Book One: Recollection

Chapter One

A Book Without Pages

It was a rather passive evening at Minas Tirith on the border of Gondor. Large white flakes of snow had started to fall during the early morning and the silence of their descent continued throughout the ebbing twilight. The Steward, who had just finished his duties for the day, strode over to one of the Tower's many windows, staring out across the vast white blanket that continued to envelop his country in its immaculate beauty. A faint smile ebbed its way across his lips at the idyllic and rather serene sight. This moment of peace, however, was interrupted by a spectacle that was taking place directly beneath him in the outer courtyard.

His eldest son had come running into the palace below, his blond hair and armor getting covered in faint white flakes as he ran. But what caught the father off guard was the sight of a petite young woman in his son's gloved arms. And while her curious red and white outfit surprised him, the Steward found his eyes drawn to her face.

Her hair was raven black, falling a little ways below her shoulders and becoming tinted with the little white snowflakes. However, when these soft white petals landed on her skin, he could not differentiate between the two, for her flesh was as white, if not whiter than the snow. But before the Steward could depict anything else from the strange occurrence, his son had dashed into one of the entrance halls below, leaving the outer landscape motionless yet again save for the fluttering snowflakes.

With a soft swish from his black winter robes, the Steward turned and began to make his way downstairs. It did not take him long to reach the lower corridors, but upon his arrival all was quiet. The older man snorted, slightly annoyed, "You there, guard." The sentry looked towards him as the black haired man continued, "Do you have any idea where my son has gone off to?"

The guard did not move, save for the slight turn of the head. "He went off with one of the healers down the west corridor. Apparently he had found some half-dead girl outside the city." Apparently this was nothing too exciting to the guard, for his voice was nonchalant as he spoke.

Without a word of thanks, the Steward took off down the instructed hallway, set on finding his eldest child. But he did not have to go very far before he encountered his son leaving a room halfway down the hall. The older man stopped next to his son, leaning against the wall as he closed the door to the room. "And what are you doing, bringing strange women into the city Boromir?" A mischievous grin had crept across Denethor's face at his words, but his son had yet to acknowledge them.

Hidden beneath the shadow of his hair, Boromir rolled his eyes. Really, he wasn't some hormone-driven teenager anymore. Now, although Faramir could be considered a man (a young one at that), 19 just didn't cut it for their father. But Boromir was 24 for pities sake! That should be old enough for him to realize that he wasn't a child.

After a moment, Boromir spoke, running a hand through his blond hair. "I found her unconscious outside the city." He paused for a moment, "I couldn't just leave her there to die."

The older man grunted. His teasing smile disappeared, only to be replaced by a stoic frown. "Why bother?" The Steward asked, "What is one less person in the world?" His hands were now folded behind his back as Denethor stared at his son, leaning casually against the wall.

The young man turned towards his father, his voice serious and rising in frustration. He replied with a question of his own. "Tell me father, how would you feel if someone just left you to die, when they could have full well prevented it?"

Sometimes (like now for instance) Boromir was simply disgusted with his father's overall mindset. But he was still his father; and he could never change that. As the saying went, a fox may change its fur, but not its tricks. His father was a perfect example.

A somber look then graced the Steward's face as he countered almost instantly to the question. "I can say that I have never been in such a predicament, therefore I cannot truly answer your question my son." A smirk was starting to etch its way across the older man's face at the claim.

The younger man suddenly laughed, catching his father's eye. "Really now; and after all your time as Steward, I would have thought you might have had the chance to experience it." Denethor's face quickly turned flush at the backtalk. However, before he could retaliate to his son's brash comment, one of the many Tower scribes rapidly approached them, calling out to the Steward.

The older man then grumbled under his breath at the oncoming nuisance. "I told that old fool that it could wait. It is not as if the entire village will perish if I just wait to sign the papers until tomorrow." The Steward then strode off down the hall, already shouting at the gray haired man before he had even taking a single step.

Boromir sighed; really, his father would never change. But right now he had other and much more important things to worry about; like the girl. When he had found her, her skin was so white he was almost certain that he had simply stumbled across her corpse. But miraculously, he found her to still be alive, but faintly, for her breath had dropped to a dangerously slow pace. She was lucky he had found her, for if she had been subject to the cold for much longer he doubted she would've survived.

Seeing as how his father had so kindly left him, Boromir decided to see how the girl was doing, and he reached for the doorknob once again. But as he was about to enter, he heard his father shout, "Boromir!" Denethor and the scribe approached him quickly and both were soon standing beside him all while looking rather uneasy. Boromir closed the door, staying in the hall.

"Is something wrong father?" Boromir asked curiously.

His father nodded, his face now inexplicably grim. "To say, yes." He said, glancing to and from the scribe. He moistened his lips before he continued, "Apparently that village I was telling you about has been completely destroyed. Set aflame and burned clear to the ground."

The young man's eyes widened a bit at the news. "What?" He sputtered. Boromir stared back and forth between his father and the dejected scribe. "How did this happen?" True, there were bandits, orcs and the like wandering the badlands, occasionally ransacking a community every once and a while, but killing off an entire village? Even if it were orcs, some people always managed to get away or not everyone's head was severed from their shoulders. There were always a few survivors, but this sort of thing had not happened in a greater while.

The scribe pushed his antique glasses back on top his nose. He shifted some of the many scrolls under his arm before he continued. His crinkled gray hair seemed to fall off his head at his own dreaded words, "Your brother's just returned from scouting and found the village in ruins. He said it must have happened recently, for the remains of the place was still smoldering when he arrived earlier this afternoon."

"So, what was it; orcs, bandits?" Boromir questioned, still perplexed with the situation.

The old man sighed, "Well, you see young Sir, that's just it. There are no witnesses. Everyone and thing in and surrounding that village is dead, now nothing but piles of ash and rubble. And any evidence has been destroyed along with the village."

The air in the corridor was now dangerously thick as the scribe continued, "Young Master Faramir said that all he could gather from the site was this." The old man pulled a beaded necklace out from his pocket. He handed it to Boromir. Denethor and the scribe both silently watched the young man examine the object.

"He said it was only thing left unburned." The scribe whispered, watching the younger man in patience.

After a moment, Boromir spoke, his eyes looking up, glancing up at the stout old man. "These beads are made of bone." He paused glancing back down to the object in his hands, "And brother said there nothing was left? Not even the villagers' remains?"

The scribe only shook his head in silent remorse. Boromir looked back to the object in his hands. "Then what makes these beads different?" Boromir stared curiously at the purple and white necklace, turning it over as if trying to find some hidden key to figuring out its mystery. "Why weren't they burned as well?" He muttered, still staring at the jewelry.

"While I am no expert in the area, I am inclined to believe that they are made of demon bone." The scribe arbitrarily suggested, catching the eyes of both Denethor and Boromir. The Steward was first to speak.

"Demon bone?" He repeated, obviously taken aback. The Steward suddenly let out a mocking chuckle. "Where on this earth do demon's still live?"

The old man's face turned grim once again. "You'd be surprised sir. I have read and heard many things in all my years, and I tell you now, demons are still among us. Go ask any Wizard or Elf and they will certainly tell you the same."

It was then quiet for a moment. That was, until another young man came sprinting down the hall. He too was dressed in armor and his cheeks were still flush from being out in the cold. His brown hair was wet from the melting snow, which stuck to his face as he ran.

He stopped just beside the group, panting. Denethor wasn't hesitant to flash the boy a sneer of annoyance. "Must you always make such an entrance Faramir?"

The 19 year old immediately straightened up, his wavy brown hair partially shrouding his eyes as he spoke, "I'm sorry father." He said earnestly, rubbing his hands together, trying to warm them up. Faramir continued, "But I when I first told this gentleman here of what had happened, he ran off so quickly that I did not finish telling him the whole story."

The trio's eyes were now locked on the young Faramir. While the scribe seemed mutely humiliated about his brash behavior, Denethor only seemed to grow even more irate. "Well? Out with it boy!"

His harsh words seemed to silently sting him, but Faramir didn't show it, save for the slight frown that overtook his young face. He had grown accustomed to this treatment long ago, so it was nothing he wasn't faced with daily. Despite that, he stood tall, his face jarringly stoic as he spoke in monotone. "I'm assuming he told you of the village already?" Boromir and Denethor nodded.

Faramir continued, but not before moving a few wet pieces of hair out of his eyes prior to speaking again, "While the rest of my party searched what was left of the village for survivors, I walked the burned perimeter and came across a set of tracks. It was even more intriguing when I found them to be leaving the village."

Boromir spoke, obviously interested at this new leg of the mystery, "What kind little brother?" He asked curiously, a childish gleam now twinkling brightly in his blue eyes. The young man's frown lessened a bit and the corners of his mouth turned upwards. Leave it to Boromir to lighten the mood. Faramir glanced at his father. Not to his surprise, an aggravated scowl was lining his lips.

What was his ghost of a smile disappeared, and Faramir spoke again, "Human. They were small and narrow, so I'm inclined to believe that it was a young woman or girl that fled the village."

"Well, that's excellent news my boy!" The scribe said, his face glowing. "Now if we could just find her and ask her what exactly happened—"

Before the scribe could finish, Faramir cut him off. The young man's brow furrowed as he intervened the older man's plan. His eyes trailed to the ground for a moment, lost in thought, "But that's just it." He said plainly, his eyes finally looking up to meet their stares, "I think she's already here." No one asked what he was talking about, for they only stared at him, still confused.

Looking up, Faramir nearly rolled his eyes at them. Really, was he the only one smart enough to put all the pieces together? "I followed the footprints. They came to a stop on the outskirts of the city wall." Faramir looked to his brother, whose eyes were now widening. He smiled; well, at least it clicked for his brother.

Boromir then decided to speak, finishing off the story for his brother, "So you're saying that the girl in there," he gestured to the room behind him, "is the one who you believe escaped from the village?"

The younger man nodded, "Yes." He smiled at his brother. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

"He's right." The scribe concluded, his face serious. "That village is barely a days walk from here, so it's very possible that she could've gotten here, given the chance."

"Well, for once you have actually been of use. Well done." Denethor chided, his lips turned upwards slightly, but not in the comforting manner. There was a rather taxing silence for a moment before the Steward spoke again, "Seeing as how this small issue has been resolved, I'm off to dinner. Ta!" Without another word of concern or worry, Denethor strode back off down the corridor, his black robes once again billowing out behind him in a manner only a man, such as himself could possess.

As soon as he was out of sight, the three remaining members of the group sighed in unplanned unison, but each for entirely different reasons. The scribe one again pushed his glasses back onto his nose, nodding at the two brothers before heading back down the hall as well, his old shoes tapping lightly on the floor as he walked.

They both watched him go. Neither said anything until the sound of his shoes could no longer be heard. The siblings looked towards one another, both weary. "You know he means well." Boromir insisted, offering his little brother a smile.

The younger snorted, his brother's words flying in one ear and out the other. "Towards you he does." The teen's voice dropped to a low whisper. "He does not care about what happens to me."

Boromir stood tall above his brother, placing his hands on his shoulders, "Now you know that's not true Faramir." His gaze was stern, but caring all at once. The younger only laughed again, shaking his head at his older brother.

"Prove it." He said, his stare asking just that.

The older man sighed, releasing his brother from his hold. "One day, father will acknowledge you Faramir." His voice was quiet and held a shred of bitterness to it. He drew back, resting against the door behind him, his arms folded across his chest in thought. "And when that day arrives, I can only hope you will be willing to forgive him." Both of them were quiet for a moment, perfectly fine with just standing in the corridor in the essence of newfound tranquility.

"There was something I didn't mention earlier." Faramir said quietly after a few minutes of comfortable silence. His brother was quick to meet his shrouded eyes, but didn't say anything and let his sibling continue. "When I said I saw her tracks leaving the village, I meant it. But I did not see any other footprints coming into or out of the village either."

Boromir pulled up from the door, raising an eyebrow at his younger brother. "What are you saying?" He asked. Really, things were confusing enough as it was, and Faramir wasn't helping with all the hidden details he kept leaving out.

"I am saying, be wary of her." He suggested, his face passive. The brown haired teen glanced at the door. "I'm not say treat her like a fugitive, but just be careful when you are around her. I found it strange, not only that her footprints were the only tracks leaving the area, but the fact that her stride seemed clam and not rushed, as it should be from someone fleeing a battleground. Not to mention that she wasn't, for whatever reason, perused during all of this chaos."

Boromir had to agree with him, "I suppose you are right." He paused for a moment before finally making up his mind. "I will go question her then." Boromir then reached for the brass knob, but found his brother's gloved hand preventing him from entering the room.

The blond man stared down at his sibling, silently questioning his actions. "Let sleeping dogs lie and the wounded heal in peace." Faramir said softly, letting go of his brother's wrist. Once Boromir let go of the knob he continued, "You can rightfully question her once she wakes, but until then, leave her to rest." The older sibling nodded, drawing back from the door.

The older stood for a moment, a small smile ebbing its way across his face. "Here," Boromir stated, draping something over his brother's head, "Take this as your reward for a job well done. If not from father, then from me." Faramir looked down to see the purple and white necklace now resting against his chest.

He glanced up at his brother quizzically. "This old thing?"

"Yes." Boromir stated firmly, but one could tell his voice was laced with humor. "Besides, you found it. You keep it."

Faramir rolled his eyes at his older brother. "Thank you for the erm, gift I suppose." He fiddled with the necklace for a moment before clapping his hands together. "Now, if you'll excuse me dear brother, I'm going to get out of these clothes." Faramir stated, and did not hesitate in beginning to stride off down the corridor. "I don't particularly care for these wet garbs and heavy armor, unlike yourself." Faramir gestured towards his elder, who was still adorned in his chainmail, riding gloves, cloak, sword and other countless pieces of armor. Not to mention, all in which, were very wet, seeing as how the snow just happened to melt when he came inside.

Boromir laughed again at his little brother, who was now whistling a soft tune as he continued to head down the hall. As soon as he was out of sight, Boromir reached for the knob, a little snicker playing off his lips. While his dear brother had said not to question the girl, he had said nothing about making sure the healer was doing her job correctly. And so he slipped into the room, shutting the door behind him with an almost inaudible 'click.'

No sooner had he entered was Boromir greeted with a beat to the head. "Ow!" Boromir yelled as his hand flew to the new bump on his skull. He looked down, as his eyes adjusted to the faint dimness of the room. After a few seconds, he looked down to see the old healer glaring up at him, her twisted cane making its way back to the floor.

"Stupid! Don't be so loud. I could hear you fluently through the walls! The girl needs sleep all your ruckus will wake her." Boromir glanced down again to see the withered old woman glaring up at him. Her teeth seemed to nearly fall out of her mouth as she spoke in a violent whisper and Boromir swore her nose must have been broken at least four times it was so crooked. Yet he held his tongue, knowing he would only receive another beat to the head if he spoke his thoughts.

"I gave her some tonic that should help her recover faster, and I found no injuries, so all she really needs to do is keep warm and sleep." Boromir listened to the old woman prattle on quietly as she scuttled towards the door.

"There's more tonic on the side table. Make sure she has some every few hours or so. And I put her clothes in the wardrobe, seeing as how they weren't ruined. There just seemed to be a bit of soot at the bottom, but I'm sure that…" By now Boromir was practically pushing the old woman out the door, nearly twitching. Really, did she have any idea how irritating her voice was?

Apparently she didn't, for the healer kept on ranting, now halfway out the door. One of her boney fingers prodded up against the air as she spoke again, "And make sure that she eats as soon as she wakes up. She's thinner than I am and I can barely stomach anything nowadays." The old woman was now outside the room, both of her hands resting presently on her cane.

Boromir nodded towards her, making his thanks short and sweet, wanting the old woman gone. "I will be sure that what needs to be done will be taken care of, and should her condition worsen, you will be the first to know."

The old lady smiled, although it was far from heartwarming, seeing as how most of her teeth were missing. "Not a problem boy," she grabbed one of his hands, giving it a light pat, "and I'm quite sure that the young lady will be fine." She then released his hand before using it to tighten the tattered gray scarf around her tiny neck.

"Now, I must be off. Time is of the essence when you are as old as I!" With that, the healer turned to leave down the hallway and Boromir gladly shut the door behind her. This left the room quiet, save for the occasional crackle from the torches that lined the walls. Boromir sighed again, walking over to the girl's bedside.

"Oh! And one last thing boy," The healer's head suddenly popped back in the room, which caused the man to jump lightly at her sudden reappearance. A wise old grin then cracked its way across her aged face as she spoke. She stared at Boromir through her tiny glasses, her eyes dancing in silent excitement.

"She's not human."

Without another word, the healer left again. This time, Boromir waited a moment, fully expecting the old woman to reappear for a second time. However she did not and Boromir then turned his full attention towards the unconscious girl in front of him. He sat on the side of the bed and stared at her quizzically.

Not human? She had said. He glanced at the unconscious girl. What was that haggard old woman doing talking such nonsense? Boromir then brushed a stray piece of the girl's hair out of her face, allowing him a glimpse of her pointed ears.

Boromir sat, now rendered speechless and embarrassed, both from not noticing this feature sooner. She was indeed not a human, just as the healer said. Boromir suddenly laughed, "Apparently that old woman isn't as haggard as I thought if she can still see something I so plainly missed." He shook his head for a moment, still laughing quietly to himself. After a while, Boromir looked back down at the girl, his expression calm, returning passive and thoughtful.

He was surprised however, to see a pair of wide eyes looking up at him.

They both stared at each other in quiet shock. Or more, she stared at him in what seemed to be slight fear while Boromir was only lost in her shifting eyes.

Pitch-black pits on a snowy white canvas. What part of her eye was to be colored was black and melted into the pupil, making the two look like a single black orb in the midst of the pallid area of her eyes. It astonished Boromir that one could have a feature as strange as this.

After overcoming his silent surprise, he spoke and offered her a soft smile. "Hello. My name is Boromir." She seemed to get only more nervous, and she even attempted to shy away from him. Boromir laughed faintly again, "Do not worry, you are safe here." He raised his hands in defense, trying to convince her of his benevolent intentions.

"And how do I know that?" Her voice was soft, but slightly raspy as she spoke. She sat up a bit while Boromir replied to her comment, his hand falling back to his side.

"You don't." He said earnestly, meeting her stare head on. "You will just have to trust me." She glanced away at the declaration, but Boromir caught her mumbling something under her breath.

"What was that?" He asked, staring at her intriguingly.

She blinked up at him before sighing. Looking away, she repeated her words quietly, her eyes trained on the brown quilt in her hand. "But one ever knows who can really be trusted. Not unless the trust is willing to come from both sides." She then slouched back into the many pillows that supported her as sleep attempted to reclaim her tired eyes. "And trust," She muttered, "has to be earned," she glanced at him before her eyes drifted shut again, "and is not appointed."

Boromir merely stared at her again, her words seeming far beyond her years. Yet she looked no older than 20 and her delicate features only led him to believe she was perhaps younger. The man corrected himself; she obviously some form of non-human entity, perhaps an Elf. But he wasn't going to jump to that assumption immediately, but it was a decent theory. However, he would have much time later to properly question her. So Boromir spoke again, wanting to know one last time before he let the mysterious female sleep again.

"What is your name?"

At first, her eyes opened slowly and she just laid there as if lost in thought. But after a moment her eyes widened and she bolted upright, sheer panic etched across her face and throughout her now ridged posture. "My name," she said while the numerous quilts and blankets the once covered her fell onto the mattress, revealing the off blue nightgown she wore.

"My name?" She spoke the word as if it were her last breath, coming off soft and pained. A sudden dry sob wracked her lips as she brought her hand up to her mouth. She replied gently, certain in her words.

"I don't know."

Boromir stared at her, confusion being the primary and unmistakable expression that flashed across his face. "What? But how can you not?"

"I don't know, alright?" She snapped at him, quivering lightly at her own realization. She pulled her knees up against her chest, and placed her chin on her knees. "I just don't." She whispered, seeming so inexplicably lost at her own words.

Boromir stared at her, his gaze questioning. And who was he to believe her? For all he knew she could be lying to him. He knew all too well to not judge a book by its cover, especially when it came to women.

The young man then rose from his position beside the bed, causing her to glance at him. His face was clam as he spoke, although it portrayed nothing. "I will send someone to bring you something to eat. For now, you may rest." He was halfway out the door when he stopped; a hushed voice rang through his ears once again like a dying whisper.

"Imagine a book with all of the pages missing. You don't know what was written on them, but you know they were there," there was a pause, "but now, for whatever reason, they're not."

Her voice was hushed as she spoke. Boromir only listened to the sound of the quilts shift as she got back under the warm covers. His hand was still planted on the brass knob with the door partially ajar. But his hand didn't move as she continued.

"But the book could be rebound and pages refilled. Everything would be fine." Boromir felt her stare on his back and turned to face her.

"But what if the words are different?" She was lying down again, turned towards him with one of her hands clutching the blankets in silent desperation. Her gaze shifted, and her eyes closed. She turned over with her back was now facing him. Her raven black hair cascaded across the white pillows at the action. He heard her sigh. "Then the book isn't the same. It only got rewritten to fit the world around it."

The young man only stared at her back, his own silent mantra parading about his mind as she sat, now motionless. He was not surprised when the phrase that had been marching loudly about his thoughts left the girl's mouth.

"It has been said that memories make a person." She whispered. Her words were so soft that Boromir almost didn't catch the hint of a sentence. He watched her shoulders rise as she heaved a great sigh, the blankets moving as her chest rose and fell.

"But what do you do if those memories are lost?" Boromir swore he heard her let out a quiet, and somewhat shuttering breath under the heap of blankets that were now covering her in a mass of brown and gray. He once again closed the door, softly this time, and strode back over to the bed. Only now, he walked to the opposite side, standing at the bedside next to her as she stared at the opposite wall.

He wasn't surprised to see faint tears trickle out of the corners of her eyes as she squeezed them shut in her attempts to keep the tears at bay. Her face was contorted with unspoken pain but her voice seemed to project it even further. "Then what do you become?" Again, Boromir had to strain his ears just to hear her, but he somehow managed to catch her words.

Sighing for what seemed the millionth time that day, Boromir kneeled down beside her. He stared at her for a moment before answering the rhetorical question, a faint smile now gracing his lips. "A child," he murmured quietly. Boromir knew it was plenty loud enough for her to hear him, and sure enough, her eyes snapped open, black-white orbs meeting his own blue eyes. Tears continued to stream down her cheeks as she silently gaped at him, waiting for him to continue.

Boromir gently reached his hand out to hers, slowly taking one of her small, pale hands in his own. He gave her plenty of time to pull away if she wanted, but she didn't. She let him faintly hold her hand as he continued on, "Ready to start fresh and new with the innocence and naiveté you have been granted." He offered her another reassuring smile, trying his best to offer his condolences.

In a blur of brown and gray, she flung herself at the unprepared man, wrapping her arms tightly around him as she broke down completely. Boromir was stunned beyond words at female that now sat in his lap. Well, he certainly hadn't expected that sort of reaction, but it was a reaction nonetheless. He would have been more worried if she'd just lain there and not done anything.

In the back of his mind, Boromir wondered why he even cared. He had unconsciously pulled her closer, his gloved hand resting in a comforting matter on her back as he debated this thought. The young female only continued to cry into his chest, which was still adorned in chainmail.

And truth be told; she didn't really mind the chainmail. Not in the least actually. All she needed was someone to cling to for the moment and she honestly didn't care that it was some complete stranger who she had just met not a moment ago. She didn't know who she was, let alone who he was, where here exactly was, let alone how she had gotten there or what happened prior to her waking up. But she did know one thing; he was there for her. And that was all that mattered.

After a while, her sobs turned to hiccups, which were soon silenced as she fell asleep, clearly exhausted. Boromir carefully picked her back up, just as he had done when he had first found her sleeping silently in the snow. He gently laid her back on the bed and watched her sleeping form for a moment. His eyes were trained on the trail of tears that silently continued to flow down her face as she slept. Making sure she didn't wake, Boromir pulled the quilts and blankets back over her. Again, he made sure she was asleep before leaving the warm room and closed the door behind him with a soft 'click'.

Upon reentering the corridor, a very deep and partially somnolent sigh came from Boromir's lips as he slouched back against the door. He rubbed a hand against his face, clearly troubled.

Something had obviously happened to her. He couldn't even begin to guess what it could've been, but he had this itching feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him it was not good. Whether she had been though some sort of trauma, or just overall memory loss, he didn't know, but Boromir did know one thing.

She wasn't lying.

Rarely had his gut feeling ever been wrong, and at this particular moment, it was telling him that she had been speaking the truth; that she didn't have any idea who she was. Not to mention the terror she had displayed upon actually realizing it. No, such emotion could never be acted out by some mere fork-tongued-liar. She was utterly terrified that she didn't know who she was. And as she had said before, memories make a person. Without them, you really aren't a person at all. You're just a hallow shell, waiting to be filled with the ideas and beliefs of the environment around you.

The man had recognized her pain as well. It was the hopeless and petrified type. It was the kind that managed to bring people down so low, that they just wanted to give up on everything. So Boromir did the only thing he knew to do for such predicaments and let her cling to him, just like his mother had done all those years ago before her passing. Although it may not have been much, he knew that something is always better than nothing. It had helped his mother during her last days, and it apparently had helped her as well. He unconsciously smiled at that.

Boromir then rose up from the door and then began the short trek down the hall, his mind still fogged over with the day's events as he tried to replay them in his mind. All the while, she slept, constantly tossing and turning in the midst of her nightmares, with fresh tears still trickling from her lidded eyes as her imaginary horrors became real.

Standard Disclaimer: I do not own InuYasha or Lord of the Rings.

"He said it was the only thing left unburned."

%&*

I went through at least six different versions on just how to start this thing off, (and yes, you could say this is a prologue like chapter) and I must say, I'm glad I went with this one. And yes, Boromir is 24 and Faramir is 19 for now. This is before everybody goes on the Ring quest and all that which is actually many years later when Boromir is 41 and Faramir is 36 so I basically jumped back 17 years. And kudos to anyone who can figure out the meaning of the title! And if you do, shhh! Let other people use their brains like you did.