentence. "We have to destroy the bridge." Boromir nodded.

"But how?" asked Boromir. "It's not as though we can pull the thing down gradually over a course of weeks just on the off chance that this attack's going to happen. We can only do it as a last resort, when we know that it's either that, or lose Minas Tirith."

Faramir sat down heavily on the bench against the wall, and put his head in his hands for a moment or two while he thought. "It's on the piers of the original bridge – with wooden towers and then trusses in between to hold the planks on top. If we take out enough of the wooden pegs on the tower nearest the western bank, the bridge will still stand provided we don't send too many troops over at any one time. But we attach ropes to the supports near the base. Then if the worst happens, we use a team of draft horses to pull the supports out when the time comes."

"That sounds good to me. But we'll have to defend the eastern shore somehow while we demolish it. And that leaves whoever's on the bridge with no means of retreat."

"Swim?" said Faramir. His tone of voice clearly indicated that this was a forlorn hope.

"Aye, it's only an outside chance, but at least it's not outright suicide. We'd better make preparations – get the engineers on the job, organise draft horses..." Boromir paused, and though his face remained impassive, his eyes gave away his underlying anxiety as he added, "Send word to father."

"You'd better write that dispatch. He'll take it better from you. Might even believe it's militarily necessary. What about my Rangers? Bring them down here as reinforcements?"

"Not if you think they can remain in Ithilien undetected. They'll be more use to us continuing their work watching the troop movements and trying to harry the enemy with ambushes in the woods. You'd better send word to Damrod explaining the situation."

"Not in any detail – at the moment I don't trust that any messenger is going to make it through safely. But I'll get him to stay put. I've got a cypher set up that we can use for this sort of message."

"And for Elbereth's sake, get word to your lass while you're at it. We may not come out of this one alive. At least tell her you've been a prick and you're sorry."

Author's notes...

Thanks for all the lovely reviews, and the interesting questions and comments. I can't PM those of you not logged in, obviously, so I'll do my best to answer some of the things you raised here.

Most of the answers can be summed up by the phrase "magic AU plot McGuffin." This started out as a very quickly penned piece of wish-fulfilment to cheer up a friend. It's taken on a life of its own, but I want to keep it (mostly) fairly light and fluffy, so all sorts of things are being thrown in the pot, and I'm hoping for a generous measure of suspension of disbelief from my readership.

Pregnancy – take your pick: maybe they're trying to use some version of the rhythm method, maybe they're using withdrawal, maybe they've just been lucky (I refuse to go for magic herbs or moon tea on the grounds that my characters are not daft enough to use methods that clearly don't work – see Ruth's spreadsheet in Groundhog GDIME of "On average, how long could your Mary Sue practise this particular homespun method of contraception before falling pregnant?")

"Florins" - well, chapter 1 was dashed off in about an hour as a piece of AU daftness and it was the first suitably old-fashioned coin that came to mind. I liked the sound of it, so I went with it. (Incidentally, I've had a few e-mail exchanges with Borys68 on this subject: he has done some reading, and he doesn't think Tolkien ever mentions specific currencies either for Gondor or for the Mark. So you have to make one up. If anyone does have a canon answer, I'd be interested to hear it).

And just to mix things up still further, this chapter has shillings because I wanted to work in a variation on "Taking the king's shilling", and coffee in it. I'm using the AU-ness as a get-out-of-jail-free card. Oh, and I know that Faramir would have said "mumak", but having an oliphaunt sitting on one's head just sounds so much funnier!