Hello Little Brother by Alatáriël Ancalímon
Author's Note:
This is an edited version of a slightly less-than-sober original. Sorry for those who read the original and liked it, but a maturer, older me says that getting rid of it was probably for the best. Anyhow, enjoy.
Before noon on the twenty-sixth of February, Faramir had already woken up earlier than his wife, and had had his attendants bring him sombre garments of deep, dark brooding velvet, embroidered with delicate silver. He had ridden out three hours before dawn, the stars fading as the growing sunrise swept over them.
For today was the day that he would pay a visit to his family.
Faramir ran his fingers over the beautiful, but sad, carvings on his mother's grave.
'Finduilas, taker of grief and giver of life,
Who died untimely,
Leaving in this world two sons
And a grieving lord.'
'I miss you, mother,' said Faramir softly, and he kissed the flowers which he had been holding in his hand and now were laid slowly on the stone. Tears flowed down his face- cold as the grave before him.
He was on a mountainside, in a quite remote place. Finduilas would not have liked to be remembered in a place that was busy, overcrowded and dirty. Here, secluded in a glade, there was peace, and tranquillity. Only the sound of a trickling stream and birds beginning to stir disturbed him. Or, rather, relaxed him.
And in the distance, Minas Tirith shimmered.
Faramir now led his horse down the steep slopes, gradually turning rockier, and rode to the White City, journeying to the uppermost platform of the sixth level itself. From above, he could hear the muffled sounds of the city waking and coming back into its daily circle of life. He passed only very few people- guards changing their watch, old women feeding their fowl, hunters riding out in order to feed their families, and poor beggars, with nowhere to sleep but out at night, hard on their backs under the stars. And rain.
When he arrived, he dismounted and walked into a small courtyard, quiet peaceful and beautiful as his mother's grave, but with an atmosphere of more greatness, glory and nobility. A crow flew overhead and cawed, not loudly, but seemingly so for the place was silent as the night.
The courtyard was surrounded on all sides by eight-foot high walls, with a wide arch that Faramir had passed under. The crow now landed opposite him, on top of the smooth, white marble that had built this place.
On one of the walls, there was a stone rose engraved from it, solemn as the Pillars of the Argonath, but much, much smaller. Lord Denethor of Gondor had too died before his times, overwrought with grief, sorrow and despair. He had been a noble man and was now nearly forgotten in the City- no one remembered the kingly manner in which he had once used to walk in the streets with, the bravery and resilience of his rule, now over. King Elessar did not speak of him- only of the future of Gondor.
A rose was an odd choice though, thought Faramir. Though he still knelt down before the memorial.
'Father, forgive me for displeasing you. It was never my intent to do so. Rest now, father, my lord, and tell my mother and brother also that I too shall be with you soon.'
He stood up.
There was a statue in the middle of the space. Not towering nor huge, but of lifelike size and standing with his sword directly in front of him- the tip pushed into the ground by the relaxed position of its owner. The face was stern and proud too. It was a tall person; the carven features were beautiful and noble, very almost kingly too.
A horn was hung about the waist.
Faramir looked up at his brother. He wept silently. For before he had found Éowyn there had been no one in his life who had understood him as Boromir had understood him; protected him as Boromir had protected him. He missed him dearly.
And he felt guilty. Guilty that it had been his brother who had died and not he. It was he, Faramir, who caused his mother's death (or so he felt)- he who had caused his father's grief. It was he who should've died.
Boromir was heir. He would've been King of Gondor in all but name; great and strong; powerful, confident, beautiful. Faramir was weak. None of these things, he thought.
'Our places should have been exchanged indeed.'
Faramir sat down, and leaning against the cold hard solidity of the memorial, he wept.
'I think not, little brother.'
He knew that voice. He stood up, and turned around, knowing.
Boromir was standing in front of him, smiling. He seemed somewhat taller, and brighter- the Boromir that Faramir had once known seemed dull in comparison to the light that came from… this…this ghost.
'Boromir!'
The word rushed past his lips as he embraced his brother. 'Whence came thou? I did not see-'
'What are you doing my lord?' A guard was standing in front of Faramir.
'What do you mean?'
'You stood here, my lord,' the guard continued, gesturing into a space in the middle of the courtyard. 'There was no one else here. You looked as if you were about to topple over. You moved backwards when I called you, my lord.'
Faramir looked into the space. Except that it wasn't a space. In fact, Boromir stood there… laughing.
'Faramir! I'm here, aren't I? You can see me, can you not?'
'Of course I can see you!' said Faramir in reply.
'My lord? See whom?' The guard looked confused now.
Faramir stopped. He placed one hand on the servant's shoulder and waved his other over in the direction of Boromir.
'Look, man! Whom do you see?'
'I see no one, my lord.'
'That is not possible.'
Faramir loosened his grip and stood back.
'Then leave now.'
The guard obliged dutifully. Faramir sat down, leaning against the statue and sobbed inconsolably. For in his desire to be with his brother, his family again… he had only imagined it- a dream, a ghost. Just that. Only that. And those that he had loved and lost he had wanted to see so much again, that he had, for an instant, seen again, imagining.
'Little Brother.'
Faramir looked up to see his sibling, and leaned forwards, hoping to find him. As he did so, he collapsed; grasping thin air, realising just how much he missed him.
End