The reinforcements and extra supplies had only just arrived, and Boromir and a few other young soldiers had been ordered to begin unloading the wagons. Boromir grabbed a crate of medical supplies and handed it to the soldier beside him. He didn’t notice the rest of the soldiers head off to set up camp. If he had, he might’ve noticed the short, raven colored hair soldier stalking off to find a place to sleep that night away from the rest of the troops.

   Faramir had begun to panic when he first saw his brother laughing and joking with a few other young men. He thought for sure he would recognize him. When he didn’t though, Faramir was filled with a mixture of joy and disappointment.

   He was glad his brother hadn’t caught him, but at the same time he had kind of wished his brother had noticed him. That way his brother would know he had enough courage to sneak out of Minas Tirith and come to war. His brother would be proud of him then.

   Faramir found a spot closer to the woods, but not too far away from the rest of the troops. He settled down and began pulling out his provisions. It would have been better if he could have gone to the canteen for a warm meal, but it ran the risk of seeing Boromir and he still wasn’t certain whether he wanted his brother to actually notice him or not. It defeated the purpose of coming if he was never caught. But maybe he should wait until later, after the battle.

   Faramir sat quietly chewing a bit of his bread as he thought, occasionally taking a sip of his water.

   He felt so lonely here. He’d always had his brother with him, or at least one of his few friends who didn’t believe Denethor’s ridiculous stories about him. Even Denethor’s harshest punishments didn’t include separating him from Boromir, though he was sure Denethor would’ve liked to do that.

   Faramir shivered in the damp night air. He wished that he had brought his cloak with him. Instead he curled up, his back against a boulder and fell into a fitful sleep.

* * * * * * *

   The next morning, Boromir woke along with the rest of the soldiers. He quickly splashed some icy water on his face from the river to wake himself before prepping his gear. Today, they would be engaging in battle with the Easterlings. Scouts had reported they were less than three leagues away. They had planned to make a sneak attack on their camp come dusk.

   Boromir couldn’t wait to fight. To feel the rush of battle. To be victorious. To make his father proud.

    That evening, they set out. They didn’t have to march for long before they came upon the Easterlings’ camp. The soldiers of Gondor could see the fires burning in the distance. Boromir crouched down behind the lieutenant, who was a friend of his father, as he waited for orders.

   Then came the command to charge, and he drew his sword, racing into the fray of battle.

* * * * * * *

    Faramir loved the thrill of the fight, yet didn't. He liked the strategizing, trying to figure out his opponent’s next move. It was interesting.

    But he wasn’t certain he liked killing. It left an acidic-like taste in his mouth, and his stomach churned. He wouldn’t try to think too much about his dead enemies, but the questions kept swirling. What about their families? Did they have a father they were trying to prove themselves to? Or maybe a brother whom they admired, and who loved them dearly.

   He slashed and hacked, barely registering his moves or position other than what needed to be known to plan his attack. The soldiers around him fought like whirlwinds. Easterlings cowered and ran as the Gondorians forced their way through their ranks.

   They all fought on through the night, driving away the Easterlings. Boromir loved the battle, the rush he felt when he came near a close sweep with Death was almost addicting in a way. Still though, he was holding on to the hope that he would get to do something heroic, and prove himself worthy of the one day titles of Captain and Steward.

   Boromir cut down another warrior and then turned to do so to another when a flash caught his eye. When he realized it was only the reflection of armor glinting in the Easterlings’ fires he began to turn back to the fight, but something made him pause. The warrior was very short. His helmet had been knocked off during the battle so his shoulder-length black hair was strung in disarray around his pale, fierce face. The warrior's grey eyes shone with a warriors' fire, but they also held a familiar and sad understanding.

   “Faramir.” Boromir whispered. No. It couldn’t be true. His brother wasn’t that stupid, was he? Then the warrior turned his back again and Boromir shook his head. It couldn’t be. He was imagining things. He refocused his attention on a charging warrior, and forgot all about his brother for the time.

   When the first rays of sunlight began to shine over the horizon, the troops of the White tower left the scene of carnage. All were battle-weary and bleary-eyed.

   Faramir trudged back to camp along with the others. He was ill-at-ease, tired, and desperately wishing to go home. He barely even registered the fact that his helmet was missing.

   Then suddenly, a large cry went up from just over the hills to their backs and everyone turned.

   Hundreds of warriors charged over the hills. All fresh and well-rested Easterlings. The soldiers of Gondor blinked in shock,  and then turned away from any thought of rest.

   “Get the wounded back to camp!” Shouted the captain. “Everyone else, to formations!”

   Now they realized the other warriors had just been a ploy to tire them out. The soldiers charged into battle, a renewed strength filling their bones.

Boromir took only a few minor injuries himself. Faramir was in much the same state. His Dunedain senses however, had dulled by the time he took a short break to rest his weary sword arm and he didn’t hear the massive Easterling warrior sneak up behind him.

   “What have we here?” The man chortled. Faramir whipped around. “A young boy? Such a pretty face. Too bad it won’t be that way when I get through with ya.”

   The warrior cleaved down at his head, but Faramir’s reflexes were fast and he quickly parried it away. The battle raged on around them, but Faramir thought only of the soldier he was fighting that was at least twice his height and three times his weight.

   “Faramir!” A voice bellowed from somewhere nearby. A voice he knew all too well.

   He turned his attention away for but a moment to see his enraged elder brother, but he couldn’t even squeak before he felt the sword slash his side.

Faramir stood stunned for a moment before he fell to his knees his hand to his side. He felt the warm blood and looked down at his red hand. He looked back up just in time to hear Boromir bellow, “Nooooo!”

   He fell to the ground and darkness veiled his eyes.

* * * * * *

   Boromir couldn’t believe it. His brother had come here. Why, Faramir? He thought as he rushed over to finish off the warrior that had hurt his brother.

What, oh what were you thinking, you foolish, foolish boy?

Boromir yanked his sword out of the stunned Easterling, and then ran to his brother. He didn’t feel the tears on his cheeks as he gently turned his brother over and cradled his head in his arms. “Faramir.” He whispered gently. “What, oh what were you thinking?”

   A field healer rushed up with a make-shift stretcher and a bag of healing supplies.

   “He is still breathing.” Boromir informed the healer who nodded once in acknowledgement before carrying Faramir back to the cart to return to camp.