Chapter 11: The river flows away

The last rays of the waning moon's light shone on the river in the grey hour just before dawn when Kíli had guided the boat into the murky delta of the Entwash. He his muscles were sore and his arms hurt each time he used the oar, but this was the first decent place to hide he had found. Pushing the boat into the mud of one of the many tight channels of the delta, he felt the soft impact as it sat on the slick mud.

All around them grew high reeds and thick bushes, a few drooping willows stretched their dark branches over the waters. Under one of them Kíli made camp, moving Boromir to rest on the blankets on the soft ground beside the tree. The warrior had not woken when he had been moved from the boat. It was the first chance for Kíli to treat the healing wounds, luckily most of them had truly closed, scrapped over or even scarring already.

From his pack he retrieved a small bundle holding a few vials and pots, Elrohir had given him these before he had left Rivendell. If the elves send one on a dangerous task, they usually were generous in providing the means to survive it. Kíli had saved these up for dire situations. It was also sheer luck it had been autumn, Paleberrys and Autumn Dreamers only grew late in the year, and their salve would speed up the healing of the wounds even further. Once done with Boromir the dwarf examined his own wounds, a lot were bruises, he was grateful for Aelin's chainmail armor, for it had held a lot of damage at bay. He cleaned the cuts he had received and then packed the vials away again.

There was little in terms of dry wood at hand, but he gathered it up along with some driftwood, setting it aflame took a little more strength than usual, because he was tired, but calling for the fire had long become a second nature to him. The wood was not strictly necessary but that way the dwarven fire would bun even if he fell asleep or lost focus.

The morning came and the Sun rose high above the river. There was some of the first fleeting warmth in her rays, not enough to call it spring but adequate to remind the world that neither cold nor winter were perpetual. Kíli had allowed himself to doze off during the early morning hours, but it was more of a nap than real sleep, as he woke at the slightest noise.

Around noon, Boromir began to toss in his sleep, his hands clenching into the sand beside his blanket. He nearly rose to snap an order at someone that was not there only to sink back and whisper hoarsely of dreams, of nightmares. Kíli rose to sit down beside him. "Veryan… we need to take that bridge.." Boromir's voice was rough, his powerful frame shaking caught in a dream that he could not escape. There was little Kíli could do about the nightmares; he had neither dreambane nor whiteroot at hand to brew a concoction that could alleviate evil dreams, nor was he sure that the bitter brew would even be helpful

"The fight is over," he said softly. "we won, we drove the Orcs away," he could immediately see the effect his voice had, as Boromir stilled, the shaking becoming less pronounced. Kíli kept on talking to him and after a while the Gondorian slipped back into a deep slumber.

Kíli remained sitting beside him, in the vague warmth of the afternoon sun he dozed off again, the sleep never deep, waking up whenever Boromir got restless or an unfamiliar noise drew close, but it was better than nothing.

As night fell, Kíli was still tired, but not as bone weary as he had been. He pushed himself up and packed up their camp, bidding the fire to be still and burn out. Gently he moved Boromir back to the boat, carefully bedding him on the blankets. The Dwarf sat down on the boat's stern again and pushed off from shore, leaving their hideout. Under the cover of the night, there was less of a chance to be spotted.

The clouds mercifully veiled the moon and the wind whispering in the barren trees helped to hide the sounds of the oar on the water. For two hours the boat glided downriver in silence. Kíli used the oar to steer them, letting the strong drift of the water provide the strength he still lacked. Thze nightly river with the barren, wintery banks actually brought a smile to the dwarf's face, how often had he wandered into a new spring, feeling the cold wind embrace him?

"The Bridge… Faramir… we need to hold that bridge…" Boromir's voice was tense, laden with exhaustion and strained. The boat shook slightly when he began to turn and toss in the throes of another nightmare. For a moment Kíli considered setting them ashore again and allowing Boromir to rest until he was over the worst weakness. But he decided against it. If there were still Orcs hunting for them it was smarter to keep moving under the night and hide during the day. Pushing the oar more firmly into the water, Kíli began to hum a tune, it was a song of his childhood, the tale of the wanderer.

Who wanders adrift,

across the lone land?

A stranger came in the night,

passed through here swift

before the night's end

was gone before first light.

The night was cold,

the day turns pale,

the road ahead is far,

No one was told,

where he was from,

he followed the Winterstar.

The words came by themselves, a soft whisper accompanying the familiar tune. It did not fail to calm the sleeping man.

Who wanders woodlands,

across the dark glade?

A stranger came from the fen,

across the dry sands,

and by the woods shade,

we did not see him again.

The dawn came late,

the skies turn dark,

the stranger might go far,

and shadows wait,

beside his road,

beware of the Morningstar.

Who wanders alone,

who walks the long road,

A warrior without a name,

A stranger unknown,

follows the lost road

I don't know whence he came.

And long ago,

he passed away,

the road may bear him far...

Throughout the night as they travelled Kíli kept singing songs, dwarven ballads of mines and treasures, of battles and wars, of revenge and love and of the never-ending journey of his people.

By morning, they were past the Entwash and Kíli hid the boat on the southern river shore again. This time it was a small landing under deep reaches of a number of weeping willows. Although tired, he found some wood to light a Dwarven fire; they both needed to eat and some stew would be good for his healing comrade. Boromir had been semi-awake when Kíli made camp but drifted off to sleep again. Kíli could only assume that Boromir's unnatural deep and long slumber was an effect of the healing. He did not know for sure, even as he felt the effects that using the spell had wrought on himself. The exhaustion was slowly fading, as did the weariness, but there was something deeper, a cold and distance from life that was only now waning. He had too deeply inside himself and left his very life bleed out of his soul, and it had left him with a dull nagging ache inside his heart, though he was sure that would pass too.

TRB

Boromir's sleep was heavy, a leaden blanket weighing him down and keeping him under the sway of grey unconsciousness. He felt warm, like lying beside a fire as its heat kept him safe as he rested. Sometimes the pain in his chest and sides, a fierce burning in his shoulders and shield arm would bring him back to the surface of sleep from the depths of the welcomed oblivion and dreams would intrude on his slumber. But someone was there in the darkness standing guard, for whenever the dreams began a voice would chase them off – a deep baritone voice, humming foreign songs, and Boromir would drift off into dreamless sleep again. Eventually, the sleep receded and he realized that the voice was real. He did not understand a word of the song but he knew the tune: it was a ballad that was a favorite in war-camps.

Under the weeping willow tree

My heart shall be buried beside thee,

Under the very willow tree

Where my warrior promised

His heart to me…

Boromir groaned, blinking awake, finding the fire as real as it had been in his dreams. He saw movement at the edge of his vision as someone approached him. "Boromir! Mahal be praised, you are awake!" a familiar voice said.

He pushed himself up to sit, his muscles were stiff and his entire body protested against the sudden movement, if there was any bone in his body not hurting he'd have known. "Kíli?" He realized why the voice singing in his dreams had been so familiar, why he had felt instantly safe, the dwarven lilt with the deep baritone had told him he was with a friend.

"Aye. Worry echoed clearly in the Dwarve's voice. "I began to worry when you did not wake."

Boromir raised his arm, reaching for his neck, his shoulders were worse than stiff, they seemed locked from having lain down too long. "How long was I asleep?" he asked, taking in their surroundings, but seeing little beyond the riverbank and trees hiding their camp.

"Nearly two days and nights," Kíli's gaze was still worried, dark eyes searching Boromir's face, like he was fearing he'd pass out again. "How are you feeling?"

The question directed Boromir's attention toward his own shape. Gingerly he touched his shoulder, where he felt a dull pain, but instead of finding a crusted cut or smashed collarbone, he only found the trace of a clean dressing with a nearly healed cut underneath, the huge gashes in his sides and chest were similarly well healed as was the deep stab-wound, he moved his hand, remembering vividly how the wrist had burned and cracked under an Orc club, but he could move the hand with ease and nearly free of pain. It seemed next to impossible after the fight. "Well enough, surprising as that is. What happened? The last I remember is you finding me after…" It all came back to him: Amon Hen, Frodo, and the Orcs. "The others… did they make it? Kíli, what happened to them?"

"I can't say for certain," Kíli replied returning to the fire where a small cauldron hung over the flames. "By the time I found you, they were gone. I did not find any trace of them at your landing, except that they had come to collect their packs. I do not know where they went." It was not the answer Boromir had expected, and he was surprised that Kíli would not have searched more deeply for them, to ascertain their fate. Nevertheless, Kíli had never lied to him nor claimed things he did not know for sure, so his answer, admitting that he did not know in absolute certainty, was the most honest one probably could give.

"But they went by themselves," Boromir led go of a deep breath, letting his head fall back. "those are good news." He closed his eyes, allowing himself the quiet gratitude that he did not have to hear news of their death in the gruesome fight at Amon Hen. "You… you did not find any of them dead, did you?" he asked, the tightness in his chest not quite gone yet, he wanted to know… not just hear… that they had made it. That in spite of the terrible odds the others had escaped.

Kíli quickly averted his gaze, to not give away his emotions. For the fact that they had left him behind, Boromir worried a lot for his comrades and the dwarf was not sure they deserved it. No matter what their errand was they had left one of their number behind after what could only have been a superficial search. Frodo had been surprised to find Kíli's camp at the overlook and the dwarf concluded Boromir had not told his friends about Kíli's presence at Amon Hen. So they had not known Boromir might have other help and still not deigned to spare one of their people to ascertain their comrades' fate, in Kíli's eyes that was something inexcusable, something that deserved scorn. "No I found a lot of dead Orcs, but none of your companions. They returned to your camp to get their packs and then left. Wherever they went I cannot say, but they left on their own volition." Kíli answered to the best of his knowledge. There had been many tracks at the landing, but the boots of Gimli, the faint tracks of the Elf and the tracks of Aragorn had been clear in the sand. They had come, packed up their camp in a hurry and headed off.

"Good. They have to get on with the mission." The Gondorian Captain crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave the dwarf a curt nod. Kíli looked to the side towards the river, his long hair falling over his shoulder, obscuring his face. "You saved my life there, Kíli," he spoke up. "And after what I said to you back at the overlook…"

"You were struggling to fight off a spell," Kíli had stood up and walked a few steps, to stand with his back leaning against one of the trees. "Whatever you said, it was not you speaking. Breaking such enchantment takes enormous strength of will; you proved your true strength when you did."

The memory of the events at the overlook stood vividly before Boromir's inner eye, his own rage, the fierce anger giving him the strength to push Kíli to his knees… the pained words… the story of Thorin and his death in battle. Much as he wanted to accept Kíli's easy forgiveness of the events, he had seen how deeply Kíli had been pushed into his own memories, into a pain that he bore, that he deserved more than a badly worded apology. "I owe you more than an apology for my actions at the overlook, Kíli… I don't know how you even found the will to reach me after…"

"That's what friends do for each other. War-brothers owe each other their lives and they'd not have it any other way," Kíli interrupted him, and it was clear that there was nothing more to say about it. "At least you could still hear me…" The last was a whisper, maybe not even meant for Boromir.

"You tried to reach your Uncle, did you?" Boromir wondered how old Kíli had been during the Quest for Erebor, but he had no reference to truly guess the dwarven lifespan.

Kíli wrapped his arms around himself, his eyes going back to the river. "We tried, my brother and I would still try, when the others fell silent, when wisdom would make Balin hold his words, when loyalty would silence Dwalin and when Óin had stormed off declaring this a case of incurable stubbornness. Thorin…" A wealth of warmth and affection crept into Kíli's voice when he spoke the name of his uncle. "Thorin was our Uncle, the father to raise us after our father fell in battle, we knew him… we had always been able to talk to him. Fili… he tried even after I had stormed off, he tried to the last."

"Fili… he was your brother?" The name indicated it of course, but Boromir found many of the dwarven names confusing and very similar in sound.

A light nod was his answer. "My older brother," Kíli's voice became tight, strained. "He… he was so brave, when Thorin came to himself again, calling us to rally for battle, to charge at Azog, he was the first to follow, no anger, no grudge… there was this light in his eyes, he knew Thorin was with us again and he'd readily forgive all that had transpired. At least… at least he died knowing Thorin was free of the spell of gold."

Suddenly Boromir remembered what Gimli had said in Moria that Kíli had stood over the body of his Uncle and fought until he too was cut down. What pain, what nightmare must it have been? Boromir had seen friends die, comrades fall beside him but he had been spared the loss of a brother and he could not imagine losing his father and brother within the span of hours, not with madness and evil enchantments involved.

Reaching for the stone beside him, he pushed himself up, his legs were wobbly and stiff, but he managed to stand and walk the few steps towards the tree where Kíli stood leaning against the dark tree trunk. Gently he put a hand on the dwarf's strong shoulder. "All the more I am sorry that I brought the memories back to you."

Kíli looked up to him, his dark eyes stormy with emotion. "No… do not regret that, I would not wish to forget and… regretting it would be dishonoring their sacrifice. The mourning of the dead must never take precedence over the care for the living, that is what Thorin taught me. Where he here now… he would be satisfied to know the Ring did not get you."

"The Ring?" Boromir's felt like the ground was opening under him. "How… how could you even know?" His mind was racing, Thorongil had insisted no one outside the company must know, and the elves certainly had not shared. A servant of the enemy might know but Kíli could not be a servant of the eye… could he?

"You forget I have known Bilbo for more than seven decades, Boromir." Kíli looked at him calmly, steadily. "I knew he had a Ring to make him invisible which he found during the time he was separated from us during our misadventure in Goblin Town. There was never reason to believe it extraordinary, the elves made many small rings when they delved into the art… but when the Nazgul began to hunt Baggins, there was only one frightening possibility what they might have wanted from a Halfling, what could be so important to bring all the Nine to Eriador. And Bilbo later confirmed my suspicion when we talked in Rivendell."

Boromir remembered how Kíli had mentioned a suspicion on their ride to Rivendell but had refused to voice it loud and he felt foolish. Of course Frodo's Uncle would have sought the help and advice of an old friend in this matter, who better to turn to? He felt a strong hand clasping his arm, Kíli had pushed away from the tree, maybe also away from the memories. "Come, let us go back." He said, his eyes pointing to the fire.

TRB

About an hour later, Boromir had managed to wash up in the river. With the wounds freshly bandaged and the blood off his skin, he felt almost human again. The stew Kíli had cooked helped a lot, too and he felt like he could keep going a day and maybe even the night

Taking Truefire he had begun to clean the weapon thoroughly, the axe had taken no real damage in the fight, which was amazing given how many armors and helmets it had hacked through. "Not one scratch," Boromir said when he cleaned the long edge. "it is amazing the blade is not dented."

"These blades do not dent or shatter easily; neither steel nor stone will mar them." Kíli too had taken to weapon cleaning, working his way methodically through a number of knives, throwing knives and other small blades.

Boromir remembered Gimli saying that one of these axes was buried with its wielder. With what he knew now he guessed it was Kíli's older brother who had wielded it in the Battle of the Five Armies. He did not speak of it, not wishing to cause Kíli more pain by stirring up memories, much as he would have liked to know more of that battle. He could not really place it, beyond what he had heard of it during their journey. Either Gondor had never heard of the battle at all or it was recorded under a different name.

The weapon clean he put it aside, close to where Kíli had put his sword beside the fire. Boromir's eyes wandered to the hilt of Kíli's sword, lying on the ground beside the fire. He had always noticed the strange white hilt, but only now he fully realized that it was a long polished tooth that held the blade, a truly large fang transformed into a sword hilt. What creatures had such fangs or… could this be a fang of the dragon that had long ago destroyed Kíli's homeland? The sun played on the white hilt and now he saw some runes, faintly shining in the white, dark lines softly defined from the polished material. He remembered the hilt aglow with blue fire, but could not place that memory, or why he recalled it so vividly. "These runes, what do they say? You once said they were memories."

Kíli took the weapon up, his fingers tracing the runes. "They are names. Thorin Oakenshield, Fili son of Dari, Balin son of Fundin."

All three names Boromir had heard before, Thorin, Kíli's Uncle, the tragic hero of the battle of the five Armies, the warrior to turn the battle of Azanulbizar and foster-father to his friend; Fili… Kíli's older brother, Boromir knew nothing of him beyond that fact, but maybe it was the most important detail to know of him, and Balin, who lay buried in Dwarrowdelf, all three friends or family that Kíli had chosen to commemorate by carving their names into his weapon. It made the Captain remember the dreams about Moria. Had the stories he heard about Kíli's family maybe intruded his dreams? It would explain a lot.

The Dwarf got to his feet. "It will soon be dark," he said, rolling up the blankets and strapping them to his pack again. "Once night falls, we will continue on the river. So far we have remained unseen." He continued to clean out the cauldron with some river water and gather and pack up his pack again. While he was working, he again began to hum the tune Boromir had heard when he woke up.

Boromir's lip curled up in a wry smile. "I did not know that this dreadful ballad was even known amongst the Dwarves. Or did you hear from Men?" He had already noticed some things in Kíli that showed he had spent long time among men, he used the word 'dwarf' instead of 'dwarrow' and he almost perfectly used phrases and sayings of men, something Gimli had struggled with at times.

"I had no idea it was even known to Men," Kíli replied, tilting his head slightly. "What does it say in your tongue?"

"It tells the old, silly story of a princess and a common warrior falling in love and marrying. Her warrior then goes to war and dies, and she is eventually buried under the same willow tree where they first met." Boromir shrugged. "The kind of story the bards will always dreg up when the tavern mood gets too dour. Ah yes… the warrior dies defending his king, of course." He stopped when he Kíli's eyes widen and the dwarf's hand curl up in a first. "You know the story, then?"

"It is my parents story." Kíli swiftly packed up what remained of their camp. "My father fell fighting beside King Thrôr in Azanulbizar. When my mother died she asked that his ashes and her heart would be placed in an urn and buried under the very willow tree where they had been bonded."

"Forgive me, Kíli, I had no idea." Boromir always had held some dislike for the ballad, the heart-wrenching, hopelessly embellished tale he had believed it to be. He'd never have imagined that it was a true story, let alone the story of a friend. So, his mother had been a Princess of Durin's House and his father a warrior from the ranks… how would such a match have happened? Boromir was no stranger to the gap birth rank or earned rank could put between any man and a potential friend. But marrying into a house so much higher and vastly different from one's own rank, it still seemed unlikely. But the way Kíli spoke of his parents it seemed they truly had lived one of those grand eternal stories of love, even if it had been a short-lived one.

"If you apologize one more time tonight, I will really begin to wonder if I have somehow managed to attain my uncle's presence. He was good at making people uneasy with one glance," Kíli replied, his eyes warming. "And not all memories are sad ones; if we forget the good things, we will break our souls over it and will be dead well before our time."

TRB

Again the boat moved out on the river. After a few hours, Boromir became tired again and Kíli suggested he lie down and sleep some more. Boromir settled down and was quickly asleep, hearing Kíli's voice singing a song about a journey across the Misty Mountains from afar.

The predawn hours brought rising mists and the river rushing more quickly. A shadow emerged ahead of them from the dark, like the shape of a ship approaching harbor in the dead of night. Cair Andos' high cliffs towered above them as the boat shot through the banks of fog. The Moon came out to cast an eerie light on the mists.

Boromir had woken, but Kíli pointed him to stay down and not move. This was a dangerous passage; even as Cair Andros was friendly Kíli knew from experience that the island guards could react harshly to any unannounced presence that was not one of their own. He had gone silent, using the oar sparingly to reduce noise as he steered them quickly past the dangerous passage, hoping that no overeager archer spotted them. But nothing happened, and the boat shot quickly clear of the passage.

A lone figure stood on the high rocks by the shoreline of Cair Andros, bow in hand, eyes trained on the river, watching the boat until it vanished in the darkness under mists.

TRB

Far away from the running waters of nightly Anduin, in the White City of Minas Tirith, an old Man emerged late from the ancient libraries where he had poured over writings and texts of ancient times. Denethor waved away the servant bringing him food and refreshments, as he wished for neither. Taking a single torch, he ordered the servant to leave and walked towards one of the towers. This very tower of the Citadel had stood unused and empty for most of the Steward's tenure. The lower levels had been used for storage when space had been scarce, but outside of that, the tower itself had not been put to any reasonable use in centuries.

Not that anyone questioned Lord Denethor's decision to enter the tower. A few centuries ago, whispers may have sprung from the Steward's visit to the Tower of Kings. Nowadays, however, even the name was barely remembered, and neither guard not council would bother to wonder why this tower had been left alone for so long.

Denethor opened the tower's door with an ancient iron key, carefully closing the heavy door behind him. There was a fine layer of dust on the stairwells inside and the air was vapid and stood like it was as old as the tower itself. The Steward was well acquainted with the tower's condition and by now paid little heed to the untended state of the building as he quickly mounted the long flight of stairs that led up towards the tower's topmost level. He walked briskly and arrived at the upper door within a short time. Breathing deeply, he used another key – a silver key that had long rested unmarked in a box in the old treasury – to open this door.

The room behind the door was stark, no gold, no treasures, not even ornaments or art justifying the precautions taken to keep it sealed. In the very heart of the room was a single stone table a little more than three foot high with two regal stone chairs placed left and right of it The table's plate was polished, but not even, slightly curved inward to safely hold a large, midnight blue orb that shone with an inner light. Four arched windows adorned the walls, allowing a view into all directions, through the eastern arch fell the pale light of the moon, illuminating Denethor's path.

Denethor put the torch into the elaborately carved stone scone, shaped like hand, by the door and approached the table. Long had he sought to unravel the mystery of this, and longer still to acquire the writings necessary to understand what he was dealing with. He smiled. The maker of these had left no writings intelligible by the eyes of Men, but those who followed – the Men that made use of this orb for more than an age – had written instructions for it. Those scrolls had been carefully hidden in the depths of the ancient libraries, writings as forbidden and nearly as forgotten as Ar-Pharazôn's writings on the deep secrets of magic. For the eye that discerned those tomes carefully it showed how much of the so-called powers of the Numenorán Kings had been trickery and use of artifacts left by a race much elder than them.

Secrets that he was about to make his own. He and his house would gain the powers that were so revered in the old Kings – the powers people believed marked them true Kings, Rulers with powers bestowed upon them that went beyond the reach of mortal men. Putting both hands beside the orb, Denethor began to speak the words he had found in the secret writings, words to awaken the orb, to master it. A spark rose from the deeps of the of the crystal globe, a spark like red fire, the winding, twisting echo of a flame.

TRB

Faramir silently rose from his bedroll, careful to not wake any of the sleepers close by as he slipped from the garrison. When he had lain down hours before he had been ill at ease, a grave sadness settling on him as the day was waning, but in spite of being exhausted in body, sleep had been elusive. After tossing and turning on his bedroll for hours, he could not stand it any longer.

The nightly air outside was cool and soothing; he walked along the watch-path and down to the rocks above the waterline of Cair Andros. How often had it calmed his mind to watch the rushing waters of Anduin? Many a time he had come to the mighty stream, watching the water run by, like they could take his worries and sorrows away on their long journey towards the sea. But not tonight, This night a deep, heart-wrenching sadness had crept up upon him as he stood at the shore. Mists arose – pale silvery mists emerging from the dark water below, veiling the river in their silken wisps. The barren trees on the other side of the river seemed like dark, dangerous apparitions, pale vapor hanging on their very branches. Why did everything in this night seem to weigh him down heavily?

Something on the water made him look down, like a minuscule movement against the blackness. He squinted his eyes, peering more closely. Was something out there, was someone approaching or sneaking past the island, in the depth of night? He narrowed his eyes, gazing into the mist. The Moon came up from behind a cloud, shedding silver light on the river as the lazy breeze parted the gloom for a few moments. Down in the silver light, Faramir saw a boat drifting by, and his brother lying in that boat, resting, his arms crossed against his chest, weapon beside him, unmoving and pale in the fleeting light of the moon… like dead… like one of the heroes of old, send to the sea for their final journey. Only a dark ferryman was with him, an obscured figure in a shadowy cloak. Pain clamped down on Faramir's heart when he saw the boat vanish into the haze. Oh, Brother… He raised his hand like reaching out for the boat already gone into the night, on the journey from whence there was no return. His heart had feared such an outcome for Boromir's journey, in dreams he had seen him fall before… but now, he knew, there was no doubt, the boat had been there, like a mercy of fate granting him the right to say his final goodbyes.

He did not know how long he stood by the river, the pain washing over him like a fierce storm as what he had seen burned in his mind. The pale light of the new day was rising when approaching steps pulled him from his reverie. "Faramir?"

He did not need the gentle voice to tell him who it was: Veryan of Dol Amroth, one of his brother's friends and most trusted lieutenants. Hastily, Faramir swiped his hand over his eyes, trying to hide the tears that had traced his cheeks, even as he was aware that the Swan Knight knew him for too long, to not be familiar with that gesture.

"Faramir, what happened?" Veryan stepped up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He had been raised together with both brothers, who were his cousins, he knew them well enough to easily read their moods. He had left the garrison in a hurry, when he had noticed Faramir's vanishing, he knew all too well how dreams and visions could haunt Faramir and that he sometimes needed help to find his way out of the dreams again. Dark blue eyes shone in the light of the moon, their sparkle not hiding the concern that was clear in them.

Closing his eyes, Faramir tried to push away the sadness of the eerie apparition he had seen on the water. "My brother…" he whispered in a voice devoid of life. "I saw him, Veryan. Dead. A boat carrying him to the Sea." The pain and sadness seemed to wrap around him like a cloak, much more fiercely this time, he could not breathe, he wanted to truly cry for his brother, to scream out the horrible pain his passing left, but no noise would leave his throat.

"A boat? Are you sure, Faramir?" Veryan asked. He could see the signs of a recent vision all over Faramir, and sometimes it was the simple questions that helped Faramir to focus and relay what he had seen more clearly. "In these mists…"

"I know what I saw, my friend: a boat drifting by, driven by a dark ferryman." Faramir allowed himself to lean on Veryan for a moment. He felt a strong arm around his shoulders as he was drawn closer, relaxing into a hug. He leaned against Veryan's shoulder, knowing he could allow for this moment weakness because Veryan would never use it against him. In whispered words he described all he had seen.

The Swan Knight frowned. "Faramir, if you saw a ferryman and a boat, then there was a person on that vessel, a living person steering the boat past the currents. If they passed us in the night, they will hit upon the broken bridge above Amen Ford soon. The rubble in the water and the barriers we built should force the boat ashore."

Something in Veryan's firm dedication broke through Faramir's sadness, like a ray of light would always break the clouds. "You think we can find them?"

"We will. If he is really dead, he shall be buried with honor. If not… then someone is playing tricks on your mind and will answer for them." Faramir slowly stepped back from his friend, finding his own strength again, grateful that Veryan had been here, that he was always there when he needed him most. To Boromir the Swan Knight might be a trusted comrade and one of the sharpest weapons in the arsenal, to Faramir he was a friend, his cousin, who had been there for him in many a dark moment.

Not an hour later, Faramir left Cair Andos with a few riders, all of them Veryan's men. Whatever this was, Faramir knew the Swan Knights would keep their silence on strange findings and not spread wild rumors among the troops. Faramir waved for Veryan to catch up with him, the Swan Knight spurning his horse and quickly arriving beside him. "Lord Faramir?"

The Ranger Captain knew he should not be surprised, in spite of having grown up together and being cousins by blood and friends since childhood, Veryan would always keep the proper respect, fall back into formalities once they were not alone, he had always been careful to show the proper respect towards both Faramir and his brother and there were times when Faramir found it hard to bear.

He waved it off. "Not today, Veryan, please. On this day I need a friend by my side, not a servant." It was a friendship that had only been made possible by the fact that they were related by blood through Findulas of Dol Amroth, Faramir's mother, who had been the sister of Veryan's father.

"As you wish." Veryan inclined his head. They were interrupted by one of their scouts returning from the riverbanks. The Ranger moved up to them soft footedly and stopped beside their horses.

"We have spotted a camp right above the broken bridge; they even have the nerves to have a nice fire going," the scout reported, his voice reflecting clear disapproval of what he had found. Faramir did not comment on it directly, it was rare for strangers to stray so blatantly into Gondor's borders but it had been known to happen.

Dismounting, Faramir gestured Veryan to follow him. A camp and a fire did not fit the dreadful vision of the past night. He wanted to get closer and see for himself what was going on. It was not very far – the broken bridges had long been destroyed, creating a blockade in Anduin's flow shortly upriver from Amen Ford north of Osgiliath. Like a shadow gliding through the forest, Faramir approached the camp through the hillside above. It was quite true they had made a fire right by the ruins of the old bridgehead.

The first he saw was a short man clad in armor, returning to the camp. He had a bow slung over his shoulder a wild mane of very dark hair framed his broad shoulders, he did not seem to have the habit of trimming them, for the long locks reached to his shoulder-blades. A few very pronounced grey steaks marked him for no young man either, though the Ranger wondered what man in his mature years would flaunt such mane. Did he actually wear braids like a girl? Faramir frowned deeply. What strange folk had come to this place? "I got him, before he could get away. He is on the bottom of the river feeding the fishes." the man said in a deep baritone voice. "One less Orc to spy on your bastions, it was a scout by the looks of it."

"Did he follow us or did he come from the east?" a familiar voice asked, as a Man rose from the shadows of the broken bridgehead. The breath stuck in Faramir's throat, as he was unable to move, only to stare down at the camp. There stood the brother whom he had feared dead. Pale though he may be, Boromir was alive.