My brother turned swiftly at the sound of my voice.  His eyes raked the crowd. 

At first he did not see me.  I knew a moment’s fear that I was not there at all.

Perhaps I was a ghost after all.  I’d convinced myself that I’d come home, because I wanted so badly to be alive.

Then his gaze lit upon me, and held.

The other mounted officer rode to Faramir’s side.  I recognized him now in context as the Ranger Lieutenant Anborn, of Faramir’s Ithilien regiment.  The Ranger put a hand on Faramir’s arm, beginning tentatively, “Captain, are you all right -- ”

Without looking at him, Faramir handed his reins over to Anborn.  Then he slowly dismounted, as though making his way through a dream. 

He took a step toward me, then stopped, staring in dismay and wonder.

I pushed through the troops, only vaguely aware of the soldiers’ staring faces as they jumped out of my way.

“Boromir -- ” my brother whispered.

I reached out and pulled him to me.  I hugged him as though the embrace could wipe out all the times I had feared never to see him again.

As I stepped back, Faramir clutched my arms, searching my face with haunted eyes.

“You’re alive,” he breathed.

“So are you.”  I smiled as I spoke the familiar words. 

“But you’re not,” Faramir insisted.  His grasp tightened on my arms.  He whispered desperately, “you were dead, Boromir.  I saw you.”

“I know,” I said.   “I’m sorry.”

            Again the calls of the dark riders wailed through the heavy air.  Our troops stirred uneasily about us, but Faramir did not even look to the sky.  His gaze did not waver, as he stared at me as though he could summon the truth out of my apparition just by gazing long enough.           

            “My Lords,” urged Lieutenant Anborn.  “We must go.”

I said, “I’ll explain it all as soon as we can sit down and talk.”  I smiled again, trying to banish Faramir’s desperate, searching gaze.  “I promise you that I’m alive now.”

            They were not, I am sure, the most reassuring words I could have spoken.  Likely it would have been more comforting if I’d told him I’d never been dead.  That my death was rumour only, that it never held any truth.

But I have not made a habit of lying to my brother.  I did not intend to start.

            From somewhere along the shore, at a point invisible in the darkness, an officer’s voice commanded, “troop, move out!”

I gripped Faramir’s shoulder.  “Faramir,” I said, “we should go.”

            He blinked as though just awaking, and nodded.  “Have you a horse?” he asked me.

            I turned to look at Svip, with the two wounded Men mounted on his back.  Svip and his bemused and wide-eyed passengers were watching us along with the rest of the troop. 

“Well, yes,” I said, “but he’s busy at the moment.”

Faramir frowned in confusion, but before he could inquire further, Anborn offered quickly, “take mine, My Lord.”  The Ranger dismounted and held out his reins to me.

“Thank you,” I said.  “There’s something I must do first.” 

We were at the end of the column.  Troops further south along the shore had already started marching into the ruins, to reach the main Osgiliath Road.  We would move out as well, as soon as those ahead of us had done so.  I turned and hurried over to Svip.

Discussing matters with my horse would doubtless convince our troops – and my brother – that I was not only back from the dead but also entirely mad. But I was not going to bother with a general announcement that my companion was a shape-shifter.  The Men from Cair Andros would talk of it with their comrades; the story of Svip’s nature would spread soon enough.

“Svip,” I said, almost not finding it odd anymore to be speaking into the long, solemn face of a horse, “that’s my brother Lord Faramir.  I’m going to borrow that other Man’s horse and ride along with him for a while, so I can talk with him.  When we get to our lines I want to introduce him to you.  I’ll look for you when we get there.”  I turned to the Man standing nearest to Svip, who I was glad to recognise as my comrade from our fight on the Orcs’ raft bridge.  He had seen Svip perform some very un-horselike actions in battle, so he should have no trouble accepting that Svip was more than just a horse.  I said to him, “will you aid Svip in seeing to it that his passengers are safely delivered to the healers?”

“Aye, My Lord,” said the soldier, saluting and doing an admirable job of acting as though he got this sort of order every day.

“Thank you.”  I smiled at Svip, who nodded his head to me, then I strode back to where Faramir and Anborn were waiting.  Faramir had remounted while I conferred with Svip.  Anborn stood by his horse’s side, not quite succeeding in keeping his face expressionless.  From the way he was eyeing me, it was an easy bet that he feared I was some snare of the Dark Lord, sent to lure Faramir to destruction.

Faramir and I rode to the back of the column, keeping a lookout for stragglers as the Men headed out.  Ahead of us, our Men marched four abreast, one carrying a torch in every tenth row.  In the uncertain light I could just make out the larger shape of Svip, plodding along near the third torchbearer ahead of us.

At first we did not speak.  I looked about us as we rode through the ruins, noting as well as I could the changes that had come to Osgiliath since the last time I had been here. 

For stretches along the road the buildings were shattered worse than they had been, their walls torn into jagged stone fingers striking upward like monuments in the stone circles of the ancients.  Several times we had to detour around piles of building stones that had tumbled into the road, that I knew would not have remained there if our Men had had any time to clear them away. To our left, the flames we’d observed from upriver were sinking lower as their fuel was consumed.  That portion of the old city, I knew, was where our forces usually camped, the tents set up in the courtyard and empty halls of the great Dome of Stars.

As I squinted toward the flames, trying to discern the shell of the Dome through the darkness, I noticed Faramir studying me.  He smiled faintly as our gazes met, the first smile I had seen from him since my miraculous appearance.

Faramir admitted ruefully, “I keep thinking I’ll look over at you and find that you’ve disappeared.”

“Not me,” I joked.  “I’m like the bad penny.”

Silence sank on us again, save only the hollow clopping of our steeds’ hooves on the cobblestones.  I scowled to myself, thinking that we were wasting time we might not have again for the myriad things we had to talk about.  Although it was hardly a surprise that this should not be the easiest conversation to launch into, since the main topics of discussion would be “do you think our country’s about to fall to the Dark Lord?” and “how did you happen to come back from the dead?”

Faramir found a way to start us speaking, by asking me something else.  “What manner of being is your horse?” he inquired, his eyes seeking out Svip in the torchlit procession ahead of us. 

With a rush of affection for him, I thought, my brother the scholar.  Only Faramir, in the midst of this madness, would pick up on the fact that Svip was more than he seemed and would immediately hunger to know more.   I thought, perhaps I should have arranged for Faramir and Svip to talk along this ride.  They could be discussing the nature and history of flotsam-collecting water creatures, and I wouldn’t have to face all the things I don’t want to talk about. 

            “I don’t know what his people call themselves,” I said.  “I’ve not met any of them but him.  His name is Svip.  He’s a shape-shifter; he lives below the Falls of Rauros.”

            My brother turned sharply at that, with another troubled frown.  Clear enough, he knew that Rauros was where I had met my death.  After a moment his gaze shied away from me again.  

I sighed.  Sooner or later I would have to tell him of my death and resurrection, so why not get on with it?  I told myself, it’s not as though you can make this like any other homecoming as long as you don’t speak of it.

            But there were, my mind argued, several more pressing topics of conversation.

            “What’s our situation here?” I asked.  “I only came in at the tail end of the battle, with the Men of Cair Andros.  I don’t know what was happening before we arrived.  What are we facing?”

            “You were at Cair Andros?” Faramir questioned.  “I got the report that the garrison had reached us, but I didn’t know you were with them.”  He hesitated, as if he meant to ask me something else, then he sighed and went back to my question.  His expression hardened as he stared grimly ahead.

            “There are ten thousand of them in East Osgiliath,” he said.  “Or, that was our conservative estimate, before it got too dark to see their movements.  I arrived here with the reinforcements at mid-morning yesterday, and it was two hours later that they started massing across the River.  The Orcs have spearheaded the attacks thus far, but their allies are joining them.  The Haradrim made their camp across the River from the Dome of Stars.  Five thousand of Harad’s troops at a guess, we saw come in to camp, but they were arriving yet when it got too dark to see them.”  Faramir smiled grimly.  “Their king had his tent set up directly opposite our command tent.  They moved the Serpent Flag inside the tent, though, after a few of our Men started using it for target practice.”

            Behind us, a dull crash sounded in the ruins.  Our horses shied and snorted in alarm.  We reined in and turned to stare into the dark.

            Several more crashes came, but only once did I see a large, round dark shape slam into a wall illumined in the glimmer of our burning camp.  Never did the projectiles, hurled I assumed from catapults across the River, come close enough to cause our column any unease.

            “Just urging us on our way,” Faramir observed with a shrug, as we proceeded on.  “Their aim is worsening.  Either that or their fabled night vision doesn’t help them see in this filth any better than we can.” 

He shook his head.  “They were hurling missiles at us half the night; boulders as well as burning shot that caught our tents alight.  We had few casualties from the bombardment, but it got the job done – it kept us occupied trying to put out the fires and answering their shots, while they readied their bridges and started across the River.”  Faramir fell silent, with a bitter frown.     

            “They did the same at Cair Andros,” I said, hoping to stop him from blaming himself for our present position.  “Kept us busy with their bombardment and assaults on the wall, while their fleet made for the harbour mouth.  Go on; you were telling me about our Men firing on Harad’s banner.”

The mention of that incident did get another smile out of him, but it swiftly faded.  “They made no move to attack while the day lasted; I imagine they wanted to give ample time for our blood to congeal at their numbers.  We even received the honour of an envoy from their Captain.  A swarthy-visaged Man in Orc armour was rowed across the River under a flag of parley, just ere dark closed in entirely.  He presented me with a missive stating that their numbers are so vast they will crush us as though the Tower of Guard were an anthill; they have fifty thousand coming from Harad, twenty thousand from Rhûn and Khand, two hundred thousand from Barad-dûr and Minas Morgul; the Corsairs of Umbar are rallying to their banner with a hundred ships; they will dash out the brains of our infants on the walls of Minas Tirith and dishonour our women while we are forced to watch – the threats went on for a page or so, but that was the gist of them.  The letter offered that if we chose to throw ourselves on their mercy, lay down our arms and swear fealty to the Lord of Barad-dûr, they might be generously moved to spare us and we could look forward to life in slavery, tilling their master’s fields in Mordor.”  Scorn vibrated in my brother’s voice as he recounted the Enemy’s offer. 

I asked him, “what was our answer?”

“I told him that I regretted we could not avail ourselves of their generosity, and as soon as the envoy reached the far shore we sent a few catapult volleys after him.”  Faramir shook his head, with a weary sigh.  “I don’t doubt that the numbers are inflated out of all recognition, but it scarcely makes any difference.  With our numbers, they could have a miniscule fraction of those forces and yet have ample to crush us.”

Misgivings crept through me at the tone of Faramir’s words.  “Why?” I asked, “what are our numbers?”

“They are not good.”  He gazed ahead at the shadowy figures of our army, and went on quietly, “I brought nigh a thousand with me yesterday, added to the five hundred or thereabouts that were here already -- ”

“A thousand!” I interrupted.  “In the Valar’s names, what was the point of that?  Is Father mad, not to have sent more?  Five thousand would not be enough; one thousand’s a waste of everybody’s time!”

“Boromir,” my brother cut in, in a calm if exasperated tone, “we do not have the Men.  We have perhaps another thousand manning the Causeway Forts and Rammas Echor, and at the City we have four thousand at the most, including all the troops from the Southern Fiefs.”

I stared at him in disbelief.  For a change, I thought, things were turning out worse than my pessimistic imaginings.  “How can that be?” I murmured.  “Has Father not summoned our allies?” 

“He has.  Uncle Imrahil brought twelve hundred with him, and another sixteen hundred have come from the other fiefs combined.”  He sighed again.  “They fear the Umbar Corsairs, whether or not they have the hundred ships the envoy threatened us with.  They’ve held back their fighting Men to defend their coasts, and Minas Tirith must go begging.”  

            “Hell and damnation,” I whispered.  “And Rohan?  Have we news of them?”

            “Father sent the Red Arrow, but we’d had no word nor seen any sign of them, when I left the City yesterday.  From what Mithrandir says, Théoden does plan to ride to our aid, but they just fought a mighty battle themselves, it may take days to muster their forces -- ”

            “What did you just say?” I demanded, wondering if I had lost my hearing or my mind.  “From what Mithrandir says?”

            Faramir looked surprised, then he gave an apologetic smile.  “Sorry,” he said.  “I’d heard he was reported dead, I forgot you wouldn’t have heard otherwise.  He arrived at the City from Rohan, three days since.”

            “Bloody hell,” I protested, “I saw him fall into a fiery pit in Moria!”  I shook my head, then I had to laugh at the marvellous absurdity of it.  “I will be damned.  I suppose I am the last Man who should complain about people returning from the dead.”

            Faramir’s smile grew decidedly uncomfortable.  With an effort, he schooled his face and voice to calmness.  “You’ll have to speak with him, he’ll have news of the other companions you travelled with.  I believe he left most of them in Rohan; they may arrive with Théoden, if he makes it through to us.  And there’s one that Mithrandir brought to the City with him, the halfling Pippin …”

            This time I managed to restrain myself from bursting out shouting, but it was a near thing.  For a moment the dim, torchlit road and our marching army blurred before my eyes. 

“Pippin,” I breathed, hardly daring to believe it.  “You’re sure of that?  You’ve seen him?”

            “And spoken with him,” Faramir confirmed.  “He has sworn fealty to our father, and wears the livery of the Tower.  He’s serving as Father’s esquire, since Hákon requested a transfer to the Rammas.”        

            I chuckled at the remarkable image, shaking my head again in wonder and joy.  “That I have got to see,” I murmured.  “Pippin as Father’s esquire?  Either the one has grown in maturity and sense, or the other has grown in patience.  But have you heard aught of the halfling Merry?  Did he not come to Minas Tirith also?”

            “No; Mithrandir said he’d remained in Rohan with the others.”  Some troubling thought struck my brother then.  He rode on in silence, frowning and not meeting my gaze. 

His darkening expression sent my thoughts down darker roads as well.  I forced myself to voice a question, though I was not sure I wanted to hear the answer.  “How is Father doing?”

“How do you expect?” Faramir snapped, with a sudden flash of anger that told more than any words.  Almost immediately his anger was succeeded by something else.  A bleak, wintry look settled onto his face.  “He has not taken the news of your death well.”

I closed my eyes for an instant, cursing under my breath.  “I sent him a letter from Cair Andros, before the siege closed in,” I said, looking at Faramir again.  “Has he not received it?”

“He had not when I left yesterday.”

“Damn it all to hell.”  I thought of the messenger Aleksei, and wondered if his fabled luck had finally run out.  I asked, although my dread grew the farther our conversation went along this path, “how did word of my death come?”

Faramir gazed at me long and seriously, as though wondering again if I were about to disappear.  “Father and I heard the Horn,” he said.  “Two weeks ago or more now, blowing again and again from out of the north, though no news had come of you passing our borders.  Three nights later, I saw – a vision that I will not speak of here.”  He shook his head as though banishing the vision from his sight, and went on in hushed, hurried tones.  “When I told Father of my vision, he took it as proof of your death.  I believed it such, as well.  Then other tokens came.  From what I am told, while I and my Men were in Ithilien the Horn of Gondor came home to Minas Tirith.  It came in two pieces, one found caught in the reeds south of Cair Andros, and one that made its way to the City itself, and was discovered by a boatman at the Harlond.  The pieces were taken at once to our father.  I am told he has not ceased carrying them since they were brought to him.  I know I have not seen him without them, since I returned from Ithilien.”

I shivered at his words.  “Father has the Horn?” I whispered.  “That is … the strangest thing I have ever heard.”  It occurred to me that in the midst of this particular conversation, the return of the Horn was perhaps not so strange after all.  “One of the strangest things,” I amended.  “Valar.  I can’t believe it.  The Horn was broken in the fight when – when I was slain, but I only lost it a few days ago, in the flood at Lilla Howe.”  I noticed Faramir’s curious frown, and added, “I’ll tell you about it later.”

I wondered, as I thought of it, if it were the Horn’s own bond to Minas Tirith and our family that had brought it safely home.  Or perhaps the River had delivered it back to us, as a token of good will.

Faramir rode on, lost in thought.  Finally he shook himself free of his thoughts again.  “The only details of your death that we’ve heard came from Pippin the halfling.  He spoke of your battle, and of seeing you pierced by many arrows.  Father keeps Pippin by him now as he does the Horn, as the last links that he has to you.”

As I had done so many times before, I thought, I should never have left.  Guilt and sorrow shook me to the core.  I whispered, “I didn’t think it would hit Father that hard.”

Faramir said in a flat, quiet tone, “it has hit him that hard, Boromir.”

We were passing through the Western Gate of Osgiliath, onto the Causeway Road.  In the blackness around us I could barely see the outline of the gate, and the half-ruined tower above.  I pictured the gate in my mind as we rode beneath it, conjuring the carven image of the Dome of Stars that yet welcomes travellers to Osgiliath, centuries after the dome itself crashed to earth.

I wondered how many hours would pass before our foes marched beneath the gate, on the road to Minas Tirith.

I should say something, I thought.  But what was there to say?  “I’m sorry” was not good enough for the pain I had brought our father.  Or for what Faramir must have endured, as he tried to see our father through it.

In time-honoured fashion, I strove to change the subject.

“I interrupted you earlier,” I said, my voice startling Faramir out of some contemplation.  “What followed their envoy’s mission?  You said they held off attacking until full dark?”

“Yes.  Then they set to with their catapults, with the burning missiles I told you of.”

I nodded.  “They used them at Cair Andros, as well.”

“We exchanged fire with them for some hours, just hurling potshots into the dark.  I’d forbidden the lighting of any torches or campfires, and their commander must have done the same.  The only light anywhere was where their missiles exploded and our tents caught alight.  Perhaps that saved a few of us, if they could not see us well enough to fire at … but it also meant it took us longer, before we realised they were bridging the River.”

The harsh note in my brother’s voice told me he was doing the same thing that I would do, in his place: analysing every loss and failure, and taking the blame for each of them onto himself.

He went on, “we held two hours or thereabouts, before their Captain grew impatient.  He sent his riders into battle.  And he rode in himself, to watch.”  Faramir’s voice grew more distant, as though the events of the night unfolded themselves again before his eyes.  “He rode in on the southernmost of their bridges, and their troops on that bridge hurled themselves in the water for fear.  We could scarce see him; even the light of the fires seemed to recoil from him.  But we heard him.  We heard all of them.  And our Men broke.”     

Faramir shook his head.  “It was the same as last summer, Boromir.  The same, and worse.  Our numbers were greater tonight than they were then, yet we still could not hold our ground.  I saw brave Men, veterans of battles from before you and I were born, throw down their swords and run.   They ran, and no plea or threat could stop them.  It was all I could do to enforce some kind of order; to find Men enough who still had their wits about them, that could lead the rest in ordered retreat to the Rammas instead of letting them scatter like so many sheep.”

He turned toward me with a pained, bitter smile.  The thought struck me that dawn must be coming on, even though the sky seemed as pitch as ever.  I could clearly see the expression on Faramir’s face, though we had ridden far past the point where the fires in Osgiliath cast any light upon us.

“Do you want to hear the good part?” he asked.  “Their Captain spoke to me. Or I thought he did, in my mind.  And he must have been taking lessons from Father.  He told me Gondor would fall, and I could do nothing to save it – because I will never be half the Man that my brother was.” 

Hatred stabbed through me.  I wished that I had the Black Captain within my reach.  I wanted nothing more than to tear him limb from limb, although when it came to it I did not know if in fact he had any limbs. 

I snarled, “I hope you told him where he could stick himself.”

Faramir’s smile seemed to lose some of its bitterness.  “Well,” he said, “I think I shouted something about how he should face me, and try just how much of a Man I am.  He didn’t seem interested in that proposition.  He rode back over the bridge, and he didn’t appear again as far as I know, until just as the battle was ending.  But …”

He shuddered.  “It was as if I felt him breathing on me.  On my face, just as he rode away.  He was nowhere near me, but I felt him breathe.  A breath like the coldest wind I have ever felt.”

I snorted.  “If all he can do is breathe on us, I hardly think we need fear him.  What are you talking about, anyway?  What do you mean you couldn’t hold the Men back from retreat?  Who are these fellows, then, and what were they doing if not holding their ground?  It didn’t look as though they were running in terror when we joined the fray.”

Faramir nodded.  “About a company’s worth volunteered to remain behind, to hold the foe while the rest made good their retreat.”

“There, you see?  Captain Icy Breath has got another thought coming to him, if he thinks that Gondor’s just going to roll over and play dead.”

My brother laughed softly.  “I’ll be sure to tell him that, the next time I feel him breathing on me.”  He gazed around us for a moment, then turned to look at the eastern sky.  “Do you think the sky’s getting lighter?”

“I think so,” I nodded.  “Must be dawn.  Or it’s dawn somewhere, anyway.”

As we rode on, my thoughts turned back to the Black Captain and his riders.

Nazgûl, Mithrandir had said they were.  Ringwraiths, the spirits of the nine kings Sauron had snared with his promises of power.  If Mithrandir was correct, then the dark beings we had met in combat twice at Osgiliath were the same as the black riders who had tracked the Hobbits, from their Shire all the way to Rivendell.  They were the same as the shadow that dove at us over Anduin, the first night the Fellowship came under fire from the eastern shore.

What was the Black Captain waiting for? I wondered.  If he and his henchmen had such power they could send armies fleeing from their very presence, why had they not finished us off?  Why did they scream from the distance, taunt us and torment us, yet not close for the kill?

He who I had seen this night, over the fight on the bridge, he of the icy crown and the sword of pallid flame – did he have any real weapon other than terror?  

And if he did, when did he plan on using it?

Was it simply that he could he afford only to appear for brief snatches of time, as the fear he inspired in us was called forth also from his own troops?

            A realisation hit me.

I had not been afraid. 

When the dark horseman flew over us I had thrown myself down, to avoid getting the hooves of his mount in my skull.  But his cry called forth no terror from within me.

            Nor, I thought, did a similar cry bring that horrible fear to me, when the Rangers, Svip and I were hiding in the midst of the Orc army.

I had seen the fear in the others then, and had tried to reassure them.  It had not occurred to me before now, that I’d not felt that fear myself.

            It was different indeed from the last battle we fought at Osgiliath.  The horror I had felt then as the Black Captain rode toward us, made it the most difficult thing I had ever done just to stand my ground, and not hurl down my sword and run.

            I asked, “what did you feel when you met the Black Captain this time?  Was it the same as before?”

            “I felt afraid,” he said quietly.  “As if everything that I dread the most was right there in front of me, and the only choice I had left was to run.”                 

            “It was the same, then?” I urged.  “The same this time and last summer?”

            He thought about it.  “Yes.  Yes, I think it was.  Why?”

            I shook my head.  “Nothing.  Just thinking aloud.  It’s nothing.”

            It seemed that the day had brought us all the light it would be able to muster.  Visibility was no more than about twenty yards, but it was at least an improvement over the night. 

Our course had taken us gradually uphill, along the smooth paving stones of the Causeway Road.  To right and left beyond the Causeway’s walls stretched the rocky, gully-pitted slope of the riverbank, separating the Osgiliath Flats from the plains of the Pelennor above.

On any normal day the white wall of Rammas Echor would be well within view, crowning the riverbank’s crest.  We should be able by now to see the towers of the Causeway Forts, looming above us with the white wall extending to either side.  

            I looked over at Faramir.  Some of his grim weariness seemed banished, as though even this mockery of daylight had brought him hope. 

I hated to pile more trouble on his shoulders.  But it occurred to me that he had likely heard no report of Captain Eradan’s wounding.  It was no kindness to keep him in ignorance of it.  He would want to know sooner rather than later. 

            “Faramir,” I said, “Eradan was wounded during the withdrawal from Cair Andros.  He took a spearpoint in the shoulder.  Auda says the wound itself is not serious, but it may have been poisoned.  I don’t know how he is; I’ve had no update since yesterday evening.”

            Concern darkened his gaze once more.  He nodded.  “You sent your wounded ahead to the Forts?” he asked me.

            “Yes,” I confirmed.

            Further discussion was forestalled by commotion in the road ahead of us.  We drew in rein.

            A handful of Men had ceased marching.  They were gathered around a horse that even through the dusk I recognised as Svip.

            The Men on the road were helping to ease Svip’s wounded passengers from his back.  Svip glanced over at me, with a look I could only interpret as ashamed, though I was not sure how I thought I could read that expression on the face of a horse.

            My comrade from the bridge walked up to me, saluting.  “My Lord,” he said, striving manfully to keep his voice matter-of-fact, “your horse says that he cannot carry the Men any farther.  He says he’s too far from the River.”

            “Damn it,” I whispered.  “I forgot.”

            Faramir ordered, “help one to mount up behind me; Lord Boromir will take the other.”

            “My Lord,” one of the wounded Men began, “there’s no need -- ”

            “There is every need.  We are not far from the Forts, but there’s no sense in making those wounds worse if we can avoid it.”

            Their companions helped the two of them to hobble over to us, and boosted them up behind our saddles.  The Man behind me hissed in pain, a sound I scarcely blamed him for, since he had a broken bone sticking out of his shin.  Svip the horse stood aside dejectedly, huddling back against the Causeway wall as the others moved away from him.

            “Svip,” I called.  “Come over here.  You can ride in front of me.”

            My comrade from the battle and a few other Men glanced curiously at Svip.  They broke out in hastily stifled exclamations as the big grey horse vanished and a green, long-faced halfling appeared in his place.  The Man with the broken leg grabbed my arm to steady himself, then he apologised, “I beg your pardon, My Lord.”

            “Don’t worry about it,” I said, turning to look at him.  “What’s your name?”

            “Mardil Son of Svientopolk, Sir.”

            “Then, Mardil, don’t be afraid to hold on.  We don’t need you falling off.”  I looked over at Svip again.  “Svip, come on.  It’s all right.”

            Svip hesitated, then he walked swiftly over to me.  I leaned over, grabbed his hand and swung him up before me to sit on the horse’s neck.  The animal whickered nervously, but soon steadied. 

As we moved on, Faramir seemed deep in his own thoughts again, though once I did notice him look over at us.  He smiled at the sight of the triple-burdened horse, with the soldier clutching onto me and Svip perched up in front.

I asked Svip in the attempt to make conversation, “have you ridden horseback before?”

            “No,” he said, almost too quietly to be heard.  “Never.”

            “Well, now you can have the other half of the experience.  There are few who get both to be a horse and to ride one.”

            Svip whispered, still all but inaudible, “I’m sorry.  I carried them as far as I could.”            

“It’s my fault,” I told him.  “You told me the shape-shifting couldn’t last far from the River.  I should have remembered.”

            He went on, “I didn’t want to speak in horse form until you’d told them about me, but I had to.  I didn’t think I could go any farther without changing.  I didn’t want to drop them.”

            “Svip,” I said, “these Men have battled the Dark Lord’s legions, and their Captain-General has come back from the dead.  They ought to be able to accept the concept of a talking horse.”

He whispered, “right.”

The conversation died.  As we rode, I pondered what our distance from the River might mean for me.

            I had fallen easily out of the habit of thinking of it.  The habit was new to me, and our path over these last few days had kept us close to Anduin. 

            When I made my short-lived voyage through the hills near Svip’s house, it had seemed that I could go five miles or so, before I felt any ill effects.

            If that held true, I should have nothing to fear.  The Causeway Forts were only four miles from the River.

            But there were other questions.  Even if the distance itself did not hurt me, I did not know what effect length of time might have.  The longest I had strayed from the River since my death was that night and day spent hiding in the barn.  That barn had been a good deal closer to Anduin than four miles.

            What if I found that my strength and resilience diminished, the longer I spent apart from Anduin?

            And while Minas Tirith itself stood scarce five miles from the River, the direct road across the plain from the Rammas reached at one point, I thought, to at least ten miles distant.

            Unless our ancestors and all the gods came to fight at our side, it was a foregone conclusion that we would withdraw from Rammas Echor to the City, just as we had withdrawn from Osgiliath.

            When we did, I might have to take another route, one that kept my course nearer to the water.  I would do my City and our people little good if I reached home on the brink of death.

            Svip spoke, interrupting my thoughts.  “I can see a wall up ahead.”

            I said, “that’s the Rammas Echor.” I saw nothing of it yet myself, though now that I looked for them, I thought I could see tiny pinpricks of torchlight.

            “What is it?” Svip asked.

            “The wall enclosing the Pelennor Fields – the farmlands around Minas Tirith.    My grandfather started the construction.  The earthworks and part of the wall were built in his time; the rest was completed under my father.”

That was not strictly true, I believed, but I did not mention that to Svip.  I held, as did my father, to the argument that the wall was not yet complete.  From its southernmost tip at the mountain’s feet, to the northmost milecastle where the wall turns back toward the mountain, Rammas Echor was constructed of the same white mountainstone as the circles of Minas Tirith.  But the north stretch of wall, ramparts, milecastles and all, was of wood construction only. 

Popular wisdom held that the north was shielded by our allies of Rohan, and that Gondor’s soldiery were better employed elsewhere than in building needless walls.  We had few enough soldiers to man our forts and outposts.  And the payment that the Stonemasons’ Guild consistently demanded for the job was such as to cripple the treasury.  Time and again negotiations had stalled, the Council had voted down the needed Men and money, and my father had given up in disgust and shelved the project for another year.

I wondered now if in the present crisis the stonemasons had remembered their civic duty, or if my father had set the troops to building after all.  Or if even yet a flimsy rampart of wood guarded our northern flank.  We could hardly claim now that the north was safe from assault, with Rohan itself attacked and the army that had taken Cair Andros presumably headed our way.

I spared Svip my fears and the lesson in Gondorian politics, and said, “we’re almost home.  On a normal day you’d be able to see Minas Tirith from the wall.”

            Valar, I thought, how I wish this were a normal day.

            At last I saw the towers above us, looming greyly through the haze.  We rode past the black iron doors of the fortress gate, standing open for our troops to pass within.

Under the arched ceiling of the gate it seemed startlingly bright.  The torches on the walls seemed to burn, by contrast with this day, with the brilliance of the sun. 

Faramir and I glanced at each other.  Both of us smiled, though I thought I could still read sorrow in my brother’s eyes.

            We rode from under the gate into the main thoroughfare of the fortress.  From the towers to either side of us, the trumpets rang in the call used only for members of the Steward’s household, welcoming us home.

            Of one accord we made for the Houses of Healing.  We rode past the great square towers of the Causeway Forts, past the stables, the smithy and the long, low rows of barracks buildings, past the kitchens, and finally to the Houses, by the back wall of the fortress.  We dismounted – I holding Svip in one arm, and talking calmingly to reassure both him and the horse, which did not seem to care for the unknown creature moving about behind its head – and assisted our other passengers to the ground.

            Several of the Healers’ assistants hastened from the building and took charge of our two wounded.  As Mardil and his comrade were led hobblingly away, and other Men stepped forward to lead the horses to the stable, I turned to Faramir.

            I said, “we’d better seize a moment for introductions, we’re not like to have another.  Svip, may I make known to you my brother the Lord Faramir Son of Denethor, Captain of Ithilien.  Faramir, this is my friend and comrade Svip of Anduin.  I owe him my life – several times over.”

            Faramir knelt down, to place his gaze on a level with Svip’s.  He said, “I bid you welcome with all of my heart.  Gondor owes you such a debt of gratitude that your name will be famed in the annals of our country -- ” a melancholy smile touched his face as he added, “if any of us live long enough for the annals to be written.  The gratitude I owe you is deeper than I can speak, save to give you my thanks and to wish that I could welcome you to Gondor in fairer times.”

            Svip gave a courtly bow of the head.  “It is an honour to meet you, My Lord,” Svip said, “as it has been my honour to serve your brother and your country.”

            Svip hesitated a moment, then he held out his hand to Faramir.  My brother and the water creature solemnly shook hands.

            An officer hurried up to us.  As he approached I recognised Lieutenant Siriondil, commanding the Causeway Forts.  Faramir stood, and the Lieutenant saluted.  He looked from one to the other of us in understandable confusion, uncertain whether to address the younger brother in command of this operation, or the elder brother known far and wide to be dead. 

Siriondil solved the difficulty by addressing both of us.  “My Lords.  If it meets with your approval, I have sent the majority of the Osgiliath troops to the barracks, to take what rest they can.  One hundred I have sent to reinforce the milecastles and bring their garrisons word of our situation.  We have redoubled the watch upon the wall, and moved all of our siege engines into place upon the wall and the towers.”

Faramir glanced at me, and I nodded for him to reply.  “Very well, Lieutenant,” he said.  “Warn the sentries to be extra vigilant.  We left our foes close behind us at Osgiliath, and they will seek to use this darkness to their greatest advantage.  I will consult with the Healers, then if my brother has no other plans, he and I will retire to our quarters.  Please see to it that food is brought there; we will be there shortly.  And see that we are sent for the instant there is any word of the enemy’s movements.”

“Yes, My Lord,” said Siriondil, saluting once more and making a speedy departure.

“I’m going to check on Eradan,” Faramir said to me, as the Lieutenant hastened away.

I nodded.  “So will I.  There are others that Svip and I should check on as well.”

As we stepped through the doorway into the main  hall of the Houses of Healing, the thought came to me that something was wrong.  What it might be, I could not yet seize upon. 

Many of the beds in their long rows were occupied.  The House had its usual smells: blood and infection and all the smells of suffering, alongside the Healers’ herbs.  The sharper odour of herbs ground down for medicines blended with the scent of those still in the earth, creeping through the open windows from the garden along the fortress wall.  From this room and the others down the corridor from it, we heard cries and murmurs of pain, and the voices of the Healers, in most cases low and calm, but occasionally sounding forth in urgent shouts.

            I thought suddenly, that is what’s different.

            There was not enough noise.

            For the number of beds occupied, I expected to hear more.  I did not think I had set foot in any House of Healing so quiet in the aftermath of battle.  At least, not after any battle that had survivors.

            We made our way between rows of beds, Svip sticking close by my side.  There were faint smiles and greetings from some of the Men as we passed, and from others came the tormented words of delirium.  But I was sure, now, that I did not hear enough.  Too many of the Men seemed insensible and still.  I would have thought them dead but for the rise and fall of their chests, and an occasional whisper too low to be heard.

            Faramir glanced at me, his expression holding the same dread and bafflement as I felt.  As we walked, one of Svip’s hands closed around mine.

            Hurrying toward us was the grey-bearded and barrel-chested Aranarth, Chief Healer of the Causeway Forts.  He gave us a perfunctory “My Lords”, nodded at Svip as though green halflings were everyday sights to him, and spoke in a low, urgent voice, “what foe have you met?  Is the end, then, indeed come upon us?”

            “What do you mean?” Faramir asked quietly.

            Aranarth shook his head, biting his lip and raking one hand through his hair.  “On many of these Men lies a malady we have not seen before -- nor can we see a remedy for it.  What wound or illness makes so many Men lie still and cold, as though death seized them before they ceased to breathe?  Why do so many with wounds that should be little threat to them, slide into delirium and from thence into the silence of the grave?”

            Faramir and I looked helplessly at each other, and both shook our heads.  “I’m sorry, Aranarth,” Faramir said.  “I don’t know.  We have met with the Black Captain and his henchmen.  Perhaps it’s some curse of theirs.”

            The Healer sighed heavily, gazing at the floor.  Then he squared his shoulders and looked up once more.  “You are welcome, at any rate, My Lords.” He cast a keen glance at me.  “Are the Sons of Denethor immune to death?”

            “I hope so,” I said ruefully.  “And I hope it can rub off upon the rest of our Men.”

            “Has Captain Eradan been brought to you?”  Faramir inquired.

            “Aye, My Lord,” Aranarth said.  “And he at least is awake, which seems a miracle on this day.”

            The Healer and Faramir set out toward a row of beds by the windows.  At first Svip and I followed.  Then Svip gave a cry and ran to another bed a few rows away, where one Man sat in a chair and the other stood, watching over the bed’s occupant.

            I hurried after Svip.  The seated Man, whom I saw now to be Captain Cirion, rose to his feet at my approach.  Standing behind the Ranger Captain’s chair was young Holgar.  It was with no surprise that I recognised their comrade in the bed as Thorolf.

            “My Lord,” Cirion and Holgar each greeted me. 

Svip asked anxiously, “how is he?”  But the answer was all too clear.

            Thorolf Son of Eyjolf lay in the same silent sleep as Aranarth had described.  He had the pallor and stillness of death, and I would have thought him dead indeed, if not for his shallow breath and a sheen of sweat upon his forehead.

            “How long has he been thus?” I asked.

            Cirion shrugged, looking grimly down at his comrade.  “Since some time on the journey to Osgiliath, My Lord, as near as we can reckon.  Some of the other wounded from the ship say they noticed when he stopped speaking, partway through the night.  I would think it the effect of the poison -- ” he paused and looked about him into the dim, quiet room – “were it not for these others in the same state.  Has the enemy taken to using the same poison on all of their weapons?  Even on their catapult shot?  There’s one at least here in this shadow sleep, that I know has suffered no wound but for having his shoulder smashed with a boulder!”

            I could only once more helplessly shake my head.  “I don’t know,” I said.  “I’m sorry.  Likely it’s some device of the Enemy, to avoid risking his creatures in combat.  The more of us he finishes off through witchcraft, the fewer of his minions will fall to our blades.”

            The Ranger Captain snarled, “then he’d best finish all of us at once.  I intend to kill ten of his creatures at least, for each of our Men thus struck down.”

            Faramir walked over to us.  The two Rangers bowed.

            “How is Eradan doing?” I asked.

            “All right, I think,” said Faramir.  “He’s awake, and talking.  He has a low fever, probably, but nothing like …this.” He swept his hand in a gesture that included the rest of that unnaturally quiet House.

            Cirion sighed.  “Then that at least is one thing to be thankful for, My Lords.”

            Holgar, I noticed, was staring down at Thorolf.  There was a desperate note to his voice as he whispered, “is there nothing we can do?” 

            I looked around at my companions.  Cirion and Faramir both were frowning but calm, but Holgar and Svip looked on the verge of tears. 

I thought that I saw a way to kill two birds with one stone.

            “Svip,” I said, “there is much yet that Lord Faramir and I must discuss.  Will you allow me to suggest that Holgar give you a tour of the Fort?  If, that is, Captain Cirion can spare him from his duties.”

            “I believe I can spare him for now, My Lord,” Cirion stated.

            Svip looked up at Holgar, who managed a shaky smile. 

            “I’m not trying to keep you out of battle, Svip, I promise you,” I added.  “When the foe is upon us again, I’ll be glad and honoured to fight at your side.”

            Svip gave me one of his long, searching looks.  Finally he smiled.

            “Shall we go, Svip?” Holgar offered.

            As Svip and Holgar departed, Faramir and I took our leave as well.  We walked back along the main road at the centre of the fortress, toward the towers and the wall.

            It seemed, I thought, that every torch in the place was lit, in the effort to hold the dark at bay.  In the added light, I was struck with new force by how very tired Faramir looked.  Once again I cursed myself for ever leaving Gondor, for leaving him to deal both with the Enemy and with our father, alone.

            “You look terrible,” I told him.  “You need to get some sleep.”

            “Oh, no,” he said, with an emphatic shake of his head.

            “What do you mean, ‘oh, no’?”

            “I’m not getting any sleep and neither are you, until you’ve told me how you managed to come home.”

            “Oh,” I said. “That.”

            We climbed the stairs of the North Tower, past guard room, armoury, another guard room, and finally to the living quarters at the level of the wall.  This was the chamber reserved for the Forts’ highest-ranking visitors; the equivalent room in the South Tower belonged to the Commander of the Forts.  This room would be our father’s if he were here, but it was long since he had visited the Causeway. 

I tried to think of how long it must have been since he had stayed here.  Perhaps, I thought, since we’d stopped on our return from the Cair Andros campaign of 2993, when I had my first real taste of combat.  The wound I’d sustained on that campaign made Father more demonstrative of his concern for me than usual, and he’d ordered that I share the room with him, rather than sleep in the barracks.  I grimaced as I thought of it, remembering Father’s unceasing lecture on how bravery in battle was not the same as rushing headlong onto the enemy’s swords, and if I was ever stupid enough to get myself injured like that again, he’d thrash me to within an inch of my life.

The fire had been lit, and a pot emitting the most desperately enticing smells hung from a tripod on the hearth.  Bread and two bowls had been placed on the table.  I picked up the bowls and crossed to the fireplace, but as I was ladling out the soup I paused, struck by how very welcome the warmth of the fire felt.  I had not realised what a chill had crept into my bones.  It was stupid, I thought, that I should be feeling cold, in these warm, sultry days with no hint of breeze.

“Boromir,” Faramir said.  “Are you awake?”

“What?  Yes.  Sorry.”

I finished serving the soup and brought the bowls back to the table.  Faramir meanwhile had been filling two goblets with water from a jug on the sideboard, the wall behind it hidden by a tapestry showing Old Osgiliath in all its glory.  As I took the goblet he handed me, I found myself staring at the tapestry’s rendition of the Dome of Stars.  I wondered how much the Dome would cost to rebuild.

“Boromir,” Faramir repeated, a threat sounding in his voice.  “Sit.  And talk.”

I sighed.  “So I really can’t get out of it?” I joked feebly.

“No.  Sit.”

We sat.  And I talked.

I began, “did Mithrandir tell you of the mission that he and I, and the rest of them, were on?  Of the meaning to the riddle in our dreams?”

He frowned and hesitated, then he said quietly, “yes.  I have heard of it.”

“Good,” I said.  And I promptly skipped over all the tale of the Fellowship, until the day that I died.

I told him of my death and the weeks that followed, from the fight at Amon Hen all the way to our precipitous entry into the battle at Osgiliath. 

Faramir listened intently, interrupting now and again with questions mostly about Svip – how his house was constructed, how long his people lived, how many of them there were, how large a territory each held, whether all of them lived in Anduin or if they inhabited other rivers, whether Svip had learned the Common Tongue from his mother or from others such as the Elves he’d mentioned encountering, whether all of them built up their collections as avidly as did Svip.  All were questions for which I did not know the answers, and I could only say that he would have to ask Svip.

As difficult as it had been to begin the tale, once I had started it was equally difficult to stop.  I talked, my meal sitting neglected, and the intensity with which Faramir listened meant that both of us ended up with thoroughly cooled soup.

At last I thought I had told him everything there was to tell.  The soup intruded on my senses again, and I wolfed it down, reflecting on how much I would have given for this soup while I was munching waterplants with Svip.

Faramir sat silent, gazing frowningly into nothing.

“You should eat,” I told him.

He blinked, nodded, and obediently swallowed a few spoonfuls.  Meanwhile I stood up, eyeing the room’s two beds and wondering if we’d have time for a few hours’ sleep before the enemy again required our attention.

I would have a lie down, anyway, I decided.  I did not want to think of how long it had been since I’d encountered an actual bed.

I took off my belt and tossed it to the table, then flung my cloak and outer tunic onto the empty chair.

“Valar,” I grimaced.  “I’ll really know I’ve made it home when I can get out of these damned clothes and have a decent bath.”

Faramir had a strange, frozen look on his face, as he gazed at my belt on the table.  I wondered if he was going to scold me for tossing my clothes around the room.  “What’s the matter with you?” I asked him.

He got to his feet, still staring at the belt as though he half expected it to spring from the table and bite him.  “Where did you get that belt?” he asked, his voice little over a whisper.

“Oh, a parting gift from the Lothlórien Elves.  Their polite way of telling me ‘good riddance to bad rubbish’.  Do you want it?  I’ll probably never wear it again, except maybe at the reception for some Elven ambassador, if any of them ever condescend enough to send us an ambassador.  You can have it if you like.”

“No!” he said, with a vehemence that startled me.  “I don’t want it.”

“What’s eating you?” I demanded.  I didn’t think he would be offended at me offering him a hand-me-down.  But then I supposed he’d been fifteen or so the last time I gave him any hand-me-downs, so how did I know what he’d think of it two decades later?

Faramir said, “I saw you wearing that belt in my vision.”

“Oh,” I said.  I noticed that I was feeling chilled again, grabbed the cloak and shrugged it back over my shoulders, and sat down on the foot of the bed, near the fireplace.  “What did you see?” I asked quietly.  “I’ve told my epic, after all.  It’s your turn.”

Faramir picked up his goblet and crossed to the sideboard to refill it.  He did not drink from the goblet at once, instead gazing out of the arrow slit window toward the River and our foes.  At last he turned back into the room, leaning against the wall and gazing at me as he spoke, as though he still believed I might vanish at any instant.

“It was two weeks ago,” he said.  “Three nights after Father and I had heard the Horn of Gondor. 

“I’d gone back to Osgiliath.  I was sitting on the ruins of the old quay that night, watching the water.  There was a young moon.  I didn’t hear any movement from the enemy; all I heard was the River moving by, and the reeds.   

“Then I saw a boat floating on the water, glimmering grey, a small boat of strange fashion with a high prow, and there was none to row or steer it.

“An awe fell on me, for a pale light was around it.  I rose and walked out into the stream.  Then the boat turned toward me, and stayed its pace, and floated slowly by within my hand’s reach, yet I dared not touch it.  It seemed that it was filled with clear water, from which the light came.  And under the water you lay, Boromir, as if asleep -- and yet I knew you were dead.

“Your sword lay broken on your knees.  I saw many wounds upon you.  I recognised your clothes, your sword, everything.  The only thing I looked for and did not see was the Horn.  The only thing about you I didn’t recognise was that belt of golden leaves.  I think I spoke to you … I cried out, asking you where your horn was, where you were going.  But you didn’t speak or move, and then you were gone.  The boat turned into the stream again, and passed glimmering into the night.”

            As he stopped speaking, my brother’s eyes lingered on me for a moment longer.  Then a long shudder shook him.  He looked away and took a drink from his goblet.

            I stood up and crossed to him, putting my hand on his shoulder.

            “Damn it,” I whispered.  “I’m sorry.  I think that was my fault.”

            He looked back at me.  “Your fault?” he echoed, with a pale, confused smile.

            “Yes.  I had a dream, a nightmare, that was just the same.  It must have been – yes, I think it was – the same night.  Two weeks ago, you said?  Three nights after I died?”

Faramir nodded.  “If you died the day we heard the Horn, then yes.”

“Yes,” I muttered, almost to myself. “That must be right.  It was the first night Svip and I spent in the swamp.  I was sleeping in the Elven boat.  And I dreamed that same thing.  That I was floating down the River in that boat, that there was water above me, that I couldn’t move – and that I saw you through the water, standing over the boat, calling to me.”  I shook my head.  “You weren’t attacked that night, though, were you?”

“No,” said Faramir.

“I dreamed that you were.  I dreamed some enemy rushed you, out of the dark.  That’s what I was dreaming when I woke up.”  I sighed, gripping his shoulder harder.  “I must have been having a nightmare and it passed to you.  Or else you were having a vision and it got into my dream.”

He frowned.  “Why would I have a vision of you dead, when you were already alive again?”

“I don’t know.  It sounds like it was accurate enough, as far as it goes.  Maybe it just got the timing wrong.”

He gazed down into the water in his goblet.  “I didn’t even think it was a vision, really,” he said.  “I thought it was real.  I believed I had truly seen you, your body, floating to the sea.  I thought that perhaps the Elven boat’s magic had safeguarded your body in the passage through Rauros, and the River would carry you on past your home, across the sea to the Undying Lands.”  He looked up and smiled at me.  “I guess I was wrong.”

I didn’t know what to say.  I thought that I had to turn the conversation onto something light, at once, or I was going to cry.

“You didn’t have any visions about where my pack’s got to, did you?” I asked, walking to my chair and sitting down again.  “I suppose Mithrandir and Pippin didn’t mention it?”

“No,” said Faramir.  “Why?”

            “Oh, it’s nothing.  It’s stupid.  It doesn’t matter.  Just two months’ worth of work gone to hell, that’s all.”

            “What are you talking about?” he asked, sitting down at the table as well and making another desultory attempt at eating his cold soup.

            “Oh,” I said irritably, “we were two months at Imladris after I got there, before we finally set forth.  I spent most of that time in Lord Elrond’s library, copying things out that I thought you’d be interested in.  Records of the Eldar and the Elf-friends and the War of the Jewels, Númenorean histories, that sort of thing.  I copied a lot of maps for myself, too.  Anyway, they’re gone now.  They were in my pack, so I suppose they’re in the River, or getting rained on, or some birds are making nests out of them.”

            Faramir was staring at me, with a smile of disbelief.  “You spent two months in a library?”

            “Well, what else was I going to do?  A Man can only listen to so much poetry.”

His expression got even more incredulous, and I grinned.  “Lord Elrond was surprised about it too.  He said that he had not heard the Lord Denethor’s elder son was such a scholar.  I told him that the elder son was not, but that he was copying the manuscripts for his brother.  You know, I’m sure if we live through this, Elrond would be happy to have you visit.  He was very accommodating, gave me the run of his library and let me have all the ink and pens and parchment I needed.  I’m sure they probably locked away a few documents they didn’t want outsiders to see, but who wouldn’t?  He’d be delighted to see you, I’m sure of it.  He’d probably be thrilled to have a real Gondorian scholar come to visit him, instead of a fake one.”

            Faramir grinned and shook his head.  “I’m still trying to deal with the thought of you spending more than an hour in a library.”

            I rolled up a ball of bread in my hand and threw it at him.  “Don’t tempt my wrath, youngster,” I threatened.

            He ducked and the bread ball sailed over his head.  Then he scooped up a large chunk of carrot in his spoon, and started mentally calculating the trajectories for using the spoon as a catapult.

            “I surrender!” I exclaimed, holding up my hands in entreaty.  “Seriously, Faramir, I know Lord Elrond would welcome you.  He’s a very decent fellow, for an Elf.”

            Faramir put the spoon back in his bowl, then he stared into nothingness again, his brow furrowed in thought.

            “What are you thinking about?” I asked.

            He looked at me for a long moment before speaking.  Then he asked me, “what sort of a Man is this Aragorn you travelled with?”

            The question caught me by surprise.  I scowled, but finally I said, “I believe he is a good Man.”

            Faramir must have learned of Aragorn’s identity, I thought, or he would not be asking that question.  All the same, I asked, “you know who he is?”

            He nodded.  “I know who he claims to be, yes,” he said carefully.  “What do you think of his claim?”

            “Well.  That’s the real question, isn’t it?”  I stood up and started to pace about the room as I spoke.  “I believe he’s who he says he is.  Or, I believe that he believes it, and that it’s likely true – and that at any rate no one’s likely to prove otherwise, not unless one could go back in time and examine each step of his lineage, to ensure no one was born on the wrong side of the bedsheets.  So, he is Aragorn Son of Arathorn, heir many, many generations down, to the Kings of Arnor and Arthedain.  The question is, what does that mean for his claim to the throne of Gondor?”

            I stopped pacing and looked at Faramir.  “You’re the scholar.  You tell me.  If he’s claiming Gondor through his right as Heir of the North-Kingdom, is that or is that not the same claim that the Council rejected in 1950, or whatever it was?”

            Faramir nodded solemnly.  “Yes.  It is.  It was 1944, when Arvedui claimed the crown of Gondor and the Council rejected his claim.  I went to the library and looked it up after I got out of conference with Father last night – I mean, night before last, now.  Arvedui claimed the throne as the direct descendant of Isildur and the husband of Fíriel of Gondor, and the Council decreed that the crown and royalty of Gondor passes solely to the heirs of Anárion, and there’s to be no succession through the female line.”  He looked at me earnestly for a moment, then went on, “the question is, was the Council’s decision in 1944 the right one?  And is it a decision that we would choose to uphold now?”

            He stood up, clutching the back of his chair.  “Boromir,” he said, “you say you believe he’s a good Man.  Do you believe that he would be a good king?”     

            I did not want to answer that question.  But I held my brother’s gaze, and I said, “he’d be a decent enough king, yes.  What I want to know is why we should have a king at all.”

            I sighed, wishing we had something stronger to drink than water, and wondering if I’d find any wine if I rummaged around in the cupboards.  “I suppose Mithrandir’s been giving you the Aragorn Party arguments,” I said sourly.  “About how Gondor’s gone downhill, and if only we had a king again everything would be lovely, and Sauron would go away nicely like a good little Dark Lord, and the flowers would bloom again.”

            Faramir frowned.  “No,” he said.  “Mithrandir hasn’t spoken to me of him.  Or, not much, anyway.  I heard of him from -- ”

            He paused in mid-sentence, studying me with troubled gaze.  Then he seemed to come to a decision.  He sighed, then continued in a firmer tone, “Boromir, I’ve met others of your company, that were with you on the journey from Imladris.  It was from them that I heard of Lord Aragorn and his claim.”

            “Others?” I repeated. “Who?”

            “Five days ago, in the glades of Ithilien near Henneth Annûn, my Men and I encountered the Halfling Frodo Son of Drogo.”

            If he’d told me that he’d just concluded a peace treaty with the Dark Lord Sauron himself, I could scarcely have been more surprised.        

“You met Frodo?” I exclaimed.  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?  Was he all right?  Was Sam with him?  Where are they?”  As my questions ran down, it occurred to me that I was starting to sound like Svip.  I took a deep breath and shook my head.  “Sorry,” I said.  “Just tell me everything.”  I clamped my jaw firmly shut before I could start rattling off any more questions.

            Faramir looked startled at my outburst, then his startlement seemed to change into another expression that I couldn’t quite interpret.  Suspicion, perhaps, and some sort of dread.  But he answered calmly enough, “his servant was with him, yes.  We found them camped just west of the highway. They stayed that night with us at Henneth Annûn and he told me something of your journey together, then at dawn, four days past, they headed south through the forest."

            His recital abruptly stopped.  I waited, expecting him to say more, but my brother remained silent.  I stared at him in growing disbelief.

            “You just let them go?  What were you thinking?  The Enemy’s hordes are crawling all over that place, and you let two Halflings go strolling away like they’re off for a walk in their garden?”

            Faramir’s face set stubbornly.  “There wasn’t much else I could do,” he said.  “They would not be turned from their path, and we had not the leisure to debate it with them.”

            I groaned.  “And you didn’t even send any troops with them?  Even a few Men would be worth something.  Anborn would have gone if you sent him, he knows that country, he could have helped them …”

            My brother said in a sharp tone, “I’m not sure they would have trusted any Man to journey with them,” but my thoughts were racing onward and I barely heard him.

            “Did they tell you nothing of the route they planned?  This is insane.  They don’t know that land, how are they going to find their way?  Did they not have a map, or anything?  Four days ago … Perhaps there’s still time, we could send a small force to escort them – no, that’s stupid, we’d just be sacrificing our men – curse it, they’re probably already dead by now.  I don’t believe this, Faramir!  How could you let them go?”

            Faramir said, “I did not see that I had any right to stop them.  And what shelter could I offer them?  Gondor is scarce safer today than Mordor.”  He added in a gloomy undertone, “Mordor may be safer.”

            “Not for them!  Not with what they carry -- ”

            And then I finally thought of a meaning for my brother’s grim, dread-filled expression.  My heart sank like lead to the pit of my stomach.

“Oh, damn it,” I said.  “He told you, didn’t he?”

            Faramir gazed at me with a tormented look in his eyes.  He said quietly, “he told me you tried to take the Ring.”

            I met his gaze.  “Yes.  I did.” 

I felt a mixture of anger and regret.  Regret that I had been revealed to my brother as having feet of clay – though doubtless he’d found that out already, long before now.  And anger at him for judging me, for being on the right side of the argument as usual, and once again, anger that I had gone on the wretched quest to begin with.

            “Go on,” I said bitterly.  “Tell me how evil I am.  Tell me how much I’ve let down the whole race of Men.  Say it to my face, I dare you.”

            Faramir looked miserably toward the floor.  He murmured, “I’m sure you thought you were acting for the best.”

            Now I was angry at myself again.  I kicked my chair away from me, sending it skidding along the stone floor.  Then I sat down petulantly on the edge of the bed.  “Of course I did,” I said.  “I always think I’m acting for the best.  It’s only afterwards that I have time to think about it and realise how badly I’ve messed everything up again.” 

I wondered how much Frodo had told Faramir of that last encounter between us.  Whatever he had said, I was bound to come out of it looking like a monster or a fool.  Or both.  Snatches of the things I had said to him came rushing back to me.  What an ass I had sounded like!  Lend me your ring, Frodo.  I sounded like a schoolboy begging some trinket with which to impress a girl, not like one of the leaders of a great country discussing a weapon that might have the power to save or destroy all of us.

            Faramir was still standing there, staring at the floor.  I looked up at him.  “He was all right, wasn’t he?” I asked, feeling the worry coil painfully around my guts.  “Both of them?  They weren’t hurt, were they?”

            “They seemed fine.  Neither of them had been injured, as far as I could tell.”

            It suddenly seemed the most crucial thing to get that wretchedly unhappy look off my brother’s face.  “Faramir,” I said, “just now – when I talked about sending troops – I wasn’t thinking of trying to take the Ring again.  I swear I was not.  I don’t want the bloody Ring, I just want them to be safe.”

            Faramir nodded automatically, but his expression hadn’t changed.  And I suddenly wondered, how can I know that, for certain?  I thought I had suggested it for Frodo and Sam’s good, but how could I really know?  That is the damned thing about it, when the Ring speaks to you.  You never realise it.  You think the ideas you’re having are your own, and they seem the best ideas imaginable.  You believe with every part of you that all you have to do is follow those ideas through, and everything will turn out right.

            “Faramir,” I insisted desperately, “I never wanted to hurt them.”

            “I know that.”  Finally he looked at me.  And he asked, in a hesitant whisper, “did you – did you see it?”

            “Yes.  Yes, I saw it.  Didn’t you?”

            He gave a vehement shake of his head.  “No.  I didn’t want to ask him.  I was afraid …”  His words ran out helplessly again.

            I felt my mouth twist in a bitter smile.  “Afraid he’d think you were just like me?”

            “No,” he whispered.  “Afraid of what it might say to me.  What -- ”  He hesitated once more, then the curious scholar in him momentarily won out over everything else.  “What is it like?” he asked.

            “Just a gold ring.  A small, plain, unmarked gold ring.  Mithrandir said it has lettering on it you can read when you place it in fire, but I never saw that.”

I sighed, rubbing my hands over my face.

            “I should have let you go,” I said heavily.  “You were right.  It should have been your quest.  You would have loved it.  All those damned Elves, and the chance to talk with old Mithrandir for days on end.  You would have been in heaven, and I hated every minute of it.  Only – only if you had gone and you’d died, I would never have forgiven myself.”

            Faramir smiled a bitter little smile of his own.  “If I’d died it would have been my own doing, not yours.  And Gondor would have been better off.”

            “Don’t say that!” I snapped at him, jumping back up to my feet.

            “It’s true.  It’s what Father thinks.  I should have gone and done my best to die heroically, and you should have stayed to save our country.  Obviously it’s more than I can manage.”

            I grabbed Faramir’s arm, wanting to shake him until he stopped talking like that.  “Did Father say that to you?” I asked, feeling sick.

            His smile twisted as if he was trying not to vomit up the scant meal he’d bolted down.  “Yes.  Repeatedly.”

            I tightened my grip on his arm.  “He doesn’t know a good thing when he has it, brother.  He’s an old fool.  When I see him next I’ll tell him so.”

            “No, don’t,” Faramir said, suddenly looking worried.  “This has been destroying him.  When he learned of your death, Boromir, I – I thought it was going to kill him.”

I let go of Faramir’s arm and started pacing about the room.  “I want to go to him,” I heard myself whispering desperately.  “I want to go to him, right now, but the longer we can hold the enemy here, the longer Minas Tirith has to strengthen its defences …”

What little strengthening could be done, I added to myself, knowing that my brother must be thinking the same thoughts.  I wondered if we were right to attempt a stand here at all, rather than just getting our men to the City as swiftly as possible and adding our strength to the meagre forces there. 

But the same argument came back, each time I thought of that: that every step the hordes of the Enemy took into our land was a victory for them, and every Orc and Easterling and Southron that we slew here was one who would not live to rape and plunder and slaughter in Minas Tirith.

Yet what did it matter if we slew thousands of them here, if tens of thousands yet survived to reach the White City?

            “Reinforcements may yet reach us,” said Faramir, trying to smile encouragingly.  “The Rohirrim may yet come in time.”

            “Yes.  They may.”  I smiled back at him, and we both knew that we did not believe it.

            I sighed then, my thoughts turning once more to the Halflings and their quest.  Faramir was right; they probably were safer in the wilds of Mordor than here in the path of the horrors approaching Minas Tirith.  Perhaps there was a slim chance of their success, after all.  At least our destruction might keep the Enemy’s attention occupied long enough; I supposed there was just a chance that Frodo might be able to toss the Ring into the fire before the Nameless One noticed it.

            Of course there is, I thought scornfully, and there’s a chance that we’ll live past tomorrow, but I wouldn’t wager on it.

            “How did Frodo seem?” I asked Faramir suddenly.  “Did he still have faith in his mission?”

            “Yes.  He did.  He was afraid, I think, as who would not be, but he bore it with more faith and courage than most Men would do.”

            “Yes.  That sounds like Frodo.”  I tried to convince myself, “they may yet make it.  They’re small, they can hide easily.  No one would have thought they’d survive this far.  They may yet make it.”

            “I believe they will,” said Faramir.  “And they do have a guide, though I hope they won’t make the mistake of trusting him …”

            This was news to me.  “A guide?  What guide?”

            “A loathsome little creature they said they had travelled with before.  We caught him in the pool at Henneth Annûn and would have slain him, but Frodo placed the creature under his protection.  Samwise didn’t like it, no more than did I, but Frodo did seem to have some sort of power over him – perhaps the power of the Ringbearer.  Perhaps it will be enough, Sméagol may yet guide them faithfully, as he promised – though it be against his will.”

            For a moment I just stared in stunned astonishment.  Then the words rushed out of me, “Sméagol?  You mean Gollum?  And you left them alone with him?  Faramir, are you mad?  He’ll murder them!  He’ll eat them alive!  Valar’s blood, you’re afraid of what I’d do to them, yet you left them with him?  Did you have any idea who he is?”

            Faramir bore my latest outburst stolidly, his face as impassive and unyielding as a rock wall.  Now he said, “Frodo told me Sméagol had borne the Ring for many years.  Listen, Boromir, my heart misgave me just as yours does, but I do believe Frodo can control him.  And Samwise will be on his guard.  He is as fierce as a wolf in his master’s defence, this Sméagol will not get past him.”

            I muttered, “even wolves have to sleep.”  The despair and horror of all of this seemed settling around me like the black cloud that had devoured the sky.  “You’ll tell me I’m evil to think this,” I said, “but I truly do not believe we’d be worse off if I’d brought the Ring to Minas Tirith, than we are now with Frodo and the Ring at the mercy of Gollum.”

            “I believe we would be,” Faramir said softly.  “I know it.  I couldn’t bear to watch it happen to you.  I don’t want to see you end up like Isildur.”

            I couldn’t help but smile a little at that, even in the midst of all of this.  It occurred to me how very similar, in some ways, my brother is to Aragorn.  With the exception of the fact that I love my brother, and at most times I’d cheerfully pitch Aragorn off the nearest cliff.

            “I already did end up like him,” I pointed out.  “Dying in the wilderness as an arrow pincushion.”

            Faramir winced at that and ran one hand through his hair, then he grinned a little.  “Yes, but you came back.  Even Isildur didn’t manage that.”

            “Let’s see how many more miracles we can pull off, shall we?”  I glanced around the room, and sighed.  “The hell with it.  I’m not going to get any sleep.”  I threw my cloak onto the bed and started putting on my outer tunic again.  “What about you?  Are you going to give it a try?”

            He shivered.  “No.  I don’t want to think what I’d dream of.”

            “Then shall we inspect our defences, brother?” 

            “Yes.  Let’s.”

I refastened the gold belt of Lórien about my waist, picked up my cloak, and started toward the door.   Faramir put his hand on my arm, stopping me. 

“Boromir,” he said, looking into my face as though trying to seal it in his memory, “if you’d stayed dead I would have missed you all of my life.”

            “Doesn’t look like that would be very long, at this rate.”  I smiled at him, closing my hand over his.  “I would have missed you too.”

            As we walked from the tower room out onto the white wall, the thought came to me that at least this time we would die together.