The stretcher wich I lay on was warm and comfortable, but it couldn't take away the pain throbbing in my shoulder and chest. The soldiers who carried us tried not to swing me so much but still hurt when we climbed up on the huge steps to Minas Tirith.

A warm, strong hand held mine tightly. Boromir… he was walking beside me, even though he was injured too: he was limping. But he didn't let the soldiers to help him walk: he was right at my side, holding my hand tight, his face full of concern, and the same sentence leaving his mouth every second:

Are you okay, Little Brother?

I nodded, wincing of the pain. Boromir tried to smile to bring me some comfort, but his grin soon turned into an anxious expression as he saw my pain.

Don't worry, Little Brother. You'll be fine.

I knew that was true. I will be fine, as long as Boromir is with me.

The pain became even more sharper as we walked through the enormous gates of the city. Soldiers and guards looked at us in concern, women and children, eldelry men gazed at us as we passed by them. Boromir didn't move an inch from me; he was still holding my hand, althogh I could see the pain in his eyes. A long cut spread across his forehead, wich was still bleeding.

My son!

A loud, desperate cry sounded from the city centre. I instantly knew who's it is. Boromir sighed in relief, but my heart began to fill with sorrow and fear.

Father… what will he say?

A figure dressed in grey cloaks appeared on the streets, as Denethor, Steward of Gondor, my father rushed to us, tossing the guards away from him. He ran beside us, panting from the long run. My eyes sprung wide open. What will he do, what will he say?

Father quickly gazed on me, muttering his fast question to the soldiers who have been carrying me:

Is it serious?

Not really, my lord. He will be alright – awnsered the tallest one.

Father nodded, then turned to Boromir. He began to comfort my brother, whispering gently as he pulled Boromir's reddish hair out of his face to see the long scar.

My dear son… oh, my dear son, you're hurt…

It felt like a cold, damp hand was squezzing my throat. It felt horrible. Father didn't even care. He didn't say a thing to me. He didn't comfort me. He didn't hold my hand to ease the pain throbbing in my body.

The only thing he cared about was Boromir.

I knew this is not my brother's fault. Since I was a little boy I knew that Boromir, not me was father's favourite son. When he spoke to me, he spoke with cold, rational words. When he spoke to Boromir his sound was soft and caring. The last time he held my hand was when I was ill. I was five years old then. But that was now ten years ago.

I turned my head to look upon my father's face, but suddenly a strong pain wave struck my shoulder, and I couldn't cut back my moan. I saw father looking at me. His face was scornful. You are weak, his face said. You are a weakling, no one, no one to me.

The soldiers began to carry me into the city. I heard them muttering about me; they said my wounds are still bleeding, so I need help right away. Father didn't care, as usual. He walked beside us, embracing Boromir to help him walk. He didn't say a word to me.

They carried us to the infirmary. One of the soldiers called a healer. Two of them layed me on a clean bed, while Boromir sat down on the adjacent one, still holding my hand. One of the healers examined me while the other took a look at Boromir's wounds. He had a cut on his forehead and a longer, deeper on his left calf. Still, these injuries looked like little scratches compared to mine. I had a deep cut on my chest, and a broken arrow shaft was portruding from my left shoulder.

Father sat next to Boromir while the healers bandaged his wounds. He was stroking my brother's hair, whispering him comforting words. Boromir just sat there rigidly, silent, still staring at me. A healer was cleaning the wound on my chest, wich was excruciating. I didn't say a word, I closed my eyes tightly. Father said nothing to me.

A healer declared he has to pull out the arrow shaft from my shoulder, wich is going to be very painful. Boromir instantly hopped up from his bed, kneeled beside me, and hold my hand tightly. Father stepped back into the corner, and he finally looked at me. His face was critical and bored.

The healer started to pull the arrow out of my shoulder. I experienced pain before, but this was much stronger than I could think of. A loud cry left my mouth as I gripped onto Boromir's hand. I felt tears running down my cheek. I wanted to wipe them off. I didn't want to cry in front of father. But the pain was so intense I just couldn't help myself.

It took two minutes to take the arrow out. And I have never had two such painful minutes like this. I was still crying when the healer began to bandage my wound.

Boromir didn't let go of my hand for even one second. I couldn't tell how helpful it was that he comforted me. Without him, I would have fainted by now. But he stayed with me, sharing my pain, whispering kind words.

I knew what my father was thinking. Boromir was always the stronger one out of us, and I was the softer, weaker. Boromir was the fighter, I was the dreamer. Boromir wouldn't cry in a situation like this; he would close his eyes and take the pain without even wincing.

But I was different. I knew that my father's problem is that I'm not Boromir. And I couldn't do anything about that. This felt even more horrible than the throbbing of my shoulder.

After the healers cleaned and bandaged all of my wounds, they took me into a ward and laid me down onto the bed. For now the pain took over me, and I couldn't say anything, I just lay there with nearly closed eyes. The healers advised Boromir to rest in another room, but he resisted. He sat beside me on the bed, holding my hand and stroking my hair while the healers covered me in blankets. After they closed the cuirtans and left the room, he whispered:

Don't worry, Little Brother. You'll be fine. I'm never gonna leave you. Now close your eyes, and fall asleep.

I did so. His calm words comforted me. I suddenly felt so tired and weak. I just wanted to sleep a little, to fall into dreams wich are not full of pain and sorrow, but with beauty and magic.

Sorry about father. It's all my fault.

I have never heard Boromir's voice so faint and full of pain. But the fact that he understands my sorrow felt like a potion that makes all the pain to go away. In his presence, I felt calm and peaceful. I felt very safe with him. I wanted to tell Boromir that it's not his fault that father doesn't like me, but no words came out of my mouth.

Shhh now, Little Brother. Fall asleep. It's okay. Let the dreams take you away…

Boromir's soft voice began to fade, and darkness, sweet darkness covered me as my brother's words turned into the wind's sound, wich is gentle, like in a dream…