Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 21: THE BRIDGE

June 19, 3018 of the Third Age

The campaign into Ithilien had been far more successful than anyone had expected. They’d been able to push the enemy back to the crossroads where, in the near distance, they could see Minas Morgul. Things had gone badly since then, however. It was not that they’d been losing men, but the Steward had suddenly become unreasonable. Instead of allowing them to withdraw their forces back across the river as originally planned, he insisted they hold the ground they’d won.

Boromir was nearly beside himself with rage. Their offensive had taken much longer than expected and all of his men were facing exhaustion. He’d hoped to be able to have a midsummer celebration in Minas Tirith after retiring with most of his armies intact. As it was, it would take some serious political maneuvering to cover his disobedience of the ridiculous orders from the Steward. All but a carefully picked screening force had been sent to key positions along the river on the pretense of chasing enemy forces.

In the morning he would personally go to Minas Tirith to convince his father of reason, leaving his brother to bring their men back across the river. It would have to be carefully coordinated for them to get out of this without serious losses. Without Galmar to aid him, Denethor had become even more erratic and unreliable. Boromir almost regretted the loss of Saruman’s minion, and feared that soon he would have to remove his father from his position as Steward.

“Come, brother,” Faramir told him. “We have to rise early and you haven’t had nearly enough sleep lately.”

“I’m quite sure that you have been sleeping even less than I, beloved one,” Boromir said as he allowed Faramir to help remove his armor. “If we don’t make it out of this trap alive I’ll haunt him forever. It’s so nice to watch father snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You have to admit though, brother, that there is something just a bit exciting about being so close to the enemy’s stronghold,” Faramir said as he pushed the last of Boromir’s clothing from him, leaving it in an untidy heap for Nelis and Belgar to take care of. “Since you are planning on abandoning me tomorrow, I intend to feel all of you tonight.”

Neither of them had been fully naked for some weeks now, feeling the need to be ready at all times to go into battle. There had been several occasions where their caution had paid off, but tonight they wanted to be in full contact with each other.

There was just a large pallet on the ground instead of their usual camp bed. This close to Minas Morgul, it didn’t make sense to get too comfortable. Boromir grunted as he landed on his back with Faramir on top of him. His brother was nearly out of control as he locked their lips together in a savage kiss.

“Easy, little brother,” Boromir whispered to him as he rolled them over so that he pinned Faramir to the ground. “You are always in such a hurry.”

“I want to feel you inside me before orcs start pouring out of yonder tower,” he said, kissing and nipping at Boromir’s neck. “Our luck has been far too good for me to leave anything to chance.”

With Faramir’s legs wrapped tightly around him, Boromir couldn’t help but fulfill his request. The danger of their situation predominated everything and he had no desire to leave this task unfinished. Their movements together were urgent, almost desperate. All too soon, they reached their climax and spent a few precious moments holding each other close.

Grudgingly, Faramir released Boromir as he sat up. “You’re so messy, little brother,” Boromir said running his hand through the semen on Faramir’s chest. “It’s a good thing Nelis and Belgar are here to clean up after you.” He couldn’t resist tasting his fingers before running his hand through the sticky mess again and putting his fingers to his brother’s lips. “As soon as all the campfires are lit and it is dark enough to hide your movements, I want you to withdraw to Osgiliath tomorrow. I will have father’s approval by then, you might even receive the orders before then. Don’t hesitate to retreat if the orcs start coming out of Minas Morgul. It is more important to have an intact army than to hold any of this land.”

“I will do as you say, brother,” Faramir answered as his servants helped them to clean up before dressing again. “We will have to do something to keep this from happening in the future. At the rate this is going, father will need a keeper soon.”

“If we could get him to stop using that stupid stone, he might be able to think again. Not that that will happen any time soon.” Boromir shook his head in disgust at what they faced in dealing with their father. He knew that Saruman was using the palantir to poison Denethor’s mind, just as he was using Wormtongue to poison Théoden in Rohan. And there was little they could do about it, short of deposing the two men.

The dream was vivid, almost as if he were awake. Great clouds of black smoke rolled across the Pelennor and up the ramparts of the Rammas Echor. The stench of burning flesh and worse thickened the air, making it almost impossible to breathe. The screams of terror and hopelessness filled his ears. He stood alone watching the darkness swallow his world.

As the darkness seemed to envelope everything, he saw a flare of bright light came out of the west accompanied by the familiar voice.

“Seek for the Sword that was broken: In Imladris it dwells; There shall be counsels taken Stronger than Morgul-spells. There shall be shown a token That Doom is near at hand, For Isildur’s Bane shall waken, And the Halfling forth shall stand.”

It was the first time the words were clear to him and he wept as he watched Boromir riding away into the light.

He woke in his brother’s arms, feeling the strong calloused hands caressing him. Words of comfort were whispered in his ear as he became aware of the tears coursing his cheeks. It seemed impossible to stop the sobs wracking his body, for he knew that the time of waiting had passed.

“Come, little brother,” Boromir called softly, pressing kisses to his eyes and brow. “Wake from your dreams.”

“It is time, Boromir,” he cried out, unable to stop himself. “I don’t want you to go.” He buried his face into his brother’s shoulder, weeping as if his heart were broken.

“Hush now, Faramir, my beloved one,” Boromir soothed. “It will be all right, I will make sure of it.”

Finally, he was able to calm himself and sit up next to his patient brother. “There will be no more sleep for me this night, brother,” Faramir croaked as he gestured for Belgar and Nelis to light the lamps. “I heard the words this time,” he whispered, leaning into Boromir’s arms. “I think it is a riddle of some sort.” He repeated what he had heard carefully, making sure that he got every word right.

“At least it’s metered well enough to be remembered easily,” Boromir remarked, brushing stray hairs from his brother’s face. “As for when I have to leave, I think that is yet to be seen.”

Rising to his feet, Faramir walked over to the tent entrance and pulled back a flap to look out into the night. It was still an hour before dawn so he knew that the light spilling across the sky wasn’t from the sun. It was the red glow from Mount Doom that lit up the sky over the Mountains of Shadow, giving the sultry summer night a sinister feeling. As Boromir came up beside him, they both looked to Minas Morgul where it was seemingly encased in a black cloud. All its windows were dark, even though they knew that it was fully inhabited by the forces of Mordor.

Standing there, leaning on each other for comfort, they saw the great gate at the base of the tower open and orcs begin spilling down the long road. “Awake the camp!” Boromir cried out before turning back into the tent to don his armor. It took only moments for the tent to be filled with commanders and couriers ready to act immediately on their Captain- General’s orders.

They had planned for this eventuality ever since they’d come within sight of the crossroads. There were wagons full of caltrops waiting to be strewn along their back trail. Within minutes, the majority of the remaining infantry would be double-timing back to Osgiliath, only specialists would be detouring along side trails to set previously prepared traps and pitfalls. The cavalry was mounting up, awaiting the orders that would be dictated by the sharp-eyed scouts who were watching the enemy forces exiting the dark tower.

Faramir stood at the forward edge of the camp, estimating the number and type of troops advancing on their position. Their current and possible maximum speed was also part of his observations. After a few minutes, he consulted with some of the other watchers and then went to join his brother. Couriers had already been sent to order the Gondorian forces to the western bank of the Anduin and to have the engineers begin the destruction of the last bridge at Osgiliath. Still, there was a sizable group within the tent.

They were grim-faced men, the best of their commanders, in charge of the best of their forces. As Faramir entered, they looked up from the maps on the table before them, waiting expectantly for his input. Despite the lack of confidence the Steward still showed in his youngest son, these men knew his worth.

“They have mixed forces of goblins and orcs controlled by uruks,” Faramir said as he entered. “At their present pace they will overrun this position in about an hour. I’ve never seen them move so fast. It’s as if their master is at their heels. There are also Easterlings and Haradrim moving in full companies. So far they have no cavalry, but I expect they will send mumakil with this advance some time around dawn. The animals don’t see well in the dark, so that will be the optimum time to field them.”

“I’m sure you’re right, brother,” Boromir said after listening patiently to his report. “They are doing just what we thought they would. We will go with our first plan. I’ll withdraw to the bridge with the main cavalry where we will reinforce the defenses until the bridge is ready to be dropped and all of our people are across. Faramir will be in charge of the screening forces. All of you know what to do, I expect we will be on the eastern bank by midday.”

As soon as the meeting broke up, the maps and table were taken out of the tent to be packed onto the waiting drays. Everything but the tent itself was already gone and that, too, would be dropped and loaded as soon as it was empty. All of the officers and aides went swiftly to their prearranged duties while the two brothers spent a last few moments together.

“Don’t be late to the bridge, little brother,” Boromir said in a voice husked by stress, his forehead pressed to Faramir’s. “I’ll worry every minute we are apart.”

“I’ll give you all of the time I can, brother,” Faramir told him, firmly gripping his shoulders. “We have been preparing for this for a long time, I know what to do.”

“Don’t take any unnecessary chances, my beloved one,” Boromir claimed his lips for a desperate kiss after he spoke. “Come to me as soon as you are able,” he said in a low voice, breaking away to join his waiting contingent before his heart failed and he couldn’t leave his brother’s side.

Leaving the tent and joining with the Ithilien rangers who would make up the bulk of his screening force, Faramir didn’t even notice the tent falling to the ground. Belgar and Nelis were at his heels, prepared to follow their master wherever he went, even into death. They all knew that it would be a long hard day as they were pushed back the twenty-mile stretch between the crossroads and Osgiliath.

Unknown to most there was a narrow tunnel, which went from the root of the great bastion that overlooked the Great Gate to near the stables within the seventh wall. It was well guarded with armed men and secret pitfalls so that the city’s enemies would not be able to use it, but a courier with urgent news for the White Tower could cut the usual time to reach the city’s ruler by more than seventy percent. Still, the servants of the Steward’s sons had established a method of passing information that halved that time. As soon as the courier was within sight of the gate, there were those who waited and, seeing the color of the clothing and tack of the rider, sent their own message to the Tower of Ecthelion.

The old man would have been long retired in previous years, but with the constant drain on manpower from the war he continued to serve the ‘family’. As he carried the tray of goblets to the main table in the great hall, he stumbled on the slightly uneven flagstones of the ancient floor. A ring on one of his flailing hands caught against Denethor’s robes and, unbeknownst to him, barely cut the flesh of his upper arm.

Jumping to his feet, the enraged Steward slapped the clumsy servant, knocking him to the floor. He was so busy brushing uselessly at the liquid spilled on his clothing that he didn’t notice the almost imperceptible smile on the old man’s face. Striding angrily from the hall, Denethor went to change his robes. By the time he reached his rooms, he began feeling overly tired and since he hadn’t been sleeping well after Boromir’s departure to Ithilien, he decided it was simple fatigue.

They were making such good progress now and it looked to him that they had gained territory that had been lost for many years. He was able to disregard Boromir’s pessimism and keep his hold on land that rightfully belonged to Gondor. It couldn’t hurt anything if, for once, he took the day off to catch up on his sleep. It was well known that he missed his oldest son dreadfully and that he had been less than hopeful about this campaign.

So it was that when the courier reached the great hall, the Steward was not available to receive his message. The courtiers in attendance knew that he trusted his heir implicitly and only sent a message confirming Boromir’s decisions. The new messenger that was to bring the confirmation to the Captain-General was also one of the elite members of the ‘family’ who had other news that would let the ruler, in all but name, know that his plans were safe for the rest of the day.

By mid-day, Faramir realized that they were not going to slow the advancing troops very much more than they already had and there was some sort of trouble with the bridge. Despite the effectiveness of their efforts in killing and incapacitating the enemy forces, they still pressed forward as if driven. It was the most bloody and gruesome slaughter he’d ever seen. Already he was more than halfway to the bridge and could hear the sounds of the engineers working at its supports.

As he reached a cache of arrows, he felt a strange sickening in his stomach and it seemed as if the air grew darker, even though there were no clouds in the sky. Standing on the branch of the tree where the cache had been hidden, he looked down his back trail to see what was coming. He could barely make out the tower of Minas Morgul and, at its base, what appeared to be a dark cloud was moving slowly in his direction. There was no way to tell what it was from this distance, but its exit from the tower had incited the attacking forces to new levels of frenzy. It was clear that he and his men were in serious danger of being overrun.

Signaling his men to fall back, he began making his way to the ground so that he could find one of the couriers waiting to take messages to his brother. There were many horrors that the dark lord had at his command that could cause similar effects to what he was seeing, but he was fairly sure of what they would soon be facing. If he proved to be correct in his surmise, their only hope was to destroy the bridge before the enemy reached it. And they could only hope that the Anduin would be deep and wide enough to keep them safe for a while.

It took nearly four hours for Faramir’s rangers to be pushed back to the outskirts of the city of Osgiliath. The Gondorian engineers had been using the rubble from the ruins to make several rings of defensive fortifications since they’d retaken the eastern bank in early spring. When they first arrived, they fell back almost to the bridge to rest while heavily armed and well prepared foot troops took on the advancing horde.

“I thought you would have the bridge down by now, brother,” Faramir said as Boromir embraced him.

“It seems that some fool thought it needed reinforcing and now we are having trouble removing the braces,” Boromir said angrily, carefully examining his brother for injuries. “How many did you lose?” he asked.

“More than three hundred and fifty, including Nelis,” Faramir told him dry-eyed, as he knew casualties would start to rise drastically as the day went on. If they couldn’t get the bridge down, it would get very bad for anyone in the eastern portion of the city. “I have a very bad feeling about what is following behind them,” Faramir added, sitting at a table and forcing himself to eat a bit before he headed back into the fray. “How much longer before they finish at the bridge?”

“At least two more hours, little brother,” Boromir said as he cleaned and dressed Faramir’s wounds. “The last of the added braces should be off soon and then it should go by the numbers. Some of the farmers from the Pelennor are helping while their families are evacuating. The Pelennor should be empty of non-combatants before sundown. As many as possible are heading directly west into Lossarnach and western Anorien. Since there is no palisade to defend it, I’ve ordered the town at Amon Din evacuated as well. I expect father will be here around sunset, it seems he fell into a deep sleep before the courier got there and no one dared wake him.”

They grew quiet for a few moments while Boromir finished his ministrations. Neither brother wanted to talk about why their father had felt the sudden urge to take a nap, though both were grateful that they hadn’t had to deal with him. He would be angry and suspicious when he woke, but the seriousness of their situation would keep that on a back burner until they had time to deal with him.

“Let’s go see how our men are doing, brother,” Boromir said as he finished up on Faramir’s injuries. They knew they would both have many more before their day was over.

At the outer wall, they were surprised by the crazed behavior of their attackers. Already the mounds of dead bodies were halfway up the walls in several places where orcs and goblins sought to climb over their dead companions to reach the defenders. The ravening horde of monsters and men was unheeding of the massive loss of life, surging and pressing at the wall as if it was all that mattered.

In the distance they could see the slow approach of the black cloud, which caused a knot of dread to form in their stomachs. Here at the wall, where they were holding their position, the feelings of disorientation and fear were more noticeable.

“What comes, brother?” Boromir asked as he pushed the terror of the creature to the back of his mind. “How can we fight this monster?”

“It travels slow even though I sense great power from it, so I’m sure the sunlight gives it grief,” Faramir answered, trying to see through the distance. “I think it might be one of the Nazgûls come to lead the dark lord’s forces. Maybe even the Witch King himself since he commands such a great force. The only thing we have that can stop him is the river, and only if the bridge is destroyed.”

“You go help the engineers, little brother,” Boromir said, nodding his head as if listening to an inner voice. “I will hold each wall as long as I can. I have my shield and by the grace of Tulkas, we may still win the day.”

“As you order, brother,” Faramir answered with a salute. “They will not cross the bridge if I’m still alive.”

Besides the unauthorized reinforcements to the long wooden bridge, there were also booby traps that severed fingers and sometimes claimed the lives of the engineers working to bring it down. Faramir had spent the last four hours waist deep in the water as he used his own skills and encouragement to aid in their desperate efforts. The commander in charge of protecting the bridge was somewhere in eastern Osgiliath fighting the advancing enemy. If that man survived the battle, Faramir would make sure that he faced charges of incompetence, if not treason.

Finally the great timbers that supported the main span were creaking with strain and starting to give a little to the strong current of the Anduin. Behind him, Faramir heard his brother sound the great horn of Gondor, calling all available to aid him as he tried to hold the last barricade before the bridge. Climbing back out of the water, Faramir drew his sword and knife as he ran to fight at his brother’s side.

Boromir was highlighted by the flames of the burning oil they had poured into the gap between the last two walls. The orc and uruk forces were still attacking the wall and its defenders even though they frequently burst into flames for their efforts. The Nazgûl that had been slowly progressing down the road had finally reached the first of the barricades. It was a dark figure cloaked in black and riding a strange black horse with red eyes and, by now, both brothers knew it was one of the dark lord’s most dangerous minions.

The sun was setting and the fell creature was finally able to move a little more swiftly in the evening twilight. Still, the obstacles of the walls, even though they’d been already overrun, and the piled corpses slowed it considerably in its advance. The frenzy its approach inspired in its own forces and the fear it caused in the defenders was heightened by its nearness. However, as Boromir sounded the horn again it seemed to have the opposite effect on all present.

As Faramir reached his brother’s side, he heard the sound of the bridge finally giving way to the efforts of the engineers. The main span collapsed into the river, drawing a cry of rage from the Nazgûl as it spurred its mount to greater speed. There was no longer any reason to defend this space, so Faramir grabbed his brother by his heavy sword belt and began dragging him backwards towards the river. At first Boromir struggled, then looking around to reassess the situation, he again raised the horn to his lips and sounded the retreat.

They plunged into the river together, Faramir using his knife to cut the straps holding Boromir’s plate armor in place. By the time they had dropped all of the extra weight and reached the surface of the river they were a distance downstream from the bridge. They set out quickly towards the western shore, doing their best to avoid the wreckage and bodies floating in the water.

When he had woken, it had taken several minutes for him to become fully aware of what was going on. Though he was well over eighty years old, he was of full High Númenorean blood and could easily expect to live at least twice as many years. There was nothing wrong with his hearing and every word that was being whispered outside his bedroom door was as clear as if yelled into his ear. The enemy had reached Osgiliath and was threatening the west bank of the river.

Rising swiftly, he called for his latest body servant to come help him don his armor. He kept his anger back to be released on the enemy. If they weren’t enough to slake his ire, then his sons would serve for allowing themselves to be pushed back by the dark lord’s minions. There was also the question of what had caused his sudden desire to sleep the day away.

As he strode through the halls, the latest reports were related to him by out-of-breath counselors. All of the military advisors were at the river. Mounting his horse, he spurred it to a run, causing people to scatter all the way to the Great Gate. The sun was setting behind him as he rode hard toward the ruined city, wanting to beat the darkness so that he could see with his own eyes what was happening.

His progress was slowed at the city by the hastily erected barricades that had to be pushed out of his way. He had just reached the final barricade when the deafening sound of the collapsing bridge reached his ears and he saw it falling gracelessly into the water. Across the span of river he watched as, in the final rays of the setting sun, his youngest son dragged his fully armored heir toward the mess of swirling wreckage and dead bodies that was now the Anduin.

The outrage nearly overpowered him until the shrill heart-stopping scream echoed across the river. At the last minute, he kept himself from fully looking into the eyes of the abomination on the other bank. Suddenly he knew who and what his sons had been fighting with such desperation to stop. It took all of his iron self-control to turn back to the men watching in horror at what they had barely avoided so far.

Snapping quick orders for the defense of the river bank, praying that the expanse of swiftly running water would be enough to halt the Witch King, he made his way back through the city. Heading for the fords downstream, he added another prayer that his sons had survived their plunge into the Anduin. As the first of the rafts ignited and floated downstream towards his destination, Denethor vowed silently to himself to never listen to the White Wizard again. He fully realized that, if it weren’t for his son’s actions and planning, they could very well have lost far more than a bridge this day.

It still wasn’t sure that they could hold the west bank.

There were welcoming hands to help them climb the steep-sided bank as they reached it. Boromir was barely finished coughing and spitting up the river water he’d swallowed before bellowing orders to those present. Faramir followed silently behind him, gazing up and down their defenses, carefully avoiding taking in the number of dead that floated in the water. There would be time to count their losses once they’d stopped the enemy’s advance.

They were still north of the ford so they headed south, both brothers issuing orders to the captains who’d gathered at the sound of Boromir’s voice. Though they had been sure that the bridge would fall eventually, neither of them had foreseen this scenario. They were well prepared, though, and already the fords were lit up with the first of the small barges that were burning merrily near the center of the river. Arming themselves with weapons confiscated from those nearby, they headed to where the continuing battle was thickest.

Boromir’s hands clenched almost convulsively at the borrowed sword and shield he held as he yelled out orders to the troops both in the water and at the river’s edge. Everything in his blood demanded that he wade out into the almost shallow ford and engage the enemy himself, but duty held him to his position of directing the battle. The sound of cavalry reached his ears and he cursed quietly at who would be foolish enough to bring horses into this situation. He realized that it was the Steward, accompanied by his personal guard, just as the night was pierced by another scream from the black clad leader of the dark lord’s forces.

The river was wide and shallow here and very much threatened by the attacking army. Though the Nazgûl avoided running water if possible, it could cross here if it wasn’t well defended. Both Denethor and his heir watched in enraged horror as the creature urged its minions into the river, thankful that it was too far away for its red gaze to cast any spells on the defenders.

Then Faramir stepped forward towards the river bank, a flaming arrow notched to his borrowed bow and let fly at the opposite shore. The projectile arched up into the nearly dark sky, swiftly followed by others. To almost everyone’s surprise, the first bolt fell next to the Witch King, its strong fuel setting the orc it hit on fire. The Nazgûl was somewhat vulnerable to fire, so it backed its horse further from the bank, screaming in rage and urging its minions to greater frenzy.

Stepping into the water a few feet, Faramir shot another arrow, which sped to land burning in the ground directly beneath the Nazgûl. With another scream of rage, it backed even further and they could hear its hisses as it hurled curses at the Steward’s youngest son. Undaunted, Faramir started firing his flaming arrows in quick succession, nearly surrounding the Witch King with flames.

There was no choice but for the Nazgûl to retire from the field. Every time it backed away, Faramir stepped a little further into the river and fired again. The water was only waist deep nearly to midstream and he had two men moving with him, one with the naphtha soaked arrows and the other with a fire pot. This, along with his spectacular bowmanship, made the forefront of the battle too dangerous for the Witch King.

As the sun rose over Ephel Duarth on that Midsummer Day, the battle was winding down into its final phases. After a few words with his heir, Denethor had left to double check on the other forces along the river. Boromir had carefully guided his men through the night, frequently replacing the troops on the front lines with the rested reserves. Faramir had control of the archers and kept not only the Nazgûl away from the shoreline, but directed his men to kill the uruks and Haradrim leaders.

The Steward and his sons rode back to Minas Tirith, their banners held high. The people of the city cheered them as they passed. The great hall was cleared of all but the most trusted of their councilors as they gathered around the high table to go over the reports and add up the number of the dead and injured. The mood was dark and grim as even here there were noticeable absences. For the first time in four years, neither of Faramir’s bondservants were at his side.

Of the four hundred Ithilien Rangers that had held the enemy back through the previous day, less than fifty had made it to eastern Osgiliath. Hundreds more had defended the city to the bridge and only four men had reached the western bank. These included Boromir, Faramir, Belgar who was injured so badly he would never walk again even if he survived, and a young soldier who had only recently been cleared to fight. The losses through the night were not as clear. As each commander gave his report and the tally of those lost, the Steward’s face became more and more grim.

The final count was nearly five thousand men dead and over twice that in serious injuries. It was nearly a third of the army that had marched across Ithilien. There were scattered weeping and cursing among those gathered as the full impact of their losses hit them. The Steward turned deathly pale while the two brothers exchanged expressionless gazes.

After allowing a few minutes for those present to adjust to the information, Boromir rose to his feet and began to issue orders. His confident command of the situation did much to help assuage the fear and disappointment. As the room cleared with everyone going to complete their assigned task, Boromir pulled a chair over so that he could sit between his father and brother. He waited patiently for the last of them to leave and took the offered goblet of wine from Stefle before continuing.

“Someone sabotaged the bridge, father,” he said quietly, leaning back in his chair. “They reinforced all the supports and set traps to stop anyone from removing them. We almost didn’t get the bridge down in time. If we didn’t have the river as a buffer, there is no way we could have driven back the Witch King of Angmar. I have no doubt that he is the one that was commanding the enemy.”

Denethor paled even more at his words, remembering approving minor repairs to the bridge. He hadn’t even considered the implications and the fact that he was interfering with the defense of Gondor. The traps meant that whoever had done the work and, possibly those who had requested it, were in league with the enemy.

“If you can help us find any work orders for the bridge and anyone associated with it, we will be able to get to the bottom of this sooner,” Boromir continued, ignoring his father’s reaction. “Since we haven’t slept in nearly two days Faramir and I will retire until tomorrow, if it is all right with you?”

“Yes, of course,” Denethor agreed, glad that his son wasn’t going to break into a tirade about his mistake. There was nothing he could do to change what he had done, but he would do whatever it took to make it up to his son and his people. Watching Boromir lead Faramir from the great hall, he knew that he was going to have to make some serious changes in the near future.

The smile on Boromir’s face was absolutely wicked as he and Faramir were cleaned and then had their wounds dressed. Stefle was finishing the final accounting of who had died and, while the list was long, it was not nearly as long as had been expected. Their projections had been for them to lose at least twice that number. If they had brought the bridge down earlier in the previous day, the sheer numbers the Witch King had would have clogged the ford and allowed him to pass over the river.

As it was, they were sure they had destroyed over half of his army throughout the day and another quarter of it through the night. It would be months before Mordor would be able to build up enough man and monster power to threaten the west bank of the Anduin again. The scheming and interfering of Saruman had worked to their advantage for the battle, placing everyone exactly where they would do the most good to overcome the enemy.

More importantly, Denethor now knew that the White Wizard might not be on his side. If Boromir said the right words, he might be able to convince his father to put aside the use of the palantir as well, at least for a while. Despite the loss of so many of their own, they were now in a much better position than they’d been in before they began the campaign. For the first time in over a year, it looked like they might be able to hold Gondor together until the prophecy of the king was fulfilled.

His smile faded as he remembered Faramir’s dream the night before the attack. It looked like it was now time for him to take his place in that prophecy. He gathered Faramir close as they lay on their bed, each of them too tired, for the first time in memory, to do more than cuddle close to each other. Kissing his brow he whispered into Faramir’s ear, “sleep, little brother.” Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with his father and any dreams that wanted to change their lives.

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