Archive of Our Own ^beta

Faramir sighed as he awoke, enjoying one last luxurious stretch in his large, soft bed. From the sensation of warm sunlight on his face, he knew it was morning; and from the welcome feeling of his wife by his side, he knew it was early, for Eowyn often arose before he did.

Before he could urge his eyes open, he felt one of her smooth arms snake across his bare chest, and her low voice whispered teasingly into his ear, "Good morning, my lazy Lord!"

Smiling, he pried open his eyelids. Their spacious chamber was awash in early morning sunlight, not quite as lovely as their home bedroom in Ithilien, but splendid nonetheless. Turning his head a little, his long copper-colored hair rustling softly against the down pillow, he beheld what it was that made anywhere he awoke home to him: the beautiful face of his wife.

"Lazy?" he mumbled with a drowsy grin, slowly putting his arms around her. "I recall no such complaints last night, my lady."

"Hmm," she replied, settling into his embrace, "I do not believe conversation was a priority at the time."

He opened his mouth to respond, when a knock suddenly came on their chamber door. They both groaned.

"My lord?" came a page's voice from the hallway. "I bear a message from the King."

"Can you not send him away?" sighed Eowyn in a slightly cross tone, holding him a bit tighter.

Faramir grunted. "I fear it is one of the drawbacks of visiting Minas Tirith, my love, to be so close to our King that he can find me when he needs me. I would question his timing, however."

She smiled as he began to untangle himself. "Would you really? I think he'd find that most amusing."

"As Steward, I shall be sure to put it on our agenda for the next Council meeting," he muttered with good humor as he threw back the thick coverlet and sat up, the sunlight playing across the curling hairs on his muscular chest. Clad only in leggings, he padded quickly to the door, picking up a long white dressing gown on the way and pulling it over his broad shoulders. He had it loosely draped over his tall frame before finally opening the door, revealing a rather uncertain-looking young man.

"And what word from the King?" asked Faramir politely, after waiting a moment.

"If you please, sir," was the stammered answer, after the page drank in the somewhat awkward situation, "King Elessar begs you to attend him in the throne room at once. He says an urgent matter has come up."

Eowyn moaned in irritation and plopped back onto the pillow. "Why do those never come up in the afternoon?"

"Thank you, please inform His Majesty I shall join him at once," Faramir said in a brisk, efficient manner. As the messenger bowed quickly and scurried off, the Steward pushed the wooden door closed.

"I suppose this means we will not be meeting Eomer for midday supper," Eowyn murmured, propping herself up on one elbow and leaning her head on her open hand as she watched her husband dress himself.

"We may yet," Faramir replied as he hurriedly donned his everyday court clothes. "Perhaps this is merely some matter of policy that just has to be cut through. Such as our last visit, when - what?"

He had been lacing up his dark green tunic, and had caught her looking at him with a very wide smile.

"I was just thinking," she said, "you dress faster than any man I know. It takes my brother half an hour just to find his overshirt."

Faramir grinned, finished the last of his laces, and leaned over her, now fully clothed, his face only a few inches from hers.

"When this business is over, my White Lady of Rohan," he murmured, "I shall show you how fast I can unclothe myself. It will astound you even more."

With that, they shared a deep kiss, after which he reluctantly stood and headed out of the door, closing it softly behind him.

Faramir hurried along the wide green courtyard of Minas Tirith's upper level, enjoying for a moment the bright blue skies of the early morning. The cool breeze fanned his face as he strode past the ancient White Tree towards the large columned building at the courtyard's other end, his mind working out what the new problem could possibly be.

He swiftly trotted up the wide marble steps, running his slender fingers through his long curled hair in an effort to look as if he had not truly just gotten out of bed. By the time he had gone through the huge carved doors, down the long white corridor, and into the enormous throne room with its tall statues and towering black columns, he had assumed the mindset of a dedicated Steward ready to do his King's service. Although, he thought, some nice, strong tea would have really been nice.

As Faramir traversed the lengthy room, he lifted his eyes to see the King and a few advisors standing by a table to one side of the room. Aragorn was clad in formal but casual dress, without his crown, his long black hair somewhat disheveled. His green eyes were clear and aware, however, as he straightened and greeted his Steward.

"Good day, Faramir," he said in his usual soft voice as he clasped the younger man's shoulder. "I trust you will forgive me for calling you so early. I fear this cannot wait."

"In matters important to Gondor, Sire, there is no time I am not at your service," answered Faramir as he bowed slightly. He glanced down at the table and saw it was covered with maps of the lower regions of Gondor. A frown creased his face. "More trouble in the South?"

Aragorn pursed his lips and nodded. "Bands of Orcs have been striking from this region and retreating back into its sheltering lands too quickly for us to find them," he replied, indicating with one graceful finger a land in South Ithilien near the Crossings of Poros, dotted with wide plains and a few mountains. "I intend to search the area myself, and would welcome your assistance."

Faramir looked at him, his blue eyes wide with surprise. "You personally, sire? This is rather dangerous, is it not? I will gladly lead a scouting party myself..."

The King's handsome face was graced with a gentle smile as he placed a hand on Faramir's shoulder. "Your concern is noted with thanks, my friend, but it is unwarranted. I spent many years in that land as a Ranger and know its every rock. A party of soldiers will be too easily seen by the Orcs on the wide plains between the hills; a few men, traveling quickly, will go unnoticed. Besides," he added with a sigh, lowering his voice, "these castle walls are beginning to close in on me. I greatly desire some open air and a few days' free travel, before I begin to forget myself!"

Faramir smiled in understanding. Aragorn had been a solitary Ranger in the wild for almost his entire life before becoming King, and Faramir, as a former Ranger himself, knew that the cry of the wilderness could not be denied forever by the men who had once lived by its call.

"All is in order," Aragorn continued. "We shall leave the realm in safe hands and be gone but a few days. When we have found the Orcs' lair and know their number, we may return and send in an army suitable to deal with them."

The other man inclined his head in agreement. "A fitting arrangement," he said. "I shall prepare my pack and be ready by noon."

"Agreed," the King said with a firm nod. Then a new thought seemed to strike him. "Did you have occasion to travel in this particular region during this time of year, Faramir?"

Faramir turned the years over in his mind. "I and my men roamed the South frequently during the war years, my liege, searching for the enemies of Gondor."

Aragorn tilted his head a little and Faramir could have sworn the King looked very faintly amused. "Ever at this time of the year?"

Puzzled by the question, Faramir thought for a few moments before shaking his head. "Not that I can recall, sire."

His soveriegn nodded. "In that case, I would add that you should be certain to pack a few changes of clothes."

This advice took Faramir somewhat aback. "Clothes, my liege?"

Aragorn nodded, looking down at the map with a resigned expression. "These lands are quite wet during this season, and the plains become vast seas of mud. Our horses may be unable to traverse the uncertain land, and if we are forced to travel on foot, it may get...well, rather messy. I have known travelers to cross it almost naked, rather than repeatedly clean their clothes."

Faramir pondered the unusual dictum, then shrugged and nodded. "Certainly, Sire, I am sure I brought a few sturdy shirts and trousers that will bear such conditions."

The King thought about this for moment. "Trousers, yes. Perhaps only a few shirts. Having been there myself, I would say that you probably won't be wearing shirts there for very long."

Faramir gazed at him, thrown. "Truly?"

Aragorn nodded slowly, his eyes full of memory. "Oh, yes. Trust me."

Eowyn sat at the vanity, hairbrush in hand, and watched with disappointed irritation as her husband packed. "And you must leave this very day?"

"We cannot let the Orcs have free run over our lands, now that the war has ended," was the measured reply as Faramir peered into his half-full travel bag. Various folded shirts and trousers lay scattered nearby on the bed. "Did I truly only bring three pairs of clean stockings?"

She sighed and stood, her long golden hair flowing behind her as she walked over to him, the gentle rustling of her dark green dressing gown stirring the air. "That was as many as you thought you would need, I wager," she said. "But from what I know of this realm during the summer, you'll go through three pairs so quickly that you may as well only take one. It will at least save the laundresses some unneeded labor."

Faramir's mouth twitched as he removed two pairs of stockings from the bag. "The tales of this land do not sound encouraging."

"My father and uncle once chased some Orcs across those plains when he was young, right around this time of year," Eowyn explained, putting one arm around his shoulder and resting her chin on his shoulder. "It took them a week to get all of the mud out of the chinks in their armor. My mother almost killed them for what they did to the castle's woven rugs."

Her husband smiled as he looked at her. "I promise to be quite clean when I return," he said lightly. "I imagine the King does not want the guest rugs ruined, either."

She smiled back and gave him a quick kiss. "Well, do not say that so fast. I might *prefer* you a bit dirty."

Faramir's smile widened.

At that moment a knock came on the door, and a familiar voice from outside called, "Are the Steward and his Lady prepared to receive the King of Rohan?"

Eowyn chuckled and turned her face to the door, replying, "Since he remembered to knock this time, yes."

The chamber door swung open, admitting a tall, robust young man with long, slightly unkempt dark blond hair, a dark beard, and piercing brown eyes. He was clad in elaborate riding gear decorated with multiple carvings of horses, much covered in dust, and in the crook of one arm he bore a magnificent helmet with a flowing horse-tail crest.

"I should think my memory would improve," he said in a deep, biting tone to Eowyn, "after the tongue-lashing you gave me the last time."

The White Lady laughed and went to him, putting her hands on his shoulders and standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Your previous visit was at a rather inopportune moment, dear brother."

"But as welcome as this one, nonetheless," said Faramir with a smile, coming forward to grasp the arm of his sister-husband. "Welcome, Eomer. How fare matters in Rohan?"

"Oh, well enough," was the slightly testy reply as Eomer carefully placed his riding helmet on a nearby table. "At least, that's what they tell me. I do not know how our Father and our Uncle managed to keep their sanity, while they were King. I am tied to the Hall all day with endless meetings and councils! I knew better what was happening in our realm when I was banished. At least then, I could ride about and see how things stood for myself!"

"I seem to recall Father and Uncle managing a ride out now and then," Eowyn remarked, bringing her brother a goblet of water. "You recall enough of your ways of stealth to manage the same, I am sure."

Eomer sat on a nearby chair and accepted the refreshment with a nod of thanks. "The councilmen and advisors I can slip past-they're usually too busy arguing with each other to notice what I do, anyway! I'm not sure I could get by Lothiriel, though." He peered at Faramir. "Your cousin is entirely too observant."

Faramir paused from stuffing his travel bag long enough to look up and grin fondly. "It sounds as if she hasn't changed much, even after being wed to you for six months. I would advise you to simply get used to it. She is well?"

"Mmm," said Eomer with a nod, a frown creasing his brow. "She sends her love to you both. I have some letters from her in my pack." He gestured at Faramir's activity with one thickly gloved hand. "Speaking of packs, are you returning to Ithilien already?"

"Faramir is," was Eowyn's answer as she crossed the room to take a seat by her brother. "There's trouble on the border, and of course my husband has to go right into the middle of it."

Eomer shot a look at his sister-husband. "The Orcs from the plains to the south?"

Faramir glanced at him in surprise, a folded shirt in one hand. "Yes, Aragorn and I are riding down this day to see what we can find. Have you heard of their assaults?"

"They attacked a group of Rohirrim some three weeks," Eomer replied after taking a drink from the goblet, his expression turning dark. "It was a party of travelers with leave from the King to cross the southern lands." He thought for a moment, then stood. "Do you think Aragorn would allow me to join you on this mission?"

The Steward frowned a little as he turned the question over in his mind. "We may ask him - I am fairly certain your assistance would be welcome, as always. Do you know about the lands we ride to?"

"Only what I have heard tell from others," was Eomer's response. His eyes narrowed. "They say it is a land of high mountains, ringed with waterfalls and wide, open plains. In this season, the country is swamped with rain so that the plains are turned into miles of deep, thick mud. Horses will be useless, crippled within a few miles of entering its borders. They also say...one cannot keep a clean set of clothes on there to save one's life."

Faramir chuckled a bit and nodded. "That is what the King said as well," he remarked. "During my years as a Ranger, we only ventured that far south a few times, and all during the dryer time of the year."

A tight smile graced Eomer's handsome features. "You are most fortunate, but it is the time of rain in that region now. So we shall see how a Ranger of Ithilien deals with endless seas of mud!"

Faramir sighed and closed his pack. "It cannot be worse than dealing with endless seas of Orcs," he observed with a wry smile. "Come, let us go speak to the King and have our midday meal before we must depart. If I am going to drown in a relentless quagmire of ooze, it shall at least be on a full stomach."

The sun was almost in its noonday position by the time the three travelers were prepared to depart. The day was bright, but to the south, dark clouds rumbled on the horizon.

"Take good care," said Eowyn with a loving smile before she kissed her husband farewell.

"I shall try not to come home too filthy," Faramir returned in a light voice, drawing her close and kissing her once more.

They parted, and she gently squeezed his arm. "Just come home," she chided in a tone of mock sharpness. "We shall worry about making you presentable once you are through the door."

"Don't worry, sister, we'll be certain to dunk him thoroughly before allowing him inside," Eomer assured her as he led his horse into the bright sunlight of the courtyard.

She laughed and gave him a kiss as well. "If Faramir is dirty, I am sure you will be naught but a walking ball of mud," she said fondly.

He smiled in reply. "I'll be as clean as your fair husband, save for the Orc blood on my sword," he promised, his dark eyes fierce with determination.

As they mounted their steeds, Eowyn stood back and folded her arms. "I hope not," she replied. "You are only a scouting party, remember, you cannot take on a whole band of Orcs by yourselves."

"Ha!" scoffed Eomer as he settled easily into his saddle. "Do you hear that, Faramir? As if any filthy nest of Orcs were any match for two Kings and the Prince of Ithilien."

Faramir was taking his reins into his hands and looking about. "We may have to slaughter them ourselves, my friend," he said. "We appear to be short a monarch. Have either of you seen the King?"

Eowyn smiled. "I believe he was saying goodbye to the Queen."

"Are we prepared?"

At the well-known voice, they all turned to see Aragorn approaching them, clad in his black-green traveling leathers and looking more like an ordinary rider than the King of Gondor. His clothing was a bit disheveled and his face gleamed with sweat, a sign of the exertion occasioned from his farewell to his beloved Arwen.

"Indeed we are, my Liege," answered Faramir with an empathetic smile of complete understanding.

Aragorn nodded sharply. "Then let us ride."

Soon the restored Great Gates of the courtyard swung open, revealing the wide plains of the Pelennor Fields and the mountain range of Ephel Duath, once wreathed only in shadow but now drenched in sunlight. Little fanfare accompanied the departure of the two Kings and the Steward; they rode through the portal as any other travelers might, and only Eowyn paid much attention to their retreating figures. Few noticed the White Lady as she climbed to the height of the wall and watched the riders growing ever smaller as they rode along the river towards the south. She stood there for some time as the sun climbed past its zenith and the heedless crowds swirled through the courtyard below her, until distance and the mountains took the travelers from her view.

Two days of uneventful riding brought Aragorn, Faramir and Eomer to their destination, and at last they stood upon the border of the land in which the Orcs had made their hiding place.

"Amazing," breathed Faramir as they beheld it. "It looks so much worse than I imagined."

Before them stretched a vast open plain, extending from where they stood to the foothills of the southern mountains lining the distant horizon. Here and there stood isolated islands of waving trees, but for the most part the land was a flat, featureless, shining sea of mud. It appeared even more daunting in the uncertain light that now fell across the land, for gray clouds had obscured the sun since the men crossed the border into the south and it had been raining for almost an entire day. The air was still and silent, save for the dull pitter-patter of the thick raindrops striking the mud.

The three men stood for some time and looked at the seemingly unending ocean of goo. They were all soaked through, their shirts plastered to their chests, their long hair straggling down in dejected, dripping curls.

"I suppose we must go in," Faramir continued, when his companions said nothing.

Aragorn nodded. "We shall shelter the horses and continue on foot; they may injure themselves on this uncertain ground."

"Were it not for this accursed rain," Eomer muttered in a cross tone, prodding at the mud with one toe of his boot, "we could find the Orcs by following their tracks. But all sign of passage is washed away at once."

"And it will remain so, as this is the season of rain in this area," Aragorn declared, shrugging his shoulders in his drenched leather tunic. "Blast, I forgot how this garment rides up when it's wet."

Faramir sighed and patted his horse's neck. "Well, let us care for the horses and be on with it. Perhaps we will be fortunate and the rain will have drowned the Orcs."

Soon the horses were safely hidden, with food and water enough to sustain them while their masters were away, and the three warriors were walking with firm, if squishy, step towards the muddy plains.

"Tread carefully," Aragorn was saying as he strode onto the rain-washed terrain, "for this land is very-WOOP!"

There was a sodden *splush* as the King of Gondor did a spectacular flip and landed flat on his backside. It took all of the stoic training that Faramir and Eomer had endured as soldiers not to burst out in laughter.

"Are you uninjured, my liege?" Faramir inquired, when he felt he could talk without chuckling.

Aragorn sighed; he had sunk almost three inches into the mud and it was only with some effort that he managed to pull his hands free from the sucking ooze. After a moment, he shook the dripping substance from his hand, a wan smile on his spattered face.

"Right now your liege feels quite like a Shire pig in his wallow," he said with weary humor. He turned to face his comrades. "Come forth, gentlemen, have you not the courage to share your comrade's fate?"

Faramir tentatively placed one foot on the edge of the gooey earth, putting his weight on it slowly. It slipped almost at once; the mud was very soft and as slick as ice.

"Well," Eomer said with resignation, "at least the rain will quickly cleanse us of our filth."

Faramir looked at him and shrugged, raising his eyebrows in agreement. It was not as if they had much choice, with the safety of Gondor at stake.

Ten minutes later, they were making some progress into the interior of the land, having learned to traverse its treacherous paths with both caution and some degree of speed.

All three of them were completely covered with mud.

As they walked, the air was broken only by the slurping sound of their dogged footsteps as they slogged through the deep muck, the steady drumming of the incessant rain, and eventually by Faramir's pragmatic, questioning voice.

"This trip isn't going to get any better, is it?"

The three men continued their trek the entire day, each keeping a keen eye out for any sign of the Orcs. The mud continued to be a severe hindrance; every twenty feet or so one of them would hit an especially slick spot and wind up mired in the sludge. Eventually the response became routine: an exasperated sigh and a quick extraction, and the march would continue.

Besides being extremely slippery, portions of the muddy ground proved to be much deeper than others, a trait tht proved difficult to detect from observation but not impossible. A slight depression in the flat, shining surface betrayed a patch of mud far deeper than the muck surrounding it, and through Aragorn's advice and a few unfortunate experiences, the three hunters learned to avoid such treacherous areas.

After what seemed like an eternity, the rain stopped, although the sky still appeared threatening. The huge dark clouds parted enough to admit glimpses of blue sky, and every once in a while the land would be swept with warm, welcome sunlight. The effect did nothing to dry the soggy ground, however, and only blinded the walkers as the light bounced off of the smooth, shiny mud.

Another problem soon presented itself, as the mud-soaked clothing now clinging to the men's bodies began to dry. What was once merely wet, sloppy mud soon became scratchy, caked-on dirt that seemed to cling everywhere.

"Gah," Faramir coughed as he brushed with futility at his dirt-encrusted arms. "I wonder if this land isn't some leftover curse of Sauron. Wet or dry, it is as vexing as a whole pack of Uruks!"

Eomer was trudging forward with a fervent stride, ignoring the great clumps of earth that hung tangled in his long blond hair. "I hope we meet our enemy soon," he growled, a piercing gleam of annoyance in his eyes. "I find myself in the perfect mood to stab something."

A smile crossed Aragorn's dirt-streaked face. "Just do not get overly excited in your war-fever, King of Rohan, and confuse us with the Orcs! Covered with mud as we are, it may be hard to tell man from beast when the fighting breaks out."

Their path took them close to the base of one of the mountains, an area skirted with green plants and trees. From their position on the open plain, it was impossible to see past the thick growth to the base of the hills. Within the lush oasis came the faint sound of roaring water.

Aragorn stopped and looked at the sky. "The sun is setting," he observed. "I suggest we make camp in the foothills; once night falls, it will be too dangerous to travel further. We shall eat, rest, and prepare to renew our search tomorrow."

He paused at the edge of the vegetation and drew his sword.

Faramir unsheathed his weapon as well, his keen blue eyes searching the thick grasses and tall trees for any signs of hidden Orcs. "I would also say a bath would be in order," he suggested. "We'll get dirty again tomorrow, but right now I'd just like to cleanse myself, if only for a while."

"I have great pity for any Orc in there," snarled Eomer as he studied the foothills, "if he dares stand between me and the chance to be rid of this cursed filth!"

Aragorn smiled. "Use whatever incentive for battle you will, my friends," he said, and they waded stealthily into the brush.

A thorough search of the small area revealed no Orcs. It did uncover the fact that at the base of the mountain, hidden from view of the plains, was a wide waterfall some fifty feet in height, splashing over several rounded boulders to tumble into a wide shallow pool below. Once aware of its presence, the men could not help casting glances of longing in its direction while they secured the rest of the oasis.

"It would seem we are alone," announced Eomer after they had all combed the region to their satisfaction.

"I agree," Aragorn replied, looking around. "Though we must still be on our guard."

"My opinion matches yours," added Faramir, stripping his pack from his back. "Now that we have settled that matter, I am ready to bathe, so that I may enjoy at least a few hours of mud-free existence."

In silent acquiescence, all three men found their way of the edge of the pool. The sky had partly cleared, the late afternoon sun turning the air warm and humid. With a complete nonchalance born of many years of living among Rangers and soldiers, they completely doffed their stiff, dirty garments with no self-consciousness at all.

"I believe this mud is a tool of Morgoth," Faramir observed as he peeled off his trousers. "Every inch of my skin is covered with it, even beneath my clothes."

"It is very wet sometimes on the plains of Rohan," Eomer stated as he tossed his muddy, balled-up shirt aside and began pulling off his boots. "But even our worst swamps are nothing like this. Small wonder those filthy Orcs like it."

Aragorn finished disrobing first, his garb placed in a small pile by the water's edge. As the other two men removed the last of their dirty clothing, the King stood by the pool and stuck one foot in.

"What does the royal foot say of the water?" inquired Faramir with a slight smile as he stood, now fully unclothed, his garments in his arms.

"It is not overly warm," was the reply, as Aragorn swiftly stepped into the pool, "but nothing three mighty warriors cannot bear." He ventured several feet away from shore, finally standing up to his waist in the water.

"Hmm," was Faramir's only comment as he set his clothing down by the King's and waded slowly in. It was cool, but not cold, and the temperature seemed to matter little compared to the delightful sensation of the offending mud being rinsed from his body.

"Bah," Eomer grunted, plowing into the pond with enough force to cause small waves. "In Rohan, we bathe in frozen streams during the winter."

"And eat icicles for breakfast, no doubt," Faramir chuckled as he moved farther into the water, washing the dried mud from his skin. After a few moments he ducked into the water, swimming a little so that his entire body was immersed. Taking a breath, he dipped his head beneath the surface, rubbing his hair with his hands under the water to free it from the clumps of dirt. Finally he arose from the pool, his skin and hair glistening clean in the waning afternoon sun.

Aragorn had moved to the end the pool and stood beneath the falls, letting the water pour over his lean, muscular body. As he scrubbed his hair, he glanced at Eomer. "I suppose those scars came from doing battle with passing ice floes," he remarked.

The King of Rohan finished wringing the water from his long locks and threw a scowl in his fellow sovereign's direction. Like his two comrades, his body was marked with several battle scars, some very old. "These marks were won in honorable combat," he declared, "with creatures a bit more lethal than chunks of frozen water."

Faramir had been massaging his face vigorously with water, trying to get the last of the mud from his beard. He glanced over at his sister-husband for a few moments, then frowned. "Did one of them bite you?"

Eomer looked at him sharply. "What?"

The other man pointed to an area on Eomer's arm above his left elbow. "There. Those are bite marks, upper and lower jaw. Very faint, though."

This seemed to cause Eomer some consternation. "Oh-that's nothing."

Aragorn, now spotless, waded over with a curious expression on his wet visage.

"Must have been a very *small* Orc," the King of Gondor noted with a smile, sniffing from the water and wiping his nose with a swipe of his hand.

Eomer sighed, pursing his lips in irritation. "It wasn't an Orc. It was...Eowyn."

The eyes of his companions widened in surprise.

"*Eowyn* bit you?" said Aragorn.

Eomer became utterly exasperated. "It was a childish fight-I don't even remember how it happened-she had a very strong bite for a little girl!"

Faramir chuckled. "She's got a pretty strong bite for a woman, too."

The other two men looked quickly at him, a bit more shocked than before. The smile slid completely from Faramir's face as the realization sank in and his cheeks began to turn red.

"Oh. Uh, did I say that out loud...? Er. *cough* Um. Oh."

After a few awkward moments, Aragorn grinned in amused empathy and said, "Perhaps we should finish our bath, wash our clothes, and set up our camp for the night, gentlemen. This water seems to have quite a relaxing effect on the tongue, and I possess a few scars whose origins I would rather you didn't know about."

Within a short amount of time, the three men had retrieved very wrinkled but reasonably clean and dry garments from their packs and clothed their now mud-free bodies. The dirty shirts and trousers were duly washed out and spread them over various rocks and branches to dry. As the twilight sky deepened into night, they regrouped to lay out their next movements.

"Hunting may be difficult in the darkness," Eomer noted, glancing up at the sky. "Yet we may be fortunate and find some night game."

Aragorn sat on a nearby rock with a smile, his loose shirt billowing with the movement. "Sit and rest, Eomer King," he advised, pulling his pack onto his lap and opening it. "You as well, good Steward. My queenly wife has seen to our sustenance."

Faramir watched with bright curiosity as he sat on a boulder next to the King, ruffling his long fair hair with his hands to hasten its drying. Eomer seated himself as well, scowling in slight confusion as his comrade reached into the bag.

Within moments Aragorn withdrew his hand from the pouch. He held a sizable square object, wrapped loosely in paper. It appeared to be a very large, thick cracker.

Faramir's eyes widened at once. "Lembas bread!" he exclaimed with delight, a great smile crossing his face.

"Bread?" Eomer inquired, after a pause. "For dinner?"

Aragorn swiftly unwrapped the food, broke off a small corner of it and handed it to Faramir, who passed it to the King of Rohan.

"This is no mere baker's loaf, my good sister-husband," Faramir assured him as Eomer took the piece and eyed it skeptically. "I have been reading about this fabled food of the Elves since I was a child. It has wondrous properties of nourishment; that will be all you need for at least a half-day."

"Alas, Arwen had no mallorn leaves to properly wrap it," Aragorn said as he gave Faramir another small piece, then took a bit for himself before wrapping up the remainder and replacing it into his pack.

"I'm sure we can dispense with ceremony in the wild," said Faramir as he closely examined his piece. "I never thought I'd get a chance to taste this." He bit his piece in half and chewed it thoughtfully. "Hmm. A bit saltier than I expected, but very good. Please convey our deepest thanks to the Queen."

Aragorn shrugged and took a bite from his portion as well. "It is always difficult to reproduce the recipe exactly when one is not in the Elvish realm," he noted as he munched. "It is very close, however."

Eomer looked at them both, shrugged and opened his mouth.

At that moment, Aragorn looked up at him quickly. "Oh, Eomer, I should tell you, don't eat it all at-"

His words stopped abruptly when he saw that Eomer had put the entire piece into his mouth, and was chewing it while gazing at his fellow King with a puzzled countenance.

The former Ranger's mouth twitched. "Oh. Ah, never mind. Just-try not to swallow it all at once. It will fill you up *very* quickly."

Eomer continued to regard him somewhat oddly, but obeyed as best he could.

"I wonder if the Queen and her ladies might consent to making some of these for our next long march?" mused Faramir as he finished his piece. "It would come in very handy and take up far less room than the usual provisions."

Aragorn nodded as he swallowed his share. "I am sure she will be most pleased to help, Faramir. We shall speak to her when we return; knowing heer generous heart, I feel certain she will agree, and I am equally sure our soldiers will prefer them to field rations."

Faramir smiled gratefully and sat back, wiping his hands on his trouser legs and looking around. His gaze settled finally on his sister-husband, who was looking decidedly uncomfortable.

"Was the bread not to your liking?" inquired Aragorn, studying Eomer with concern.

Eomer shook his head quickly. "It was fine," he said in a strained voice. "Very good, I just...I feel as if I've eaten a whole roasted boar!"

His companions laughed a little.

"Much the same happened to me the first time I tried lembas bread," admitted Aragorn. "My foster-father Elrond warned me not to have more than a bite, but being merely a child, I thought it was nothing more than a large sweetcake and ate almost half a piece before I-"

Suddenly he stopped, his entire body tensing. His comrades reacted in the same manner at the same moment, instantly alert, their eyes all meeting and exchanging a silent message of realization. In one identical motion, they all picked up their swords and stood, their eyes scanning the dark trees around them.

After a moment, Aragorn looked to the east, and began walking to the edge of the clearing. His comrades followed close behind him, their swords glinting in the starlight, their eyes steady, their expressions grave. Scarcely a sound was made by their stealthy footsteps as they crossed the grassy ground. Thunder rumbled in the distance; the air was still and heavy with the approaching storm.

Ten feet from the border of the trees, Aragorn stopped.

"We know of your presence," he said loudly. "Face us and do battle!"

Silence.

More silence.

Then, from the depths of the shadowy woods, came a low, rough, heavily accented voice, uttering a single frustrated word.

"Bugger!"

All at once, there came a great crashing sound, and four large Orcs burst out of the trees, charging at the men, their swords flashing. Two attacked Aragorn, while their comrades busied themselves with Faramir and Eomer. Oaths, grunts and cries filled the air as the sleepy glade rang with the cacophony of fierce engagement.

Faramir found his opponent an even match. It had been a while since his ranger combat skills had been put to use, but he found that his instincts were as sharp and deadly as ever. He knew the Orc had the advantage of good sight in the darkness, and that the Orc was wearing armor while all that protected the Steward was a loose shirt and a pair of leggings. It took a good deal of graceful maneuvering to avoid the beast's blade; despite a great amount of effort, the only damage the creature managed to inflict was a minor slice across Faramir's stomach.

The slight wound only further stirred Faramir's fighting blood, however, and very quickly he became as the Ranger Captain of old, assaulting his adversary with swift and brutal skill. The Orc lunged forward; Faramir parried, turned the blow aside, and lunged back, drawing dark blood upon his blade. The Orc charged him; Faramir sidestepped the attack with astounding speed, grasping the Orc's sword arm and wrenching it sharply, gritting his teeth from the effort.

The creature squealed as his weapon fell from his thick-fingered grip, but before he could counter, Faramir drove his fist savagely into the back of the Orc's skull. Stunned, the beast fell to the ground, but recovered quickly enough to grab his sword and spin around with the full intent of gutting the Steward. Before he could complete his turn, however, Faramir proved the faster, and the Orc found himself gasping his last with a Ranger sword cleaving his throat.

Faramir's expression was wide-eyed with intense loathing as he met the Orc's hate-filled dying gaze. At last, the creature gurgled and slumped sideways, and Faramir drew his sword from its throat as it fell. He shook himself, a bit disoriented after the frenzied exertion, but quickly collected his wits and went to the aid of his comrades.

Eomer found his enemy to be tenacious as well, and he was enjoying every moment of it. Like Faramir, the King of Rohan was clad in naught but loose clothing and had only his sword for protection, yet he fought as if in full battle gear with the host of the Rohirrim behind him. All thoughts of boring council meetings and stuffy court protocol fled his mind; here he was in his true element, and Eomer drove after the Orc with the gleeful ferocity of a born warrior unleashed.

The Orc lunged at Eomer with a cry; Eomer shouted even louder as he parried the assault and grappled with his beefy opponent. They met eye to eye for an instant, and Eomer glared into the creature's face with an intense hatred he reserved for only his most bitter enemies. Finally he shoved the Orc away and attacked, raining blow after blow against the beast's sword. They plunged across the grassy clearing, Eomer yelling Rohirric war cries as he struck out, the Orc stumbling backwards as fast as he could to avoid having his skull split open.

They plowed through the bushes and past the trees, leaves and twigs flying through the air in the ferocity of the offensive. Finally the Orc fell backwards over a small rock near the edge of the oasis, striking the ground with a heavy thud. Eomer pounced forward, thrusting his sword at the monster. At the last moment, his enemy squeaked and rolled away, the sword point barely catching a bit of his leather armor. Without pause, the Orc scrambled to his feet and darted away, running as fast as his feet would carry him onto the mud plain.

Eomer dashed to the border of the grassland, watching in mute horror as the Orc fled, slipping and splashing, across the flat. He hesitated, looking down at the muck in approximately the same loathing manner that he had eyed the Orc with a few moments before. But there was no help for it. Sighing, he gripped his sword tighter and ran after his adversary.

Thunder rumbled overhead once more, followed a few seconds later by pouring rain.

Despite the great care Eomer took in traversing the mud, he was soon once more covered in the thick substance; even the heavy rain failed to completely wash it away from his once-clean hair and clothes. As disadvantaged as he was, the heavy, clumsy Orc was even more hobbled, and Eomer had little difficulty in overtaking the beast and tackling him to the ground. They struggled in the mud for a few moments, until Eomer with a mighty cry ran the creature through.

Panting heavily, Eomer angrily whipped aside the streaming hair that was plastered over his eyes, glaring at the dead Orc as he climbed to his feet. Then, with no further thought bestowed on his fallen enemy, he whirled around and ran with splashing steps to rejoin Aragorn and Faramir against the remaining two Orcs. He was filthy again, and somebody was going to pay for it.

While Faramir and Eomer were dealing with their matters, Aragorn had his hands full with two equally enthusiastic opponents. The Orcs attacked him in tandem, hacking at him from both sides, their weapons a blur in the uncertain twilight.

Aragorn's reply was as fierce as their assault; in no time, he shed the stately role of King and became Strider, the Ranger whom no Orc could best in battle. His defense was swift and effective; Anduril sang as it plied its deadly work against the onslaught, and in little time one Orc fell beneath Elendil's mighty blade.

As the beast's body fell to the sodden ground, its chest sliced open by Aragorn's weapon, the surviving combatants fell back a few paces and glared at each other over the motionless corpse. Aragorn paused, his breathing heavy, blood trickling from cuts to his cheek and arms. It was his hope that the brute might surrender, and reveal the hiding place of the rest of the Orcs; it was their only hope of quickly ending the dangerous situation.

Lightning flashed, and the skies opened, yet still they stood, until with a roar the Orc lifted his weapon and struck out at the King.

With the ease of a warrior born, Aragorn blocked the blow, and they exchanged strike for strike until the small grove resounded with the noise of their battle. The huge Orc proved skilled with his blade and as determined as Aragorn to emerge victorious; any advantage gained by one would be quickly countered by the other, and the advantage exchanged. They quickly became soaked with rain and slicked with blood; neither cared. The ferocity of their efforts soon drove them out of the shelter of the grassy oasis and onto the barren flats; they scarcely noticed as the firm ground beneath their feet turned into the sloshing fields of mud. All that mattered was the battle, and which of them would live to tell of it.

Lightning split the sky, flashing from their swinging blades as they struck and counterstruck. Soaked with rain, streaked with blood, Aragorn barely noticed Faramir and Eomer coming up behind him, their swords at the ready. The Orc, suddenly realizing his trapped state, turned his attack to them as well, lending Aragorn a chance to breathe. The battle became brutally physical; despite being stabbed repeatedly, the creature refused to yield. Soon all four contestants were swathed in blood and mud, their clothes and hair sodden and streaming with water.

Finally Aragorn charged forward with a cry, smashing his sword against the Orc's weapon with unequaled fury. The huge creature grunted, parried the blows, then squealed in rage as his blade was forced from his hand to spin off into the mud. He staggered and fell to his knees exhausted, his fists clenched, as Aragorn placed his sword's point within an inch of the beast's chest. Eomer and Faramir flanked him, their weapons also held on their defeated foe.

"Do you yield?" Aragorn panted, his eyes as hard as steel. He was soaked with rain, the blood from his wounds mingling with the water and mud now running in rivulets over his body and dripping thickly to the ground. Thunder rumbled faintly as the rain began to taper off.

The Orc glowered at him through hate-filled yellow eyes and snarled, but made no move.

"There are questions we need answers to," Aragorn went on, "and if-"

He got no further, for at that moment the Orc let out a defiant roar and sprang forward, impaling himself on Aragorn's sword.

"NO!" Aragorn cried, but the life left the eyes of the Orc as he slid backwards off the blade, landing with a heavy *splut* in the thick, soupy mud.

For a few moments, the only sound was the fading patter of the rain striking the ground as the three mud-soaked men stared in disappointment at the Orc, now silent forever. After a few moments, they exchanged weary looks of extreme frustration, then turned around as one man and trudged with heavy steps back to the cleansing waters of the oasis.

The rain soon stopped completely, and by the time the three men had cleansed their bodies and bound their wounds, stars had begun to peek out from the scutting clouds.

"We must be more on our guard now," Aragorn was saying as he tied off the last of his bandages. "The Orcs will certainly notice when their scouts fail to return."

"I suppose it is too much to hope that they were the entire raiding party," sighed Faramir as he knotted the binding cloth around his stomach wound.

Eomer shook his head as he squeezed the last of the water from his long hair. "My men said they were attacked by a party of at least twenty-five," he replied.

Faramir raised his brows. "Well, at least that's down now by four."

"You both rest," the King of Gondor advised as he pulled on his leather tunic. "I shall take the first watch. At sunrise we will resume the search, and see if the rain left us any tracks to go by."

The other two men rose at once and began to make camp.

"What a desolate, accursed land," muttered Eomer as he undid his bedroll. "Acres of mud, torrents of rain, roving packs of Orcs...only Mordor itself is less hospitable."

Faramir smiled as he rummaged through his pack. "At least we haven't encountered any ghosts," he offered. "In north Ithilien, it was always said among the Rangers that the South portion of the land was haunted."

"Haunted?" scoffed Eomer as he sat heavily down on his blanket and reached down to pull off his right boot. "What pathetic spirit would choose to roam this horrid place?"

"Hello," said Boromir.

With a strangled cry of shock, both men jumped to their feet, staring at the apparition that had suddenly appeared before them, sitting quite naturally on a log with hands folded and a bemused smile on his face. After scrambling several feet away, they stopped, eyes still popping, jaws agape; Eomer tripped over a very large rock and tumbled backwards, landing with a thud and apparently deciding it was better if he didn't move again right away.

Faramir could only stand still and stare.

Aragorn ran up, sword drawn. "What has hap...Oh." He blinked and lowered his sword, his gaze no less astonished than Faramir's.

With a laugh, the spirit stood. It had every appearance of Boromir, as they had last seen him, except that his clothes were spotless and his body was surrounded by a faint greenish glow. The Elven cloak bestowed by the Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien was still draped about his shoulders, the mallorn-leaf pin glittering at his throat. He looked to be in perfect health, with all traces of the three Orc arrows that had ended his life completely healed away. Apart from the eerie light, he looked as solid as the living men.

"You've all so disappointed me," said Boromir lightly as he strode forward, clasping his hands behind his back and shaking his head. "I was hoping for at least one decent scream."

They backed away as he approached, unsure as to what was going on. Faramir's head was spinning; it simply could not be what it looked like.

They watched warily as Boromir casually sidled over to where Eomer still lay flat on back behind the boulder; only the calves of his legs, draped over the top of the rock, were visible. With a huge grin Boromir walked behind the stone and bent over to look into Eomer's face, apparently highly amused.

"And how fares the King of Rohan?" asked Boromir in a bright voice.

The King's response was a loud and very sarcastic-sounding Rohirric curse word. Boromir laughed in reply and extended one hand to the tripped-up monarch, and the other two men were surprised to see Boromir grasp Eomer's hand and lift him up as firmly if he had still been flesh and blood.

Eomer emerged from behind the rock somewhat dirty and disheveled, and he was eying Boromir with intense confusion. Once on his feet, he released his hand with a nod of thanks and backed speedily away to join the other two men, never letting his gaze stray from the ethereal newcomer.

After a few moments of stunned silence, Boromir looked at the three men who stood staring at him and grinned. "Well, if you are not going to scream, I suppose a simple greeting would do," he said, his eyes shifting from one man to the next. "For a beginning, you could tell me how splendid I look for a man who's been dead for almost two years." He paused, softly chuckling to himself, then glanced at Faramir. "Brother? Not even a word from you?"

Faramir was regarding the spirit with great wariness. "You will forgive me, Boromir, if that is indeed who you are," he said slowly. "How can we be sure you are my brother, and not some foul trick of evil?"

"Ah! A good question," replied the ghost, clasping his hands behind his back once more and walking forward. "It is always best to be cautious, I know. Suppose I supplied information that only I would know?"

Aragorn gave him a sharp glance, still very much on his guard. "Such as?"

Boromir thought for a moment, then looked at his brother. "Faramir, when I was sixteen and you were eleven, you and I found a secret way into the Minas Tirith Ladies Academy, and you..."

Here he leaned in very close to Faramir and whispered something into the younger man's ear. At first Faramir went pale, his blue eyes opening wide, but a moment later his face flushed a deep red and he stood back with a start, looking quickly over at Eomer and Aragorn.

"It's Boromir," he said in a very clipped voice, his eyes still wide and looking almost panicked.

Aragorn looked puzzled. "Are you sure? What-"

Faramir nodded his head so quickly his barely-dry hair flew about his face. "Yes, yes, yes, it's him, no further questions necessary, no doubt about it!"

Eomer's dark eyes darted between Boromir and Faramir. "What did he tell you?"

"THAT'S NOT IMPORTANT!" Faramir shouted, his cheeks still blazing red, and without any more ado, turned and gave his brother a crushing embrace.

As Boromir returned the gesture, Aragorn and Eomer exchanged looks of astonishment, still trying to absorb what had happened.

"This is going to make a very interesting council report," noted Aragorn in a dry tone as he slid Anduril back into its sheath.

"Boromir, I can't believe it's you!" Faramir was saying, his joyous voice muffled in his brother's spectral shoulder. Then, in a much softer tone, "and if you ever tell them what you just told me, I'll...I'll...make sure they spell your name wrong in the history books!"

"It is good to see you as well, little brother!" Boromir replied, before adding, "I wager you thought I forgot all about that night!"

"Eru knows *I've* certainly tried to!" muttered Faramir as he broke the embrace and pulled away, looking up at his brother with a chagrined expression. Then, after a moment, he relaxed and smiled. Boromir laughed a little and ruffled Faramir's fair, damp hair.

"So, it seems spirits do indeed walk these lands," Aragorn said as he and Eomer stepped forward.

Boromir shrugged, one hand still on Faramir's shoulder. "Perhaps they do, but right now it's just me, as far as I know. Not the first place I would choose for a haunt." He looked around and sniffed.

"Boromir!" cried Faramir urgently, grasping his brother's ghostly shirt with one hand. "For the love of Eru, can you say nothing more than that? How came you to leave the realm of the Dead? What are you doing here among the living? What-"

His brother cut him off, grinning as he pushed at him in a playful manner. "Patience, brother, patience! I see you haven't changed much, at least in regards to curiosity!" His green eyes gained a proud light. "But I know, you are the Steward now, and a Prince, so I suppose as a mere soldier I can't push you any more."

Faramir gave him a fond smile.

He looked at Eomer and Aragorn. "And you've both become Kings," he noted, bowing slightly to them. "Though don't expect me to follow any of your orders, you are not *my* Kings. I am under a slightly higher authority now."

Aragorn sighed, his own mouth twisting into a grin. "I don't recall you ever listening to me in any case, my friend. But I am just as curious as my Steward, and if an order won't work, perhaps a simple request will? Just what is the meaning of your most welcome visit here?"

Boromir squared his shoulders and began making his way back to the rocks where they had all been seated, his audience walking with him.

"Well," he replied as he strode along, "it all started a little while ago, when I was asked to deliver a message." He looked at Faramir. "To you."

Faramir blinked as they sat down in a rough circle upon the rocks. "Me?"

"Yes." Boromir's expression grew serious; he glanced down at the ground, as if composing himself, then lifted his eyes to meet those of his brother. "It's from Father."

The younger man gasped a little; Aragorn and Eomer looked surprised.

"Father?" gasped Faramir. "You-you have *seen* him?"

Boromir's mouth twitched. "Yes," he said in a somewhat uncomfortable voice, "and he begged me to send word to you. He cannot yet find the strength to do it himself."

Faramir was staring at him sideways, a slight trace of fear in his eyes. "And...what is the message?"

The specter took a deep breath and looked straight into Faramir's eyes. "He wanted me to tell you," he said, "that he is very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very..."

"Gods," muttered Eomer, impressed.

"... very, very, very, very, VERY sorry he was such a horse's ass to you."

Faramir seemed stunned. "He...he said that?"

"Yes." Boromir paused, then shrugged a little. "Well, the 'horse's ass' was my idea. His language was a bit different, but I thought that was more accurate."

His brother said nothing, and sat silently for a few moments, lost in thought and apparently deeply moved.

"Oh, and before it escapes my mind," said Boromir quickly, turning to Eomer, "Theoden King sends his love to you and Eowyn, and wants me to tell you that you might want to rethink the new fur rugs in the Golden Hall, because the baby's just going to spit up all over them anyway."

Eomer looked very confused. "*What* baby?"

Boromir smiled.

"Boromir," Aragorn interjected, "as you must know, we are seeking a band of Orcs who roam these lands. Can you aid us in finding them?"

The ghost leaned forward, propping one elbow on his knee and rubbing his chin. "Alas, in this realm my abilities are as limited as yours," he confessed. "While here, I will do what I can to aid you, but I have no special sight that will allow me to see what you cannot." He paused. "And your parents send their love as well, by the way. Your mother would like you to trim your hair up a bit, says you will look more kingly that way."

The KIng of Gondor seemed mildly taken aback. "I already grew this blasted beard..." he muttered, slightly irritated.

"Well, you can tell her that yourself," was the offhand reply. "She will know, trust me, and I'm done being the messenger." He glanced over at Faramir. "Are you all right, brother?"

"Oh, yes," was the faint reply, as Faramir nodded his head, blinking at Boromir as if coming out of a daze. "I just cannot believe you spoke to father, and he said...How *is* he?"

Boromir shifted a little on his rock. "Still fairly undone, as I'm sure you can guess," he answered in a somber tone. "And he *is* most regretful for all the pain he caused you. Um, in fact, he won't stop talking about it. He's with Mother, you know, who's wonderful by the way, but every time I have seen him that's all he'll talk about." Boromir's tone became slightly sharper. " 'I was so horrible to your brother! I'll never forgive myself! How could I do such terrible things!' It is a bit..." He sighed. "You know, I am glad he finally realized how unfair he was to you, but after listening to that for two years, I admit I have rather wearied of it. Maybe now that I have let you know about it, he will find some peace and decide to talk about something else for a change."

Faramir nodded. "I hope so. It sounds as if you have both suffered enough."

"Hm," Boromir said, looking at the sky. "At first, I was going to deliver his message in a dream, but they said I could do it in person as well, and after Eomer said that about the land being haunted, I just could not stay idle. Besides, It is a nice change. Paradise may be perfect, but it doesn't have..." he glanced through the trees..."endless mud flats and roving bands of bloodthirsty Orcs."

"Then how can they call it Paradise?" wondered Eomer in a dry tone.

Aragorn looked around. "The night is wearing on," he said, rising. "We must rest and resume the hunt tomorrow. Perhaps fortune will favor us and the rains will hold off until nightfall."

"Oh, it will rain," said Boromir casually.

Faramir looked at him. "Ghostly foresight?"

His brother peered back. "No, good memory. I spent three years in this region with the Army. It always rains here this time of year, every day." He looked at them. "I hope you didn't waste packing space on clean clothes."

"Well, they certainly aren't clean any more," murmured Eomer in disgust.

Boromir grinned and stood. "No matter," he said. "You men rest; I need no sleep and can take the watch until the morning."

The others rose with grateful mutterings and stifled yawns, and it was not long before Boromir had climbed to a height sufficient to maintain a proper lookout while the others prepared to bed down for the night. Soon, the oasis was still, save for the exhausted snoring of the living men, the roar of the waterfall, and the occasional bloop from the mud flats as the Orc bodies slowly sank into the gelatinous goo.

The next day found the hunters trekking across the mud plains once again in search of the Orcs. The morning had dawned very dark and cloudy and they had not traveled more than an hour's walk from the oasis when it began to rain once more. It came down as a steady shower, and in no time the three men were bedraggled, covered with mud from the now-accustomed spills onto the slippery ground, and soaked to the bone.

Boromir walked beside them, desiring to help in any way he could, and it quickly became noted that the miserable weather did not seem to affect him at all. No matter how the water pelted the others and turned their clothes to clinging sheets, Boromir remained perfectly dry and comfortable. His boots seemed to trod the earth as solidly as those of his comrades, yet they made no mark on the sloppy mud, and remained utterly clean.

"A result of being a spirit, perhaps," he said with a shrug, and tried not to be too smug about it.

The land before them had lost its earlier flat characteristic, becoming more uneven, if no less muddy. Here and there on the plains, deep depressions appeared on the mud's surface, indicating places where the rain-sodden earth had collapsed. Small groups of rocks also began to appear, huddled in solitary formations along their path. Each man eyed them with caution, knowing how easily they could conceal an Orc.

Before them in the distance loomed the southernmost portion of the Ephel Duath mountains, their peaks hidden in misty, rain-heavy clouds. The light was gray and uncertain, lending a bleak tone to the uninviting landscape made all the more unnerving by the occasional rumble of far-away thunder.

During the better part of the morning's walk, Boromir and Faramir had taken the lead, conversing between each other in a private manner inaudible to their regal comrades. It appeared to be a highly earnest exchange, and at one point Aragorn, somewhat bored with looking at eternal fields of brown muck, clumps of rock, and mist-covered mountains, drew forward a bit just to see if he could hear what they were saying.

Boromir was speaking to his brother in a low, firm tone. Neither of them noticed Aragorn.

"...and try nibbling on her elbow," Aragorn heard him say. "All of the ladies I did that with *loved* it."

Faramir sighed. "I tried that once, but I hit a nerve by mistake and she wound up accidentally giving me a black eye."

The older brother pondered this. "Well, what about kissing her on the throat, just under the ear? Have you tried that?"

The King blushed a bit, and quickly dropped back to fall in step beside Eomer. The King of Rohan had completely given up on keeping clean and was without his shirt, the water rolling down his massive chest in multitudinous rivulets.

"We must be nearing the Orcs' hiding place," mused Eomer as they walked. "They could not strike out and then disappear so quickly if their camp were very far inside this land."

Aragorn nodded, shaking his head to clear the water from his eyes. "We could try going into the rocky area," he suggested, eying the mountainous foothills that lay in the distance to either side of them. "They may be concealing themselves in a cave somewhere. The rocks look sharp and treacherous, though..."

"I care not," coughed Eomer as he plodded on, "so long as we may get out of this cursed mud."

The other man laughed a little. "Come now, Eomer King, where is your warrior's spirit?" chided Aragorn. "Has it been that long since you endured such conditions as these very day, in service to your land?"

Eomer scowled and wiped his face. "It does not rain in Rohan this much in an entire YEAR!"

"Nor does it in the North," observed Aragorn, "but still I welcome it, for it tells me that I am no longer imprisoned by kingly duties and ancient walls of stone. A man is not himself until he has the chance to walk the wide earth and feel the-ERU'S BLOOD!"

Eomer stopped, shocked, as Aragorn had without any warning suddenly dropped completely out of sight beside him, leaving only his loudly sworn oath hanging in the moist air. Gasping, the Rohan king jumped away as well as he could on the uncertain ground, turning to see where Aragorn had gone. A little ways ahead of him, Boromir and Faramir had heard the cry, and were running quickly back through the ooze to investigate.

Where Aragorn had been walking not a moment before, the rain-swollen earth had simply fallen away; what was once flat ground was now marked by a shallow but very wide sinkhole that was rapidly growing wider. In the center of it sat Aragorn, sprawled in a foot of mud and water and thoroughly covered in brown muck.

"My liege, are you-oop!" Faramir had splashed his way to the edge of the hole, but was compelled to leap awkwardly back as the edge of the opening fell away, one of the many large sodden clumps of ground that continued to slide into the hole amidst a chorus of bloops and splorps.

"Mind yourself, little brother," cautioned Boromir, pulling Faramir back from the abyss. "That's a royal mud hole there, ennobled by Aragorn's regal presence. I am sure the Steward's mud hole is around here somewhere, smaller but no less grand."

Having said this, he strode forward without a care and stood at the edge, watching as Aragorn slowly climbed to his feet, great glopping streams of mud dripping from his hair and arms. "Do you require assistance, Aragorn? This foul stuff seems content enough to leave me alone, if you need anyone to tumble in there after you."

Gondor's King had regained his footing; the hole, while wide, was only three feet deep. A foot of thick brown water had collected in the bottom and was soaking Aragorn's boots. "Thank you, my fortunate friend, but I am uninjured," he replied, shaking the mud from his arms. "It seems this land has other unpleasant features beside the rain and mud."

"The ability to swallow men whole? Aye, I'd call that unpleasant, sure enough," muttered Eomer, as Boromir helped Aragorn out of the hole. It took some doing, for the sides were very soft and soaked with rain, making it difficult to gain a solid purchase. He smiled as Aragorn finally rejoined them. "I believe you were extolling the virtues of walking the wide earth?"

Aragorn sniffed loudly and wiped his face with one hand. "Perhaps I should say the wide, *dry* earth," he said, gazing at the nearby foothills. "Let us walk a while along the base of the mountains, gentlemen. It may be faster, and it will certainly be more firm."

This met with universal assent, with one exception.

"Bah! You've each gone soft from all that court living," Boromir said good-naturedly as they made their way to the low-lying rocks. "All you care about is comfort now. You are turning into boring old men."

Faramir smirked. "If that's true, then you were a boring old man when you were twelve years old," he said. "Or maybe you've forgotten the trip we took to Dol Amroth to visit Uncle Imrahil, and you didn't want to go on the beach because you hated the way the sand kept getting down your bathing garment?"

His brother glared at him. "Sand *chafes*," he said sharply, and elaborated no further.

The foothills of the Ephel Duath were composed mostly of ancient black rock, whose path ran sometimes smooth, sometimes tossed into piles of large, sharp boulders. The walking here was much faster and easier than on the mud, but the rain made the surface still rather slick, and there were times when getting past the jumbles of rocks was no easy feat. At times, the only choice was to climb over, a task hampered by the dousing rain and the fact that the men were still covered with mud. Boromir, however, seemed able to traverse over the rocks as easily as a mountain goat, without so much as a missed step.

"You seem to have gained quite a new grace, brother!" noted Faramir as he hauled himself over a large boulder.

The spirit shrugged as he helped Faramir over the obstacle. "Another aspect of passing from the imperfect realm of Men, I would guess," he mused, extending a hand to Eomer who was close behind. "I confess I take no notice of it, it is as a second nature to me. The talent seems of little use, unless I desire to spend eternity mountain-climbing."

"Do not dismiss such a fate, son of Gondor!" said Eomer as he waved off Boromir's help and deftly climbed down from the rock on his own. "I passed my youth among the peaks of Rohan. Had I the chance to spend the undying years climbing mountains, I would not forsake it." He paused, then glanced at the bleak, chaotically massed landscape around him. "As long as they did not look like *these* mountains."

Faramir had moved some ways ahead of the group, and now was running back as quickly and quietly through the rain-puddled rocks as he could.

Aragorn noticed the excited look on his face, and gave him a mute expression of questioning. Motioning them all to be silent, Faramir gestured for them to follow, as noiselessly as possible.

They moved some fifty feet up the path, along a narrow clear pass bordered on one side by more large boulders and on the other by the sloping face of the mountain. At the end of the path was a high wall of boulders, some sharp, others large and rounded.

As they drew closer, they discerned a sound rising above the incessant noise of the driving rain. The noise became more distinctive with each step, and resolved into two quarrelsome Orc voices, coming from behind the boulder wall.

The hunters exchanged cautious looks, then, as slowly and carefully as they could, eased their gaze around the rocks in order to see what was happening beyond their sight.

The pile of rocks formed a ring around a large clear open pit, a shallow depression that sloped some three feet into the hard ground. In the middle of the pit, oblivious to their audience, sat two large and ugly Orcs, with a large pile of stolen swords, helmets, goblets, jewelry, small unopened chests, and canvas bags of coins between them. Nearby lay two large, empty canvas sacks with long sling handles.

One of the Orcs, a fat creature with a round nose and very long black hair, was holding aloft an elaborate Rohan helmet, shaking it at his comrade. The other Orc was smaller, with a sharp face, red eyes, and white hair falling in straggling waves to his wide shoulders.

"You can just stop yer noise right now!" the fat Orc was bellowing. "I took this helmet, an' I'm keepin' it!"

"Yer a right filthy liar!" the other Orc spat back, enraged. "Was I got that fancy bit o' gear, right off that horse-lovin' maggot's head!"

Eomer growled, although very quietly.

"And if yer gettin' that helmet," the skinny Orc continued, digging his clawed hand into the pile of booty and pulling something out with many clankings and rattles, "then I'm gettin' *this*!"

He was holding a large, beautiful dagger with a highly bejeweled crossguard, its blade finely etched with detailed decoration.

The fat Orc sat back, outraged. "Yer can't 'ave that!" he roared. "That's the sharpest sword of the lot!"

"Well, that ain't what I says," was the gleeful reply. "You've been givin' yerself all the best things from this pile, an' now I'm claimin' wot's mine by right. You want this dagger, come an' take it!"

The other Orc jumped to his feet with a roar, drew his sword, and leapt at his companion. The fight was short, brutal, and vicious, and ended with the larger Orc standing victorious over his comrade, who was now missing his head.

"Ha! Greedy little bugger," the fat Orc grunted as he sheathed his sword and proceeded to shovel the pile of goods into the canvas bags. The four men watched intently, glancing at each other from time to time with one thought in mind: a hope that the Orc might lead them to where the rest of the raiding party was hidden.

The Orc had finished filling one sack and had slung it over his corpulent body; the canvas bag was bulging and looked to be quite heavy. He had almost completed filling the other sack when suddenly he stopped and looked up. The four men heard a very audible, loud *sniff*, followed by two more.

Aragorn softly murmured a curse in Elvish.

The Orc stood, drew his sword and looked around.

"I know yer watchin' me," he said loudly, casting his yellow eyes all around. "Can smell that man-stink even in this rotten rain. Show yourself, else I'll be comin' after you."

Squaring his shoulders and looking at his companions, Aragorn slowly stood. Even covered with mud, his long dark hair straggling to his shoulders and dripping wet, he still appeared very imposing.

The Orc looked him over and grinned. "Ah," he said. "I was wonderin' what I'd do for supper."

A moment later, Eomer, Faramir and Boromir rose to the feet as well, all brandishing their swords and looking quite threatening. In the semi-gloom, Boromir's otherworldly green glow was highly visible.

The Orc's eyes widened a little as they traveled from warrior to warrior. he stood still for a moment, apparently weighing the odds, then quickly stooped down, grabbed the remaining canvas bag full of loot, turned, and scrambled over the rocks in the opposite direction.

Without hesitation, Aragorn and the others leapt forward and gave chase.

Burdened by the heavy sacks of stolen goods, the Orc still managed to make his way quickly enough across the rain-swept rocks to stay a few steps ahead of his pursuers. Aragorn was close on his heels, with the others just behind, clambering over and dodging around the slick black boulders with remarkable agility.

Swiftly they plunged down the hillside, the rocks gradually becoming smaller, the ground more level, until suddenly Eomer yelled out something in Rohirric that sounded very nasty indeed.

The Orc had ran off the foothills and onto the mud plains.

"And just when that foulness had almost washed off!" Faramir exclaimed as he cleared a low rock.

"Look at it this way," offered Boromir as he ran beside his brother, "you may get dirty now, but the sooner we catch that Orc, the sooner we find out where the others are, and the sooner we can finish this business and you can all be clean and dry again!"

"That's enough for me," said Eomer with passion, and he launched himself onto the sodden flats alongside his comrades.

The rain was falling in sheets now, the sky a dull, dark gray; at times the Orc disappeared against the endless flat expanse of mud. It was at the same disadvantage as the men, more so because of his heavy load, and fell as often as they did, but with the astounding strength of his kind, he managed to rise time and again to continue his flight.

The men dashed after him as quickly as conditions would allow; only Boromir escaped the fate of taking headlong spills onto the drenched ground. Due to the speed with which they traveled, every tumble meant a slide of several feet, during which a good quantity of mud was plowed up and over the hapless victim. Yet such was their determination that each man rose to his feet as if his filthy condition were of no notice to him, and he would begin running again as if nothing had happened.

Through the drenching rain gradually emerged the dim outline of tall, distant mountains before them, and from the Orc's path it was plain that they were his destination. But the Orc's steps had finally begun to falter; his load, and the race, were wearing on him at last. Seeing his weakness, the warriors renewed their efforts, gaining several feet on him with Eomer in the lead.

"We shall soon end this," he swore as he dashed ahead; several times he slipped but did not fall, so great was his desire to overtake his prey. The Orc was not even looking behind himself any longer, eager only to reach the shelter of the faraway mountains. His legs were dragging now, but he seemed loath to rid himself of the two heavy bags filled with armor, swords, and loot.

Some two hundred feet from the base of the mountain, Eomer triumphantly overtook the Orc, reaching one dripping, mud-encrusted arm out to seize the creature by the collar of his roughly woven garment.

"Ha!" cried Eomer.

"Arrrgh!" howled the Orc.

*Rrrrrrrrumble*! went the earth beneath their feet, and suddenly Eomer and the Orc both plunged out of sight amidst a tremendous roaring noise that filled the air louder than thunder. A huge hole had suddenly appeared, much larger than the one that had previously tried to swallow Aragorn. As Faramir, Boromir, and the King of Gondor halted and hurriedly backed up, the hole grew quickly, foot after foot of earth collapsing beneath the torrential rain. A great splashing arose as rivers of mud poured into the opening, tearing the walls away and widening it even more.

The three men stumbled backwards and fell, pulling desperately away to avoid being swallowed by the crater. As quickly as it had started, the collapsing stopped, the hole having satiated its appetite for mud and earth. At that moment, each hunter leapt to his feet and ran to the brim, peering urgently inside, each man calling Eomer's name.

The hole had fallen to a depth of almost twenty feet, the sides sloping gradually down in series of short, crumbling steps, some fifty feet in total width; chunks of earth and streams of mud continued to pour into the hole even after its growth had ceased. The bottom of the opening was entirely filled with thick mud and water, to almost half its depth.

Eomer and the Orc were nowhere to be seen.

The three men stared horrified for an instant, then Faramir and Aragorn hastily dropped their swords and began shedding as much gear as possible. Before either of them got very far, Boromir pushed past them both and plunged headlong into the pit, disappearing beneath the watery mud with a very solid-sounding splash.

"Must be very handy not to have to breathe," noted Faramir as he and Aragorn dropped the last of their gear. As the rain poured down around them, they ventured into the hole, their way slowed by the slippery, unstable walls and the constant waterfalls of mud. Their eyes never left the water, searching for any sign at all...

They had passed one-third of the opening's height when suddenly Eomer burst out of the pool, gasping for air and covered with clumps of mud. Quickly he floundered to the nearest solid purchase, heaving up water with hoarse, gulping coughs.

"Are you unhurt?" Aragorn cried, just as Faramir opened his mouth.

Eomer continued to cough, hauling himself up the side of the pit, grabbing large fistfuls of drenched clay with his hands. "I had him," he gagged, his voice thick with anger. "I *HAD* him!"

A the next moment, there was another, louder splash, as Boromir broke the surface. Unlike Eomer, there was no gasping or coughing; as Boromir paddled to the side of the pit and began to climb out, he appeared as dry and clean as if prepared for court. Once he drew himself more than halfway from the water, it became apparent that he was dragging something behind him, which to nobody's surprise turned out to be the Orc. The beast was covered with even more thick globs of mud than Eomer, the sacks of stolen goods still slung across his body.

Aragorn and Faramir slowly helped Eomer out of the hole, while Boromir hefted the Orc up the side with little trouble at all. Once at the top, they all collapsed onto the ground, except for Boromir, who nonchalantly dumped the Orc into the mud and went to his comrades.

The rain had begun to slacken.

"How's he faring?" the spirit asked as he rejoined the others.

Eomer nodded as he finished wiping the mud from his eyes; Aragorn was soundly thumping his back. "I'm well," he insisted, his voice still rough. "After the earth swallowed us, the Orc and I became mired at the bottom of the pit." He choked a little, shook his head, then looked up at Boromir. "My thanks for saving my life, son of Gondor. It would have been the foulest fate to me, to die beside an Orc!"

Boromir smiled. "I am fairly sure Eowyn would have found a way to kill me again if I had not acted," he replied, before turning to glance at the dead Orc. "He wasn't as cooperative as you, unfortunately. I tried to tell him to drop the sacks, but he thwarted all of my efforts to undo them. By the time I was able to pull him free, it was too late."

"It would have been the first time you'd *saved* an Orc's life," observed Faramir, panting heavily from the exertion, his face flushed. "Imagine the shock of our people back home!"

Aragorn rose. "They will be shocked enough, when they see the condition we return in," he remarked, looking towards the mountains before them. "At least we know now that we are nearing their lair; had he been seeking to merely hide, he could have done that in the hill we ran from."

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound being the steady sploop of random bits of earth tumbling into the hole.

"I would suggest," said Faramir, climbing to his feet as well, "that we try to find some dry place to rest for a bit and collect ourselves. I have had enough rocks and mud for the morning; if we are to find and flush out an entire passel of Orcs, I would like at least a chance for lunch first."

The others agreed, and when he felt rested enough they helped Eomer to his feet. Before too long the four travelers were climbing the rocks at the base of the mountain, hoping fortune would favor them in some kind, dry manner.

After some investigation, a cave was discovered, large and dry enough to afford adequate shelter for their rest. To their immense relief, a portion of the cave contained a waterfall some ten feet in height, draining into a small pool. Openings in the cave roof afforded enough light to see by, and soon the men had eagerly shed their sodden, muddy clothes and were busy rinsing the grime from their weary bodies.

"You know, Aragorn, I think this is the cleanest you've ever been," mused Boromir as he lounged beside the pool, watching with amusement. "Two baths in two days. Your Queen won't recognize you."

Aragorn was standing under the falls, stretching and allowing the water to run over his lean form. "She has seen me covered with the dust of travel before," the King noted with a smile. "Wash your wounds well, my friends, this may be our last chance for a while."

"Covered with dust is one thing," said Eomer as he tried to pry a particularly stubborn bit of mud from his hair. "Covered with half of Arda is something else."

Boromir grinned, then turned to Faramir, who was sitting at the edge of the pool with his legs dangling in the water, clad now only in his rolled-up leggings and untying the mud-soaked bandage around his stomach. "What say you, brother-do you think the Court would recognize your King slathered in mud?"

Faramir smiled and looked up. He was breathing heavily, his cheeks still quite red. "I don't think they'd appreciate having filth tracked all over the halls," he replied, and shivered.

Boromir frowned and walked over to him. "Are you unwell?"

The younger man scowled and shook his head, sniffing as he turned his attention back to the bandage. "Yes, fine. I think I have just caught a cold. Eowyn had one a few weeks back. That's all."

The other two men waded over to join them. Aragorn's handsome face was lined with concern.

"It may be more than a mere cold, my Steward," he cautioned. As they looked at him now, it was obvious that Faramir was trembling, his face glistening with sweat.

"No, I'm all right," Faramir said firmly, swinging his legs out of the water and climbing carefully to his feet. No sooner had he done so than he turned completely white, swayed for a moment, then toppled straight to the floor. By the time Boromir swiftly caught him in his arms, the young Steward was utterly limp.

In moments, Boromir had his brother laid out upon the cool stone, Faramir's head pillowed on his lap. Aragorn and Eomer were at his side quickly, their eyes all keen with concern.

"Faramir," breathed Aragorn, anxiety filling his face as he placed his palm against the younger man's brow. Faramir had recovered his senses, his eyes fluttering open once more to look at his King as he began to moan and cough.

"What ails him?" asked Eomer in a worried, bewildered tone.

Aragorn sighed, his expression grave. "More than a mere cold, I fear," he murmured quietly, studying the Steward's wan features.

"I think I know what it might be," Faramir said weakly when he had regained his breath, and reached down to his stomach bandage. The knot was loose now, and he pulled it aside.

His other wounds were healing perfectly, but the shallow cut across his stomach gave an entirely different appearance. The skin around the cut was bright red and swollen, the wound itself covered with a horrid blackish crust. At the sight of it, Faramir sighed in frustration, shook his head, and looked up at the King, a grim look on his flushed face as he spoke one word.

"Poison."

Boromir muttered something in a low and threatening tone and looked away, his expression furious.

At once, Aragorn bent over the wound, examining it very closely while trying not to touch it in such a way as to cause Faramir further pain. "You are fortunate it was no deeper than a scratch," he murmured after a few moments. "Any more of a wound and you'd likely have joined Boromir in the spirit realm by now."

"I *feel* fortunate," replied Faramir in an unconvincing tone, and coughed again.

The King quickly placed a hand on Faramir's brow. "Today's excitement may have quickened the poison's spread," he stated. "I am sure it will be no news to you, my friend, but although there is but little venom in your blood, your fever is very high." He removed his hand, sat back, and sighed a little. "The best hope we have now is there may be some athelas in these mountains; that will aid the fever and lend you strength, at least."

Faramir found enough vitality to give Aragorn a puzzled look. "Do you think we may find that fabled plant here, my liege? It is said to grow only where the men of Numenor set foot."

The response was a determined smile. "We can not tell where all of our ancient fathers walked," he said. "Who knows but their steps may have led them even through this wild place? I shall venture out and see what I may find. If there is athelas here, its powers will keep you with us until we can get you out of this land and back to the city."

Faramir's eyes had drifted closed, but now they snapped open and he looked at Aragorn in dismay. "You're not breaking off the hunt, my King?"

Aragorn glanced down at him, a bit surprised. "I would say there is little choice," was his response. "I would not risk your life, even if it meant the capture of every last Orc on Arda."

"Do not fret, little brother," said Boromir soothingly, patting Faramir's shoulder. "It is too soon for you to join me; the Land of the Dead can only handle the arrival of one of us at a time! They won't be ready for you for a hundred years, at least."

He thought a moment, then looked at Aragorn. "I can watch over Faramir here, while you and Eomer King continue the search. We are very close, I feel, and the Orcs must pay for this, chief among their crimes."

Aragorn gazed at him, then shook his head. "If you are discovered, it may go ill," he declared. "Even though you are deathless, Faramir is not, and should it be a large party of Orcs that find you, sooner or later they may yet overwhelm you and take Faramir's life. It is too great a risk."

"As is allowing them to go even one more day unhindered!" insisted Faramir; he was very flushed now, the sweat beading on his face and chest. "While we quit our mission, they may take more of our kinsman's lives. That thought makes me more ill than any Orc's poison! Please, my liege-they must be stopped. I will not rest well otherwise."

By the end of these words, Faramir had grown very pale save for the bright redness of his cheeks, and was panting for breath as if he had just finished a vigorous swordfight. His voice had dropped to almost a whisper, yet there was no denying the determination burning in his fever-bright blue eyes.

Aragorn studied him closely, then pursed his lips and looked at Eomer. "What say you, king of Rohan?"

Eomer's eyes were burning almost as brightly as Faramir's. "I say, if the Orc who dared poison my sister-husband wasn't already dead, I would find and butcher him myself," he snarled.

"A violent but highly appreciated sentiment," murmured Faramir with a drowsy smile. His eyelids had fallen half-closed.

Eomer nodded at him, then turned to Aragorn. "It is a hard choice," he admitted. "The Orcs are so close, and I am yearning to spill their blood, yet I would not risk Faramir's life in exchange for their downfall. I could not face my sister and tell her that our mission succeeded, but our effort to save her husband's life failed. She would die herself then, I believe."

"Not before killing us, she wouldn't," sighed Aragorn, placing a hand on Faramir's arm with as much of a reassuring smile as he could manage. "I shall see about finding the athelas, and think of what we have said. If there is none to be found, the choice will have been made for us."

Faramir gazed at him for a moment through nearly-closed eyes, then nodded, the lids finally sliding shut. "Agreed," he whispered, and appeared to fall asleep.

Quickly, Aragorn stood. "Eomer, if you would, remain here and safeguard the cave with Boromir. I will be back before nightfall."

"Oh, here," said Boromir, reaching up and unslinging a ghostly replica of the Horn of Gondor from his shoulder. "Use that if you run into trouble and need help," he said, handing it to Aragorn. "It has worked pretty well for me, in the past."

Aragorn accepted the gift, an expression of surprise on his face. "I am deeply honored, Boromir," he said softly; the Horn had a faint greenish glow about it. He turned it over in his hands; it seemed as solid as the original Horn. "Er-does it work, as yours did in life?"

Boromir shrugged with a smile. "Let us hope you have no cause to find out," he said.

Aragorn nodded, dressed quickly in his rinsed-out garments, and squished his way back out into the rain.

From his reclining place, Faramir opened one eye and peered up at his brother. "Father's going to *kill* you for that, you know," he said. His voice was very weak, but there was a faint smile on his lips.

Boromir looked down at his brother and chuckled, gently stroking Faramir's hair.

"Yes," he said, seemingly very amused at the idea, "I know."

To the absolute frustration of everyone involved, the afternoon passed without event.

Aragorn traveled far, always on guard against attack, searching for any sign of greenery. The land around the cave was wild and barren, however, composed mostly of boulder-strewn black rock. Every once in a while, he would come across an area of green growing things, struggling from between the cracks of stone, but it was all merely grass. There seemed to be no oasis close by, as they had encountered a few days earlier, and he chided himself severely for not procuring athelas there, if it existed. He should have known this might happen.

It continued to rain, a more steady, dispiriting drizzle than the sheets that had pounded their heads earlier. As Aragorn moved among the glistening rocks, searching for hope, he found his mood matching the dreary landscape. Despite the minor nature of the wound, there was still a chance for Faramir to lose his life, and they had not found the Orcs. As the afternoon wore on, he became melancholy, and began to plot the best way for them to return to Minas Tirith in such a way that would ensure Faramir's survival and enable them to escape the notice of their foes.

Back at the cave, circumstances were no more promising. Faramir's wound had been cleaned, redressed and bandaged, and he had now slipped into a uneasy slumber, shuddering with chills even as his skin burned. Boromir had removed his ghostly Elvish cloak-his garments were the only dry ones they had-and folded it into a thick pillow for his brother's head. Now Faramir lay on the cold stone, covered with Boromir's leather surcoat, tossing occasionally and murmuring in his sleep, sweat running across his skin. Boromir sat beside him, legs crossed, hands folded, his expression somber as he maintained his vigil. Not a word had passed his lips since removing his coat and draping it across Faramir's supine form. There seemed nothing to do but wait.

Eomer, too anxious to simply sit inside the cave, had volunteered to keep watch for Aragorn's return and against possible attack, and now sat at the mouth of the cavern, his dark eyes scanning the dank landscape for any sign of movement. He was afforded some shelter by an overhanging outcropping of rock; once in a while it would drip on him, but he paid it no heed. He was far too immersed in brooding thoughts of what he was going to do to the Orcs once they found them - and they would find them, even if it meant coming back to this accursed land and living in the mud for months.

The light was just beginning to fade from gray to a darker shade of gray when Eomer spied a small figure moving across the jagged landscape towards the cave. Instantly he tensed and stood, reaching for his weapon, but as the person drew closer, he recognized him and relaxed.

It was Aragorn, weary, dripping wet, and empty-handed.

Eomer sighed when the Gondorian king drew close enough to hear him. "No sign of athelas?" he inquired.

The other man shook his head, his face betraying deep disappointment. "I do not believe there is a blade of anything other than mountain grass for ten miles around," he replied in a tired voice, and without pausing stepped past Eomer and into the cave. Eomer scowled a little with concern, and followed him.

Inside, he found Aragorn kneeling beside Faramir, feeling the slumbering man's brow and listening as Boromir addressed him in a low, worried voice. Faramir had grown more pale, dark circles beginning to form beneath his eyes.

"He has been in a restless sleep all afternoon," the spirit was saying. "I don't think his fever's gotten any worse, but he will need medicine of some sort very soon."

Aragorn's lip twitched, and he removed his hand, a sad look on his face. "There is no athelas in these mountains," he informed him, his tone one of sorrow. "At first light, we must return to Minas Tirith, if Faramir's life is to be spared."

A faint moan escaped Faramir's lips, and the stricken man stirred a little, taking a deep breath as he emerged from his heavy slumber. After a moment, his eyes slowly opened, and he blinked a few times before their bleary gaze rested on Aragorn.

At Aragorn's expression, Faramir frowned. "An ill end to your search, my liege?" he murmured, his words slurred.

The King forced a smile as he lightly grasped Faramir's wrist. "It appears the green touch of the Numenoreans did not extend to this region," was his softly spoken reply. "There is nothing here that can help you. We will return home as soon as it is light, where the poison that has taken you may be cured."

Faramir observed him for a moment, his brows knitting with disappointment, before sighing and half-closing his eyes. "Very well," he breathed, "although I cannot tell you how much I hate this. Is there not some way the hunt can continue?"

"Not without placing your life in danger," was Aragorn's firm response. "Fear not, as soon as we know you are safe, the Orcs will be repaid."

Faramir met his gaze steadily, and answered with a single, resolute nod before closing his eyes once more. Aragorn glanced over at Boromir, the man and the ghost exchanging grim looks of determination before the King of Gondor arose and began preparations for the night ahead.

It was rapidly growing dark outside, and the interior of the cavern was soon settled with a musty gloom. As the men went about laying down their camp, Aragorn unpacked the lembas bread and rationed it out, handing Eomer a small piece as the Rohan monarch headed outside to stand watch.

"You are in no immediate danger, Faramir, but you must keep up your strength so that your state does not worsen between here and home," Aragorn said, crouching beside the stricken Steward. Boromir was propping Faramir up and helping him to drink from a water skin, which he was rapidly emptying.

Faramir eyed the small piece of lembas bread in the Kings' hand, and shook his head as he took the water skin from his mouth. "My thanks, but no, my King," he gasped, trying to regain his breath after drinking so long. "That would not stay in my stomach five minutes, I fear."

"Now, you must eat, little brother," chided Boromir, his tone wheedling although his green eyes were anxious. "We cannot have you starving to death. Think what your wife would do to us!"

The younger man coughed and settled back against his brother's arm. "It is not a matter of stubbornness," he insisted in a fatigued tone. "Just of practicality. We only have so much food, and I know I will not be able to keep that down, so I see no need to waste it. Water will be fine for me, for I am burning with thirst far more than hunger."

Aragorn peered at him for a few long moments, then sighed again and broke a very small piece from the section he held, placing the fragment in Faramir's hand.

"Pray try to eat that, at least, my friend, when you feel you can," he pleaded. "If your stomach refuses it, the loss will be small. I will not be able to rest unless I am assured you will try."

Faramir glanced down at the tiny bit of bread, then nodded slightly and looked up at Aragorn, a faint but grateful smile on his lips. "If I am able, I promise you I will, my liege. Thank you."

"I wish there were more I could do," was the former Ranger's quiet reply as he patted Faramir's arm. "Rest now. We leave for home at dawn tomorrow."

With a parting smile to Faramir, Aragorn rose and joined Eomer, who was standing outside the mouth of the cave, carefully consuming his portion of the lembas.

"You know," he said, munching, as Aragorn came up to him, "this really is a remarkable food. Our soldiers could make much use of a provision such as this."

Aragorn took up his place a small distance away, seating himself on a rock. From his perch, he had a wide view of the surrounding plains, now growing dark beneath the coming nightfall.

"It is remarkable, but its creation requires the presence of a Queen of Elves, " he noted. "Should Arwen agree to preparing some for our Gondor soldiers, I shall also ask her to set some aside for your brave Rohan warriors." He knocked the sole of his boot against the rock to dislodge the large clumps of mud still clinging there. "If she is still speaking to me after she sees the state I return in, that is."

Eomer laughed a little and swallowed the last of his meal. "Your Queen is a wonderful woman, Aragorn," he observed. "I believe she will forgive you for a little mud."

The King of Gondor smiled and settled himself on the rock, turning his eyes to the wide and barren plains. "Yes," he said in agreement, his voice softening, "she has an unfathomable capacity in that regard." He sighed, looking into the heavens where the first stars were peering from between the large clouds, "As disappointing as it is to return home with our work interrupted, it will ease my heart to hold her once more. If I had known being King would require us to spend so much time apart, I might have thought twice about accepting the crown."

Eomer nodded, shifting on his feet and he studied the empty terrain. "It is the same with Lothiriel and I," he confessed, his expression softening. "I reached manhood giving little thought to love or marriage, with so much work to be done. I assumed that any union would be arranged. But my Queen..." He paused, a pensive light in his brown eyes. "None has so possessed my heart, as she does. I used to love nothing more than the chance to ride out from Edoras and travel the length and breadth of Rohan, the wind at my back. Now all of the charms of my life lie at the hearth of the Golden Hall, beside her." He shook his head. "I would not have believed it of myself, but never have I been more content."

The other man nodded in perfect understanding, sitting forward and leaning his elbows on his knees. "We are two mortally wounded men, my friend," he said lightly, scanning the horizon. "And there will come a day when we shall return to the hearth to stay, but it will be long in coming, I fear. To see that time, we will all have to be strong."

Eomer inclined his head in solemn accord, and joined Aragorn in watching the still and silent land. Darkness had fallen now; above the wet earth rose a silver-gray mist that hung and rolled above the ground like a living fog. Now and then shafts of silver moonlight would emerge from behind the rolling clouds, striking the mist and covering the land in an eerie glow.

After a while, Boromir emerged from the shelter, softly glowing himself in the murky gloom.

"All quiet, I trust?" he inquired, taking his rest on a rock near the cave opening, where he had an easy view of Faramir.

"If the Orcs see fit to move across that plain, we will see them," Aragorn promised. "Is Faramir resting?"

The ghost nodded and leaned back against the moist cave wall, looking inside with a worried expression. "He ate a little of the bread, and finally drifted off, although he is far from comfortable. The sooner he is taken home, the better, as much as he detests the idea."

"I hope he does not blame himself for being poisoned by an Orc blade," Eomer pointed out. "It could have been any of us."

Boromir drew a deep breath. "He knows that, I am sure, but he takes such things to heart. I am sure you know that he longs to do all he can to make certain Gondor is safe, despite any risk to himself." He smiled a little and turned to them. "The moment he is well again, he will likely be at the head of the column to come back here and finish the task."

"And we will surely welcome him there," was Aragorn's reply. "I doubt we could accomplish this without his help. The Orcs have been spared a little time, but their day is coming."

"Without a doubt," Boromir said firmly in assent.

Aragorn reached up, unslung the Horn of Gondor from his side and handed it back to the spirit. "My thanks," he said, "but I believe it is time to return this to its rightful bearer."

"Ah," Boromir nodded and accepted it, draping it over his own shoulder. "At least you did not have to use it. You cannot imagine how pleased I was to find it made whole once more, but I would be more satisfied if there was never a need for it to sound again." He settled the Horn on his hip, then looked up. "So, I hope I did not interrupt any important conversation."

"We were simply missing our wives," Eomer explained with a sigh, leaning back against the cave and looking morosely at the glimmering mud flats.

"Ah! Well, I have nothing to offer there," admitted Boromir. "I was joined to none in marriage, and those whose hearts I shared have doubtless all done their mourning for me and moved on."

Aragorn peered over at him through the gloom. "Yet as you are, you could go to those you loved in Minas Tirith and ease their sorrow. I am sure they would want to know you are well."

But Boromir shook his head with a sad smile. "I will go no farther than the borders of this land," he replied. "They have all grieved, and healed, or are healing now; I would not reopen those wounds, for sooner or later I would have to leave again. It is as it should be. Most of them have forgotten about me anyway, I wager."

Aragorn gave him a sharp, amused look. "Except, perhaps, for the women at the Minas Tirith Ladies Academy?"

The spirit looked a little startled, then laughed softly, shaking his head. "Faramir will never forgive me for mentioning that!" he chuckled.

Eomer eyed him curiously. "It seems they would remember your brother as well, judging from his reaction to your mention of the place," he recalled. "Exactly what mischief did you two find there?"

The spirit chuckled. "Well, as fortune has it, I may tell you," he replied. "I swore to Faramir that I would not, and ordinarily I would hold that oath unbreakable, but he felt it might provide a welcome distraction from our situation. Before he fell asleep, he said, if it appeared that our spirits wanted lifting, I was free to divulge all."

Aragorn gazed out over the flat, dark plains. "I would say the time has come," he muttered in a weary voice, before turning his expectant gaze to Boromir.

A gentle smile graced Boromir's lips. "I was sixteen and Faramir was almost twelve," he began, his eyes fixed on some distant point on the horizon but seeing much farther. "He had just fallen in love for the first time. Oh, had he been smitten! I had come home on leave from my first assignment, but you'd hardly know I had gone anywhere from his woeful inattention to me. All his mind was on her."

Aragorn and Eomer both leaned forward intently.

"She was the daughter of one of Father's court nobles-Faramir made me swear not to reveal her name, so don't bother asking! I knew her a little, she was sweet enough, but he had not the faintest idea how to approach her." He shook his head, smiling fondly. "For all of the love poetry he'd read and written as a child, his first real-life encounter left him speechless."

Eomer and Aragorn smiled as well, their expressions reflecting their complete understanding.

"Finally," exclaimed Boromir, placing his hands on his knees, "he composed a love poem for her, and a very good one, too, but could not work up the nerve to give it to her. On the day of my return to the city, he was still trying to figure out a way to send it to her secretly, without anyone knowing.

"The next day," he continued, gesturing with his hands to illustrate his words, "he came to me fairly bursting with excitement and said that he had been researching the history of Minas Tirith's architecture, and discovered an old entry route into the building that had eventually become the Ladies Academy, where the girl now spent part of the year. Between the two of us, we devised a scheme: We would slip into the school at night, leave the note for her to find, and depart with none the wiser. "

"Sounds like a good test for a fledgling soldier," Eomer observed with a grin. "Stealth is a highly important skill, after all."

Boromir nodded. "Very true, and at the time I considered myself quite skilled at it. Now," he went on in a low voice, leaning forward, his raised hands spread out as he described the scene, "the old entrance was in a secluded back corner of the building, almost at the edge of the wall. We wore dark clothes and managed to get out of our chambers without notice, and as there are always people about in the city even at night, none thought it odd to see two young men traveling the streets. We had drawn up our hoods, so nobody recognized us. We found the door unlocked and gained entry."

At this point, Boromir stood and began pacing a short distance back and forth, his keen gaze shifting between his two comrades as he spoke. He had the full attention of the two monarchs; Eomer stood with his arms folded, while Aragorn was still perched on his rock, leaning forward to hear every word.

"Once inside, Faramir, who had studied the plans intimately, knew exactly where he wanted to go. The young lady took calligraphy lessons first class in the morning; he would locate the classroom, find where her work was stored, and slip the note between the leaves of her book.

"The halls were deserted, and we had little trouble finding the classroom. Soon the poem was in place, and we began making our way out, congratulating ourselves on our cleverness and skill. I recall wishing I could tell my commander about it, thinking how impressed he would be."

The two kings nodded and laughed softly, remembering the youthful need to earn the praise of their superiors.

"We were making our way past the bathing rooms," said Boromir, stopping in his tracks and spreading his arms out, palms down, "when suddenly we heard footsteps coming from around the corner just ahead of us." He chuckled and shook his head. "Both of us panicked, knowing full well what would happen to us if we were caught!

"There was a large wooden door, which appeared to be a cabinet, close by us. Consumed with fear," - here he grasped an imaginary handle and pulled it back violently - "Faramir wrenched open the door. It appeared to be empty, so we both leapt inside." At this, he threw his arms up as if making a strenuous jump.

Then he paused and gave them both a rather crestfallen look.

"Unfortunately, this particular cabinet turned out to have no floor to it."

Eomer and Aragorn both widened their eyes in surprise.

"We plunged down into the darkness," Boromir continued, his words becoming faster, "too shocked to cry out, and in a matter of moments struck the bottom. When I regained my senses, I realized it was a pile of dirty linens.

"We had tumbled down a laundry chute."

Eomer and Aragorn blinked, then glanced quickly at each other and traded suppressed grins, as if trying not to burst out into laughter.

Their expressions did not escape Boromir's notice. "Yes, we probably would have been amused as well, were we not so dazed and startled," he said. "By good fortune, the linen pile was thick enough to provide some cushioning, but not enough to prevent us from giving our rear ends some fairly solid thumps. We were now in the deserted laundry room, sitting in one of those large canvas bins they used to wheel the loads around."

He began pacing again, walking in more leisurely strides, loosely clasping his hands behind his back

"After making sure we were each all right, we made to climb out of the bin, but at that moment we were buried under what must have been forty pounds of soaking wet towels." He shook his head again, a rueful smile gracing his features. "The chamber staff must have been making their rounds for the evening. Every time we tried to get out, more came down on top of us. Soon we were both dripping wet, pinned under a mound of sopping towels, and almost unable to breathe." He grinned. "A pretty state for Gondor's finest!"

"Yet nothing two brave young warriors could not handle, I'm sure," said Aragorn, giving him a sharply appraising look.

"Ah, but that was not the last of our challenges, my good King of Gondor," Boromir answered, stopping and lifting a finger to stress the point. "As soon as the wet towels stopped dropping down, we realized there were voices above us, and the bin started to move! We could see nothing, but I guessed the staff had come down to prepare the loads for the laundresses. We had no idea where we were going, but I did hear one of the women complain about how heavy our bin was." He drew a deep breath, expelling it quickly and peering at his companions. "Thank the Valar she didn't try to find out why!

"Before long, the movement stopped, but the voices remained, along with other noises that told me we were surrounded by workers." His face took on expression akin to pained amusement as he recalled that night. "We must have crouched beneath those piles of wet towels for *hours*, waiting for a chance to escape. Finally the voices died away, and all was still."

"I imagine you must have been very relieved at that point," observed Eomer. "Not to mentioned wrinkled."

"Well, we had had quite enough of the smell of wet towels and stale soap," Boromir replied, resuming his short stroll. "When we dared, we clawed our way to the top of the pile and found ourselves lined up with all of the other full bins next to the large water troughs in which the laundresses washed the clothes.

"Very stiff, sore, and drenched to the bone, we managed to climb out of the bin. It was chancy work, getting out, for the other bins surrounded us and they were all piled high with towels and linens." He raised his arms with hands outstretched to indicate the height. "We had to hoist ourselves over several of them to gain solid ground again. As soon as we did, we hastened out of the laundry, and Faramir kept enough of his wits about him to recall how to find our way out of the school.

"It was almost dawn then, and we were very thankful no one was in the streets to see two wet, sniffling young men slogging their way up to the Steward's palace. We somehow were able to sneak back into our rooms, and had enough time to dry off, change our soaked garments, and sleep for an hour or two before it was time to begin our day."

Boromir walked back to the nearby rock and sat down, folding his hands and shaking his head. "Needless to say, we were both exhausted, and Father berated us severely for being so inattentive at breakfast. He assumed we'd spent the whole night talking, since I had just returned. It took us a few days to completely recover, and we both caught very nasty colds and an irritating rash."

He paused, then sighed and smiled, looking up at his two friends. "And that is the tale."

"Did Faramir's poem impress his love enough to be worth all the trouble?" inquired Aragorn.

"Yes, but plainly, the bond proved rather fickle," replied Boromir, glancing inside at his sleeping brother. "She allowed him to court her for a while, but she did not prove as fascinating to him in truth as she had in fancy. After a while, they both became bored, and agreed between themselves to move on. But I do recall she kept the poem. I suppose now she can say she got it from the Steward of Gondor."

"It would be even more valuable to her had she known the trouble he went to to give it to her," Eomer observed. "He must have felt very strongly about this girl."

"Ha!" gasped Boromir, peering at the Rohan king. "That's nothing compared to what he feels for your sister. From what he's told me, he is hers heart and soul." His expression became wistful. "I should tell you, Eomer King, I am very pleased you allowed them to wed. She is a highly admirable woman, and had I been present, I would have approved of the match without hesitation."

Eomer seemed a little surprised. "And could I have found a better man for her than Lord Faramir?" he asked. "She is his, as much as he is hers. Had I refused her my consent, she would have flayed me alive. Fortunately, I had no cause, as I have known few warriors so courageous and honorable. And when it was known I sought your cousin's hand in marriage, he could not give me his blessing fast enough."

"You may add my blessing to his, for what it's worth," Boromir said, leaning back upon the rock. "You do our family proud with your presence in it. After everything we have all been through, it is good to know that you have all found some measure of peace, at last."

"And we will make certain that peace holds," vowed Aragorn, casting his eyes back across the misty plains. The other man and the spirit nodded their agreement, and they fell silent, each man left to his own thoughts as they watched the moonswept land and contemplated what the next day would hold for them.

At length, as before, Boromir volunteered to keep watch while Aragorn and Eomer found what sleep they could before beginning their return journey in the morning. Both men agreed and went inside, to find Faramir still wrapped in slumber, his fever continuing but apparently no worse than before. Each man retired to his bedroll, and before long, the cave fell quiet again, save for the gentle splashing of the waterfall.

They awoke shortly before dawn the next morning, to find Faramir's state unchanged and a cool, gray day being born outside. While Aragorn set out to scout their near surroundings and make certain it was safe to leave the cave, Eomer packed up his gear in readiness for the journey, while Boromir set himself to the task of preparing his stricken brother for travel.

As Eomer finished packing the last of his mud-stained clothes, he gradually becoming aware of weak, agitated mutterings coming from elsewhere in the cave, followed by softly spoken words meant to soothe. After a few moments, their volume increased, and Eomer turned to locate their source, believing that Faramir had awakened and was out of his mind from the fever. He had seen it happen, with men sickened by Orcish poison.

Looking to where Faramir had been sleeping, he saw the young Steward very much awake, sitting up rather unsteadily and clutching at Boromir's shirt while saying something in feeble but insistent tones. In return, Boromir was gently grasping Faramir's arms and replying in tones just as firm. Neither brother seemed to be budging an inch.

Eomer stood and strode over, anxious to help calm his ailing sister-husband. Outside, dawn had broken, and the cavern was now filled with a dull grayish light.

"Boromir, please, you've *got* to find Aragorn-"

"He'll be here, little brother, he's just gone to make certain it is safe before we leave this shelter. Now settle yourself and be still!"

"Curse it, I am not a *child*, we need to find Aragorn *now*! I'll go out there myself if I - Eomer! Would you go out and see if there is any sign of Aragorn?"

Boromir looked up as Eomer approached. "Ah," he said, relief in his voice. "Good King of Rohan, would you mind terribly sitting on my brother? He seems to have decided he's not sick enough and wants to make himself fatally ill."

"Boromir!" snapped Faramir crossly, giving his brother a very angry look before turning his bright-eyed gaze back to Eomer. His breath was coming in panting gasps. "Please, can you find Aragorn? I must speak with him at once."

Eomer crouched on one knee by Faramir's side, worry clouding his eyes. "Why this sudden urgency? Has your illness grown worse?"

Faramir shook his head, his sweat-soaked hair swinging from the motion. "No, I mean, perhaps, but I cannot say. This has nothing to do with my health." He blinked, as if gathering himself, then lifted his head to look at each man in turn. "I know where the Orcs are."

Eomer and Boromir stared at him, both frowning in deep confusion. After a moment, Eomer managed to gasp out, "*What?*"

The younger man nodded as vigorously as he was able; his eyes were clear and lucid, despite the weakness ravaging his body. "Exactly; I can show you every step of the way."

The other two men glanced at each other.

"It appears my Steward has awakened," came another voice from the entrance to the cave, and three pairs of eyes turned to see Aragorn coming towards them, clad in his traveling clothes, the ghostly Horn of Gondor slung from one shoulder.

"Aragorn!" cried Faramir, as he hastily tried to stand up. "Aragorn, I must-oop!" No sooner had he gotten to his knees than they gave way; three pairs of arms reached for Faramir, but it was Aragorn who caught him and lowered him carefully back to the ground.

"Do not overexert yourself, my friend," the King gently advised him. "You must stay strong, until we reach home, or find some athelas-"

"To Morgoth with the athelas!" spat Faramir, clutching Aragorn's arms. "I know where the Orcs are. We can find them this day!"

Aragorn peered at him, narrowing his eyes. "How can you know this?"

Faramir had to pause and gasp for breath, leaning against Boromir for support. "I had a dream," he replied, as Boromir put an arm around his shoulder, holding him up. "I saw the foothills outside, just as they are, down to the last pebble. Then, quickly, step by step I was moving over them, perceiving every inch of the path as clearly as if I were awake, until I was standing before the Orc encampment. It is in a shallow vale surrounded by trees, some distance inside the mountains." He swallowed, shaking his head. "I saw it as plainly as I am seeing you."

The Gondor King studied the ailing man as Eomer handed Faramir a water skin. "Could this be some fancy brought on by the fever?" he asked.

Faramir shook his head as he drank from the water skin, nearly draining it. "No, I am sure of it," he answered with a gasp once he had finished answering his thirst. "I know my visions from my dreams of fancy, my liege. Often to my sadness, they have never proven false."

"It is true, Aragorn," added Boromir, peering at the King over his brother's head. "He's been having these dreams since he was a child, and they speak nothing but the truth."

"And besides," added Faramir with a slight smile, as he settled against Boromir, now utterly spent, "if it were a figment of my mind, I am fairly sure Eowyn would have been in it."

Aragorn allowed a smile to cross his face. "And you are certain you know the way shown to you?"

"Yes, yes," was the firm response. "That is one other way I know that the vision was sent to me for a reason. I had the dream not once, but several times, until I could walk the way blindfolded."

Eomer's eyebrows went up. "Several times?"

Faramir's lip twitched. "Yes. Um, eight, to be exact." He sighed and looked at Aragorn, his voice gaining an edge of annoyance. "Do you have any idea how monotonous it is to have the same dream *eight times in a row*? That is another cause to find the Orcs as soon as possible. I would rather not endure that again."

"That is understandable," Aragorn said with a short nod. "We must now make haste, to find the creatures while the day is still young. Can you tell us the way to their camp?"

Faramir thought about this for a moment or two, then pressed his lips together and shook his head. "It is a very winding path, through the foothills of the mountains. I see no way to make it plain which rock to turn at and which way to follow, when there are so many." He raised his head. "It appears we shall all have to go together."

"You cannot!" Eomer exclaimed, placing a hand on Faramir's shoulder. "Such a journey would kill you, if you are even able to walk at all."

Faramir opened his mouth to argue when Boromir interceded.

"Is not the answer obvious?" the spirit said with a slight smile. "There is a way for us all to go, and Faramir's life will not be endangered. I will carry my brother, and he will tell me the way."

Aragorn studied him. "It may be a long way, over dangerous ground," he remarked. "Should you tire, or fall-"

Boromir laughed a little. "Think you I would even suggest such a thing if I imagined it would place Faramir in the slightest peril?" he replied. "Yet I know it would not. If I can walk this land, including the rocks you all were having such trouble with yesterday, without the slightest misstep, and lift a giant Orc from a mud pit with no more trouble than if he were a feather pillow, I believe I can bear my brother across the foothills without care. I know not how or why, but my steps and strength are far more sure now than they were before, and I would use them to help you end this quest and get Faramir back home where he can heal."

"That is certainly agreeable to me," said Faramir, "and I suggest we waste no further time in discussion."

Aragorn's green eyes flitted between them both, a sober expression on his rain-slicked face as he weighed the situation. Then he nodded once. "Very well."

Within moments, they were prepared to leave. Faramir quickly donned his still-damp shirt and allowed himself to be wrapped in Boromir's Elven cloak, the hood drawn over his head. Once this was accomplished, Faramir placed one arm around Boromir's neck, and the older brother easily lifted the younger one, cradling him in his arms. Faramir coughed and settled against Boromir's chest, his face very pale and beaded with sweat, but his blue eyes hard with determination.

"The day's rain has not yet started, and with good fortune, it may still hold off until our work is done," observed Aragorn as they made their way to the mouth of the cave. "Boromir, you and Faramir lead the way. Eomer and I will follow, and we will soon see an end to this."

"Just do your best to keep pace, my friends," Boromir said in response, stepping past them. He looked down at Faramir. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, yes," was the anxious reply as Faramir lifted his head to study the path. Despite his misery, his tone became somewhat teasing. "Just try not to jounce me too roughly. If I am ill, it will be on you!"

"You will not feel a thing," promised the elder son as he ducked out of the cave. "Besides, I don't think it would stick."

They all left the cavern. Outside, the day was cool, the sky covered with bright gray clouds. The land was still covered with a fine mist, hiding the tops of the mountains. The mud flats looked as wet and treacherous as ever.

"So, brother," Boromir said with a bracing sigh, "which way to the Orcs?"

"Turn right," Faramir said at once. "No, your *other* right..."

And the hunt was on.

They traveled far that morning and afternoon, first crossing a good length of mud flats towards the rocky foothills of the southern mountains. A fine mist hung in the air, soaking them all, and the mud proved no less a challenge than it had before, but the men spent no strength in cursing it or their now-splattered clothing. Their eyes remained locked on the duty ahead, their minds united on one goal, and the unfriendly ground now seemed nothing more than a minor obstacle.

Soon they reached the sharp, uneven terrain of the lower mountains, and they tackled that with as much stalwart fortitude as the mud flats. Here the rocks were far more awkward to negotiate than before, with fewer flat areas and more sharply-angled boulders, all slick with moisture. A thick fog had developed in the warmth of the day, masking their vision for a good distance both before and behind them. The going became slower, but never faltered, as the warriors ascended to their destination.

Over all the treacherous ground, Boromir moved without so much as a single misplaced step, at times so far ahead of his comrades that they had to beckon him to slow his pace. He bore Faramir with exceeding care, sheltering his stricken brother from the light misting rain as much as he could and offering words of comfort and encouragement.

It was not long before the Steward's younger son lost the strength to hang on to Boromir's neck, and he spent the majority of the journey huddled down in his brother's arms, his eyes riveted to the path before them. Now and then Faramir would lift his head and murmur something to Boromir, who would change his direction at once; then Faramir would settle back and continue watching, the dream playing before his eyes. Faramir was clearly exhausted, his face white and clammy with sweat, his body seized with trembling, but he consented to stop and rest only a few times. Even then, the young Steward would sleep for a mere ten minutes or so, then awake and insist on continuing. They were, he declared, very close.

Thus they journeyed most of the day, doused with mist, soaked with mud, and battered by rocks, until half of the afternoon was spent. At last they found themselves climbing up a long, gently sloping incline, where the rocks became much more flat and easily navigated. Here and there green shrubs appeared, growing larger as they neared the crest, which was lined with thick vegetation. They were not far from traveling into the mountains themselves.

Boromir had once more moved far ahead of them, his pace quickening as they neared the top. Aragorn eyed him sharply but dared not cry out to him, for it was probable that the Orcs were very close by now.

Thus it was that he could only watch as Boromir and Faramir went over the crest of the hill, into the thick bushes and trees half-shrouded in the fog, and vanished from his sight. Aragorn pushed on, Eomer at his side, keeping a careful watch for any trouble as they neared the top of the slope.

Within a few minutes, Eomer and Aragorn reached the crest. Here, the ground flattened out considerably, thick grass poking through the rocks and turning into scrub brush and mountain trees as they moved across the ground. Some twenty feet into the area, the way ahead was completely screened by growth; there appeared to be a wall of it, beyond which the land dropped away before rising steeply once more into the mountainside, barely visible through the heavy mist.

Close to the edge of the drop, they found Boromir, calmly sitting beneath one of the trees with his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, patiently waiting for them. Beside him lay Faramir, curled up with his head on Boromir's lap, sound asleep.

Swiftly, Aragorn knelt down next to Faramir and laid a hand on his brow. A frown crossed his face; the fever had gotten worse, and the Steward was now utterly wearied. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, however, and Aragorn gave Boromir a look of mute promise: When their business was done here, Faramir would be their entire concern.

Boromir answered that look with a nod of understanding, then sighed and casually lifted one hand, curling it into a fist and jabbing behind him with his thumb at something over his shoulder while moving his glance between the two Kings. Eomer peered at Aragorn, then stepped forward and carefully parted the leaf-strewn branches before him, just enough to see what lay beyond their masking blades.

Before him spread a large valley, round in shape and several hundred feet long and wide, cut deep into the mountain ground. Beneath its tree-crowned rim sloped more barren ground, finally becoming almost flat and scattered with small rocks, sparse brush, and what looked like several dozen Orcs.

It was clear even from a first glance that this was the well-established base of the Orcs' marauding operations. One area was piled high with stolen armor, weapons, gold, and other goods, currently being sorted by at least ten of the creatures. On other parts of the camp, Orcs were occupying themselves with eating, sleeping, maintaining their weapons, and fighting between themselves over the choicest of the bounty. Two particularly large, well-armed Orcs were huddled in one part of the valley, poring over maps, likely planning the next assault. None of them noticed their audience.

Having joined Eomer, Aragorn quickly made a count, then indicated to the Rohan King to depart.

As Aragorn stepped away, he motioned to Boromir, then moved out of the oasis and several feet back down the mountainside, behind a sheltering rock some distance away from the rim of trees. Eomer soon joined him, followed by Boromir, bearing his slumbering brother carefully in his arms.

"Well," whispered Boromir, seating himself and settling Faramir as comfortably as he could, "it seems as if we have found the Orcs. What is our course of action now?"

"We are far too few to defeat them ourselves," observed Aragorn, crouching and rubbing his mud-streaked chin. "There appear to be almost fifty. At least they did not bother to post a sentry."

Eomer snorted. "Of course they would not; what madmen would venture into this place to find them?" He paused, then leaned closer to Aragorn, his voice taut. "I would say we must return to Minas Tirith as swiftly as we can. There we can plan a trap for them, now that we know where they are." He looked over to where Faramir dozed against Boromir's chest. "Most importantly, Lord Faramir needs aid, now that he has selflessly given his all for our mission."

Aragorn studied the pale face of his Steward and nodded, his lips pressing together in concern. "That is our most urgent concern now," he agreed. "We must only hope that the Orcs do not-"

He stopped suddenly, his head whipping around to stare down the fog-shrouded mountainside, his green eyes widening.

Eomer frowned, uneasy at his abrupt anxiousness. "What is it?"

Slowly Aragorn stood, his hand on his sword, still staring down the mountainside. Eomer followed his motions, getting to his feet as well with his hand on his weapon, peering down past the misty rocks and sparse grass. Behind him, Boromir remained where he was, but his hold on Faramir tightened into a protective embrace.

From within the heavy mist below them there could now be seen the uncertain shape of many figures moving up the side of the hill, rapidly approaching their hiding place. It looked enough to be a small army.

"Should we retreat up the hill?" wondered Boromir, peering at the mysterious arrivals.

"They are not Orcs," said Eomer, as the figures drew closer. "They are far too nimble, and move without a sound over the rocks."

"They must be..." murmured Aragorn, "but...it is impossible..."

The first of the figures stepped from the mist, looked up at the small group, and waved.

Aragorn gasped, hoarsely whispering to himself to keep from shouting out in surprise.

"Legolas!"

As Boromir and Eomer's eyes doubled in size, they saw that it was, indeed, Legolas lithely crossing the rocks towards them, his long golden hair flowing behind him, his Elven form dancing gracefully from place to place until he was upon them. His ageless face wore an expression of great relief; in his hand was his magnificent Galadhrim bow, on his back a full quiver of arrows.

Behind Legolas, there emerged from the fog now an entire small army of Elven warriors, all armed to the teeth and moving with silent steps to where they stood. Aragorn stared, dumbfounded; the hills seemed alive with Elves.

"Well met, my old friend!" Aragorn gasped, holding out his arms to the woodland Elf. "What...How in the name of Eru did you find us?"

"Arwen said you had come to this land," said Legolas, reaching out and clasping Aragorn's extended arms in greeting. "We thought you might want some help, and have been tracking you for two days."

"I have always heard of the astounding abilities of the Elves, but this must defy belief," said Eomer in a mystified tone, coming down to greet Legolas. "You tracked us across miles of mud and rock?"

"Yes," replied Legolas with a proud smile. "Well-it wasn't easy, and I will admit we did lose the way a few times, but it became faster once you entered the mountains."

Aragorn frowned as something occurred to him. "You followed us all that way?"

Legolas glanced at him. "Yes."

Aragorn didn't move. "Over all those miles and miles of mud?"

Now Legolas scowled, puzzled, and shrugged a little. "Yes, of course. Why?"

There was no reply from Aragorn as he looked from Elf to Elf. Not a single one of them had a spot of mud anywhere on their clothes or skin, save for the soles of their soft boots.

"Um," Aragorn said finally, "didn't any of you, um...fall? At all?"

Legolas looked very bewildered. "No."

There was a heavy silence for a moment as Aragorn stared at the impeccable army of Elves, a variety of emotions swirling through his mind. At length, he sighed. "Oh. Very well, never mind, just was wondering. Um..."

Legolas looked around. "Is Lord Faramir not with you?"

"He is with Boromir," said Aragorn quickly, taking Legolas' shoulder and gesturing behind him without looking to where the two sat on the rock.

The Elf's eyes grew wide now, and he bent to look past Aragorn's shoulder, then frowned and turned his blue eyes back to his old friend. "Boromir? Aragorn, has this land made you mad? Boromir is dead."

"Yes, but-" began Aragorn, looking back to the rock. His words stopped at once.

Faramir lay on the ground beside the rock, snugly wrapped in the Elven cloak and still soundly sleeping.

Boromir was nowhere to be seen.

Astounded, Aragorn looked over at Eomer, who seemed likewise perplexed. They both began to look about them; there was no sign of the ghost.

"What...he was just here..." muttered Eomer as he turned his gaze in all directions. "He would not have left his brother..."

Some of the Elves looked puzzled, and began to look around as well, although none of them knew who they were looking for.

Legolas was keenly studying Aragorn. "My friend..."

"No, no," said Aragorn quickly, holding up one hand as he scanned the area. "Boromir was here, as a spirit..."

Legolas sighed. "It was the pipeweed Pippin gave you, wasn't it?" he asked quietly.

Aragorn gave him an exasperated glance. "*No*," he replied sharply.

The Elf responded with a shake of his head. "He *warned* you about it, you know..."

"My apologies for that," said Boromir, appearing suddenly not three feet from where Legolas was standing.

"Aiiiii!" cried the Elf, stumbling (gracefully) back, his blue eyes enormous. Within a space of a few seconds, he had an arrow nocked and aimed at the apparition's heart, his expression one of complete bafflement.

Boromir noticed him and smiled. "Ah, greetings, Legolas! It is wonderful to see you again, although the circumstances are a bit wanting."

"It is all right, Legolas," said Eomer, stepping to his friend's side. "He is not evil; there is no need for your bow."

Very slowly, Legolas lowered his weapon, his eyes fixed on the ghost. "How is this possible?" he whispered.

"It is quite a long story, I fear," Boromir answered, "and I am sure my kingly friends here will tell it to you in when we have leisure time for talk." He turned to Aragorn. "I regret having to leave you so abruptly, Aragorn, but I thought that as it appears we may have a battle on our hands, you might need some assistance. I trust you recall the Army of the Dead?"

A blast of cold air struck the group, and the Elves reeled at the sight of the ghostly warriors who suddenly materialized beside Boromir. Their forms were lean and haggard, their bodies clad in ancient armor thousands of years old. Deadly weapons were clasped in their grisly hands, and their faces wore the look of men eager for battle, their appearance shifting between men of flesh and mere skeletons. An eerie green glow flickered over their bodies, similar to the one that covered Boromir, but far more intense.

Aragorn gasped, astonished. "The Army of the Dead!" he repeated in a hoarse murmur.

One of the formerly cursed warriors bowed to Aragorn. "We have come to serve you once again, Heir of Isildur."

The King of Gondor blinked as he looked over the soldiers, then licked his lips, his brows knitting a bit. "Um, Boromir?"

Boromir looked over at him. "Hm?"

"There's only four of them."

There were, indeed, only four of the ectoplasmic soldiers, a far cry from the original army that had numbered several hundred.

"Ah. Yes," Boromir replied quickly, glancing over at the four ghosts. "Well...it is rather hard to get the whole army together on such short notice, you understand. Even with time not working the same way over there, it took me a while to find these four. Had to look in every Spirit Realm pub I could think of."

"Yes, it's not as if we're at your beck and call all the time any more, you know," offered one of the warriors, looking at Aragorn.

"Most of the fellows, they're really enjoying finally finding some peace and relaxation," added a second ghost. "You won't get them back here again, no, sir."

"We only came because Boromir said he'd buy us all a round when we got back," the third spirit piped up.

The fourth ghost snorted. "Speak for yourselves, mates," he scoffed, shaking his sword. "I've been longing to get a go at them Orcs again. I mean, eternal peace is great, but it does tend to get a little boring at times, you know?"

"Besides," continued Boromir, looking back at Aragorn, "it's not like I had a great fancy sword I could wave and get hundreds of dead soldiers to follow me, as you did. I had to earn their service the old-fashioned way - by promising to get them drunk."

"And don't think we'll forget," warned one of the ghosts mildly, pointing at him with his sword for emphasis.

Boromir nodded at him, then turned and lay his hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "Fear not, Aragorn, I am sure we have enough force to rid our land of these creatures."

The other man's green eyes flashed. "Then let us make ready to do so," he said in a low, lethal voice.

With a nod, Boromir stepped away and returned to his brother's side. Legolas followed him, kneeling on one side of Faramir while Boromir sat on the other. The young Steward was still sleeping, and looked no better than before.

"What ails him?" inquired Legolas, his tone distressed.

"Poison," said Eomer angrily as he walked up behind them. "We fought some Orcs a few days ago, and one of them bore an envenomed blade."

"Do any of your people bear healing medicines?" Aragorn asked hopefully.

But Legolas shook his head, regret plain on his features. "We had little time to prepare; we left Minas Tirith as soon as we learned of your mission," he said in response. "There are a few herbs of minor effect in my pack, but nothing to combat poison."

Boromir sighed, one hand on Faramir's shoulder. He lowered his gaze for a moment, then raised his head, meeting the eyes of his friends with an expression hard as steel.

"Then, gentlemen," he said in a quiet, deadly tone, "I believe it is time for battle."

Aragorn looked at Legolas. "Go with Eomer up to the rim of the valley; the Orcs are camped below. We shall take them by surprise, and win the day."

Legolas nodded, and soon he and his Elf army were moving noiselessly up the slopes to the summit, led by Eomer.

Aragorn stood and gave his attention to the four ghostly soldiers. "Are you under my command? I have nothing to offer you for your service today, except my gratitude."

They looked at each other, and after a few moments one of them turned to him and nodded. "As long as we can help you destroy these filthy Orcs and get a nice cold ale out of it," he said, "we're all yours."

Aragorn inclined his head in thanks, then dropped his gaze to Boromir. The spirit wore a solemn expression on his face, and finally stood.

"I will not leave Faramir," he said simply. "But you know my sword is yours, should the battle come our way."

"I have no doubt of that," was Aragorn's earnest reply. "This seems a safe distance. Stay here with your brother, and I will do all I can to make sure he is not imperiled."

With those words, and a hasty farewell clap on the shoulder, Aragorn turned and hastened up the hill to the waiting battle.

Boromir watched him go, then heard a small noise at his feet. Looking down, he saw Faramir's eyes blinking blearily open, squinting in confusion at the King's retreating figure.

"Lie still," urged the ghost, crouching beside Faramir and placing a hand on his arm.

"I have been still long enough, I think," replied the younger man with a cough, wiping his eyes. "What is happening?"

"Well, let's see," his brother answered, settling down. "We have found the Orcs, thanks to you and your dream, Legolas has appeared with a squadron of Elven archers, I managed to find four members of the Army of the Dead who weren't too busy enjoying the afterlife to come and help us, and now we're preparing to rid this land of those Orcs for good and all." He paused. "Yes...yes, I believe that's all."

Faramir sat up very carefully, rubbing his flushed face. "Legolas is here?"

Boromir nodded.

"May the Valar bless him," he muttered gratefully, shaking his head. "I do wish I could have seen his face when he saw you."

Boromir chuckled. "It was rather amusing, poor fellow. At least one of you had the good grace to scream! He and his brave archers are with Aragorn and Eomer now. This business will soon be concluded."

Faramir sighed and nodded, gingerly easing himself over to sit with his back against a large rock. His face was very white. "That will be a vast relief," he gasped, as he reached down and very slowly pulled his sword from its scabbard.

His ghostly brother frowned. "And what do you suppose you're doing?"

The younger man was panting now, but he looked over at Boromir, a faint smile playing on his pale lips. "My dear brother," he said between breaths, laying the weapon across his lap, "I am not going to lie on the ground like a sack of meal should we be overrun. I may not be able to stand or fight, but I believe I have enough strength to lift a sword and drive it home if the need arises. At this time, we need every blade."

Boromir eyed him steadily, pride and concern mixing on his face.

Faramir looked up the hill and shrugged. "Besides," he added, "if one of them gets close enough, I might just be able to get ill on him. It would serve them right, after all."

His brother nodded with a smile, clasped Faramir's shoulder, and followed his gaze up the hill, as they both sat and waited to see what would happen next.

In almost utter silence, Aragorn, Eomer, the Elves, and the Dead Soldiers crept up to the rim of the valley and surrounded the Orcs' campsite. None of the creatures below gave them any notice, being far too occupied with eating, sorting out their purloined goods, and finding excuses to harass each other.

The Elves noiselessly armed their bows, while the two Kings and the Dead gripped their swords. The ghostly warriors eyed the unsuspecting Orcs with particular relish, as if they could not wait to go into battle again.

Finally Aragorn stepped forward a little ways, glanced over at Legolas and Eomer, and nodded. The time had come.

The Orcs went on with their dirty business, gleefully planning their next marauding foray out onto the Gondorian plains, when their peace was shattered by a cry from above, delivered in a voice whose authority could not be questioned.

"ORCS OF MORDOR!"

Startled, they all uttered various Orc expletives and looked up in the direction of the sound, to the rim of their sheltering valley.

At the lip of the rim stood Aragorn, the bright blade of Anduril flashing in his hand. He was regarding the Orcs below with a lethal expression.

As one group, the fifty Orcs howled in shock and anger, and there was a loud clattering as they grabbed their various swords, knives and bows and moved to overwhelm the lone figure.

At that moment, a gentle rustling came among the thick trees lining the valley rim, and thirty Elven warriors emerged from their cover, some aiming their drawn bows at the beasts below, others bearing their sharp Elven blades. On each end of the line of Elves stood two glowing, green spectral soldiers, all four unable to stifle anticipatory chuckles of glee.

Amazed, the Orcs stopped in their tracks and stared, apparently sizing up their situation.

"Heed my words!" cried Aragorn, his clear voice ringing across the wide valley. "Your days of thievery are over. I will give you one chance to save your lives. Lay down your weapons, or-"

The rest of his words were lost as the Orcs surged forward, shrieking and brandishing their deadly implements. Orcish arrows filled the air, all swooping straight for them.

Aragorn glanced at Eomer. "That *never* works," he sighed with resignation, and brandishing Anduril, he leapt into the fray. Beside him, the Elven bows sang as they sped their arrows into the Orcs.

Eomer shrugged, not terribly disappointed, and with a Rohirric battle cry on his lips, he led half of the Elves and the Dead down into the valley to meet the charging foe.

Within moments, the valley dissolved into chaos, the air rent with the coarse, ugly grunts of the Orcs, Elven chants of war, and the enthusiastic shouts of the Dead.

Eomer plowed into Orc after Orc, abandoning more graceful techniques of battle for ruthlessly efficient brutality. He would cross swords with one, and perhaps sustain a cut or two, but the end result was always the same: the Orc would fall dead to the ground, his head hacked off, his chest split open, or his throat sliced in two. Infuriated by the poisoning of Faramir, the attacks on his people, and the endless slogging around in the mud, Eomer's fury was not to be denied, and many of the day's Orc fatalities were marked to the glory of Rohan.

The Elves proved themselves to be just as lethal as the enraged Eomer, if not nearly as sanguinary. With balletic grace the swordsman engaged their opponents, pushing back brute strength with deadly elegance. There was little straining or groaning, merely the smoothest of sword strokes, and an Orc would collapse, black blood gushing from the precisely inflicted mortal wound.

At the top of the rim, the archers, led by Legolas, poured wave after wave of arrows into the Orcs while doing their best to dodge the cruder missiles sent back up at them. Soon many Elves bore bleeding cuts and gashes from near misses by the flying arrows, but they held firm, Legolas doing his best to locate and cut down the most important-looking Orcs. In the churning mass of battle below, however, it was difficult to discern shape from shape.

It was not hard to find the green forms of the Dead moving swiftly among the writhing, hacking crowd, plying their ghostly swords to great effect, laughing and shouting with fervor at the Orcs as they took them down. It was within their power to take the lives from their enemy with a mere touch, but it quickly became clear that they preferred to perform their task in a far more physical matter. Glowing green blades forged two ages ago swung through the air, their owners delighted at the chance to engage their ancient opponents once more.

Through all of this melee plunged Aragorn, acting every inch the Ranger of old as he plied Anduril repeatedly against the encroachers. The ancient sword was soon slick with black blood, and after every kill Aragorn would look quickly around, trying to see how the tide of battle was turning. At length he arrives near the back of the camp, close to the mountainside, where the campfires were burning, the air filled with acrid smoke.

There was the table where the Orcs had laid out the maps of Gondor, planning their next raid. Outraged, Aragorn knocked the table over, scattering its contents. No sooner had he done this than he was accosted by a large, heavily armored Orc, who bore several human scalps upon his belt. It was plain by his heavy armor and swaggering demeanor that he was the leader of the larcenous creatures.

They crossed swords at once.

"You did well to find us, human filth," the Orc growled, "but you won't be leaving this valley with your life!"

The weapons crashed against each other as the combatants fell to battle. The Orc was large and very strong, and as he and Aragorn hacked at each other, it became plain that they were evenly matched. Aragorn's experience and agility proved a balancing factor against his foe's brute power. The valley resounded with the crashing blows the Orc rained against Aragorn's blade; Aragorn soon learned that the Orc was too weighed down in his armor to move very fast, and acted accordingly, skillfully dodging several potentially mortal strikes.

Back and forth they surged through the small area, now hammering away with their swords, now grappling with each other in a close and deadly struggle. The advantage shifted several times; at length, they found themselves clasped in a deadly embrace, each warrior clutching the other in a contest of force, staring with savage hatred into the eyes of the other, oblivious to the chaos around them.

Aragorn was trembling, covered with sweat and blood, wearied from the struggle but determined not to yield. He was just about to make his move when the Orc let out a howl and threw Aragorn backwards, sending him towards the fire that burned nearby.

Wrenching himself desperately, Aragorn fell to one side of the roaring blaze, crashing into the pile of dried leaves and grasses being used for kindling. He sat up quickly, the heat from the fire singing his hair, in time to see the frustrated Orc charging at him, sword raised. Swiftly, Aragorn gathered a handful of smoldering ashes and flung them into the Orc's face, ignoring the burning pain in his hand as he did so.

The Orc's shrieks changed to cries of surprise and pain as he staggered back, wiping quickly at the hot ash clinging to his tough skin. Aragorn leapt to his feet, sword in hand, bits of grass and leaves stuck to his wet clothing. His eyes cleared, the creature glared at the Gondor King and jumped at him once more, the two enemies exchanging a few more blows until Aragorn, finding the right moment, executed a perfect turn and cut the Orc's head completely away from his body.

As the head and body collapsed to the ground in two different directions, Aragorn exhausted no time in giving the dead Orc so much as a parting glance. Instead, he hastened back into the fray, hoping that the rest of the Orcs would be subdued swiftly now that their captain was dead.

By this time, the battle had turned in favor of Gondor and Rohan. The Orcs had fought viciously, and inflicted many wounds, but soon it became clear that the forces of Men would win the day. Seeing this, three of the Orcs decided that being slain on the field of battle was an honor they would rather leave to others, and found a way to escape the valley without attracting the attention of the occupied soldiers.

On the slopes of the hill outside the valley, Boromir and Faramir listened to the sounds of battle and waited anxiously.

"I wonder how we are faring," murmured Faramir after a while, his voice thin and anxious. He was still sitting up against the rock, but his face was white and covered with sweat, his shoulders drooping with weariness.

Boromir crouched by his side, hands clasped. "I wager we shall know soon enough," he sighed, peering keenly at the misty trees, his brow knit with concern.

Suddenly the three Orcs appeared at the edge of the trees and started stumbling down the hill, obviously eager to get far away from the fighting.

"Oh," Boromir said, watching them run, "perhaps we should just ask those Orcs."

Faramir eyed them, frowning. "Somehow I doubt they'll be forthcoming." He paused, then looked at his brother. "We cannot let them get away; they may harry us during our return journey, or return with more of their kind."

Boromir's lip twitched and he threw a firm glance at Faramir. "I will not leave you while the battle rages," he said.

The younger man licked his lips. "You won't have to," he said quietly. "I have an idea."

As the Orcs ran down the hill, they looked wildly around, trying to see if anyone was coming after them. Their attention was abruptly taken by the sound of a loud, human moan, and they stopped in their tracks, skidding a little on the rocky ground.

"Hold on," said one, a skinny creature with a long nose and protruding teeth as he located the source of the noise. A smile spread across his repulsive face. "Looks like they left one behind."

The other two followed his gaze, and saw that there was, indeed, a man lying some forty feet away, his back to a rock, a sword across his legs.

After a pause, and looking behind them to make sure they were unobserved by man or Orc, they began making their way over to where the human lay, each Orc grinning at the unexpected good fortune.

"Not surprised," grunted the second Orc, a shorter, rounder figure whose wart-covered head was completely bald. "He's on his last legs, this one. Look at 'im!"

The human was lying motionless, glaring at the Orcs through his straggling, sweat-dampened hair, the dark locks stark against his pale face. He was breathing heavily, sweat beading on every exposed surface of skin.

"Least they just left 'im behind 'stead o' killin' him," chortled the last Orc, his hefty frame wobbling as he strode closer to the human. "That means we can 'ave some fun with 'im, an' make it look like we was fightin' instead o' runnin'."

They were twenty feet away now.

"So," the round Orc said in a very casual manner, "what do you say, boys? Cut his throat open and let 'im bleed for a bit?"

"Nah," the skinny Orc sneered, "that ain't no fun. I say we ties 'im up, takes him out to the flats an' throws him into the mud. He can drown real slow like." He laughed.

They were drawing closer very slowly, clearly enjoying the anticipation and making sure their victim heard every word.

"You fellas got no imagination," the stout Orc growled, studying their prey very closely. "I say we takes his scalp for the Captain's belt, cuts his belly open, slits his throat, an' then throws him in the mud to drown. That'll please the captain an' give us some good laughs, too!"

This course was instantly agreed on, and the three Orcs advanced, chuckling with glee and brandishing their weapons.

"That sound good t'you, maggot?" the skinny Orc said with a wicked cackle, looking at the sickly human. The man said nothing, still glowering at them with his fever-bright blue eyes.

"Quiet one, ain't he?" chortled the round Orc, smirking. They were ten feet away now. "You don't say much now, pink-skin, but you'll be howlin' soon enough. We'll have you screamin' to wake the dead!"

Suddenly they found their way blocked by another human, a tall, richly dressed warrior with golden hair who chose that moment to appear and thrust his sword clean through the round Orc's chest.

The other two Orcs leapt back with cries of horrified surprise.

"Oh," said the warrior in an even voice, looking at the dumbfounded Orcs as the lifeless body of their comrade dropped to the ground, "we dead are plenty awake, thank you. Care to join us?"

Astonished, the Orcs let loose with an enraged howl and charged, trampling their companion's body in an effort to get to their human prey.

While the skinny Orc leapt atop the newcomer, the other ran around him and made a dash for the ailing human.

"No fair taking the easy one!" shrieked the skinny Orc, but it was too late, and he soon had his hands full trying to subdue the tall warrior.

The stout Orc ignored his comrade completely, trotting up to the pale man with a grin at how simple this was going to be. His prey still sat motionless, eying his approach, sword held in one limp hand across his lap.

The creature guffawed as he rushed up, lifting his blade. "Looks like I got you all to mys-GURRRRKKKKK!"

He had not been two feet away when the sickly human shot to his knees, his apparently lethargic frame suddenly invigorated as he raised his sword and drove it deep into the Orc's stomach. The man's entire being seemed to come alive with the motion, his body trembling from the effort, his eyes wide and blazing, his teeth gritted, his white face grimacing in an expression of righteous anger.

The Orc gurgled, shocked, and fell over dead, his last look one of annoyed disappointment.

Faramir released his grip on his sword as soon as the Orc began to fall, slumping back himself against the rock even as his foe tumbled to the earth. The energy born of battle had left him now, and he could do nothing but lie against the rock, shaking, covered with cold sweat, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. Blinking as he fought back the dizziness assailing him, Faramir glanced over, eager to see how his brother was faring, but not overly concerned. Being already dead, Boromir held a distinct advantage.

The two had been battling savagely, Boromir looking behind him to make sure Faramir was all right before turning his complete attention to his opponent. Time and again the Orc charged him, cutting and slashing, trying to get around him, and growing increasingly irritated that none of his efforts seemed to be having the slightest effect. Boromir was not growing tired, or wounded, or discouraged, nor did he seem to particularly mind when the Orc finally managed to plunge his sword clean through the Gondorian warrior's chest.

At this, Boromir staggered back, and the Orc grinned triumphantly, waiting to see his enemy crumple to the ground. He became more than a little confused, however, when Boromir simply pulled the sword out, tossed it far behind him, then turned to face the Orc again, utterly unscathed.

The Orc's jaw dropped. "Um...you...that...er..."

Boromir smiled and held the point of his weapon to the Orc's throat. "We can go on like this all day, but I am a very impatient man, and have far more important matters to attend to," he said in a low and menacing voice. "Surrender!"

In response, the Orc staggered back several feet and drew a dagger from his hip.

"Never!" he cried, and ran forward.

Perturbed, Boromir sighed and lifted his sword once more, but before the Orc got close enough for them to engage, the creature was suddenly impaled with at least fifteen arrows, all fired from above.

As the Orc choked and fell over sideways, Boromir gaped at him in surprise, then looked up to the crest of the hill. There stood Legolas flanked by several Elven archers, all with empty bows and grim, satisfied smiles. Aragorn and Eomer emerged from their midst and began to make their way quickly down the slope to him.

Boromir gave them a look of slight irritation as he turned and hastened back to Faramir. "You could have at least let me kill him," he mumbled to Aragorn as the King of Gondor drew near. "You should have heard the vile things they were going to do to my brother."

"All of the Orcs have paid for their misdeeds now," Aragorn assured him as they strode quickly across the rocks. "We have won the day, and lost none of our number. How is Faramir?"

They reached the rock where Faramir sat, one arm draped over the rock for support, his head bent down and bobbing slightly as he gasped for breath. At their approach, Faramir's eyes opened partway, and he greeted them with a wan smile.

"Faramir is still alive, my King," he informed his sovereign in a faltering voice, "although he feels as if he fallen down all seven levels of Minas Tirith."

Boromir and Aragorn knelt quickly beside him, while Eomer stood behind them. As Boromir lifted his arms, Faramir slumped gratefully into them, allowing himself to be supported with no further argument.

"For Eru's sake, don't talk," chided Boromir in a worried voice, settling his brother more comfortably in his arms. "You've already used too much of your strength spearing that Orc."

"Ah, but it was worth it," mumbled the young Steward with a slight smile. He sighed. "But now that our task is done, I will consent to your coddling."

"For that I am most grateful," said Aragorn as he began to open Faramir's shirt to inspect his wound, "for I will not be able to continue my reign without my Steward, no matter how stubborn he may be."

Faramir opened his eyes a bit more and looked up at Boromir. "Alas for you, my Liege, I had an excellent tutor in that particular skill."

Boromir smiled fondly.

"The trait has served both of you well," the Gondorian King replied, lifting the bandage on Faramir's stomach carefully, "so it is a peculiarity I will gladly endure." He replaced the bandage, eying Faramir with a solemn expression. "The wound is no better, nor worse. You must fully rest now, and save your strength. We shall make camp here tonight, and begin our journey home tomorrow."

Faramir nodded with a weary sigh. "Very well," he murmured, before looking up at Aragorn. "Did all of us survive the battle, truly?"

"Aye," replied the King, retying the laces on Faramir's shirt. "There are minor wounds, but none lost their lives."

"Hm." A faint smile touched Faramir's lip. He looked at Aragorn's grass-covered sleeve, his brows knitting a bit. "You seem to have taken something of a tumble, though," he noted.

Aragorn glanced at his foliage-spotted clothes and laughed, brushing at the bits of leaves and grass. "A small shortcut through the Orc's kindling," he said lightly. "A bit messy, but not as awful as the fate he intended me to...suffer..."

He ceased speaking, gazing at something on his hand, his countenance taking on a sudden look of amazement. His head then whipped around to look up the hill, and before any could ask, Aragorn leapt to his feet and began running up the slope to the rim of the valley. Behind him, the little group around the rock gaped after him, confused. By the time Eomer and Legolas began running after him, Aragorn had already pushed through the knot of Elves and disappeared into the valley.

As the man and Elf crested the rim and began descending into the vale, they scanned the valley, looking for the errant King. Below them spread the carnage of the battle: some fifty dead Orcs, and the four Dead Warriors, making sure every one of their foes had truly been killed.

One of the Dead eyed them casually as they ran across the ground. "He's over there," he said in a calm tone, pointing to the rear of the camp before going on with his task.

They found Aragorn near the Orc's fire pit, hastily picking through the scattered remnants of the Orc's kindling grass. As Eomer and Legolas ran up, he lifted his head, then held out something in his hand to them.

"Here," panted Aragorn, dropping a bit of something green into each of their palms, "look around for this, there must be more here."

Legolas studied it and gasped. "Athelas!"

Aragorn nodded and went back to his work, intently combing the dried grass and leaves. "The Orcs were drying it, using it for kindling," he said, pulling some more bits of it out and setting it into a small pile he had already formed. "I scarcely believe they brought it with them, they must have found it here."

Eomer let out a huge sigh of relief, a smile lighting his blood-streaked features. "Thank the Valar for your short journey through the Orc's grass pile," he said, and he and Legolas set out at once to search the valley's greenery.

"Yes," muttered Aragorn to himself with a smile as he sorted out the healing herb, "my heart is most thankful for it. My rear end may be another matter."

The sun was setting over the hillside as the warriors finished setting up their camp for the evening. Few wanted to rest in the valley previously occupied by the Orcs, so a suitable place had been found along the tree-lined rim, a site covered with grass and sheltering trees, wide enough to accommodate all. A spring was discovered near the edge of the valley, allowing for the slaking of thirst and the cleansing of wounds.

Down below, the Orc remains had been disposed of, and the stolen goods gathered into piles for a future expedition to sort out and return to their proper kingdoms. Now only a few Elves walked among the ruins, charged with making certain that all was accomplished, and that the valley would return to its natural state of peace and beauty.

Eomer and Legolas had been successful in their search, and there was soon plenty of fresh athelas on hand. At the campsite, Aragorn had quickly prepared the athelas, and Faramir had been the recipient of his first treatment by the time the red-gold rays of sunset began to creep down the hills. He lay now on a particularly soft patch of grass, covered with a blanket provided from the pack of one the Elves, his head pillowed as before on Boromir's folded cloak. Still very weak and pale, he was obliged to simply be still and observe, as he watched his brother, along with Eomer and Aragorn, say farewell to the Soldiers of the Dead.

"Now don't you forget," one of the Dead was warning Boromir with a smile, "we'll be waitin' back at the pub for you!"

"It will be my first task upon my return," promised the Son of Gondor, clapping him on the arm. "My thanks to you all."

"And you certainly have mine as well," added Aragorn. "Isildur could surely say nothing against you men now."

One of the dead grinned. "Say," he mused, "perhaps this will be good enough for a round of drinks from *him* as well!"

"Well, go track him down and find out!" urged Boromir with a laugh, slapping the ghost on the shoulder. "But don't let him buy you the best ale, because that will be coming from me."

The ghosts nodded and waved, and as they vanished from sight, they were wrapped in an animated discussion with each other over this latest prospect.

Eomer shook his head. "They certainly do like that ale," he noted, eying the place where the Dead had stood.

"Well, it is very *good* ale," said Boromir simply, walking back to sit beside his brother.

The Rohan king nodded. "I have no doubt," he said in agreement, turning and joining Boromir. Aragorn walked behind them, his expression pensive. "That was an excellent idea of yours, to enlist their aid."

Boromir shrugged. "What's the use of being a spirit if you cannot take advantage of it when needed?" he replied, before looking down at his brother, who was still watching them. "Speaking of doing things when needed, *you* should be asleep. Close those eyes of yours, or I'll fetch Mother and have her give you a proper lecture on resting when you're told."

Faramir gave him a drowsy smile. "I hardly need Mother for lectures, with all of you around," he murmured, heaving a sigh. "And I have been sleeping for hours now. I detest lying here when there is so much to attend to."

Aragorn sat on a nearby rock, smiling slightly. "Perhaps my Steward will accept an order from his King? I do not want to have to answer to Lady Eowyn if you return home too weary for her welcome, so I am prepared to take royal measures to protect myself."

"The King of Rohan is willing to involved himself as well," said Eomer, sternly studying his sister-husband.

Faramir gave him a good-natured scowl. "I am not under *your* authority, Eomer King."

"Perhaps not," replied the warrior, leaning back against a tree and folding his arms, "but I am able to make treaties with whomever I please. Must the King of Gondor and I issue a joint edict?"

Boromir leant close to Faramir's ear. "As a man under no earthly power, I suppose I have no right to voice an opinion in this matter," he murmured, "but I'd advise the Steward of Gondor to relent, before he causes an international incident."

His brother sighed and looked at Aragorn. "So my King commands?"

"Yes, and your friend and healer even more so," Aragorn replied firmly, smiling. "Fear not, what must be done here will be done, and when we return home, there will still be work ahead for both of us."

Faramir nodded, an expression of resignation on his face. "Very well," he said quietly. "I would not want to be responsible for an inter-kingdom uproar." He paused. "You know, it struck me a while ago-did anyone else notice it hasn't really rained all day?"

Boromir pondered this, then glanced up at Eomer and Aragorn. "Well...no, I guess it hasn't."

Faramir nodded at the setting sun, which was going down amidst a glorious array of pinks and purples. "And the sun has been out for hours, with no clouds in the sky."

"Perhaps the time of rain has ended here," said Aragorn hopefully.

Boromir eyed his brother. "And you saw all this while you were supposed to be resting?"

The younger man returned the critical gaze. "I was scarcely in a position to do anything else," he said in response. He then sighed and closed his eyes, settling into the soft bed of grass. "But it gives me hope that our journey out will be much smoother than our journey in."

Eomer nodded in firm agreement. "Not to mention, much less slippery."

The next day dawned clear and perfectly dry, and it was not long before the camp was broken and the hunting party was on its way back to Minas Tirith.

Faramir had enjoyed a truly restful night, and all were pleased to note that the athelas was having the desired effect against the poison. He was still quite weak and somewhat feverish, however, and registered little protest when Boromir volunteered to carry him once more. Once he was wrapped in a blanket and hoisted into Boromir's embrace, the Steward went straight back to his healing sleep, and stayed there all day.

There was no mist or fog to trouble them as they made their way down the hillsides; all was bright and clear, and a warm breeze swept the land. As they passed from the foothills and moved onto the plains, Eomer and Aragorn noticed that the vast sea of mud had already begun to dry, its consistency thicker, stickier and far easier to walk on.

The Men and Elves traveled all day without incident. Aragorn, Legolas and Eomer kept an eye out for Orcs, but it appeared that the entire raiding party had been dealt with.

As the sun set on the first day's travel home, the party came across a grassy oasis in the foothills, and it was here that they stopped for the night. Countless stars shone down on them as they made their camp, gathered water from a nearby pool, and built their evening fires. The most comfortable area of the oasis was held for Faramir, and he slept soundly through the night reclining beneath a spreading tree, his ghostly brother watching over him.

The next day proved as pleasant as the day just past, and as the travelers moved on, they came across the large hole that had nearly claimed Eomer. The body of the drowned Orc still lay nearby, well on its way to returning to the earth. Eomer and Aragorn could not resist a look inside the pit; like the ground around it, the hole was drying now, the water at the bottom sunk down to a mere foot or so in depth.

"One day we shall have to return and properly mark this spot," suggested Aragorn with a small smile.

Eomer grinned as well. "As long as we also commemorate the other hole which almost swallowed the King of Gondor," replied the Rohan King.

As they traveled, both men noticed that Boromir kept very much to himself, carrying Faramir along in deeply preoccupied silence. The young Steward was recovering well, his fever all but gone now, and during their stops he was able to rouse himself from his therapeutic slumber long enough to eat and drink with appreciable appetite before his wearied body made its demands for rest known once more.

Aragorn assured them that this was normal for someone whose strength had been taxed so much, and that Faramir would likely be somewhat lethargic until he was fully healed. Boromir still seemed pensive, however, but Aragorn and Eomer guessed it was not because of his brother's health.

The evening of their second day of travel found them in the grasslands at the edge of the region, very close to where Aragorn, Eomer and Faramir had entered the lands some five days before. Three of the Elves were sent out, and soon returned leading the horses the three men had left behind, safe and ready for the return journey. Plans were made to depart for Minas Tirith the next day, and the company made their camp among the trees and tall grasses just over the border of the muddy region.

A nearby stream provided ample water for the men to wash themselves and their muddied clothes. Since the rain and mud were over with, they could sufficiently freshen themselves for the arrival home without fear of wasting the effort.

"I cannot wait to tell Lothiriel of this journey," said Eomer as they sat around the campfire that night, eating their dinner. He wore only his leggings, the rest of his garments drying on a nearby tree. "She'll think me either exaggerating, or mad."

"Or, she may think it sounds most interesting, and may desire a visit to this place," offered Aragorn, from where he sat cleaning the mud from his sword. He likewise wore only his leather breeches. "Now that the time of rain is ended, it seems quite temperate here."

The Rohan King seemed to consider this as he ate. "She might, at that," he noted thoughtfully. "She does have a great curiosity and love of exploring. I would be pleased to indulge her, at any time of the year but that just past!"

Legolas was leaning against a tree close by, his bow propped at his elbow, his arms folded as he studied the spreading flats stretching far away beneath the starlit sky. "I have heard tell that the summer finds this area carpeted with wildflowers of every hue," he said in his melodious voice. "It may be worth a ride down from Ithilien, to behold such a sight."

"It may well be true," said Aragorn, looking out at the plains himself. "I did notice, here and there, blades of green grass emerging from the drying earth. In a few weeks, we may not know this place."

Eomer grunted. "It would be a relief to know it could grow to be a land of beauty, after being tainted by the touch of the Orcs," he said. "When our details ride back to retrieve the stolen goods, perhaps I will join them. I confess I would like to see what these hills and plains look like when they are not drowned in rain and muck."

Aragorn nodded his agreement as he chewed the lembas bread, then glanced over to a tree-covered glade nearby. There was Boromir, sitting next to his sleeping brother, legs crossed, elbows propped on his knees, his chin supported in his folded hands, staring pensively into the distance.

"It is yet a strange notion to my mind, that Boromir's spirit is walking upon Arda once more," said Legolas in a tone of amazement, studying the ghost with wide blue eyes.

"It was by the grace of the Valar that he was allowed to join us," observed Aragorn solemnly, "but the blessing came also with a price, for we must part from him once more tomorrow when he returns to the spirit realm."

"Yes, so he told me as well," the Elf sighed in a sad tone, his gaze falling to the ground. "It pains him to go, but he understands that the dead are not meant to dwell among the living. But it does seem cruel, to endure such sorrow yet again."

The Gondorian King turned to regard the solitary ghost, his green eyes melancholy. "Yet it is a pain I will bear, for the joy of sharing his company once more," he admitted. "There is much more I wish to say to him, but it will have to wait until the day when time is meaningless to us both. I would not draw him away from his last night with his brother, for the world."

The next morning dawned bright once more, with only a few clouds catching the brilliance of the morning sun and a fair breeze rustling the late spring leaves. Over all hung a faint mist, glowing golden in the first rays of the day. The dew still sparkled on the grass while the camp bustled about in preparations for departure.

"I believe Faramir will be strong enough to ride today," Aragorn announced as he strapped his pack onto his mount. "He may not be awake, but he should be able to bear the rigors of the journey."

"I will take him," volunteered Eomer, stroking his horse's mane. "It is a duty I will gladly perform, and my horse is strong enough to carry us both."

"About ready to go, I see?"

At the sound of Boromir's voice, the two men and the Elf turned. He stood nearby, a small smile on his face, hands clasped behind his back, awash in the pale light of the sunrise.

"Indeed," answered Aragorn, stepping forward, "but certainly not without bidding farewell to you, our brother, and expressing our eternal gratitude for your aid." He warmly clasped Boromir's arms. "It was a blessing from Eru that you were permitted to accompany us."

Boromir laughed and returned the gesture, although one could see the moisture in his eyes glittering in the newborn sunlight as he looked at Aragorn. "How could I not?" he replied. "It is not often a person, living or dead, receives the chance to see two High Kings of Middle-earth fall repeatedly on their arses into the mud! I may be a spirit, but I am still in need of amusement, after all."

"For our sakes, I am thankful you are entertained by such things," said Eomer, coming up beside Boromir and clapping him on the shoulder. "I owe you my life, son of Gondor, and I will never forget it. When we next meet, you must let *me* buy *you* an ale."

The warrior grinned at him. "I know just the place," he said, "and I can think of a few of your kinsmen who may want to join us. I will look forward to that meeting, far in the future though it may be!"

Eomer gave him a firm nod, his head high and his expression proud, in a farewell exchange from warrior to warrior.

"I doubt the spirits of Elves are found within those tavern walls," Legolas noted with a hint of sadness. "It is said that our destinies after we leave this place are not the same as those of Men."

Boromir shrugged. "I have not seen any Elves in the spirit realm, it is true," he confessed, "but I would hope that somehow we may meet again, my friend. There was an uncommon bond among our Fellowship, was there not? Perhaps that will count for something, in the end."

A gentle smile crossed Legolas' fine features. "I would hope so," he said, "but in the event this is our last meeting..."

Here he spoke an Elvish blessing, which Boromir returned with a serious expression, in perfect Sindarin, the two comrades clasping hands.

As they finished, Boromir sighed and looked over to the sunlit glade where Faramir lay, still sleeping.

"Do not fear for your brother," Aragorn said quietly. "He is strong. When we return home, he will be healed. Gondor will be honored with his service for long years to come."

Boromir's eyes never left the reclining figure. "Yes, I know," he said in a voice thick with emotion. Taking a deep breath, he faced them, his expression conflicted. "I leave him with you, fully trusting that you will do all in your power to see that he is able to return to his wife and his duty whole and well once more. I can say nothing more of his future, or yours, except to wish you all possible happiness and the many blessings of Iluvatar, to the end of your days."

Aragorn smiled and held his head up, the sun casting a kingly glow about his dark hair. "We wish the same to you, my friend," he replied. "But certainly, you cannot go without a word to Faramir? He may yet be roused, although his sleep is deep."

The ghost eyed him and gave a small shake of his head. "He has been sorely taxed, and must rest," he replied. "Besides, I would never hear the end of it from Mother if I were to disturb him. By good fortune, that will not be needed. Farewell!"

As they watched, he turned from them and walked into the glade towards Faramir, his form moving through the misty columns of brilliant sunshine. He seemed to glow brighter with every step, catching and reflecting the rays of the sun until his figure became nigh blinding to behold. The clearing became filled with a final burst of beautiful golden light as he neared the place where his slumbering brother lay. Within the dazzling light, Boromir took the final few steps...

...and vanished.

As Faramir sighed to himself, he decided that this was one of his best dreams ever.

Rarely had he felt so relaxed as he did now, lounging in the warm waters of the Forbidden Pool, his arm around Eowyn who sat by his side. It was a beautiful summer night. Overhead, the stars blazed like diamonds in the ebony sky, the moon shining bright and full, its silver light casting the landscape in a mystical pale hue. The night air was sultry and thick with the fragrance of Ithilien, the perfume issuing from the mounds of flowering greenery that draped every rock of the waterfall, the blossomed tendrils hanging down to form a framing cascade of color down the entire face of the waterfall. Faramir studied it and wished the real Henneth Annun was as lovely and inviting, but at the moment, he was perfectly satisfied to simply dream about it.

As he sipped from the goblet of chilled wine in his hand, he used his left arm to draw Eowyn closer to him, and smiled at her. She looked so beautiful in the moonlight smiling back at him, clad in her bathing garments, her features alluringly illuminated in the moonlight. How he longed to hold the true Eowyn! But the phantom at his side was quite a nice substitute for the moment, even if so far she had said nothing. Perhaps he was still too weak yet for his imagination to conjure anything suitable.

He finished the wine - which, being dream wine, was of course very good - and set the goblet aside, wishing his real state of health was as good as his imaginary one. He felt wonderful, rested, no weakness or pain at all, not even a scar on his stomach from the poisoned Orc sword. It was going to be a long journey home, and a longer time still before he could hold Eowyn as strongly as he wished to. If he was sleeping deeply enough to dream this vividly, he knew he must yet be in much need of healing repose.

He turned to the duplicate of his wife and drew her to him as he settled back, her head coming to rest on his shoulder, one hand tenderly tracing the line of her jaw as he looked into her entrancing blue eyes. 'May as well make the best of it,' he thought, and bent his lips to hers. Not surprisingly, since it was his dream, she eagerly met his advance halfway, and soon they were engaged in a passionate embrace.

Faramir was just thinking how powerful his love for Eowyn was, that he could find such comfort in just the mere dream of her presence, when his reverie was interrupted by a cough. So transported was Faramir that it did not immediately dawn on him that it was a *man's* cough, but after a moment his eyes flew open and he looked up, thoroughly startled at this bizarre turn his dream had taken.

On a nearby rock overlooking the Forbidden Pool stood Boromir, looking just a bit embarrassed.

Faramir's mouth hung open for a moment before he exclaimed, "Boromir!" in a surprised, slightly irritated tone. Beside him, Eowyn looked mildly confused.

His brother cleared his throat. "My apologies," he said awkwardly. "It would definitely appear that I have arrived at a bad time."

"Yes, well..." The words trailed off as Faramir looked over at the dream version of his wife, who seemed to be patiently waiting for a resolution. He frowned, then looked back at Boromir, his brow creased in bewilderment. "I don't understand-why am I dreaming about *you*?"

Boromir heaved a sigh and climbed down from the rock, striding over to stand at the opposite edge of the Pool.

"There's a very simple explanation," he said, and for the first time Faramir noticed the sad glint in his ghostly brother's eye, and how sharp and real everything around him suddenly seemed.

Faramir felt a sorrowful chill flow over him. "This isn't a dream," he stated in somber realization. "You've come to say goodbye."

The corner of Boromir's mouth twitched, but he met his brother's gaze evenly. "Yes."

The younger brother sat silent for a moment, then turned and climbed out of the Pool. By the time his feet touched the cool stones of the shore, Faramir was completely dry, and clad in his open-necked linen shirt, leather leggings, and soft boots. Eowyn had disappeared; the waterfall had stopped its rushing flow, the last of the water slapping against the rocks before falling into the Pool with a final splash. Afterwards, there was only the faint dripping sound of the small rivulets of remaining water draining into the pond, and the rustling of the summer breeze stirring the trees surrounding them.

The two brothers met on the shore, each wearing an awkward, melancholy expression.

"Have you said farewell to Aragorn and the others?" asked Faramir at length, unsure yet if he could express what he truly desired to say.

"Oh! Yes," replied the spirit with a small laugh, waving one hand and looking away as if the King and their other friends were only off in the shadows somewhere. He then turned back to his brother. "It is morning in the waking world, and they are preparing to go, as eager to return home as you are. They will get you there, fear not; I am leaving you in the best of care."

Faramir nodded, dropping his gaze. "I am sure they expressed their gratitude to you for your help in all this," he said, after clearing his throat to relieve the lump lodged there. He hesitated, then raised his eyes to Boromir's face. "We could not have defeated the Orcs without your aid. Thank you."

The ghost grinned. "Is that an official declaration from the Steward of Gondor on behalf of his people?"

The younger man laughed a little. "As much of one as I am able to make, without my rod and seal," he answered. A more sober aspect fell over his countenance then as he regarded Boromir. "And it is a most unofficial and heartfelt declaration as well, from one brother to another."

Boromir's expression softened. "I believe I prefer the unofficial declaration," he said, taking a deep breath. "Never did care much for all that foolish ceremony, after all. But I was pleased to do what I could for our people, while I was able, and will gladly accept the Steward's commendation." He looked his younger brother over with an air of proud approval. "The office suits you well, Faramir, far better than it ever would have suited me. The paperwork alone would have driven me mad, I suspect."

"The Council meetings are worse," observed Faramir with a shake of his head. "At least the paperwork does not argue with me."

"Ha! I am sure you're bearing those meetings better than I would have as well," chuckled Boromir, folding his arms. "I would simply knock everyone's heads together and adjourn. It would shorten things, but I am sure Aragorn would not approve."

Faramir cocked his head, a look of remembrance in his eyes. "You weren't at the last meeting," he muttered.

His brother laughed again and placed a hand on Faramir's shoulder. "Nay, I was not, and for that I rejoice. I leave the safekeeping of Gondor in your hands, and those of the King, and I have no fear for her. Your wisdom and strength will see her through all the days of rebirth that lie ahead, and when she is once more robed in her former glory, she will count Faramir, son of Denethor, high among those to thank for it."

Faramir glowed at his brother's praise, his breath catching in his chest. He had often wondered how Boromir would have felt, knowing that Faramir occupied the office intended for him, and he could not help smiling in great relief at his brother's sentiments.

"You little know what your words mean to me, Boromir," he said in response, after a short silence. "Gondor's strength will never falter, while I have blood or breath."

"That, I have never doubted," his brother reassured him, clapping Faramir's shoulder once before removing his hand. He looked around a bit. "But our time grows short, and I am sure we can think of more interesting matters to discuss than Council meetings."

A flicker of reluctance crossed Faramir's face. "Yes," he said sadly, sighing as a sharp pain clutched his heart, his discomfort forcing him to look away. He hesitated. "I have expected this since the night you appeared, but...I don't know, somehow I hoped it wouldn't truly come to pass." He paused, then looked back at Boromir. "That somehow, you could stay."

Boromir studied him, his green eyes clouded with melancholy and resignation. Together they turned and began to walk along the banks of the pool, from the rocky shore into the tall grasses and trees surrounding it, their forms dappled in the bright moonlight.

"You know I would dearly love to remain," Boromir replied as they slowly strode beneath the gently swaying boughs. "I have spent all night thinking how wonderful it would be to go back, and walk the streets of the White City again, and see those I left behind once more. But-" He paused, then sighed and shook his head. "I can not say how it is, but I know I must return now, to where I am meant to be."

Faramir's steps slowed, then halted, and he turned to face his brother. "I know," he said with a sigh, the mottled light playing across his solemn features. "But...there is so much I want to ask you, so much we have to talk about. Father, the Ring, your journey to Rivendell...I never imagined we would have a chance to speak of them, and now that chance is ended."

The spirit smiled tenderly, and placed a comforting hand on Faramir's cheek. "*This* chance is ended," he stated firmly, the hand moving to Faramir's shoulder, "but do not doubt that it will come again. When next we meet, we will be at liberty to speak until we are heartily sick of hearing each other's voices." He shook his head a little, his voice becoming gentle and encouraging. "It is only for a time, little brother, only for a time."

Faramir peered into his eyes, trying to be comforted by that idea. "It will be a long time, I fear, for me," he admitted.

"Ah, but that is as it should be," Boromir countered, squeezing his brother's shoulder. "You have many years ahead of you, happy years that you have more than earned. Go enjoy the love of your good lady, revel in the laughter of your children, help our King restore Gondor to its former strength and beauty. This has all happened for a purpose-I never used to believe that, as you know, but now it seems as clear as daylight to me. My purpose is fulfilled; yours is only starting, and it is not a thing to mourn if it requires many long and joyful seasons to complete."

The younger man listened to the words, then grinned a little, the light of profound understanding glinting in his eyes. "You've turned into quite the wise man, brother," he said in an admiring tone. "I never would have guessed it of you."

Boromir shot him a keen glance and grinned a bit in self-deprecation. "Bah! I am no philosopher," he retorted with a shake of his head before his expression turned earnest once more. "I speak only of what I know, to lessen your pain, if I am able, now that we must part again. I meant nothing but the best in assisting you in this endeavor, and now I fear I am only causing you fresh grief."

Faramir considered these words for a few moments, then raised his head a little, his blue eyes shining. "It is a sweeter grief to bear now," he said with deep emotion, "now that I know you are well, and at peace, and that one day we will meet again to part no more. Those thoughts, and your words, will bring me comfort until that day arrives."

A bright smile illuminated Boromir's face, and Faramir saw a gleam of anticipation appear in his green eyes. "Yes," Boromir said softly, now placing both of his hands on Faramir's shoulders, "and then you will see what I have seen, wonders no mortal tongue can describe." He shook his head, his expression rapturous, his voice full of awe. "Oh, Faramir, when you behold how very beautiful it is, and witness the glory of Iluvatar, and hear the music there-" He choked and stopped speaking, then dropped his gaze, took a deep breath and composed himself with a slight laugh as he looked into Faramir's eyes again. "Well, I was quite overwhelmed, I will tell you, and I am no lover of such things as you are!"

Faramir laughed as well, through his tears. "It must be wonderful indeed, then," he said in a voice hushed with emotion, "and one day we will share it. But not too soon, I promise." He lowered his head for a moment, collecting himself, then lifted it once more to look into his brother's face. "Until then."

The ghost gave him a affectionate look, his hands tightening on Faramir's shoulders. "Until then," he whispered, and without another word wrapped his arms full around him and drew him into a strong embrace.

Faramir held his brother as close as he could, thankful that he had the ability to do so at least in his dreams, nestling his head on Boromir's shoulder and feeling no shame at the tears trickling down his cheeks. He shut his eyes, memorizing every aspect of the moment. Often he had wished for the opportunity to say farewell to Boromir, and now that the chance had come, he was determined never to forget it.

For several moments the man and the spirit stood together, wrapped in a warm and wordless bond of devotion, Boromir's hand gently cradling the back of Faramir's head, Faramir's arms clasped about his brother's shoulders. Each man held to his own private thoughts; Faramir appreciated the stillness, allowing the loving comfort of the instant to flow over him, deep gratitude and humble joy welling through his soul. He could not say for certain, but he suspected Boromir was doing the same, striving to take all of this into his heart and hold it there until they met again.

At length, the time seemed right, and they parted. Before stepping away, Boromir gently placed his hands on either side of Faramir's head and lightly kissed his brow.

"May the Valar bless you," he whispered to his brother, "to the day we meet again."

Faramir gasped slightly, grasping Boromir's arms, trying to catch his breath. As Boromir placed his hands on Faramir's shoulders once more, Faramir gazed steadily into his eyes, although his chin trembled. "Rest well, dear brother," he whispered, when he regained the ability to talk, "and know that you will forever be remembered by those who loved you."

"As I will remember them," Boromir replied solemnly. "Pray bear that message to the other members of our Fellowship, Merry and Pippin in particular, and tell them I have never forgotten them."

Faramir nodded. "I will," he promised, blinking at the tears now sparkling on his long eyelashes.

"Good," Boromir said, smiling a little now and taking one side of Faramir's face in his hand in a rough but gentle embrace. "And although I am sure I do not have to say it, be kind to Eowyn - she is a remarkable woman well worthy of your love, and I am quite looking forward to having several nieces and nephews."

A blush crept over Faramir's cheek as his smile widened. "When I return home and my health is restored, I swear to you, she will have no doubt of how dearly I have missed her."

Boromir patted him on the shoulder. "Of that, I am confident," he said, "Now, you should return to your healing if that pledge is to be fulfilled, and I must hasten back to the Spirit Realm. I am sure those Dead soldiers are becoming quite impatient with me down at the pub, and being cursed for two thousand years has given them a somewhat touchy temper."

"I am sure," Faramir remarked with a look of amusement, and they separated, releasing their hold at the same time. A tender pain gripped Faramir's heart as he watched Boromir walk away, out of the shadows of the trees and into the moonlight. No matter the words, it was hard to know that it would be many, many years before he saw his brother again.

But as Boromir turned, looked up and smiled at him, lit by the brilliant beams, his fair hair crowned with silver light, Faramir could plainly see the profound peace in his brother's green eyes, the pure contentment that had never been there before. The heavy bands clutching Faramir's chest eased a little then; he would always miss him, but they were both where they were meant to be. He would understand, as Boromir now did, one day.

A dim haze settled over Faramir's mind, as everything in his dream began to fade from his vision. Only Boromir remained clear, and the tranquil moonlight surrounding his form seemed to be growing brighter. He sighed as a warm, comfortable drowsiness flowed through him, and as Faramir felt himself begin to drift back into sleep, he saw all around him dissolve away, leaving only Boromir in the brilliant pool of white light.

Boromir was smiling at him now, his long hair stirring in an unseen breeze. "Rest now, little brother," he heard him say quietly. "Sleep, and dream of your lady."

Faramir felt himself float off into the peaceful darkness, but not so swiftly that he did not hear the last words his brother spoke before he completely slipped away.

"And don't forget what I told you about kissing her throat, just under the ear! She'll love it!"

For two days, Aragorn and the others rode the path to Minas Tirith, passing the time by watching out for Orcs and trying to figure out how best to explain their unique adventure.

During the first day's ride, Aragorn had kept a close eye on Faramir, who spent the journey in a deep sleep, perched before Eomer on the Rohan King's sturdy mount. He seemed to be gaining strength, and although he was still pale and slightly feverish, there was no longer any fear that he would not survive to fully recover in the Houses of Healing. Still, Aragorn knew he would not completely relax until the Steward opened his eyes once more.

At sunset, they camped near the southern border of Emyn Arnen on the eve before returning home, in a large bare clearing in the foothills of the mountains. Faramir was situated much as before, and as Aragorn knelt beside him to ascertain his health, the King was glad to see the younger man stir slightly, take a deep breath, and open his eyes.

After blinking blearily for a moment, Faramir focused on Aragorn and gave him a drowsy smile. "Good evening, my King," he murmured. "Did the first part of the journey home pass well? I seem to have missed it."

Aragorn grinned as he carefully opened Faramir's shirt and lifted the bandage. "Very well, even better since you are still with us," he replied. After inspecting the wound, he nodded and replaced the cloth. "The cut is healing well; one more dose of athelas, I believe, and the healers in the City will be able to do the rest. How do you feel?"

Faramir rubbed his eyes, then braced himself on his elbows and slowly drew himself into a half-raised position. His eyes were still circled, and the color had not entirely returned to his face, but there was no sweat on his skin, and the groggy aspect had now left his expression altogether.

"Much better, I think," was his answer as he looked around, his voice gaining strength. "I feel as if I have had about enough sleep to last the rest of my life, and I am famished."

The King's smile grew wider at the return of Faramir's appetite. "I fear you have at least one more night of sleep before we return home tomorrow," he said. "As for food, Legolas and Eomer have caught some game, and are preparing it now."

Faramir turned his gaze back to his sovereign, pleased. "After a week of lembas, a good hearty meal of game sounds wonderful," he confessed, sitting up further and shaking out his long red-blond hair. "They are excellent food, but I believe the Elves may be better able to live on it for long stretches than we mortals."

He sat silent for a moment apparently lost in thought, studying the Elves as they set up the camp and prepared the meal some distance away. At length, he drew a deep breath, looked back at Aragorn, and said softly, "I know Boromir has gone."

A flicker of sadness glinted across Aragorn's light eyes. "I wondered if he would somehow make that known to you," he said in a solemn tone.

Faramir nodded and crossed his arms over his knees. "He came to me while I was dreaming," he explained, before a bit of a smile came to his face. "It wasn't the best dream he could have interrupted, but I have no regret that he did so. He has gone back to the Spirit Realm to stay, so it seems we shall see him no more here in the living world."

His King sat on a rock close by and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his legs. "So it would appear," he stated ruefully, "but he must know that his assistance will not be unappreciated or forgotten. I shall make a point of it in my report on this matter myself, and present it to the Council." A grin pulled at his lips. "It should be a very interesting meeting, for a change."

Faramir laughed, although not with his normal vigor. "I will be very curious to see their reaction to our adventures," he remarked. "Great mud flats, days of pouring rain, ghosts, the Elves and the Dead Army turning up - all four of them, I mean - I fear we will have some difficulty convincing them we have not simply camped out here the whole time, drinking wine and concocting the entire story."

Aragorn stood, a confident look on his face. "They will believe us when we retrieve those piles of stolen armor and weapons," he said. "As for Boromir and the Dead - that, they will simply have to take our word for."

He gave Faramir a firm pat on the shoulder and rose, walking over to where the fires were going for the meal.

Faramir yawned and slowly pulled himself from the tangling blankets, happy to be able to move, however cautiously. He felt a great desire to walk about a bit, to stretch his stiff limbs and get his blood moving once more. Casting his eyes about, he was relieved to see his pack deposited nearby, very mudstained and somewhat wilted but still intact. He knelt next to it and pulled back the flap, reaching in with the hopes of finding the small sheaf of parchment, ink and pen he liked to carry on such trips. If they had survived, he wanted to write down as much as he could remember, for the record, and for himself.

As his fingers searched the contents, he felt them strike something small and cold, made of metal, an object he knew he had not packed. Frowning, he closed his hand around the item and withdrew it, wondering if it was something left over from a previous journey. But he was sure the pack had been empty when he had started filling it the week before...

His hand was out now, and he opened it. Resting in his palm was a small, beautiful brooch, cast in the graceful shape of a mallorn leaf and edged with silver. Faramir stared at it, bewildered; he had seen such pins before, clasped at the throats of the Elvish cloaks that Pippin, Aragorn and the other members of the Fellowship had received from the Lady Galadriel in Lothlorien.

And he might have thought this brooch belonged to one of them, and had somehow made its way into his pack, but for the faint greenish glow that danced and shimmered along its shining form.

Faramir smiled to himself, amazed and grateful. Had Boromir been wearing his brooch when they parted in his dream? He had not even noticed, but this could have appeared in his pack at any time. It was a proof of what they had seen, and a promise of what was now hidden, but existed still.

He gripped the token in his hand, bringing it up to his lips for a moment and closing his eyes in a silent farewell before carefully placing it back in his pack. As he resumed his search for the parchment, he could not help glancing at the small brooch glowing at the bottom of the bag, his mind flying back over the amazing adventure just past.

//Do you think that will convince them of all you have seen, brother?//

No doubt the voice of his brother in his ear was merely a vestige of his recent dreaming state, but Faramir grinned privately nonetheless, amused at the mischievous tone in Boromir's words.

"It just might, brother," he whispered to the wind, and whatever else may have been hovering there, "it just might."

"I am most pleased you were able to join me, Arwen. Mending these clothes Faramir and I are donating to the Houses would have been a tedious chore all by myself."

Eowyn's voice floated lightly over the warm evening air as she sat among the flowers of the gardens outside the Houses of Healing, her nimble hands busy with the torn shirt in her lap. Across from her, an intricate needlework in her own slender hands, sat an Elf woman with flowing brown hair and bright eyes, stunning in her beauty despite the plain emerald everyday gown she wore.

"I was quite glad to receive the invitation," was Arwen's pleasant reply, delivered in the melodious tones of her kind as she skillfully plied her needle. "Aragorn and I see so little of you and Faramir any more, and as soon as you both arrive, Aragorn whisks your husband off on another mission. It would be wonderful if our visits were more talking and less going off and killing Orcs."

Eowyn sighed as she held up the shirt in her lap, studying her stitches. "They will be, once the Orcs cooperate," she muttered. "And as concerned as I am for Faramir, I think he was rather looking forward to getting away from administrative duties for a while. I am sure there are times when dealing with Orcs is easier than dealing with some of our more stubborn Council members!"

The Queen laughed and nodded, her eyes sparkling. "I know Aragorn feels the same," Arwen said, the late afternoon sun casting a golden glow on her dark hair. "I believe there are still times when he would far prefer his old life as a Ranger to that of a King, despite the fact that he was born to the role. He may feel more at ease now that he's had a chance to revisit his former adventuring ways."

Eowyn dropped the mended shirt into one basket and fished a long skirt out of another. "If this land they've gone to is as muddy and miserable as I have heard, he may never want to leave Minas Tirith for the wilds again," she remarked, straightening and spreading the garment out before her. "I wonder if Legolas found them?"

Arwen shrugged gracefully, her attention focused on the silk thread in her needle that had just knotted up. "He is an excellent tracker, so I am sure he will find them," she answered, her slim fingers working on the tangle. "On the other hand, he did get lost on the sixth level for an entire afternoon last month, and missed a Council meeting."

The other woman smiled and shook her head. "Yes, and then we found him and Gimli half passed out at the Silver Tankard," she recalled. "Gimli kept saying he found him, but I am wondering if he ever really got lost in the first place, or if they simply didn't want to-"

Her words were interrupted by a series of melodious notes sounding from the silver horns atop the White Tower. At this, both women sat up and stared at each other with wide eyes.

Eowyn gasped. "They're back!"

Abandoning their sewing, the two women hurried to the edge of the low garden wall. From there they could view all the way down to the great courtyard of the City's first level, and out across the Pelennor Fields to the shining Anduin River and the mighty mountains of the Ephel Duath looming over the horizon.

Across the fields now came a large group of riders, most of them unmistakably Elven. Hurriedly the woman and Elf searched the group, silently praying, their hearts pounding with nameless dread should they not find the ones they sought.

"There is Faramir!" cried Arwen, smiling. "He rides next to your brother, if I am not mistaken, and Aragorn is by your brother's side with Legolas behind. They are safe!"

Eowyn exhaled quickly, relief sweeping across her beautiful features. Below them the Great Gate swung open, and even from their distance they heard the sharp clatter of hooves as the many horses trotted onto the stone floor of the courtyard.

"Shall we go down to meet them?" asked Eowyn as she leaned forward to observe Faramir, Aragorn and Eomer enter the square. "I am sure...they..."

Her voice trailed off, a frown forming on her brow, as she saw Aragorn, her brother, and her husband leave the main group of riders and travel through the courtyard below without even pausing, taking the city's main road to the upper levels.

Arwen witnessed the same event, and was bewildered as well. "Perhaps they are going straight to the palace?"

Eowyn seemed less than persuaded. "Without even pausing to rest their horses?"

Behind them in the Houses, a stir seemed to be brewing, and they became aware of several raised voices and the fall of hurried footsteps. Now truly concerned, they gathered their skirts and made their way swiftly to the doorway. Before they could enter, however, they were met by one of the Elven warriors, breathing hard, his brow beaded with sweat.

Arwen stopped, surprised. "Adanoth? What news do you have?"

The Elf bowed low, his long blond hair falling in windswept waves across his shoulders. "My Queen, and my Lady," he said, once he was able to speak, "I bear a message from the King. He begs you and My Lady to wait here, for he, the Prince Faramir and the King Eomer will be arriving as swiftly as their mounts can carry them."

"Arriving...here?" replied Eowyn, not at all liking the sound of that. But they had all seemed fine, from what she could see from their high perch. "Has there been an injury?"

"Make way for the King!"

This shout came from the main courtyard entrance to the Houses, and only Adanoth's admirable skills in getting out of the way prevented him from being trampled as Eowyn and Arwen rushed through the doorway. Quickly they ran across the large empty columned foyer, through the front door of the Houses, and into the main courtyard.

There they found Eomer, Aragorn, and Faramir, all covered with the dust and wear of heavy travel, and Legolas, who looked as impeccable as if he had just been prepared for a royal function. All questions died on the lips of the two women as they beheld the scene before them: Eomer and Aragorn were on the ground, carefully easing a very pale and sweaty Faramir from his horse.

"Faramir!" gasped Eowyn, drawing closer as she realized at once that something was wrong. The Steward, however, merely gave her a wide smile, and as soon as he was standing, he reached out and gathered her into his arms.

"You don't know how good it is to see you," he whispered to her, holding her close.

She took him eagerly into her embrace as well, grateful that she could hold him once again, but her happiness was held in check by the alarm growing in her heart. Faramir was trembling slightly beneath her arms, his skin felt too warm against her cheek, his long hair was dark with sweat, and as strong as his grasp on her was, he was not holding her with his usual vigor.

She tried to look discretely to Aragorn for some answer, but he was occupied greeting his own wife, and Eomer was explaining something very rapidly to three of the House attendants. Their expressions did nothing to alleviate her worry.

Eowyn pursed her lips. "I missed you as well, my love, too much to say," she murmured softly, caressing his damp hair, "but tell me-what is amiss? Have you been wounded?"

They separated, and Eowyn's heart froze at the sight of how pale her husband truly appeared. He took her hands, still smiling, but all she could feel was how cold his own hands were.

"It is nothing, truly," he said in what would have been a reassuring tone were it not so faint. "Let us go inside and we will reveal all."

Eowyn's blue eyes were huge as she studied him. "How can you call it nothing, when you are as white as winter's snow?" she asked. "And-and what is this?"

Her fingers brushed a curious leaf-shaped pin attached to Faramir's shirt. She had seen others like it, worn by Aragorn for one, but this one had an odd green glow to it that seemed to wink at her beneath her touch.

Faramir sighed, his expression growing soft as he held her hands once more. "Come with me, and I shall tell you," he repeated quietly. "It is a fairly remarkable tale, one I might not have believed myself did I not live through it."

Still holding her hand, he led her into the Houses. Eomer stepped beside her; she turned to him, embraced him fondly with her one free arm, but her blue eyes were full of questions as well as relief as she studied her brother's face. He gave her a nod, signifying that all would be answered in time, and put his own arm around her shoulder, gently guiding her into the stately building.

She walked in silence, consumed with curiosity and entertaining the notion that her husband and the others had found more in the mud-soaked regions of the south than just Orcs.

The warm summer air crept softly into the Steward's chambers as yet another evening fell over Minas Tirith. The sun had set some time before, the sky now turning from purple-pink to a deeper shade of blue. Here and there, stars were winking into view in the apex of the heavens, promising a beautiful June night for those desiring to venture out into it.

At this time, however, Faramir was perfectly content to soak in his hot bath and quietly converse with his wife.

It had been just that afternoon that he had finally been released from the Houses of Healing, after spending five days under the watchful care of Aragorn and the healers. It had taken some time and skill to discover the best way to counter the lingering effects of the poison; the athelas had lessened the fever and weakness, but the taint of the Orc's blade had remained. At length, the best course of treatment had been determined, and after the ingesting of much medicine and a great deal of sound sleep, it was at last declared that Faramir could return to his chambers and his wife to complete his recovery.

He sighed to himself, sliding down a little into the ornate copper bathtub, the steam rising around him. It felt terribly good to be in their own rooms once more, with Eowyn by his side, no longer merely a wishful dream. He still felt sore and somewhat weak, and he knew he remained a bit pale and that the dark circles under his eyes would take more rest and several hearty meals to fade entirely. Yet none of that mattered tonight. They had accomplished their task and come back safely, and now he was home, with the woman he loved, and in possession of some truly extraordinary memories.

While he soaked, Eowyn sat behind him on a stool at the head of the tub, clad in a plain dress, her hair loosely done up and now falling in tendrils around her face from the humidity of the bathing chamber. Her face was wreathed in an expression of concentration as she worked to massage some of the tenseness from Faramir's shoulders. Upon a small table at her elbow sat a few vials of oil and a cloth, and she alternated between pouring some of the scented oil into her palms and carefully kneading it into Faramir's skin.

"Try not to slide too far down," she advised with a smile. "I have barely made any progress at all just yet. It must have been an arduous adventure indeed, to knot you up so much."

He sat up a bit straighter. "My apologies," he offered. "If it means remaining beneath your talented touch, I promise I shall move not another inch." He relaxed against the back of the tub, draping his arms along the sides and closing his eyes. "They've taught you this art well at the Houses, it feels wonderful!"

"Hmm," she murmured, sliding her slickened hands back and forth between his neck and shoulders, gently but firmly pressing her fingers into his flesh. "I had hoped you would find it soothing. When Eomer told me what happened during your journey, I decided you had at least earned a nice soothing bath."

Faramir sighed. "Perhaps it will give me the strength to remember everything that happened so I can arrange it in proper order for the Council. They will find it all somewhat fantastic, I'm sure."

Eowyn was concentrating on the muscles at the base of Faramir's neck, working around his long damp curls. "Well, I did as you asked, and had Eomer write down all he could," she said, before sitting back and pouring more of the scented oil into her palms. "Between his notes, and Aragorn's report, I am certain they'll find it satisfactory, if most unusual."

"Yes," Faramir murmured as she resumed massaging his neck. He had leaned forward a little to make her task easier, his eyes open now. As he sat, his eyes fell on his dressing table in the adjoining bedchamber, and on the small leaf-shaped pin that lay there, quietly glowing in the gentle gloom.

"It all still seems like a dream," he said softly, not moving, his eyes fixed on the brooch. "Had I ever imagined I would meet Boromir again, I would have thought myself mad."

Eowyn had slowed her kneading motion as the massage drew to its close. "I do wish he might have come here, just for a time, " she said with a sigh. "I would have liked to have spoken to him, and it would have done his heart such good to see his city at peace and thriving once more."

Her right hand had been sliding along Faramir's shoulder; now Faramir reached up and gently grasped it, holding it as his expression softened, his gaze still on the ghostly pin. "I believe somehow he has seen it," he said in a hushed tone, as Eowyn slid her hand more firmly into his, her other hand caressing his shoulder. "And as dearly as he wanted to come home, and greet you as my wife, he knew it was best that he return to the realm of the Dead."

Faramir fell silent, his expression somber. After a moment, Eowyn leaned forward, wrapping her free arm around her husband's bare chest and holding him close.

"I am sorry, my love," she whispered. "You have had to bear losing him twice."

He said nothing for a moment, then slowly shook his head.

"I cannot call it a loss, now, precisely," he said quietly in reply. "We are parted, 'tis true, but if you could have seen him as I did, before he left me..." His voice faded, and he sighed. "Through all of our adult lives, I cannot recall ever seeing my brother truly at peace. There was far too much for him to bear, between the war, and Mordor, and Father. There were happy times, but he always carried those dark burdens at the back of his mind."

He nestled his head against the hollow of her neck. "But I have seen that he knows peace now, such that we can scarcely imagine. It will always pain me to be apart from him, but it is a gentle pain, for I know that he dwells in the everlasting light of Iluvatar. And it is not forever."

Faramir thought for a few moments more, then looked up at her and smiled a little, squeezing her hand.

She returned the expression. "That is a comforting thought indeed, my love," said Eowyn. "And I am grateful beyond words that you were both allowed to meet again, however briefly. Among other things, I will be most interested to see if what he told Eomer will soon be true."

Faramir gave her hand one more squeeze before releasing it and sitting up in the tub, at the same moment that his wife straightened and unwrapped her arms from around his chest. "About the baby?" he inquired, shifting his weight in the hot water with a small amount of splashing. "Well, Eomer should be back in Edoras by now, so if there is news, we will hear of it shortly. But Boromir was not specific; there is no telling when the child may arrive." He yawned. "We shall simply have to be patient and see."

Eowyn studied his drooping eyelids and smiled, reaching behind her for a white towel that lay nearby. "I believe it is time to end your bath for tonight," she observed, turning to him with towel in hand. "Your brother may not have worried about being precise, but the instructions the healers gave us were very detailed indeed."

Her husband groaned slightly, rubbed his face with his wet hands, then relented, allowing her to help him as he slowly climbed out of the hot water.

"This has certainly been a most extraordinary few weeks," mused Faramir as he carefully dried himself, with Eowyn's assistance. "Council meetings and paperwork are going to seem very dull after all this."

Eowyn sighed as she handed him his underclothes and long white linen nightshirt. "Alas, we should cherish it while it lasts," she said. "I am sure the Orcs have not finished giving us trouble."

"That is too much the truth, my wife," replied Faramir in agreement as she helped drape the long nightshirt over his body. Once the garment had been smoothed into place, Faramir shook out his long damp hair, then put his arm around Eowyn and drew her close as they slowly walked to the bedchamber.

"Rest assured that I do intend to cherish it, every boring, tedious, peaceful moment," he continued as they moved along. "Tonight, I want for nothing. We have all returned safe to our homes; the Orcs are defeated and our goods reclaimed; my health is returning, thanks to you and our King; I am warm and, thank the Valar, dry; and I may anticipate a good restful night in our own bed, with you beside me."

They had reached the threshold of their bedchamber. Here, Faramir stepped away and took Eowyn's hands in his own, peering earnestly into her blue eyes.

"And," he continued with some firmness, "if any messenger from the King dares knock on our door, I have resolved *not* to answer it!"

Eowyn laughed a little. "I'm sure Aragorn would understand," she said, and kissed him. "Now get to your rest, before one of the healers comes by and scolds me for keeping you awake."

A small huff of a sigh escaped Faramir's lips as he climbed into the large, soft bed. "You'd think from their talk that I did not just spend practically a whole week abed," he muttered, settling himself beneath the feather-stuffed comforter.

"This won't be for long," Eowyn assured him as she kissed his brow. "Tomorrow you will be buried beneath the business of the realm once more, and wondering where the time for rest went. I'm going to help clear away the bath, and then I will be in."

His lip twitched. "I'll probably still be awake," he remarked. "I have slept so much the past few days, I am not sure how I will fare tonight, even with the bath and your wonderful massage."

She straightened, put out the lamp on the table by the bed, and smiled. "Just close your eyes," she suggested. "It may not be as difficult as you imagine. I'll be back soon."

Faramir watched her silhouette move through the lit doorway leading into the bath chamber, then vanish as she pulled the door closed. With a sigh, he obeyed her and closed his eyes, hoping that he could still rest properly even after so many days when he had done little else.

In the next moment, it seemed, he opened his eyes to a room that was much darker. The night sky outside was speckled with many stars, signifying that some time had passed, and he realized that Eowyn was lying beside him, her head reclining on his shoulder, one arm wrapped loosely across his chest in an almost protective pose.

He blinked and stirred, not wanting to wake her but surprised at how quickly and soundly he had dropped off.

"I am sorry," he heard his wife whisper, and turning his head he could see her regarding him, her eyes glittering in the gloom. "I tried not to wake you."

He shook his head and eased his arms around her. "It is no matter," he assured her. "I can hardly complain if it means I may see you upon awakening, and may go back to sleep with you in my arms." He gave her a soft kiss on her forehead. "I have missed you, my Lady."

"And I, you," she answered, kissing him back. "But I am sure you have guessed that already."

He smiled at her. "The possibility had crossed my mind."

"Good," she said, returning his smile and resting her head once more upon his chest. Silence fell in the room, and soon Faramir realized that his wife had drifted off.

Faramir held her in his arms as he began to slowly slip back into slumber. Soon he would resume his duties, and there would be more paperwork and Council meetings, and at some point there would likely be another threat to the safety of Gondor, and he would have to pick up the sword once more and leave Eowyn's side to secure their home, not knowing if he would return to her at the end.

But tonight...tonight, he was with her, and his heart swelled with gratitude that no matter what else, this had been given to them. He drank in the peace of the moment, willing its memory to his heart, to carry him through whatever lay ahead.

As he was thinking this, Eowyn stirred in his embrace, tossing slightly n her sleep. When she came back to rest, her face was to the sky, her golden hair falling away from her fair throat.

Faramir studied his sleeping wife for several long moments, marveling at her beauty and how he had been blessed with her. Them very carefully bending his head down a little so as not to wake her, he kissed Eowyn very gently, just below her ear on the soft skin of her neck.

As he had hoped, she did not come to awareness, but in the dim moonlight he did see her smile in her sleep.

Smiling himself, and saying a silent word of thanks to his brother in his heart, Faramir held Eowyn closely, resolving to practice that kiss upon her when she was awake at the next possible opportunity.

With this pleasant thought in mind, Faramir fell into a sound slumber, to dreams full of love, peace, happiness, and not one single speck of mud.

THE END