Home [ Flashback, year 3018 TA. FARAMIR ]

[boromir]

5 months 21 days. He wanted to laugh. Or sob. Whichever one that would come to him first. 5 months and 21 days since he looked over his shoulder and looked upon his city once more before wheeling his horse and digging his heels into the dapple grey. And now... Now he can see it. The pearl white of the Tower of Ecthelion. He closed his eyes and he saw the silver banner floating at its peak, calling him home. He smiled and hurried down the hill. In an hour he will have arrived at Osgiliath. And over there, perhaps he will find a horse that will take him back to the citadel. 5 months and 21 days. He going home.

One step in front of the other. He carefully shifted his pack from one shoulder to the other. His wounds had healed well, but they were still terribly tender to the touch and burned agonisingly when ever he put any sort of strain onto them. He could hardly even lift his left arm, now. He winced and bit down his pain. His pride was the only thing stopping him from falling to his knees and curling up whenever a spasm of pain erupts from his wounds. Besides, he was so close now. By the end of the day, he would be back in his own bed and he could whimper pathetically all he wanted. Pff.

A bird was startled and flew from its bush some where and Borormir turned at the sound. Then he heard a sound, a horn maybe and he knew what he signified. Someone in Osgiliath had seen him. He wave his right arm above his head, trying to catch the guards attention and tell him that he was no threat. He wondered if his own men would recognise him now and from this distance . 5 months and 21 bloody days. He was almost home.

(( sorry if its short and failly. this deserves more than that. but i'm barely awake when i was writing this. and i'm barely awake now. haha. /goes to pass out ))

[faramir]

ooc: I tried determining Faramir's position via a detailed map of Osgiliath, but after a while I decided to... well, "screw it" and trust improvisation. I would have put Faramir on guard at Anduin, but I don't think Boromir would be coming in from East Osgiliath, so I put Faramir away from the river. I'm also playing around with present and past tense.

Before dawn Faramir could hear the rapid clik-clak-clikclak of well over a thousand pairs of feet against stone surface. Men, men of Gondor, soldiers dashing here & there, left & right, north & south east & west – for farewell. Farewell, My City; Farewell, My Lord; Farewell, Mother, Sister, Cousin, Brother. Brother. Farewell, goodbye, farewell, good(fortune on your way there and Back – please Come Back, You Must Come Back)bye. Boromir, son of Denethor II, embarking on a journey to Rivendell for “Isildur’s Bane”, as spoken to him (and|& Faramir) in the dream. Boromir leaving, & then hopefully Boromir returning, smiles & laughter fluttering around his shoulders, a piece of glory in his palm, warm & snug in the fingers of a man whose hands wielded swords & waved to command other soldiers, fighters.

That was five months ago. One of the last memories Faramir had on the morning of Boromir's leaving. A shard. As his brother turned to leave, part of Faramir thought: Please bring back the answers, they could aid Gondor. And yet. Another part of him thought: Don't go. Alone in cold stone. White walls. White, the colour that would envelope your shoulders, slide down and cover you like molasses, draw you away. The colour that haunts.

And Osgiliath was grey. Grey and ruined, water everywhere. The sticks and leaves that had encircled the remnants of what once were the kingdom's clouds of glory were, more or less, extensions of the stinging puncture lingering in your ribcage. And Faramir was here, first surrounded by white, now smothered in grey. And Ithilien, Ithilien, too, was beginning to feel like this.

But. He had no time to think about this. The War. You had to turn this to that and defending Osgiliath to this. Whatever you had wanted as a child was now a crack in the air: untouchable, invisible. Whatever you had wanted to console your father with might as well be buried in the folds of your mother's cloak. And when war takes you, the only trace you would have left was the loose wooden board beneath the bed you had slept in during the creamy hues of your childhood.

A horn sounded. He felt his organs stop. What?

Two men -- rangers -- ran to him. Mablung and Damrod. "Lord," began the former, breath a little shaky. "Lord Boromir approaches Osgiliath, Lord."

His voice could have died. "What?"

Damrod this time. "Your brother approaches Osgiliath, Lord. The Horn of Gondor --"

He couldn't hear. Boromir? When he was sure Damrod's mouth had stopped moving, he thanked -- or at least he thought he did -- the two rangers, before sprinting out, leaving either one of them to take over his post. Looked out over the walls, where a guard was already letting him in.

[boromir]

He had seen the riders coming before they saw him. He counted four men; four men and five horses. At least he will not have to walk the rest of the way. He was very tired of walking after all. Ever since he lost his dapple grey at the Tharbad, he had been on foot, save for the time after they left Lothlorien, where they travelled by boat. Even so, it will be nice to sit on a saddle again. As they came closer, he saw that the man who rode at the head of the party wore no helm, and Boromir immediately recognised his face. He could see, even from here, Irnil's gaunt face and scowl. A good man and a better soldier with a spear and lance, but tight with his lips and few with his words. Boromir was happy to see him again.

" Lord Boromir," One of them hailed as he made his way down the hill to meet them at its foot, " Welcome home,"

Irnil was the first to arrive at his side and Boromir took his hand, squeezing it, " Uh," Irnil grunted, a thin, unimpressed smile drawn at his lips.

Boromir laughed at the man's reaction. He looked at him as if he had just gone out to the market to get some bread, and that his return was expected and came at no surprise. Hah. Nothing has changed. That was the way he liked it and he would not have it any other way. He let his friend's hand go to reach for the bridle of the chestnut they had brought for him.

" I pray that you lot have not burnt the city down while i was away,"

" Not yet," One laughed, " But Captain Uther came close, i think,"

He grinned, pleased to have someone to talk to again. Since he had parted ways with the Fellowship, with Aragorn, things have been very quiet. The thought of the Fellowship brought a slight pang in his chest. He wondered where they are now. Rohan, Aragorn had said after he told him that they had let Frodo to follow through with his decision to continue his quest alone. He took a breath and slid up onto the saddle. He will see them again, no doubt. Which reminds him... he will need to tell his father of Aragorn. Gondor needs to prepare for the return of the King.

Irnil reined his horse around, " Nhh," He said to him before kicking his horse into a gallop. Boromir quickly followed suit, easily keeping pace with the man whilst the other three took their places around them. This was a good horse, sure footed, flying over loose rocks and damp soil easily as he raced down the river. He felt light. As if all of his troubles and burdens have been lifted from his shoulders in that very instant.

He had felt it of course. It was perhaps the 10th (?) night since leaving Amon Hen, when he woke to a searing burn at his heart, and he choked and writhed as if fires had erupted beneath his skin and flesh, burning through him. Then. It was gone. Everything. The shades and shadows in his dreams. The claw that gripped and held his waking thoughts, pulling him down into darkness whenever he let his mind wander, driving him half mad. The whispers, the song. Gone. Now all that was left was a gaping hole in his chest where the Ring had left its mark. But.. he could live with that.

But this was different, but no less relieving. He was home. He was finally home. And when he turned his head he could still see the White City standing tall and bright against the Mindolluin. His city had not fallen to ruin, his people were safe and free from Mordor's evil. And with Aragorn returning to the throne... Gondor can finally rebuild in peace, and perhaps... perhaps it will return to what it once was thousands of years ago. Perhaps better. He can hope and dream-no.. he'll do better than that. He will help.

The walls grew larger and larger before him and he could see the half ruined gate swing open before him, allowing him and the four others with him to pass through them. He hears the clip-clop of his horse's hooves on the stone, and he didn't realise how much he had missed the sound until now. Hahah! Around him men had gathered, and he met their eyes. Relief, Joy, Hope. That was what he saw in them and in their smiles. He vaulted off his horse and was immediately overwhelmed pats and claps on the back and cheers. his name. He greeted every single one that came to him, addressing them by name, if he remembered them, or with a grin and a squeeze of their shoulder if he didn't. Then-

" Faramir!" He called, looking around, " Where is he? " He had a dream ( only he was sure that it wasn't. it was alike to the dream that lead him to Imladris ) the night before he tried to take the Ring from Frodo. He saw his father and brother burn. He watched them as the flames ate away at their flesh and turned them into ash. He couldn't reach them. He tried and he tried but all he did was tighten the noose that pulled at his neck and made their screams louder and louder. The whispers mocked him then. He was weak and powerless. He could do nothing to save them.

If the dream was true then- No, " Faramir!"

There- He sees him. The crowd slowly parting to give way to the both of them. He pushed forward, his smile growing wider when he spotted a glimpse of his brother's face. Soon Faramir was within reach and Boromir grabbed his little brother and pulled him close for an embrace. He was laughing now, as he pulled back for a moment to look into his eyes, to search them, as if to confirm that it really was him, " You're alive, it seems, you little fox," He mussed his hair and hugged him again.

(( i actually had this mostly finished written for a few days now 8\ not really sure why i procrastinated on posting it. anyway here you go. huuhuu. ))

[faramir]

ooc: I still cannot come up with Faramir's half of the greeting, so I had him stay silent.

In this Age of War, you would have thought Faramir had already gotten (quite) used to separation from his brother. But. No. That wasn't even close to the truth, reality. Things from his perspective. There was a lot in mind and chest, the part made of fallen leaves and branches. Each separation was different from the rest, coated and painted with an unreplicable feeling, element. Aspect. Concept. Whatever the word for it was. There isn't a word for everything.

And this. This was (by far) one of the most painful separations Faramir had to live through, or live in. He wasn't sure which one it was, the latter or the former. This wasn't something he thought of all the time. The exigencies of war stopped him from doing so. The pain, too. Perhaps pain wasn't the right word to use. Pain sounded too... physical. Because for some reason the heavy weight anchoring down your heart, or the part of your chest made of fallen leaves and branches, was more unphysical than physical. In fact, it was barely physical.

But now. His brother was back. Boromir was back.

Faramir raced down the steps, though not at his swiftest speed. Subconsciously he chose not to resist the urge tugging his eyes towards Boromir's direction. At almost every five or six seconds he stopped and looked over the walls or stairs at his brother. It was him, it was really him.

There, there he was. They were finally on the same level. But. In front. Before Faramir there seemed to swirl a sea of humans. Even physically there would most of the time be something between them. Air of stone, breath of rock. Should he force his way through? Almost immediately he thought no. It didn't feel right to do so. Finally, after what only felt to be an elongated clap of thunder, the crowd between them parted. And then there. There he was.

Boromir.

His brother.

Alive. Back. Physically there.

Not just a memory, a feeling, in Faramir's head.

He let himself be pulled into the close embrace of his brother. His own arms naturally moved to form the other half of the clasp. Remained where they were when Boromir pulled back, just slightly. Faramir's mouth opened as he tried to greet back, but no words came out. A sound, perhaps, most likely a weak one. But. Now. His brother. Before him. Smiling, grinning, laughing. He couldn't speak, not for now.

[boromir]

He held his brother for a while longer, as if trying to hold onto this moment, to freeze it in time. He didn't realise how much he had missed him. How much he wanted to speak to him and to hear his voice. The past five months- almost six- have been surreal, like a dream, like a nightmare. And this was waking up.

But he knew that it happened, that everything did happen and as much as he wished for it to have only been a shadow in his sleep, he knew that it wasn't. And nothing will ever change that. The pain on his chest, those wounds and scars were a reminder, warning him not to forget his faults, his mistakes and failings. The arrows. The Uruk-Hai. The whispers. The Ring. They will haunt him to his grave. They will torment him to the end of his days.

He wondered if Faramir had gone with him to Imladris. If they had both been sent to chase the voice and prophecy of their dream. He wondered if Faramir had been with him... would things have been different? Would he not have fallen? Would he had been stronger? No- he was glad Faramir did not go on this quest. Boromir does not want this same fate, the same suffering upon his brother. And what if Faramir had been lured and caught as well? No. it was good that he had stayed here in Gondor. Safe.

He gave Faramir one last squeeze before pulling apart, though he kept his hands on the ranger's shoulders, he grinned, " It looks like Gondor still stands. Doubtless, this is thanks to you,"

" I missed you, little brother,"

After a moment, Boromir realised that they were still surrounded by their men. And he saw that some were still arriving to join the crowd. He turned to them, " Yes, I'm alive, but that is no surprise is it? Sorry to dissapoint who ever who has bet against my return, however," His voice carried easily as it had always done and he kept his tone light like a jest , " Go on then, back to your posts. All of you," There was a rumble of chuckles and A few more pats on the back, and several more exchanged words and the courtyard begins to empty, slowly at first, but soon there was a way out of the square.

" Come, I need a drink. And something to eat," He wrapped an arm around Faramir's neck and began to walk, " Something other than lembas,"

(( blaaaaaaaaaaah. i should not be writing past midnight. someone tell me that. ))

[faramir]

At first Faramir smiled. Boromir's beam was contagious. Then, rather slowly and with the pseudo-smoothness of expired butter, it faded. Well, not quite like faded: it was more of a.. somewhat 'gradual' gone-with-the-wind movement, and more than just the movement. The non-physical shards that the movement entailed. His brother was more or less praising him for whatever positive emotions would stir from his hands. And yet. Faramir felt -- and thought -- that Gondor still stood not only because of his efforts.

Or not. Perhaps Gondor really did stand "thanks to [him]," only he felt uneasy, borderline-distressed, even, in the smoke of such a praise due to pressure from their father Denethor. Pressure, or the nonphysical presence of him. His body was clattering in Minas Tirith, and yet. Faramir could still feel him. All around. In the air, hot and cold, the smells and hues of the river perforating the senses.

I missed you. Straightaway Faramir willed his smile to return. A mere not-smile rolled in its arms incredible power: that is, the ability to darken a previously blissful atmosphere.

"I missed you too," he finally managed out, voice probably hoarse from shock. "You daft bear," he added. Waited for the men to disperse, gently laughing at whatever jokes his brother rolled out. So that the metaphorical light continued to bathe the land in shades of dawn-gold. While in reality the city was still bleak, quite literally grief-stricken. The river. The ruins.

"There is a box of food at my post," began Faramir, trying to brush aside (or away) the urge to ask for any leftover lembas, "Mablung and Damrod should be there, lest I did not feel their presence in the midst of the crowd around you." In his head he hoped that they had kept to their posts: Osgiliath was, to put it lightly, a hot spot for Orc|Uruk-hai attacks. Caution didn't leave Faramir even for half a second upon Boromir's return.

[boromir]

Osgiliath had always made him feel sad. Or restless. Even angry. It was a standing reminder of the failings of his people. A mere shadow of a once great city torn apart by battles and by war, by greed and by brothers. That it shall never return to what it once was. No matter how hard he tried to defend and rebuild the city. He cringed, remembering what had happened five months ago. The Nazguls. The bridge. The undercurrent of the Anduin washing him away. No. Things will be better now. The Ring was destroyed, Mordor defeated and the King will return. Things will be better.

They walked past the hollow ruins and towards the inner city where the buildings had been repaired and fitted into stables and barracks and storage houses. It was busier here. Men hurried here to there. Dogs barked in their kennels somewhere while horses nickered as they are lead out into the streets. He heard voices, shouting and laughing. There were rings of steel against steel, a few boys sparring, he deemed and a smith hammering a breastplate, or perhaps it was a longsword? Boromir could not tell, nor did he care to. His stomach bit at him and he told himself that soon, he will have a nice bowl of hot broth, with half a loaf of bread and a whole roast chicken with spiced dark gravy. The thought did not help at all.

After a while he found himself leaning lightly against his little brother and letting Faramir lead him to wherever he was leading him to. He could not think now. Or perhaps he could, but he was simply too exhausted by the fact that he had walked all the way back to Gondor with several half healed arrow wounds. Aragorn had done the best he could to mend them, but Boromir knew that with wounds as severe as these he should be staying in bed for a month at the very least and recover his strength, or at least... that was what he thought he should do as it was what Healer Ioreth would most likely subject him to. He knew that he had greatly strained the muscles at his wounds by forcing himself to make this journey and it was highly possible that he had made them worse. Still, the aches did not make things easier, nor were they dulled and faded by the happiness that has come to him when he met with his brother again.

Even so, he kept his back straight and tried to keep his strides long and steady as he usually does, as if nothing was amiss. He cannot appear weak, even if it was a meager matter of keeping his own pride ( Pride. Hah. What was the point? I have no right to pride. ) " How far is it?" He heard himself say, cursing himself for complaining a moment later. What was he feeling embarassed for? This was Faramir, " And how have you been, little brother?"

(( sorry this took me a while. things got busy. baaaah. i'm still writing past midnight. this is bad. ))

[faramir]

The two of them had been close brothers for years. Close was the keyword. Partly through intuition Faramir had, for a while, noticed Boromir's exhaustion. Yet he chose to keep quiet about it for now, as, after all, Boromir did have a reputation of the strong, robust Captain-General of Gondor to guard. Still, Faramir did support his brother's tired body as subtly as he could. He was probably in pain, too. Faramir made a mental note to check for wounds, perhaps tend to any minor (or "minor," because one wound was connected to another, and some "small" wounds were in actuality very large, cutting deep into your heart and weighing you down) ones, in the dark, both literally and figuratively. He could already feel morale surging amongst the men in the city. He would have to wait until it calmed down, at least by a little, before taking Boromir to Ioreth. Whom Faramir did not really worry about in terms of morale and related things: her loquacity was (more or less) deemed normal by Minas Tirith.

"Ten to twenty minutes, depending on the strides," answered Faramir, carefully using the instead of your. For a while he said nothing, the edge of his lips lightly twitching as he pondered the question. Perhaps it was best to say: I'm fine, thank you, and you? But. Boromir was his brother. They both grew up with (or, in Faramir's (subjective)case, in the intimidation of) their father. Denethor.

"I have been guarding Ithilien and Osgiliath," he finally answered. Then he added, as if the two were not connected: "Each visit to Ithilien is longer than the previous, it seems." Scouts all over, and increasing in numbers. Perhaps he should lighten the mood, smooth out the dent his answers had just created, whether implicitly or not. He could talk about having a "great view" of the moon at night in Ithilien. Or safe (enough, at least) water to clean himself with.

Instead.

"How is lembas?" He looked at his brother, expression both serious and curious. "Are there any leftovers?"

[boromir]

" Mm..," He hummed, nodding his head lazily when Faramir gave the answer, and only after a moment did he notice that his brother had used to word 'the' instead of 'our', or 'your'. He supposed it was a simple slip of the tongue.. but Faramir had always been careful with his words, even as a child, he was always more eloquent than a child should be allowed to be.. and he rarely ever made any grammar mistakes, nor did he say something unless he meant it or if it was absolutely necessary. He wondered what the word 'the' had to do with anything. He shrugged it off, unwilling to ponder on such a small thing for so long.

With his other question however, Faramir had hesitated in giving his reply. And with that moment of silence, Boromir knew something was wrong. He knew how hard it can be for his brother when he was away. Denethor was always harsher with Faramir ( although Boromir would like to believe that he was hard with both of them, only he was a bit more vocal in his critics when it came to his younger son ) and he knew that without him to play peacekeeper between them... Boromir wondered what happened between his father and brother while he was travelling with the Fellowship. Did they have a fight? ( or fights? ) or did Faramir stay out of their father's way by retreating to Osgiliath and Ithilien, busying himself with his duties?

Perhaps tonight he will ride back to the city with Faramir. Have dinner with their father. try to bridge their relationship again... however vain that may be. Boromir knew that Denethor did love both his sons equally, but he never understood why he was able to show his affections when it came to Boromir but not to Faramir. For a long while he had pegged the blame on their mother's death.

Boromir remembered how hard it was for Denethor, and it seemed that something had died within him when Finduilas passed. Even as a child, he noticed how much colder his father became since his mother's passing, how much more distant he was from everyone. Faramir was too young at that time.. and his father did not know what to do with him. You cannot tell a five year old to play outside when he was crying for his mother, hoping that the child had wits enough to see and understand that he was busy. Faramir did not understand Denethor and Denethor did not understand Faramir.

Boromir was old enough by his mother's death to comprehend the situation and as much as he hated it and longed for a hug from his Father and a whispered, ' It will be allright,' He knew that he was grieving heavily as well and the burdens of the Stewardship did not make the mourning any easier. Even after all these years..

But.. perhaps it was because Faramir was so alike with their father... did Denethor see himself in his youngest son? Was he disappointed with himself? So much so that he hated it when he looked into the mirror that was Faramir?

At the mention of Lembas, Boromir chuckled, ( or whatever noise he made that was in between a choke and a laugh ) " No.. No i don't have any left, little brother," He coughed, wincing at the pain that shot through him from his wounds, " I only had enough to last me the journey home. I've finished the last of it last night," He turned to him, smiling weakly, " As for how it is... it tastes like elvish bread. Like normal bread. But elvish,"


(( nani. stawp writing past midnight. its bad. bad. >BU and yes sorry for the feels vomit. ))

[faramir]

He shouldn't have thought about Denethor. That was Faramir's first impulse. He knew he was sensitive around the subject of his own father, that the mere thought of the current Steward could send him rolling in the midst of an army of emotions, where each emotion was just as hard to dissect as the other. A terrible choice of word: thoughts were never, and would never be, mere. Any thoughts that were mere were, technically, not legitimate thoughts: they were (usually) feelings oversimplified by the limitations of language. Or feelings in general. No, not like the feelings which Faramir... well, felt in the middle of his stomach, or somewhere best his chest and his pelvis, but. Well. Not the same, literal period. Any more would just emphasise the restrictions of language.

"Normal bread, but elvish," he repeated his brother's words, as if trying to capture the taste of elven bread through repetition. Curiosity encouraged, he continued to ask: "If it does not bother you, you could be more specific." He widened his smile, for Boromir. "Is lembas sweet, or is it salty? Does its texture lie towards smooth and soft, or hard and crunchy? What of the colour? Does it fill you as the bread of Gondor does, or does the daft bear find his strength in one bite of the elven bread?"

Faramir himself had never been much of an eater, picky or not. But this -- lembas! As if art and lore from the elven realms (or realm? Did the elves personally view their realm as plural or singular? If plural, how were they divided? Geographically? Ethnically? Perhaps not culturally, as culture was various even across fifty square metres, yet. These were the Elves. They seemed to be composed of a different... essence than that of Men.) were not enough to satisfy him. Well, not him, but his curiosity -- Faramir, as him alone, was more than satisfied. According to introspection. (Faramir as him in relation to other things (things being quite the broad term), on the other hand...)

[boromir]

Boromir laughed, 'Oh here we go. Some things will never change,' He pulled Faramir closer and kissed the side of his head, " Well, little brother, if you must know," He grinned, looking up to the sky above them, as if searching it for answers, " It tastes sweet, but not overly so. It is very subtle. And it is more of a honey sweet than a sugar sweet. When you bite into it, it does have a crunch, and it is a hard bread, but inside it is soft and tender. And it's colour is golden some what or light brown, as if you have just held it over a fire, toasting it," He paused, taking a breath before continuing, " And it fills me well enough, even with a single bite. Perhaps it is because of elvish magic... as i do not see how that is possible,"

He turns to him again," I should have saved some for you. I know how much you would have loved to taste elvish food," His voice started to quiet. Faramir would have loved Imladris. Lothlorien as well. He would have appreciated its beauties. He would have been glad to linger there for months, made use of his time studying elvish tomes and the tales within them, while what Boromir mostly did was to pace around impatiently and growl at anyone who came close. The guilt came back to him. He should not have taken this quest from Faramir. It was his by rights. Boromir had robbed Faramir of his chance to travel to the lands that he so wished to see since he was a child. He remembered how upset Faramir was when he found out. They had argued that night; he was yelling and Faramir hissed coldly in reply, and by the end of it Faramir had stormed out and Boromir had kicked a table across the room. The next morning, Faramir had met him in the stables and they rode out together, parting ways at the crossroads, their fight forgotten and forgiven ( or.. at least, on his side. ).

" I promise that one day i'll take you to Imladris," He tried to smile, squeezing his brother's shoulder. ' I don't think i can make that journey through Eriador again...' he thought grimly, remembering his travels with the Fellowship. The Ring whispering to him. Feeling alone. Cold. He gave his head a mental slap and continued, " And perhaps this time, i won't be a fool and lose my horse in a flood,"

" Oh...and that reminds me..," He let Faramir go and swung his bag around, " I have something for you," He untied the string that held the pack closed and reached a hand into it, pulling it out a moment later with a stack of books and held them out to his brother, " I copied and transcribed a few of the tales, songs and poetry i found in Imladris. I thought you might like it. Think of it as an apology present for.. well.. you know.. what happened. And before you say anything- I can read, write and speak elvish as well as you. Well.. not really, but well enough. And yes- i did spend more than five minutes in a library and survived. One of my many great achievements ,of course,"

(( a bit of headcanon here. with the argument. yeah. sorry o n o ))

[faramir]

Subtly sweet, hard and crunchy on the outside, while soft and tender on the inside, toast-golden, a grown man's strength doughed into one bite. As he listened, Faramir took in the information, and not just the words. He tried to take in the taste, without actually ever tasting it. In his mouth he tried to imagine it, feeling his taste buds tingle ever so gently on his tongue. Hard and crunchy on the outside, while soft and tender on the inside. He liked that kind of bread. As they walked, he tried to imagine the juxtaposition of crunchy&hard and soft&tender, rolling in his mouth, sliding off his gums, with a unique addition of.. elven culinary skills. He would have loved lembas.

And he could have had lembas. Had it not been. Well. At once the memory of his brother yelling at him struck his senses. An argument and a broken broken to end the day. The day just before Boromir had left for Imladris. Faramir had been told the logic of Denethor's decision. And yet. He himself chose to, for once, view things blindly. Or pseudoblindly, because he did in fact see things very clearly, or clear enough to not act on a (conscious) bias. But. Imladris. The elves. He was that close to fulfilling the dream he had since age... since age-he-forgot. That close to stepping into elven clouds and elven mountains and reading elven books in elven rooms and being in the presence of the elves themselves. Because of (the exigencies of) war, he knew the chances of spending just one day in the elven realm was close to zero. And then that chance came, floated by in the form of a dream. But. No one told him, and/or he didn't know, that that chance had been not rolling into his palm, but dangling from the tips of his fingers. And then it got pulled away.

It could be five years before he could merely feel such a chance again.

"Did you not borrow your horse from Éomer of Rohan?" Muttered Faramir, more to (temporarily) shatter the memory than flood his brother with more questions. His head tilted slightly in curiosity as he eyed the pack. Then. He gasped. Quite loudly. Could it be -- ? No, it couldn't -- ...it was.

"This," he croaked out, carefully taking the books into his own hands, "This -- Boromir -- this... I -- I..." For a long while he couldn't vocalise anything, just gazed in awe at them, "...Boromir, I..." Finally, he swallowed to lubricate his throat. "Thank you, Boromir, thank you," he was whispering now. If only he could thank him a thousand times and increase the genuinity of each successive thanks. But no, that was impossible. So, without warning, he rushed towards his brother and pulled him into a tight hug. The books carefully cushioned between their torsos.

"Thank you," he said again, "And I... I've already forgotten you for... that..." Just to lighten the atmosphere, he added: "Does this mean you can finally survive five full hours in a library with me?"

[boromir]

Boromir smiled as he watched his little brother gasp and take the stack of books into his own hands, his eyes growing wide in shock, in awe then, in reverence, " Yes, yes, don't go grovelling on my feet now," He laughed, shaking his head when Faramir began to stammer and stutter, " I'm glad that you li-," His words were cut off at his tongue when Faramir reached and pulled him into a tight embrace. Boromir chuckled and hugged him back, lifting a hand to his brother's head to mess his hair, " I'm glad to see that you like your gift. I only hope that it is compensation enough for robbing you of this quest .. or at least for the next few years until we can travel to Imladris together,"

" Oh no, no," He wraps his arm around his brother's neck once again, " Do not push your luck, little brother. The only reason why i had achieved such a feat was because i did not think the elves would greatly appreciate me hacking their trees down out of impatience and boredom," He started to walk again, manoeuvring past a few riders who hailed him to which he replied with a nod and a wave. He turned back to Faramir, " Don't read them now. You'll have time to do so once you find me some warm food to fill me," His stomach clenched sharply and he stifled a grimace, " I'm starving," He said softly, trying to straighten up once more, only succeeding in making the pain worse. He remembered that a healing man needed as much rest and food as he could get, for his body needed to rebuild its damaged muscles, to mend its wounds. And Boromir remembered how little he had of either of those since Lothlorien. He remembered how little food mattered to him once they set out down the Anduin, how everything that he ate tasted bland, tasted like ash. Even water burned at his throat as he drank, leaving it drier than it was before. And the journey he made after Amon Hen ... he had taken what little food Aragorn could spare him .. and though it seemed like it would be enough at first, it wasn't in the end.

He was starting to lean heavily against his brother, for a brief moment wishing that he could swallow his pride and let Faramir carry him. He didn't feel like walking. No. He must keep going. When did Osgiliath becomes so big?

" How is Father?" He heard his voice ask. It was strange... that his voice sounded so far away. Was it supposed to do that? And the street... was it supposed to spin?

(( writing without inspiration is bad kids. bad. ))

[faramir]

"Then I should plant trees near every library in Gondor," laughed Faramir, purposely ignoring the lack of natural soil in the top circles of Minas Tirith. For a while he stayed quiet as he continued to walk, by now beginning to half-drag Boromir once again. The memory of the argument still seared within him. Anymore and something would have been burnt out, permanently, or almost so. He tried to deviate the memory away by imagining what a trip to Imladris with Boromir in a peaceful future would be like, but his imaginations only fueled it more.

"..." Faramir said nothing at first, as he often did when the subject brought up was not physically around. How was Denethor, their father? Anxiously anticipating your return, dear brother, would be an accurate answer. And yet. ...Yet, he did not know what. Consciously. It had always been hard for him to think about his father, much less analyse him. This, however, did not stop Faramir from analysing himself in relation to (analysing) Denethor. Only. His conclusions. They were never complete.

"His health is well," He finally answered, though his mind wondered if there was any sort of relationship between the question suddenly being asked, and the sudden weight of his brother on his shoulders. How tired was he, exactly? Stopping for a moment, Faramir beckoned for a nearby ranger, whom he asked for some water. When the ranger had jogged off, Faramir headed towards one of the walls, leading Boromir, still on his shoulders.

"Let's take a break here," he murmured, careful to use let's instead of you. "Here, let's sit against this wall." The ranger returned, two cups of water in his hands. Thanking him, Faramir took the cups and held both out to his brother.

[boromir]

(( trigger warning; Depression?? yeah i'm not gonna make it easy for him. ))


He didn't hear Faramir's answer, only his voice, and that he did say something. Whatever it was, his reply to it was a mumbled, " Good," Or was that in his head? Did he say that? He cannot tell now, nor can he be bothered to do so. His head felt light and his stomach was hollow and the wounds on his chest sent spasms of pain through him and throbbed at the slightest of movements. Even his old scars were aching, the one at his back and the one across his belly, but none more so than the one on his sword hand. A Nazgul. He remembers suddenly. The bridge. We had to destroy it. Too late. Too late. I nearly drowned. Faramir too. The river was too strong. Faramir came out last. I thought him gone. I screamed his name then. But he would not answer. In the dreams. He died. He drowned. He burned. The Nazguls. He had become one of them. No. No..

He was shivering. But he didn't feel cold. He felt himself lower towards the ground. No. I must keep walking. Home. He needed to go home. And tell Father.. apologise.. the Horn was broken.. in half.. He cannot let himself fall. He cannot let himself be weak. Not now. Not when he was so close. He blinked, looking up, confused, searching for his brother. There. He had a cup in his hand. Water. He reached for it and brought it up to his lips, or to where he thought his mouth was. He feels the cool drink flow down his throat, and he winced, expecting his throat to burn, but it didn't.

He drained the cup, but that did not make him feel any better and only succeeded in making him feel ill and fill his stomach with the urge to vomit. His hand found Faramir's shoulder and gripped at his vest. He was about to say something, but the words have fled him. He felt the arrows pierce through him, through flesh and bone alike. One after the other. There was pain at first. Then, there was nothing. He remembered... He remembered thinking, that he could not fall. That he needed to keep going. That he needed to fight. He must stand. He must stand. His sword. It's blade had shattered. He had failed.

He wished now that Aragorn had left him to die. And that he would un say those words that he said. He did not deserve that. He did not deserve any of this. He deserved to die. Or perhaps, Aragorn had saved him so that he will be punished by life itself. By living with his faults, with his failures. To be forever tormented by dark thoughts and dreams and the gaping hole in his heart. Aragorn had not given him the mercy of a quick death. Then, he was scared. What will Faramir do once he found out of what I did? He will push me away. He will fear me. Hate me. And what about Father? Will he cast me out as well? Perhaps that will be for the best. Only then, perhaps, will he learn to love Faramir. If he only had one son.