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Post by faramir on Jul 17, 2012 8:58:15 GMT -5
Faramir watched him down the water, before gently pushing the other cup into his hands. Dear Boromir, his brother. Exhausted, as if he had swam through leagues of rivers without rest. The only motivation conscious to your mind then was the sound of water lapping against your body. He felt his brother's body crack out in shivers. Instinctively, or perhaps it was almost an instinct, he felt not only the want, but the need, to soothe him, before analysing his condition. And yet. Perhaps it was the fact that he had grown up surrounded by war, or, in his earliest days, when its concept was still unclear to him, traces of it, a (near)invisible pseudo(?)nearindoctrination that he was born ready to defend and, if necessary, attack.
Now, with his brother before him, slumped against the wall, Faramir dared to consider a balance between the city's morale and Boromir's health, both physical and emotional.
"Brother?" He kept his voice low at murmur's volume. What's wrong? And yet. His voice. It failed him. Watching his brother, in this state of his, this deterioration from smiles & laughter & greetings to... this. Language wouldn't be able to capture and cradle the full totality of this. He knelt and reached out with both hands, steadying Boromir's shoulders. And then. There. He saw it. It, one of many things, possibly.
The Horn of Gondor. Cloven in two.
Before he could stop himself, he looked at Boromir, straight into his eyes. What had happened? But of course. Five months and more. If Isildur's Bane was anything not severe, then Boromir probably would have returned in less than five months and more. And judging from his current state, the meeting at Rivendell had turned into something possibly traumatic. Traumatic in terms of what the Captain-General of Gondor, one of the few survivors from the battle at Osgiliath, had already been through. That is, if trauma could truly be split into different degrees and categories. Because the Boromir Faramir constantly analysed could (seemingly, at least, because, in the end, Faramir was not sure, no, he was never sure, he only assumed, never knew, no one ever knew, not that he knew that no one ever knew, he just assumed it...) stitch his broken self together after each(?) battle he had fought at. And now. Here he was, not stitched back.
"Brother?" Pause. Then, softly, softly: "...What happened?"
ooc: Let me know if there is anything I need to change. I purposely left out the typically used back from stitch his broken self together, because, at least from Faramir's point of view, the self, after experiencing a battle, experiences a massive change that may not be significant to and/or noticed by others and the host of the self (the person, in this case, Boromir), but is very significant in relation to itself. I am also writing along a headcanon that Boromir and Faramir were traumatised after their first (real, not simulated) battle, but Boromir pulled himself together first after an understanding that hey, he is the Captain-General of Gondor after all, better get used to this.
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Post by boromir on Jul 21, 2012 10:14:48 GMT -5
(( tw; depression // anxiety? sorry friedrich. i toned it down in this one. and this will be the last post like this in a while. Boromir will return to his normal-ish self after this post <3 ))
Boromir looked up, hearing his brother's voice. But what did he say? He sounded so far away. He met his eyes, those eyes that trusted and cared for him, that loved him, they were worried now. He swallowed and turned away, shaking his head. Do not look at me, was what he wanted to say. I'm fine, little brother. I will always be fine, was what he wanted to tell him. He wanted to let this thing out of his chest, out of his skull. To tell Faramir everything. He wanted him to help . Selfishly, perhaps, he wanted his brother to share with him this burden, this pain, this torment. Selfishly, he wanted him to suffer some of it so that he does not feel alone. Because he cannot bear this on his own. It was too much. But he couldn't. His words were stuck at his throat, throttling him, killing him. How can he tell him of what he had done? If he does... No... No. Faramir must never find out. He must never know.
He felt Faramir beside him and his hand held tighter onto his tunic. He was here now. Stay. Please. Boromir closed his eyes and forced his lungs to take a breath, to accept and process it. It hurt. It shook and rattled through him. But he took another. And another. And another. How long had he been sitting there, curled up against the wall? The breaths were coming easier now, but he could still hear the arrows whistling through the air, piercing through him with a dull thump- No. Focus, Boromir. You are here now. You are here. Focus, boy. Focus. Pull your self back together. Get up. Pick up your sword. Get up, boy. Wasn't that what sword master Ostoher used to tell him? You need to be strong even when you are weak. For yourself. For your men. For the ones you hold dear. You need to get up. You need to stand. You need to fight. Pick up your sword, boy.
The shivering had stopped when he finally dared himself to lift his head up and shifted his gaze to his brother's face, avoiding his eyes, " Help me up," Were the only words he succeeded in croaking out as he tried to push himself back onto his feet. And only then did Boromir realise that there were dried tears on his cheeks and that he had been weeping. By instinct, or perhaps it was by habit, fueled by his thrice damned pride, he rubbed the back of his hand against his eyes and hoped that Faramir had not seen his tears.
" I'm still hungry," He tried to make it sound light, as if in jest. He even managed a weak smile, " Well, i'm hungrier now, i think. And exhausted. You may just have to spoon feed me, little brother," But he knew that Faramir will not take it as a minor thing. He will ask about it. Eventually.
I'm sorry, Faramir.
(( hehehe nope its fine <33 it's actually my headcanon as well. and on the first battle boromir actually LEAD, he won a narrow victory, losing many men despite it being a win. That night he cried and Faramir was there to see it. hehe ))
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Post by faramir on Jul 23, 2012 4:35:26 GMT -5
Faramir clasped his hand over his brother's, eyes never leaving him. To look away, even if the sky rained fire and the moon was broken and the sun burnt itself to death. He would not do it. Because whenever sadness fell on Boromir, selfish as this was, Faramir wanted him to be sad not alone but in his presence, next to him. So that every piece of Boromir that wilted away in sadness could be caught by Faramir, because to have the option of picking up his brother and stitching him together and yet not doing so would be just like plunging a very long knife through his past present and future.
And yet. It was hypocritical. The sadness Faramir felt, he would like to, and almost always did, feel alone. By himself. In solitude. Hypocritical. This he thought of himself in relation to loving his brother. No matter how much he introspected, he could never come to any permanent conclusions about himself. There was something terribly tragic about conclusions, as if he cut open and dissected his own self for the process, not the answers.
By now he was staring at Boromir. His brother. Tears on his face. Dried, but tears nonetheless. What happened? Again, he couldn't talk. It was the shock, perhaps. And more, he was sure. Shock that his brother was back, alive. Shock that his brother was shattering in front of him. Happiness that was brother was back, alive. Worry that his brother was shattering in front of him. Happiness and worry. You'd think they would cancel each other out. But. Reality is. They don't, not ever.
He helped Boromir stand, admittedly a little surprised that there still remained enough pride to drive him up. But. Maybe. Maybe his pride was falling, sinking. Immediately Faramir saw through the joke. If you could even call it a joke. Things could sting forever, and knowing Boromir, delay could turn into permanent avoidance. But Faramir would be there to cauterise it out. "You must drink more water first," he said in an insisting tone, before raising the cup and pressing to Boromir's lips, tilting it so that the water flowed out and into his mouth. At the same time, he turned his head and signaled a soldier over, then quietly asked for his rations.
ooc: Again, please tell me if I need to change anything, especially about Boromir avoiding his more conceptual troubles instead of solving them straight-on. Also, his rations as in Faramir's rations, not the soldier's.
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Post by boromir on Jul 24, 2012 11:01:43 GMT -5
A flash of anger shot through him when Faramir implored that he drink instead of continuing on their way, but it is immediately quelled when he saw the concern in his brother's eyes. I don't deserve his love. He shut his eyes, and pushed the thought away before slowly nodding and allowing Faramir to tilt the water into his throat. He was still holding onto Faramir's sleeve, not daring to trust his legs with his entire weight just yet. And when he emptied the cup, he lifted his gaze to him for a moment before tearing it away, " Thank you," He mumbled softly, briefly gripping the sleeve tighter before letting go and staggering to his feet.
The stone beneath his boots seemed to move somehow and a part of him only wanted to hold onto Faramir once again. An anchor. A constant. Unmoving. Firm. And that made him more afraid. What if he loses him? What if- Fires take you, Boromir! Stop this. He forced himself to take a step, wincing at the aching of his wounds. Then he sees one of the soldier come closer, bearing over his shoulder a pack. A ration pack, he realised.
" You need not give me your own rations, Faramir," He said, his voice still feeling coarse and weak, " They're yours," He tried to make himself sound insistent, but he knew that those rations were the quickest way he will be able to get any food. And the sharp hollowness in his stomach reminded him of how much he needed something to eat now. Besides, he was too weak to argue, least of all with Faramir.
He chuckled.
That little fox.
When did he ever win an argument with him?
(( that's perfect bro <3 and it's true. least in my headcanon as well. he's good at dealing with problems he can see and kick and cut into pieces , alternatively with war issues, strategies, problems etc etc. oh look its 12 am. bye bye coherency. and yeah anything abstract or emotional... well. yeah. also. lame reply. because i rushed this. and i need sleep omg gnight. ))
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Post by faramir on Jul 25, 2012 22:59:07 GMT -5
As Boromir drank and swayed, Faramir looked at the Horn. Cloven in two. The image of his brother holding it was, after all the battles they had been through [together], still somewhat unfamiliar. Peculiar. Absurd. For no matter how well-fit the Horn of Gondor was in Boromir's hands, Faramir still saw the gap between skin and bone. As if close proximity would never become nonexistent through full merging of self and the things that war entailed.
The soldier returned. Faramir thanked him, taking the ration pack. He watched him leave, then opened the pack a little, turning aside to shield its contents from Boromir. He was evidently starving, but to fill a hollow stomach with a feast would harm him instead of help him. After examining the rations for a small while, Faramir chose a small, red apple. Gently, he pushed it into Boromir's hands.
"Yes, these rations are mine," he nodded, sealing the pack again. "Thus they are mine to give out. Now eat. There is sugar in the apple, and you need sugar." And he wanted to say, I love you, but didn't.
ooc: I am sorry this is so short. I tried to write more, but I felt that it would be better to end it this way. Any more and it'll be depressing, ie: The Fox and the Hound.
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Post by boromir on Jul 26, 2012 10:15:28 GMT -5
Boromir watched his brother in silence; the words he would have said at any other time have fled from him now. The city was silent around him, or perhaps he was too exhausted to take notice of any sounds, or anything else save Faramir and the fact that he was surrounded by old stone ruins. The latter, he decided. When Faramir finally stood once again, holding a red apple and pushed it into his hands, Boromir could only nod absently to whatever he was saying. He would have liked to have some meat better than a fruit, but he cannot complain. So he took a tentative bite out of the apple, for a moment unsure if he could lift it up to meet his mouth, and chewed slowly. It was crunchy, sweet and tart in the way all apples were. It was delicious; or perhaps he really was starving. Either way he smiled at his brother, though unable to find his voice to say thank you . He hoped that the smile was enough
He took another bite, a larger one this time. Then another, and another, and it wasn't long until all that was left in his hand was the core. And only then, did he realise how small the apple was. He stared at the remnants of the fruit for a while, unsure of what to do with it, before looking to Faramir, " Is there any chance that there are any more of these?"
He started to walk, the cobblestone street still felt like water to him and he reached once more for his brother's shoulder and sighed; relieved when he found it. A crutch. He needed Faramir. He wanted to laugh at himself. He could not even walk without his brother.. No. He should let go. And he did. But he found himself clutching onto his brothers sleeve or tunic after a few steps, every time he tried to walk on his own.
" Wait..," He forced a weak chuckle, " Am i going the right way..?"
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Post by faramir on Jul 28, 2012 1:26:29 GMT -5
Faramir watched him eat, bite after bite & swallow after swallow. Gulp, gulp, gulp. He really was starving. It was then that Faramir realised his own hunger: it had been several hours since breakfast, which had consisted of not-a-lot: one apple, one piece of (stale) bread, and a small amount of cold meat. There was more back in Henneth Annun, but now, he was in Osgiliath.
He let out a soft laugh, (much) more for the sake of lightening the surrounding mood than being amused by his brother's hunger. Taking the core from Boromir, he reached into the pack and, with the same hand, withdrew another apple, as small as the one Boromir had just devoured.
"Eat while we walk." Then he handed the apple to him.
For a while he tried to feign being unaware to the frequent returns of his brother's clutches. Perhaps, perhaps this would lighten the weight on his entire self. And yet. Faramir knew that Boromir knew his own observance. Meaning that if he continued to play pretend, his actions would backfire. Thus: it was better to show his concern by aiding Boromir's balance. By supporting him. And not just physically.
"Yes, you are," assured Faramir as he wrapped an arm (the other which was holding both ration pack and apple core) around his brother's shoulders. "...For the wall we rested at leads to my post."
Then, after a quiet moment, in a faint murmur: "Would you like to stay here?" Or do you want to leave for Minas Tirith, where Denethor, father, awaits your return?
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Post by boromir on Jul 28, 2012 4:08:51 GMT -5
He took the second apple gratefully and almost immediately sunk his teeth into it, taking half of it into his mouth and chewed. The tartness was sharper in this apple and it made his eyes squeeze shut for a moment while his lips smiled as he brought a hand up to wipe the juice from his beard ( He will need to ask Faramir for a razor. The beard was growing unseemly. ) , " Thank you,"
When Faramir wrapped his arm around his shoulders, two things ran through Boromir's mind. The first was to pull away, to show that he could still stand, to stubbornly deny his weakness. The second was to allow his brother to help, to lean against him, to shift his weight onto him and damn his pride. And after a grumble, he decided on the latter, wrapping his arm around Faramir's neck and trying to hold himself steady on his feet. As steady as he could.
He laughed, shaking his head, " Ah, well. Why did you not stop me earlier though?" He let Faramir lead the way, bearing half his weight as they walked back and made their way thought the ruined city. He was grateful that this part of Osgiliath was less busy, he did not think it would seem to his men if they had seen him like this; broken. What would that say? What would that make them feel?
When Faramir spoke, Boromir looked to him, studying his face before turning his head away, " You mean, return to Minas Tirith..?" He started slowly, " Yes, I will. Perhaps this evening... or on the morrow.. when i'm feeling better. I need to see Father," Then, after a moment's pause, he said, " We should send word to him.. to tell him that i've returned,"
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