Clink!

The wine glasses collided with a crisp sound. The two brothers, both commanders, raised their drinks in salute to the soldiers, then to each other.

“Remember this day,” Boromir said with a hearty laugh. “Today, life is good!”

Faramir smiled back. They drained their cups in one gulp, their joy beyond words. But happy moments are always short-lived. Suddenly, the sharp-eyed Faramir turned his head toward the distance.

The smile faded from his face.

“What is it?” Boromir looked puzzled.

“He’s here,” Faramir murmured.

At that, Boromir turned as well.

They saw a tall, imposing man smiling as he spoke with the soldiers, patting one on the shoulder, encouraging another. On this day of celebration, his usual stern and silent demeanor had vanished. He mingled freely with the men.

“Can’t he give us even a moment’s peace,” Boromir muttered to his brother with a helpless smile.

“Where is he?” Denethor was asking the soldiers. “Where is Gondor’s finest, my eldest son?”

“Father!”

Though slightly exasperated, Boromir still stepped forward with a smile and embraced his father out of filial respect and courtesy.

Denethor truly favored his elder son.

“They say you practically took down the enemy single-handedly.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Boromir replied. “Faramir was just as brave, and far more resourceful. He deserves much of the credit.”

At those words, Denethor’s expression darkened.

“If not for Faramir, we wouldn’t have needed to recapture this city at all,” he snapped. Turning to Faramir, who stood silently nearby, he said coldly, “Weren’t you in charge of guarding the eastern quarter? I heard you dragged Boromir into retreat without fighting?”

“I could have held it,” Faramir said wearily, “but we were too few to mount an effective defense. If we had stayed, it would have been needless sacrifice…”

But it was clear Denethor didn’t care to hear his explanation. When a man has decided to see only faults, even good deeds become flaws in his eyes.

“Oh, too few men, is it?” Denethor cut him off sharply. “You let the enemy come and go as they pleased, took the city with no resistance, and then you come to me with complaints?”

“That was never my intent.” Faramir’s voice trembled slightly, helpless and dispirited.

Boromir could bear no more. For once, he stood up to his father, “You never show him a kind word, though he has always obeyed and served faithfully. He loves you, Father.”

“Don’t bring Faramir up to me,” Denethor said impatiently. “I know his abilities, or rather, his lack of them.”

Boromir fell silent. There was no arguing further.

An unfair father often breeds strife among his sons. That these two brothers could remain so close despite a father who praised one and belittled the other was truly remarkable. They endured his favoritism in silence. Faramir, being gentle and thoughtful, never talked back. Boromir, more straightforward by nature, sometimes protested, as he did today, to defend his brother, but never beyond that. For all their resentment, they both still obeyed their father’s commands.

After all, Denethor had once been truly formidable. In his youth, he led soldiers at the front lines, routing orcs and even driving them back to the very gates of Mordor. From his command post, he could always sense the enemy’s movements as if he could foresee them.

Some even said Denethor once chased a Nazgûl across the plains of Ithilien with only a steel sword, such was his ferocity.

Before that man and his blade, even the Nazgûl had to retreat.

The brothers, facing those same creatures, could only withdraw strategically, maneuvering carefully against them.

Thus, they both respected and obeyed their father, not only out of duty, but from genuine admiration. He truly was a great man.

“Father…” Boromir took a breath, then deliberately changed the subject. “Father, I had a dream.”

“Oh? What dream?”

Even on the front lines, in this rare moment of ease and celebration, Denethor didn’t mind indulging in small talk to strengthen their bond.

“I dreamed of thunder rolling across the sky, of clouds shrouding the land, but a beam of light pierced through them, shining from the North. I dreamed of a silver host, of a council held in a peaceful land, where the Bane of Isildur appeared, and a Halfling stood forth. I feel it is a sign, a hope to end our people’s suffering.”

“Hope?” Denethor scoffed.

“I do not believe in such airy notions,” he said harshly. “Victory must be won by iron will and blood, not by dreaming of hope.”

“But Faramir had the same dream,” Boromir said quietly. “That cannot be mere coincidence, Father. Faramir wishes to journey to the place the dream revealed.”

“Then let him go!” Denethor barked.

“No, Father,” Boromir said. “The road is perilous and uncertain. I would go myself.”

“You?” Denethor frowned deeply.

“You spoil him too much. You’ll ruin him that way.”

“Please, permit me to go.”

Boromir bowed his head. His tone was calm, but in it burned unshakable resolve.

Denethor stared at him in silence for a long moment.

“Heh… my good son has truly grown up. He even talks back to his father now.”

“I…”

“Go then.”

With a sigh, Denethor thought for a moment, then reached into his robe and drew out a golden, gleaming apple.

The stern father who had spent a lifetime in severity finally yielded to his son’s will, just this once.

He told Boromir of the apple’s power and its origin.

“I’ve suffered countless wounds in my life, yet each time, I couldn’t bring myself to use this.”

“But I hope that, when danger comes, you’ll use it for yourself. That’s my selfish wish.”

An unbreakable steel sword. A golden apple. And love.

“I give to you all that is precious to me. Go, Boromir. I believe in you.”

“Yes, Father.”

Feeling the warmth of his father’s deep affection, Boromir’s heart filled with emotion, only for it to fade quickly when Denethor spoke again.

“Oh, one more thing,” Denethor said. “The ‘Bane of Isildur’ you mentioned, I know what it is. That is the enemy’s greatest weapon: the One Ring. Mordor is gathering its armies. Sauron is waiting for his chance. If he should reclaim that Ring, everything will be lost. We would have no power to stop him. If your dream truly holds meaning, if the One Ring has appeared in the North… Listen to me, Boromir. The Ring must be secured. It must never fall into the hands of the enemy. I know it is dangerous, it corrupts the hearts of Men, but I believe in you. Your will is strong. You can resist its temptation. Think about it, Boromir. For so many years, it has been our soldiers who’ve shed their blood on the front lines, holding back Mordor and the southern hordes, protecting the Free Peoples. Even the great northern realm under Garrett has done no more than we have. You understand me, don’t you?”

“…”

Boromir lowered his gaze, eyes trembling.

—

At the gates of Osgiliath, Boromir bid his final farewell.

“Remember this day, Faramir,” he said softly. “Remember this day of joy, of hope… and of parting.”

That day, fresh from victory, he removed his heavy battle armor, donned lighter gear for travel, and set off northward.

At the same time, Gandalf and Aragorn were leading four Hobbits eastward from Bree, their pace much swifter than Boromir’s.

“Welcome. You’ve come at just the right time, I’ve only just returned myself,” said Garrett, dismounting at the gates of Wayfort to greet the six arrivals: the wizard, the Ranger, and the four Hobbits.

“Yes, quite the coincidence,” Gandalf replied. “I met them in Bree just as I arrived.”

As Gandalf began explaining the situation to Garrett, Aragorn, as usual, sat quietly nearby. Like many older Rangers, he saw no need for words unless they were necessary, his silence as steady as stone.

“Wow!”

The Hobbits, however, were not nearly so composed. They looked around wide-eyed at everything within the fortress.

“This is more beautiful than any place I’ve ever seen! Look at that tree!” Merry exclaimed, pointing toward a tall, radiant tree in the distance.

“I’ve heard of it,” said Frodo. “Bilbo told me about it. It’s called a mallorn tree. It only grows in the Golden Wood east of the Misty Mountains. This one here, west of the mountains, is the only one of its kind, and it’s right here at Wayfort.”

“Then we must have a good look at it.”

“I’m getting hungry,” said Sam, the calmest of the four, mostly because, truth be told, the stout Hobbit was very hungry.

“Mr. Frodo, you’ve seen how we’ve been living these past few days, only three meals a day! They don’t even have second breakfast, elevenses, afternoon tea, or supper!”

Frodo sighed helplessly at Sam’s complaints.

“We’ll have to get used to it, Sam.”

“Get used to it?”

Not everyone shared that sentiment.

Pippin’s eyes darted mischievously. He crept up behind Aragorn and suddenly shouted, “Hey! Strider!”

Aragorn looked at him blankly, utterly unmoved.

The two stared at each other for a few seconds before Aragorn finally said, “Give it up. Garrett tried that on me when I was a boy.”

“Aw, no fun,” Pippin groaned, then perked up again. “Anyway, you know this place well, right? My friend’s starving. Can you take us to get something to eat?”

“This is our first time here,” he continued excitedly. “But I’ve heard Wayfort has the best ale and food, oh, and pipeweed! They say the pipeweed here has a gentle flavor, very soothing, and the quality’s always consistent.”

Aragorn chuckled.

“Gentle and consistent,” he repeated. “Yes, that’s true.”

“Aragorn! Over here!” Gandalf called out, waving him over.

Aragorn stood, nodded to Pippin, and said, “You won’t need me to guide you. Just head inside, someone will tell you what to do.”

“Wait! What if there are spies, like that one back in Bree?”

“There won’t be,” Aragorn said, waving a hand dismissively before turning away and walking toward Gandalf and Garrett.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep