Faramir wades into the river, early morning mist swirling around his knees. In the dream, the water feels like Southron silk. The Elven boat glides closer, swanlike prow looming out of the mist. He knows what he will find within. In his waking life, he has known for days; the absence of his brother is a leaden ache inside his chest.

But the still figure in the boat is not Boromir but a freckled maiden with long gold-brown hair. When Faramir leans over her, she gazes at him mournfully. "I was perfect," she whispers.

"This," says Faramir, "is passing strange."