Post by Admin on Dec 31, 2020 23:12:13 GMT
Author: WindSurfBabe
Ranking: Second Place
Summary : They say that love is the death of duty, and when his brother is involved, he is prepared to disobey.
Characters: Boromir, Faramir, Denethor, Finduilas
Rating: K
Warnings: none
July 4th, T.A. 3018
From where he stood, the White City lay before him, illuminated by the rising sun. Every level could be seen from the promontory of the citadel, as though he were flying high above the plain. Boromir had always loved this particular moment of the day, when the city was still asleep save for the people who guarded it. It was at such moments that is was most tranquil, and where the illusion of peace was at its strongest.
He said his goodbyes in silence. He would miss her during his journey, and though she’d be in good hands during his absence, the dull sense of worry would not leave him until he saw the white walls of Rammas Echor again.
For as long as Boromir could remember, Minas Tirith had stood alone on the edge of darkness, deprived of its twin sister turned evil. Minas Morgul lay beyond the mountains, almost at arm’s reach from his vantage point, and much closer still was the crucible of the conflict with Mordor. Beyond the vast plain of the Pelennor, spanning accross the Anduin stood the old capital of Gondor.
Osgiliath.
The city had suffered a great deal, devastated by plague and a turned into a daily battlefield against the forces of Mordor, until that last attack, less than a month ago. There was nothing more they could’ve done to save it, he thought, despite his father’s conviction otherwise. Yet at that very moment, shrouded in the morning mists, the abandoned city seemed empty and calm, the enemy movements within invisible from afar.
Such peace. Such quiet. That was another reason why Boromir enjoyed the daybreak in the citadel: until the city fully woke he was not like to be summoned or solicited, and could remain a simple man amongst others, rather than the steward’s son.
Who was he, in truth? Once the white cloak was stripped from his shoulders, the ensign of the white tree torn from his breast, what remained beneath? Was he a son, a brother or a warrior? Boromir once thought he could be all three, and more, but everyone expected him to choose a side. Yet there were roles he would never play, he knew it in his heart.
“I see you are ready to depart.” Faramir’s quiet voice came from behind.
He turned around, smiling. “Brother.” He embraced Faramir tightly, noting the exhaustion on his face. “Do you still have that dream?”
The portents sent to them both in sleep didn’t come to him so often or so freely as to Faramir, who woke from already short and restless nights even more tired and worried.
His brother nodded, his eyes grave and drooping. “The same words, once again. The sword that was broken, and Isildur’s heir…”
Boromir frowned at his words, causing Faramir to grow quiet. He wondered whether it was his resemblance to their father, or the simple unwillingness to share more of his dream, that had cowed his brother into silence.
“I will see the truth of this,” Boromir assured him, a hand on his shoulder. “Stay here. Protect the city…” He paused. “Avoid Father if you can.”
They shared a look of understanding.
Too long had it been since his brother had received a sign of approval from Denethor, especially if Boromir himself was around. Even though his brother never flaunted this injustice or uttered a word of complaint, Boromir knew the truth of it from the whispers of his men. Ever since he was old enough to notice, their father often favored him both publicly and in private; their ideas were not granted the same attention depending on whether they came from Boromir or Faramir, and their deeds did not carry the same share in glory.
Though it had been together that they had defended Osgiliath two weeks ago, them and their men against the armies of orcs from Mordor, it had been Faramir’s judgement that their father had questioned.
No matter how hard he tried, Boromir had trouble remembering when and how it had started, the growing imbalance in Denethor’s behavior towards his sons. How proud he’d been, at first, to be singled out and set as an example. Didn’t it mean that his behavior was irreproachable, and that his merit was real?
After Finduilas’ passing, their father’s naturally guarded demeanor had grown even more closed and secretive. The affection he’d been so miserly in dispensing to his youngest son had all but run dry, and he’d become a bitter, unpleasant man, whom Boromir struggled to love but had no choice but to respect.
The rift grew deeper with each day, but what could’ve driven the brothers apart had torn Boromir in two instead.
Faramir had been only five then, too young to understand what’d happened, and why and where his mother had gone. Bewildered and grieving, he’d sought affection where he could find it, and Boromir had found himself comforting his little brother, finding comfort in return from the certainty of being loved and needed. Mother was gone, and it fell upon him to care for Faramir as she would’ve done.
Yet their father too required his support and loyalty, albeit in a different manner. Denethor carried a heavy burden, his city the last rampart against evil in Middle-Earth. It was his wisdom and resilience that had kept Minas Tirith safe and the forces of Mordor at bay during all these years, and hard times bred hard men. Who was Boromir to resent him for his bitterness, when the situation was so dire? Father needed strong sons to support him, and Boromir had strived to become the strongest of all.
For a time he thought it would suffice; to love his brother and obey their father, a perfect son for a troubled man. To hear his actions and ideas spoken of so highly had comforted Boromir in the illusion that he could make up for his mother’s absence by his loyalty and his courage.
It had taken him a few years to comprehend the unjustness of the treatment Faramir was getting in comparison to his own. And once he did, there was no unseeing it.
oOoOoOo
August 20th, T.A. 2987
The clouds that hung above the citadel were a dull grey, fat with the rain that had threatened to pour out since morning. Yet not one drop had fallen, the plain as parched and dry as Mordor itself, and he day had grown more stifling and humid with each passing hour.
Boromir’s tunic clung to his body as he parried the blows of his master-at-arms, the clammy garment chafing against his skin. He’d be sore and bleeding that evening, but he’d rather die than admit it in front of anyone but their mother.
Finduilas was watching from afar, torn between pride and fright for her first-born, wincing at every blow that skidded off his wooden shield. Her soft, delicate hands clutched a handkerchief, which she held at the ready should there be blood. Father wasn’t there, of course. Father was busy with the affairs of the land, as a diligent steward was wont to do.
“Good work, Boromir.” Belegor nodded approvingly, swinging his training sword in a circle, “But remember: don’t look to where you’re aiming. It gives your intentions away.” He slid into his battle stance once more. “Never glance to where you mean to hit. Keep your eyes on my face.”
Boromir nodded. Sweat was running down his face, stinging his eyes, and the more he rubbed at them the more they burned. He was growing tired of the exercise, longing for a drink of the lemon-flavored water infused with mint that his mother favored, and that she shared most willingly with her sons. Fighting was fun for a while, but now he longed for a merrier pastime.
Suddenly, he felt something thin and hard slap his shoulder. Spinning around, he was faced with his younger brother who grinned, showing his missing teeth. Faramir was holding a stick and imitating Belegor’s posture.
“I want to fight too!” he proclaimed, hitting his brother again.
Boromir was torn between annoyance and laughter; his brother was too little to do any harm with his makeshift weapon, but he was impending Boromir’s training, which only meant that it would be delayed further.
“Go away,” he mumbled, swatting the stick out of his face with his free hand, but his brother persisted, buzzing around him like a small but determined insect. He kicked up clouds of dust as he bounced in a circle around Boromir, swishing his stick with both hands.
His enthusiasm melted Boromir’s reluctance and he found himself laughing at Faramir’s antics before a stern voice interrupted their game.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Father was watching them from the parapet that overlooked the courtyard. His mouth was drawn into a thin line, his brows furrowed in displeasure. Though his voice was low, Boromir sensed that the storm the elders had promised for the day wasn’t far.
“What are you doing?” Denethor, steward of Gondor, seethed.
Faramir quivered under his gaze. He stepped away and started to trudge off towards their mother, his stick trailing in the dust behind him. But Father wasn’t pleased.
“Hit him back, Boromir.”
Boromir cast a look towards his mother, hesitating. Finduilas stood, straight and tense, her eyes darting between him and his brother. She wouldn’t dare speak against her husband, but Boromir knew she disapproved.
Faramir had stopped in his tracks. His brother had a slighter build than his own, with stooped shoulders and awkward, gangly legs, while Boromir was already filling out to become a man. His brother’s eyes were wide with fear, fixed upon the heavy wooden sword in Boromir’s hand.
“Hit him back, I said. Let him learn the consequences of his actions.” Father leaned over the parapet, eager to see his command carried out. “Let him taste battle if he so desires.”
Their mother brought the handkerchief towards her mouth. Her face was ashen.
“Come on, boy. If you’re being attacked, you’ve a right to defend yourself.”
“But he’s my brother!” Boromir objected. “And he’s weaker than I am.”
He knew from experience how painful a hit with such a blade could be. Faramir wasn’t built to endure such a lesson, not from their father or himself. Boromir looked at Belegor, seeking support, but the master-at-arms remained silent, loath to question his ruler’s command.
“You’ll meet foes weaker than you who’ll want to kill you anyway. What’ll you do then? Yield out of sheer courtesy and allow them to take your life?” Father swept down the stairs and into the courtyard. “I have given you an order. Hit your brother back, or endure my displeasure.”
Boromir clenched his jaw. “I won’t.” The wooden sword clattered to the ground.
Everything in him rebelled against his father’s words, every lesson about honor in contradiction with such a command. The strong were to protect the weak, he’d been taught, and to ward off evil in whatever form it took. And if he was a fool to believe such learnings, then so be it.
Father narrowed his eyes in fury. “Is this how you thank me for my benevolence and my support?” He advanced on them both, looking at each of his sons in turn. “Is this what you’re being taught? Where is the loyalty you owe to your father, and to the steward of the city?”
He bent to pick up the weapon. In his hand it looked like the toy it really was, but Faramir was still only a child as well.
“You disappoint me,” Denethor spoke, weighing the blade. He stared Boromir down and he stared back, refusing to be cowed into submission.
The silence in the courtyard grew heavier still, the air laden with rain and anger.
“A son who refuses to obey his father must be punished,” Denethor finally stated, “And a son who is cowardly enough to hit his brother from behind doubly so.”
Boromir saw Faramir shake with fear, anticipating the sentence, wondering what form it would take. He was still so very young, his little brother, and he’d meant no harm. From the moment he’d been born he’d been following Boromir around, imitating his every move. That day had not been different.
He stared at his feet sullenly, refusing to beg for forgiveness like a child.
Denethor seemed disappointed at his lack of reaction. He tossed the sword into Belegor’s hand and stalked away, his cloak swirling in his wake. “See that they are punished,” he snapped at his wife as he passed her by.
Boromir saw his mother bow her head in obedience.
That evening they’d been made to kneel side by side on buckwheat in one of the empty rooms of the citadel, the pointy grains embedding themselves into the skin until it bled. Boromir felt his knees go numb from the pain, the initial shock spreading into a steady ache. To his right, Faramir sniffled, enduring his own sentence with as much courage as a four-year-old could.
He reached out. His brother’s hand was small and warm in his, and he gave it a squeeze.
“I’m sorry,” Faramir wailed, snot running from his nose, “It’s my fault you were punished.”
“It’s not your fault.” Boromir remembered his father’s face, twisted in fury at his refusal to hit his brother back. “I disobeyed him, therefore I deserve it.”
If he had to do it again, he’d not change a thing.
Their governess came during the evening to inform him that his time was done.
“What about Faramir?” he asked, rubbing his bleeding knees to remove the buckwheat that stuck to the broken skin.
The woman looked away. “Your father has commanded that he serve his punishment in full.”
Boromir clenched his teeth and knelt back down. “Tell my father that I’m the one who’s at fault. I won’t leave him here alone.”
It was their mother who came to find them in the middle of the night, her eyes red, to beg him to stop his folly, but his answer remained the same, until Denethor himself had been made come to lift the sentence.
Boromir’s knees still bore the trace of the punishment, the tiny scars visible if one looked close enough. He’d never forgotten the lesson he’d learned that day: evil could take many forms indeed, and the weak and innocent needed to be protected, whatever the cost.
And most importantly, he’d understood that not all duties were compatible when love was involved, even a sentiment as innocent and natural as the one that bound him to his brother.
oOoOoOo
“I will see the truth of this,” Boromir told his brother as they embraced upon the promontory, in full view of Gods and men. “So you can finally sleep in peace again.”
Faramir furrowed his brows in concern. “I should be going,” he protested once again, a conversation they’d been having almost daily since the dreams had begun. “You should stay and protect the city. Father will…”
“Father will have to trust your wisdom,” Boromir cut him off, “As I do.”
“You know he disapproves.” Faramir crossed his arms. “Why choose to disobey?”
Over Faramir’s shoulder Boromir saw that his steed was being brought to him by one of the guards. He slung his shield upon his shoulder and mounted.
“The road is long and uncertain, little brother. I’d rather know you safe at home, protecting our city while I’m away.”
Faramir had smiled. “And who will keep you safe?”
He laughed. “Worry not, Faramir. I will find Imladris and seek the counsel of Elrond Half-Elven. Before the year is through you will see me again.”
Daylight was pouring into the streets of Minas Tirith when Boromir crossed the last gate. He hadn’t lied about the perils of the journey that awaited him. The road lay through the Gap of Rohan, along the mountains and into lands he’d never been to before, where elves dwelt in a hidden valley no-one had ever seen. Yet such was their need; the permanent danger that threatened the White City and his father’s sanity were some of the many reasons for his quest. Boromir knew that much depended on his success, from the lives of his people to the future of all Middle-Earth.
There was one life he yearned to save most of all, one person he desired to see spared from harm and trouble. He thought of his brother, of his sad eyes and tired posture.
Boromir promised himself he would do whatever it took for Faramir to sleep peacefully once again.
Ranking: Second Place
Summary : They say that love is the death of duty, and when his brother is involved, he is prepared to disobey.
Characters: Boromir, Faramir, Denethor, Finduilas
Rating: K
Warnings: none
July 4th, T.A. 3018
From where he stood, the White City lay before him, illuminated by the rising sun. Every level could be seen from the promontory of the citadel, as though he were flying high above the plain. Boromir had always loved this particular moment of the day, when the city was still asleep save for the people who guarded it. It was at such moments that is was most tranquil, and where the illusion of peace was at its strongest.
He said his goodbyes in silence. He would miss her during his journey, and though she’d be in good hands during his absence, the dull sense of worry would not leave him until he saw the white walls of Rammas Echor again.
For as long as Boromir could remember, Minas Tirith had stood alone on the edge of darkness, deprived of its twin sister turned evil. Minas Morgul lay beyond the mountains, almost at arm’s reach from his vantage point, and much closer still was the crucible of the conflict with Mordor. Beyond the vast plain of the Pelennor, spanning accross the Anduin stood the old capital of Gondor.
Osgiliath.
The city had suffered a great deal, devastated by plague and a turned into a daily battlefield against the forces of Mordor, until that last attack, less than a month ago. There was nothing more they could’ve done to save it, he thought, despite his father’s conviction otherwise. Yet at that very moment, shrouded in the morning mists, the abandoned city seemed empty and calm, the enemy movements within invisible from afar.
Such peace. Such quiet. That was another reason why Boromir enjoyed the daybreak in the citadel: until the city fully woke he was not like to be summoned or solicited, and could remain a simple man amongst others, rather than the steward’s son.
Who was he, in truth? Once the white cloak was stripped from his shoulders, the ensign of the white tree torn from his breast, what remained beneath? Was he a son, a brother or a warrior? Boromir once thought he could be all three, and more, but everyone expected him to choose a side. Yet there were roles he would never play, he knew it in his heart.
“I see you are ready to depart.” Faramir’s quiet voice came from behind.
He turned around, smiling. “Brother.” He embraced Faramir tightly, noting the exhaustion on his face. “Do you still have that dream?”
The portents sent to them both in sleep didn’t come to him so often or so freely as to Faramir, who woke from already short and restless nights even more tired and worried.
His brother nodded, his eyes grave and drooping. “The same words, once again. The sword that was broken, and Isildur’s heir…”
Boromir frowned at his words, causing Faramir to grow quiet. He wondered whether it was his resemblance to their father, or the simple unwillingness to share more of his dream, that had cowed his brother into silence.
“I will see the truth of this,” Boromir assured him, a hand on his shoulder. “Stay here. Protect the city…” He paused. “Avoid Father if you can.”
They shared a look of understanding.
Too long had it been since his brother had received a sign of approval from Denethor, especially if Boromir himself was around. Even though his brother never flaunted this injustice or uttered a word of complaint, Boromir knew the truth of it from the whispers of his men. Ever since he was old enough to notice, their father often favored him both publicly and in private; their ideas were not granted the same attention depending on whether they came from Boromir or Faramir, and their deeds did not carry the same share in glory.
Though it had been together that they had defended Osgiliath two weeks ago, them and their men against the armies of orcs from Mordor, it had been Faramir’s judgement that their father had questioned.
No matter how hard he tried, Boromir had trouble remembering when and how it had started, the growing imbalance in Denethor’s behavior towards his sons. How proud he’d been, at first, to be singled out and set as an example. Didn’t it mean that his behavior was irreproachable, and that his merit was real?
After Finduilas’ passing, their father’s naturally guarded demeanor had grown even more closed and secretive. The affection he’d been so miserly in dispensing to his youngest son had all but run dry, and he’d become a bitter, unpleasant man, whom Boromir struggled to love but had no choice but to respect.
The rift grew deeper with each day, but what could’ve driven the brothers apart had torn Boromir in two instead.
Faramir had been only five then, too young to understand what’d happened, and why and where his mother had gone. Bewildered and grieving, he’d sought affection where he could find it, and Boromir had found himself comforting his little brother, finding comfort in return from the certainty of being loved and needed. Mother was gone, and it fell upon him to care for Faramir as she would’ve done.
Yet their father too required his support and loyalty, albeit in a different manner. Denethor carried a heavy burden, his city the last rampart against evil in Middle-Earth. It was his wisdom and resilience that had kept Minas Tirith safe and the forces of Mordor at bay during all these years, and hard times bred hard men. Who was Boromir to resent him for his bitterness, when the situation was so dire? Father needed strong sons to support him, and Boromir had strived to become the strongest of all.
For a time he thought it would suffice; to love his brother and obey their father, a perfect son for a troubled man. To hear his actions and ideas spoken of so highly had comforted Boromir in the illusion that he could make up for his mother’s absence by his loyalty and his courage.
It had taken him a few years to comprehend the unjustness of the treatment Faramir was getting in comparison to his own. And once he did, there was no unseeing it.
oOoOoOo
August 20th, T.A. 2987
The clouds that hung above the citadel were a dull grey, fat with the rain that had threatened to pour out since morning. Yet not one drop had fallen, the plain as parched and dry as Mordor itself, and he day had grown more stifling and humid with each passing hour.
Boromir’s tunic clung to his body as he parried the blows of his master-at-arms, the clammy garment chafing against his skin. He’d be sore and bleeding that evening, but he’d rather die than admit it in front of anyone but their mother.
Finduilas was watching from afar, torn between pride and fright for her first-born, wincing at every blow that skidded off his wooden shield. Her soft, delicate hands clutched a handkerchief, which she held at the ready should there be blood. Father wasn’t there, of course. Father was busy with the affairs of the land, as a diligent steward was wont to do.
“Good work, Boromir.” Belegor nodded approvingly, swinging his training sword in a circle, “But remember: don’t look to where you’re aiming. It gives your intentions away.” He slid into his battle stance once more. “Never glance to where you mean to hit. Keep your eyes on my face.”
Boromir nodded. Sweat was running down his face, stinging his eyes, and the more he rubbed at them the more they burned. He was growing tired of the exercise, longing for a drink of the lemon-flavored water infused with mint that his mother favored, and that she shared most willingly with her sons. Fighting was fun for a while, but now he longed for a merrier pastime.
Suddenly, he felt something thin and hard slap his shoulder. Spinning around, he was faced with his younger brother who grinned, showing his missing teeth. Faramir was holding a stick and imitating Belegor’s posture.
“I want to fight too!” he proclaimed, hitting his brother again.
Boromir was torn between annoyance and laughter; his brother was too little to do any harm with his makeshift weapon, but he was impending Boromir’s training, which only meant that it would be delayed further.
“Go away,” he mumbled, swatting the stick out of his face with his free hand, but his brother persisted, buzzing around him like a small but determined insect. He kicked up clouds of dust as he bounced in a circle around Boromir, swishing his stick with both hands.
His enthusiasm melted Boromir’s reluctance and he found himself laughing at Faramir’s antics before a stern voice interrupted their game.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Father was watching them from the parapet that overlooked the courtyard. His mouth was drawn into a thin line, his brows furrowed in displeasure. Though his voice was low, Boromir sensed that the storm the elders had promised for the day wasn’t far.
“What are you doing?” Denethor, steward of Gondor, seethed.
Faramir quivered under his gaze. He stepped away and started to trudge off towards their mother, his stick trailing in the dust behind him. But Father wasn’t pleased.
“Hit him back, Boromir.”
Boromir cast a look towards his mother, hesitating. Finduilas stood, straight and tense, her eyes darting between him and his brother. She wouldn’t dare speak against her husband, but Boromir knew she disapproved.
Faramir had stopped in his tracks. His brother had a slighter build than his own, with stooped shoulders and awkward, gangly legs, while Boromir was already filling out to become a man. His brother’s eyes were wide with fear, fixed upon the heavy wooden sword in Boromir’s hand.
“Hit him back, I said. Let him learn the consequences of his actions.” Father leaned over the parapet, eager to see his command carried out. “Let him taste battle if he so desires.”
Their mother brought the handkerchief towards her mouth. Her face was ashen.
“Come on, boy. If you’re being attacked, you’ve a right to defend yourself.”
“But he’s my brother!” Boromir objected. “And he’s weaker than I am.”
He knew from experience how painful a hit with such a blade could be. Faramir wasn’t built to endure such a lesson, not from their father or himself. Boromir looked at Belegor, seeking support, but the master-at-arms remained silent, loath to question his ruler’s command.
“You’ll meet foes weaker than you who’ll want to kill you anyway. What’ll you do then? Yield out of sheer courtesy and allow them to take your life?” Father swept down the stairs and into the courtyard. “I have given you an order. Hit your brother back, or endure my displeasure.”
Boromir clenched his jaw. “I won’t.” The wooden sword clattered to the ground.
Everything in him rebelled against his father’s words, every lesson about honor in contradiction with such a command. The strong were to protect the weak, he’d been taught, and to ward off evil in whatever form it took. And if he was a fool to believe such learnings, then so be it.
Father narrowed his eyes in fury. “Is this how you thank me for my benevolence and my support?” He advanced on them both, looking at each of his sons in turn. “Is this what you’re being taught? Where is the loyalty you owe to your father, and to the steward of the city?”
He bent to pick up the weapon. In his hand it looked like the toy it really was, but Faramir was still only a child as well.
“You disappoint me,” Denethor spoke, weighing the blade. He stared Boromir down and he stared back, refusing to be cowed into submission.
The silence in the courtyard grew heavier still, the air laden with rain and anger.
“A son who refuses to obey his father must be punished,” Denethor finally stated, “And a son who is cowardly enough to hit his brother from behind doubly so.”
Boromir saw Faramir shake with fear, anticipating the sentence, wondering what form it would take. He was still so very young, his little brother, and he’d meant no harm. From the moment he’d been born he’d been following Boromir around, imitating his every move. That day had not been different.
He stared at his feet sullenly, refusing to beg for forgiveness like a child.
Denethor seemed disappointed at his lack of reaction. He tossed the sword into Belegor’s hand and stalked away, his cloak swirling in his wake. “See that they are punished,” he snapped at his wife as he passed her by.
Boromir saw his mother bow her head in obedience.
That evening they’d been made to kneel side by side on buckwheat in one of the empty rooms of the citadel, the pointy grains embedding themselves into the skin until it bled. Boromir felt his knees go numb from the pain, the initial shock spreading into a steady ache. To his right, Faramir sniffled, enduring his own sentence with as much courage as a four-year-old could.
He reached out. His brother’s hand was small and warm in his, and he gave it a squeeze.
“I’m sorry,” Faramir wailed, snot running from his nose, “It’s my fault you were punished.”
“It’s not your fault.” Boromir remembered his father’s face, twisted in fury at his refusal to hit his brother back. “I disobeyed him, therefore I deserve it.”
If he had to do it again, he’d not change a thing.
Their governess came during the evening to inform him that his time was done.
“What about Faramir?” he asked, rubbing his bleeding knees to remove the buckwheat that stuck to the broken skin.
The woman looked away. “Your father has commanded that he serve his punishment in full.”
Boromir clenched his teeth and knelt back down. “Tell my father that I’m the one who’s at fault. I won’t leave him here alone.”
It was their mother who came to find them in the middle of the night, her eyes red, to beg him to stop his folly, but his answer remained the same, until Denethor himself had been made come to lift the sentence.
Boromir’s knees still bore the trace of the punishment, the tiny scars visible if one looked close enough. He’d never forgotten the lesson he’d learned that day: evil could take many forms indeed, and the weak and innocent needed to be protected, whatever the cost.
And most importantly, he’d understood that not all duties were compatible when love was involved, even a sentiment as innocent and natural as the one that bound him to his brother.
oOoOoOo
“I will see the truth of this,” Boromir told his brother as they embraced upon the promontory, in full view of Gods and men. “So you can finally sleep in peace again.”
Faramir furrowed his brows in concern. “I should be going,” he protested once again, a conversation they’d been having almost daily since the dreams had begun. “You should stay and protect the city. Father will…”
“Father will have to trust your wisdom,” Boromir cut him off, “As I do.”
“You know he disapproves.” Faramir crossed his arms. “Why choose to disobey?”
Over Faramir’s shoulder Boromir saw that his steed was being brought to him by one of the guards. He slung his shield upon his shoulder and mounted.
“The road is long and uncertain, little brother. I’d rather know you safe at home, protecting our city while I’m away.”
Faramir had smiled. “And who will keep you safe?”
He laughed. “Worry not, Faramir. I will find Imladris and seek the counsel of Elrond Half-Elven. Before the year is through you will see me again.”
Daylight was pouring into the streets of Minas Tirith when Boromir crossed the last gate. He hadn’t lied about the perils of the journey that awaited him. The road lay through the Gap of Rohan, along the mountains and into lands he’d never been to before, where elves dwelt in a hidden valley no-one had ever seen. Yet such was their need; the permanent danger that threatened the White City and his father’s sanity were some of the many reasons for his quest. Boromir knew that much depended on his success, from the lives of his people to the future of all Middle-Earth.
There was one life he yearned to save most of all, one person he desired to see spared from harm and trouble. He thought of his brother, of his sad eyes and tired posture.
Boromir promised himself he would do whatever it took for Faramir to sleep peacefully once again.