The mead flowed like water as the men saw their Captain off. None knew whither he was called, but all sensed that the road ahead of him was long. Tomorrow morning he would be gone, replaced, at least temporarily, by his brother, the soft-spoken, kind-eyed Faramir. The younger man was as beloved by his men as Boromir, but the Tower Guard would miss the boisterous laughter and down-to-earth attitude of the elder brother. So for tonight at least, they would raise mugs spilling over with froth to his health, singing songs and swapping tales that would make even the lowliest street-walker blush.
Boromir stumbled into his rooms in the early hours of the morning, happy and tired. His left shoulder and arm ached from the numerous overenthusiastic thumps he received from men wishing him a safe journey. Glancing in a mirror propped behind his washing basin, he grinned and scrubbed at the evidence that remained of the kisses he'd received from anonymous serving wenches, pleased to be near the handsome warrior one last time before he embarked on his travels. He succeeded only in further smearing the paint across his cheeks before he collapsed in bed, fully clothed.
Morning would break entirely too early, and he would part with his beloved city at dawn, leaving behind his men, his father, and, most painfully, his brother.
He only hoped that the road that stretched ahead would also bring him safely back home.