The younger man hesitated. "I believe in orcs, and in the treachery of Haradrim. I believe in walls and spear-points."
For three nights, the eastern shore had whispered. Not in words, but in the way the reeds bent against no wind. In the way the frogs fell silent all at once, as though a great mouth had opened somewhere beneath the mud. The younger man hesitated
"And yet," Boromir turned from the river, and his face was the face of a man who has glimpsed a crack in the world, "something hunts us that does not hunger for meat or gold. It hungers for the sound of a horn that does not answer. For the name of a king that no one sings anymore." Not in words, but in the way the reeds bent against no wind
The sound ripped through the fog, bold and bright and utterly, magnificently defiant. Behind him, a hundred tired men lifted their spears. Before him, the hooded shape on the far shore turned its head slowly, as though noticing a fly that had chosen to sting a giant. It hungers for the sound of a horn that does not answer
The night answered with a thousand pairs of eyes.
"Madril," Boromir said quietly, "do you believe in a darkness that thinks?"
"Let them come," he said. "There are still brave men in this broken land."