A/N: Okay, I don't own but I sure love them. Faramir/Boromir brotherly love, no slash. This is the polished version, many thanks to my loveable semi-beta, the grammer queen. Hope you guys enjoy.
The Wrong Fight
Faramir sat on his horse, before a battlefield that terrified him, looking into the eyes of, his men? Nay, they were not his men. He saw no trust or faith, not even respect for him in their eyes. He knew that were he in their position, he would be the same as they were towards him. He had no right to be their leader. He did not want to be their leader. He didn't know what to do with them. He was not ready to be a leader. He wasn't even sure how to be a good soldier yet. He didn't understand why he had been appointed to this job, to this battle. He wheeled his steed away from the men, ready to charge and looked at this terrible battlefield, appointed to him.
The land that lies between them and the enemy was scoured with ditches that looked to be two feet deep at most, and were just wider than a man's shoulders were broad. They were going to be a serious problem for footing... Then his eyes shifted towards the rubble that had once been a well fortified outpost, even destroyed it proved to be easily defended, the orcs and who knew what else, hiding safe behind the stone walls that still stood. There could be no accurate guess as to how many they face on this field of battle, nor could they know what monsters might be hidden within the outpost. Trolls? Haradrim? His heart quaked at the thought of this battle. He struggled to keep the tremble in his hands invisible to the men.
Then… they charged.
Their steeds fell into the ditches like the fall of flies, their squeals piercing the air. They all scrambled to their feet instantly to face the first waves of the enemy. Wargs, skinny and starved they spewed forth from behind the walls, snarling ferociously attacking in frenzy. Faramir barely had a chance to see them before they were upon him. The sound of tearing flesh and screams filled the air, the stench of blood overpowering. Faramir's stomach rolled, the urge to vomit strong as he fought near panic against the enemies surrounding him, he struggled to find that numb place that Boromir spoke of so often to him. That place where there was no pain or fear, there was only you, your weapon, your men, and the enemy.
Suddenly pain erupted through Faramir's body as he fell back onto the ground, through pain fogged eyes he looked down to his stomach and the arrow protruding on the left side and groaned with fear. He looked about now, unsure if he was looking for help or just looking, what he saw were his men, men of Gondor, falling to the blades of Orcs and Goblins. A strange rage filled him, a rage at himself, he could not just lay here, fell by a single arrow while his men fought and died for their shining city. He had to fight. Pushing the pain away he climbed to his feet still gripping his sword and began to battle anew, he had his place as a soldier; the place where his life did not matter so long as it was lost saving Minis Tirith, his home. Faramir cut down Orc after Orc, his arms beginning to tremble with exhaustion, pain edging into his awareness again.
He refused to give up, he would not fall while some of his men still fought. He hacked down another Goblin when he saw one of his men struck down, alive but dazed, the attacker assuming him dead and moving onwards, but a nearby Warg did see the man still moving and launched at its newfound prey. Faramir didn't hesitate, he lunged with all his strength in a downward stroke, severing the beast's head instantly. He cut down two more Orcs that lunged towards the downed soldier, then he turned to see the man rise, give him a small nod of approval then plunge back into the battle. Faramir's heart swelled with pride, perhaps he could do this after all, maybe, just maybe, he could win the respect of these men. He plunged into the battle with a renewed vigor, he slashed Orc, Goblin, and Warg without hesitation or fear now, determined that if he should fall, he would take every enemy possible down with him. Every time he saw a Gondorian fall he dove to their rescue until they rose to fight again.
He staggered back abruptly staring agape at the arrow protruding from His right side, opposite and maybe five inches higher than the first, he knees buckled beneath him, pain engulfing him so that he saw spots. He swayed where he knelt, the world about him moving in slow motion when suddenly a meaty fist was pulling him to his feet, the stench of Orc overcoming him, his mind was numb now as he tightened his once feeble grasp, spun away from the grip, thrusting his sword deep into the back of the surprised Orc. He stood there stunned now, his body shaking as he tried to get something to work, his mind, his body, anything, but nothing responded, suddenly an arrow whizzed past him so close he could feel the rush of air on his ear. A Goblin shriek behind him, sword raised above its head to strike him down, instead fell useless to the ground beside the dead body. He couldn't see where the arrow had come from though, his eyes glazing over.
"Don't give in now boy!" someone shouted.
Shaking the fog from his mind he pulled himself together with a great effort and began to fight again. No longer did he fight with finesse and grace but fell into every sword stroke, not allowing himself to stop moving for he could feel it. If he stopped moving even once, he would fall and not rise again, he fought for mere survival now. He fought with fear and pain, they fuelled him and exhausted him, pushing, pulling, burning, freezing he was all of them. The battlefield seemed to be freezing over as rain began to pelt down upon them like an aerial assault. Faramir fumbled about now, the constant swings of his sword throwing him off balance followed by another that balanced him again.
He tried to stay near groups of Gondorian soldiers, keep a safety net around him as he struggled to simply stand now, but there were so many Orcs. Didn't they ever stop? He stumbled again, over what he didn't know. Now he slew a Goblin, a Warg blindsided him, landing in a heap, he cried out when it sank its teeth into his thigh. On instinct alone he flailed his sword landing the flat of it against the beast's head, it yelped and jerked away though not letting go, Faramir screamed as the teeth tore through his leg down to grip his ankle now.
Desperately he swung his sword again, hacking at the beast's head with all his strength. The Warg shrieked, releasing his leg and charged for his head just as he buried the sword deep in its chest. It fell aside and Faramir lay still for a moment shaking with pain, there was chaos about him. He could not remember what his purpose had been for being here, but he knew he had to get up, he could not stay here. He struggled, panting as the pain consumed him like a fire he rolled onto his knees, swaying dangerously, he could see only a short distance before him with pinpoint vision. A Warg was upon one of his men. He wasn't aware when he'd stood, stumbling forward, he wasn't truly aware when the creature lunged to bite the head of the fallen man. He swung the sword recklessly right between the gaping jaws, the Warg bit down reflexively the sword snapping into three shards. Not knowing what else to do he rammed what was left of his sword deep into the Warg's throat twisting and jerking until the foul creature fell to the ground dead. He glanced about, the man he'd saved had already run off to fight again.
It was this one moment of pause that was his downfall, he knew not where the arrow came from, there were so many enemies both near and far, but it hurt so badly. His knees buckled and he fell into the nearest ditch. All grew quiet, there was not silence but what noise there was so quiet, so far away. He was sure the battle had moved away from him now. It felt good to lay here, he was so tired, he just needed to rest for a bit. Then he could fight again, he could try to save more of his men's lives. He had to earn their respect, this was the only way he knew how. His thoughts drifted of their own accord towards his brother, what would Boromir think of his fate? Would he think Faramir failed him? Or would he believe he had not trained his little brother hard enough?
If the past were anything to go by, it would be the latter, Boromir had always seemed to believe that Faramir's failings were due to a failing of his own failure. He took full responsibility for him in all aspect, ever since their mother had passed they had been inseparable. He always took care of him, made sure he was safe, even shielded him from his father for a time, before he was old enough to see the distaste Lord Denethor had for his youngest. It gave him a few more years of innocence that he dearly missed. He was not the soldier like his brother, he hated and dreaded every chance of battle. The few small skirmishes he'd participated in had been no more that ten or fifteen Orcs, but the very memory turned his stomach.
He shivered in the cold, he dearly wished he could see Boromir again. He could make things better, somehow he would make this seeping cold, this overcoming pain disappear. Denethor would be most irate that he had been struck down—that they have to waste good medicine putting him back together only for him to prove his failings yet again. Anger stirred within him again, anger at having been felled, he stiffened, his fingers digging into the loamy soil, soaked with blood as he tried to pull himself to his feet. He did not wish to fail again, he could be strong, strong like Boromir. But alas, he could not move any further, the pain was too great and he was too weak. Everything faded away for a while, it was nice, he couldn't feel the pain as much—but it was so horribly cold. He couldn't bring himself to stop the shivers. Time passed without reckoning, at some point the sounds of battle reappeared, so close and so far he believed it to be the creations of his dying mind—an illusion creating false hope. He didn't want to die, but no matter how he fought against the pull, Faramir sank into oblivion
Boromir sighed tiredly as he looked over the map again. He hated tedious, time consuming jobs, he hadn't the patience for such a job. Frustrated he threw his pen down and went to walk out in the fresh, brisk air, he gazed at his troop of men. Nearly one thousand strong they threw themselves against the enemy, fighting to keep their lands free. It was a hard grueling work but it was well worth the pain and exhaustion that it caused so long as their shining city was safe. A couple of them nodded to him with a smile, others, some of them newer recruits, more centered about protocol, gave small bows as he passed. Other commanders would insist upon absolute respect through protocol, insisted that every man give the small bow as he passed by, but he knew that it was simply ceremony. He would trust every man here to save his life if the time ever came, he had their respect, he had their trust.
A small commotion near the edge of camp drew his attention, he jogged towards it quickly. He couldn't see well yet what had started the commotion but it appeared to be a horse and rider, he picked up his pace to a healthy sprint, arriving to see his men pulling limp soldier off his horse, there was an arrow embedded deep in his back. A messenger was already running to fetch a healer while another supported the man gently, he was semiconscious, head lolling slightly, muttering under his breath, his armor was that of Gondor. Someone handed Boromir a flask of water, he held it to the man's lips and he coughed at first then drank deeply, parched with thirst after fast hard travel. They loaded him onto a stretcher, hastening to the healer's pavilion, there he seemed to revive some, sitting up on the cot while the healer cut away at the clothing, almost completely of his own strength.
"I am Fendelin son of Fendoln. We were ordered to retake an outpost two day's ride from here to the west, we came against an army of six thousand. I was sent out to call for help, the last I saw, I was the last of my regiment still standing." Fendelin explained. Boromir dropped his head in despair, he knew the regiment that this man had come from. The division couldn't handle more than small skirmishes, it wasn't designed for anything more.
"Who was the commander of your division that ordered such a futile attack," He demanded, failing slightly to hide the venom within his voice. The man looked stunned by the question, he hissed as the healer pulled away the last remnants of his clothes from around the arrow, which pulled at the wound some from the tacky blood. He drank the cup of wine given to him greedily before beginning his tale again, he seemed almost nervous to answer in Boromir's opinion.
"I thought you knew my lord. 'Tis your brother—Lord Faramir." The silence was consuming.
"For—how—long," he demanded, his voice clipped and tight.
"Th-three weeks, he ordered us to this battle the third week." He gave a sharp nod and excused himself from the tent angrily. How could his little brother be the commander? It didn't make sense. There had to be something else occurring that the men didn't know of. In a rage he walked up to one of his men.
"Send riders out for aid, we ride in two days." He insisted.
"My lord?" the man requested.
"I will not leave those still alive to the torment of those beasts. We go to battle."
Faramir could feel himself being dragged, everything was dark and so, so cold. His whole body hurt like he could never believe, how could one feel so much pain and not be dead? He felt so tired… Was he home yet? Were, whoever was dragging him, taking him to the healers? To Boromir? His heart ached to see his brother again. Boromir was safety, Boromir meant there wouldn't be anymore pain, he could be warm and safe again. Suddenly Faramir felt himself being thrown through the air, landing hard on his back, he gasped and coughed violently, pain exploding through his torso. The last thing he heard was whispers as he was sucked into darkness.
There were sounds around him, they were so quiet; he didn't know what they were. The sounds seemed to be louder, closer; it started and stopped, then another sound joined it. Nearly constant and far closer. He began to recognize his body was shivering and the horrid pain it caused but he could not make the trembles stop, it was so cold. He felt like he was floating on a wave—a very cold wave. His awareness sharpened suddenly, that constant sound he'd been hearing, was himself, moaning. The other sound, it was a voice, calling to him.
"Lord Faramir, Lord Faramir. You must wake. Faramir," The man cried out suddenly and Faramir jerked in surprise, not fully conscious, blinded by heavy eyelids. When the man spoke again his voice was a bit shaky.
"Shhh… it's okay, just open your eyes lad," The man instructed. He tried so hard, but he was so tired, how could he be expected to do such a task? The man could see him trying, so hard.
"Come on lad, show me your quality," He coaxed softly. Faramir struggled tiredly, his eyes cracking open slowly, he blinked a few times sluggishly, his eyes unfocused and glazed, staring at the dark, cloudy sky above him.
"There you go. I knew you could do it," Faramir's eyes lolled towards the sound of his voice, he looked kind of fuzzy. He tried to think, what was the man's name again, there was blood oozing from a wound on his forehead. He turned his head slightly, exhausted by the small movement, to see who else was here, he could see four walls surrounded them, and maybe four other people, five if he included the man sitting by his head. This confused him, four walls but no ceiling? Where were they? Was he dreaming? He must be dreaming. After that he sank back into the darkness for a while.
When consciousness returned to him it was to fire, his body seemed to be burning where the arrows were buried. He had to get them out, they were killing him. He moved a hand, grasping one, which he did not know, and began to pull. He cried out at the pain it caused but did not stop, then there was a hand gripping his wrist, forcing him to stop pulling, but he did not let go. He would not give up.
"Leave it. You will bleed out." Faramir tried to pull again with a whimper, he could not stop, the arrows were on fire. He had to get them out, He had to. They were burning him alive, he couldn't stop the panic the grew with the pain and fire.
"No Faramir. Leave them in, you must leave them. You must stay alive. For your brother." The man said, the word brother cut through the panicked fog of Faramir's mind.
"B-Bor-Boro—mir? Wh-where?" he whispered weakly.
"He's coming lad, he's coming—soon," The man whispered back. Faramir seemed to relax now, fading towards unconsciousness again. The man drew him back some, coaxing him to stay awake, a cup was brought to his lips and water spilled into his mouth, he coughed and spluttered tiredly.
"Easy lad, take it slow," A voice in the distance instructed. Out of habit he obeyed, focusing everything he had on sipping the water and swallowing, he was so thirsty. The water was cold as ice and stung all the way down, but it was so sweet compared to the parched feeling from before.
"G-good," He rasped thankfully, closing his eyes again.
"Get some rest young Faramir, your brother will be here to save us soon," The voice comforted, as consciousness melted away.
Boromir paced impatiently, he had wanted to move out yesterday, but they were only two thousand strong right now, he had to wait until more came before he could expect to win this fight. He couldn't allow the same thing that happened with Faramir's regiment, to happen to his, there would be no rescue after that. They had to win this fight. He did not speak of it around the men, but he had suspicions about Faramir's sudden promotion and suicidal assault on the outpost, the very thought that his brother may be dead sent him into shivers that he could not stop.
He plastered on a fake smile when another division of soldiers arrived in the night. They looked very weary, they must have come from a long way. He was grateful for their show of urgency, he would have gladly left the very moment that he'd received word. He couldn't understand why Faramir would order such an attack, or that he was in charge at all, it took every ounce of strength he had to not mount his horse and ride out this very moment. Army or no, he would gladly go alone. For Faramir.
"How many?" he asked eagerly.
"Five hundred my lord. There is another three hundred not far behind us."
"Good, good," He sighed anxiously. Nearly three thousand now. They stood a chance, but it was not a sure victory, he needed the sure victory. Should I wait for another day? Faramir may be dead before then... He could be dead already. But there may be others still alive. Will any be alive if I wait? Boromir felt riddled with confusion, he tried desperately to keep the thoughts that Faramir could be dead or dying right now, he couldn't let this be personal.
He spent the slow hours walking through the camps and drinking small cups of wine, not enough to get drunk, but enough that he didn't give in to the overwhelming urge to just ride out to save his little brother. It was nearing dawn when another rider rode into camp, one horse, three riders. The farthest one back jumped off catch the other two as they fell, the three landing in a heap. It was the scout that Boromir had sent to the battlefield, he waited moments for the healers to carry away the two unconscious soldiers. He took a deep refreshing gulp of water before he reported to Boromir's tent.
"The news is ill my lord, the battlefield is horrendous for an assault. The ground is soggy and they've dug trenches all across the field, a river protects their flank and the sides are both uphill. I searched through the field, they've taken all the survivors into camp but they missed those two I guess." The soldier told.
"How many of them are left?" Boromir asked, his voice monotone.
"Five thousand, maybe a little less. The regiment of Wargs was wiped out, they may have lost the assault, but they made those Orcs pay dearly," The man declared with a sense of pride. Boromir nodded, dismissing the man to get some rest.
"What would you have us do?" one of his captains asked. Boromir sat heavily in his chair, staring at a marked map that the soldier had drawn, he was right about it being a horrendous battlefield for an assault.
"What would you do? If you were in my place? Speak truthfully for I dearly need to hear an impartial opinion in this matter," Boromir admitted, his men all knew what the foremost thought was in his mind. The man pursed his lips for a moment then pointed to the map.
"I would split the troops into two groups and attack from each side of the hill, attack after night fall and make one group easily visible and the other invisible. Delay the attack for the division that is invisible, wait until the enemy troops are drawn away by the first attack, then send in the second and take them by surprise. A pincer movement," The man explained. Boromir scratched his chin.
"It's an excellent plan, but that wasn't entirely what I meant, should I order this attack? My thoughts have been clouded with horrid ideas of what could happen to or already has to my brother," Borormir admitted.
"Sir, we've all had those thoughts. None of us understand why he was in charge of the regiment, Eru knows he wasn't ready, one day maybe, but not yet. Even if it is about your brother, we can't let those Orcs remain, go to battle, all the men here will follow you gladly." Boromir nodded gratefully. It was exactly what he wanted to hear.
"We'll move out in the morning, leave two men to redirect anyone else that comes as reinforcements. It's time to rescue those who are still alive," He instructed, the man bowed sharply and left. They left at dawn.
Faramir drifted in and out of consciousness, he felt so tired. He hurt so bad, where was Boromir? It was so cold now, he didn't shiver, he couldn't feel anything anymore; nothing but pain. The men around him watched him closely as he continued to fade. Every time he woke from the abyss they tried to give him water, not an easy task being bound hand and foot, and keep him awake, alert, it was nearly impossible to do now. They were amazed that he would wake at all on occasion, he was terribly pale, the shivers stopped he was so cold. The temperature was dropping fast, and the blood he'd lost was no help at all, he would swallow convulsively at times but when they tried to give him water he would not drink. Every now and then and Orc or a Goblin would come and drag one of them away, never to be seen again, the animals would always be taunting about Gondor having the sweetest meat. Now there were only four of them left, besides Faramir, they all took turns watching him, watching the door of what was probably once a storage room, passing worried glances as he sank slowly away from life.
Then the Orcs came again, there were five of them. All the soldiers sat tensely as they entered, eyed each one of them with scrutiny. The leader smiled malevolently at Faramir, sidling up right next to him, he dragged his forefinger down Faramir's cheek slowly, almost lovingly. Faramir gulped his eyes screwing more tightly shut as he turned his head away from the touch. the Gondorians stiffened even more, he did not need to be lucid for whatever was about to happen.
"The sweetest meat he is, tender and juicy," The Orc taunted. The men gritted their teeth seeing Faramir begin to shake.
"Thinks I'll be snacking now; savoring each bite I shall," It hissed waving to the guards to take Faramir, everything happened in a blur as the soldiers launched themselves awkwardly at the Orcs, everyone landing in a heap. They kicked and punched, snarled and growled, after a few minutes though the soldiers of Gondor stood perfectly still, knives to their necks, the Orcs restraining them, the battle lost. The leader Orc glanced at each of them before gaining a viciously evil smile again, and strode back to Faramir and rapidly twisted the arrow in his stomach while pushing it deeper.
Faramir screamed and jerked, rolling onto his side, curling in on the pain as much as the arrows would allow. The Orcs left then, taking three with them, the last Orc to exit slashed his scimitar at the still standing soldier, slicing cleanly between two ribs. Everything was silent now except for the sobbing gasps from Faramir, riddled with pain. The last remaining soldier shuffled over to Faramir again, who shrank away from him weakly.
"Shhh…I will not hurt you. I am Hallas of Gondor, I fought with you this day," He whispered softly, wondering if he had gotten past the mind fog that shrouded Faramir. He held onto a shoulder while the second son of the steward continued to cough and gasp for air as he rode out the fresh wave of pain, brushing away the tears as they came, after a while Faramir went limp.
"Hurry Lord Boromir. Your brother will not last much longer," Hallas whispered to the cold dark skies.
Boromir found himself pacing again, all there was to do was wait, he glanced at the outpost on the hill, it was going to be difficult retaking this outpost. The weather was going down hill fast as buckets worth of snow spilled from the clouds, it was so bitterly cold. He hoped that the Orcs were keeping their captives near a fire. His men were keeping their swords unsheathed so that they would not stick in the scabbard when it came time to battle it was so cold, they had but to wait for night fall. His army was split in half and the other half was still traveling to their post for the sneak attack, everything depended on this one battle. Time moved too slowly for Boromir, he was sure that he would lose his sanity before night came—but at last the sun dropped and they went to battle.
Hallas glanced nervously towards the door then at Faramir, unconscious, propped up in a corner. He continued to saw at the ropes around his ankles, ignoring the burning pain in his side, wincing occasionally as the sharp rock pierced into his hands. They had to get out of here, he didn't know if it was just a trick of his tired mind or if a battle truly occurred but he wasn't going to wait to find out. The next Orc to enter this room would be dead and they would make there escape. Faramir didn't have much time left, this was the only course of action Hallas could see. He glanced up at the sky of clouds, if the weather kept up as it was they would be buried in the snow within the hour; that was why he'd had to prop Faramir, the snow was so deep.
It was somewhere around dawn, though no sun would ever be seen with this storm, when the sounds of battle seemed to fade away, Hallas would drift for a moment then jerk awake again. Over and over he did this, the exhaustion was becoming unbearable, but he had to stay awake, they had to escape. Hallas jerked awake again at the approaching scuffle of footsteps, he picked up the big, sharp rock he'd used to cut the bonds about his ankles. When the door creaked open, he didn't hesitate, with a ferocious war cry he lunged, smashing the rock against his opponents head again and again until they fell.
"Hallas! Hallas stop!" someone shouted at him. He felt a rough shove, stumbling backwards a few steps, it was then that he realized whom had entered the room. They were soldiers of Gondor, though his tired mind wouldn't put names to them at this moment. Exhaustion overcame him now, crumpling towards the floor, numbly aware when someone caught him and lowered him gently down, braced against a wall.
"Easy Hallas, don't give out on us now—Oh Eru you're frozen." He heard the man mutter as something warm and soft was draped across his body.
"Help…him…" he mumbled pointing weakly at Faramir, he had no idea where his strength was, but it was an effort just to keep his eyes open. The man moved off to Faramir, he was pale as the snow and just as cold, he breathed shallow and slow, very far from consciousness.
"Thank Eru, your still alive," The man whispered. "Lord Boromir! They are here!" he shouted. He tapped on Faramir's cheek gently but he remained unresponsive so he moved back to Hallas who was watching the soldier he'd beat down struggling to sit up, clutching his head, he was oblivious as the soldier shifted his arms and lifted his shirt to see the wound.
Boromir ran full tilt at the sound of the call, his heart pounding, they'd found him. He prayed that his brother lived still, he didn't know what he would do if he wasn't. He cursed the snow reaching nearly to his knees for slowing his progress. One of his men waved him into a small room much like a storage closet, there was his brother, propped in a corner that was dug out from the snow. He looked dead. He fell to his knees next to him, he couldn't see straight, his brother looked dead, he couldn't think as his mind reeled.
"He's still alive my lord." Someone he didn't see encouraged next to him. It was then that his panic receded and he saw that his brother indeed did still breathe, albeit weak and shallow. He was still alive. He cupped his brother's face in his hands feeling the icy chill to his skin, he was very far away.
"Faramir, little brother, I'm here now. Come back to me," He whispered too quietly for anyone but himself and Faramir to hear. There was no response.
"My lord," a soldier began entering the room, "we've taken the outpost but we cannot hold it for long. What are your orders?" He asked. Boromir thought for a moment, staring heart broken at his brother.
"Get everyone mounted up, double up with the injured, leave the dead. We ride for our previous camp," He ordered, the man hurried off immediately. Taking a deep breath Boromir grabbed the highest arrow and snapped it in half. Faramir grimaced with a faint, almost inaudible whimper. Boromir had to grit his teeth, his heart quavering, he wouldn't show it though, he had to be strong, like Faramir. His leg had Boromir fearful, it was massively swollen throughout the whole leg and he could feel heat radiating from it, this ride was going to be hard on the leg, but it had to happen. With a little help he got Faramir on the horse and had someone wrap his leg with his cape for some protection.
They rode hard and fast not stopping as they rode through the day and the night, in the morning though they were forced to stop, the horses were staggering and the men falling asleep on their steeds, injured and healthy alike. They built roaring fires to combat the bitter cold, now that Faramir was not in danger of freezing to death the fever took hold of him fast. Boromir poured some water from his flask into a cup, frowning at the small chunks of ice that floated and held it over the fire until it was warm, he made a small amount of broth with the warm water hoping it would give his brother strength. At first he could not drink, coughing and choking but then he got a few sips and tried to turn away from it but he could not escape and Boromir was able to get him to drink the entire cup.
"My Lord, the scout just returned. He says the Orc host isn't following, they're staying at the outpost." Boromir breathed a sigh of relief.
"Good, we'll move out in an hour," He instructed. These men needed real healers, Faramir needed real healers, and they were still half a day's ride away.
"Sir, they found Lord Faramir's things in the outpost," The man continued, holding out a pack.
"Thank you," He had to resist reading the correspondences at this moment, he was already struggling to keep his calm and if he found prove of what he already suspected, he would never keep his cool long enough to get Faramir to safety, the rage would consume him so.
When they finally arrived at the encampment Boromir rode straight to his personal healer's tent and dismounted, he laid Faramir onto the leech's work table and stepped aside as he began to carefully remove the thin shirt and pants that they'd been stripped down to, their armor and leathers taken. The flesh around the entry wounds of the arrows was red and enflamed as infection began to set it, his leg was burning hot and oozing yellow pus from the long gouges that reached from thigh to ankle, the ankle snapped. He had to hold him still as the leech cleaned the wounds on his leg, he whimpered and squirmed weakly unable to get away from the pain. Boromir held him still, whispering comforts into his ear though he did not believe Faramir heard.
After the leg was cleaned and hot clothes set on the wounds to help it drain quickly Boromir took a short walk to refresh himself and eat a small bit of bread and drink some water. It pained him to be away but he had to keep his strength if he was to be with Faramir through it all, he had to keep it together. They returned to Faramir no more than ten minutes later, prepared to remove the arrow, Boromir had to hold his brother far more tightly for the softest of touches to the arrows seemed to cause him pure agony and he struggled fiercely to escape. The leech was quick with removing the arrows but it took some time to flush the wounds and stitch them closed. Once that was finished he smeared an ointment of herbs across the wounds and bandaged them. He checked the leg again and smeared more of the ointment over it then wrapped it tightly ankle to thigh, then moved him to a clean cot and draped a blanket up to his shoulders.
For the next couple of days Boromir could always be found at Faramir's side, tending him dutifully, praying to Eru that his brother live. He was fighting against the odds and though he'd survived so far, it was an exhausting fight, they had to break this infection if he was ever to live. The few soldier's that were left of Faramir's regiment, five not including him, came and told him how he'd saved them in battle or had seen him saving someone else, their voice in a half whisper of awe, clearly he had earned a place of respect among them with his valor. He had looked through the correspondences and found exactly what he'd expected, Faramir had only been following orders, he was too young to know that some orders had to be ignored. A groan broke Boromir from his thoughts.
Faramir was staring up at the tent, blinking sluggishly, and groaned again. Everything was fuzzy and muddled, he felt like he was burning alive and being frozen at the same time. There was something lying on top of him that he couldn't move, everything felt too heavy and he couldn't even seem to move himself. He had just gained purchase on sitting up when his arms gave out and he fell back again, when he tried again someone was holding him down and he truly panicked. He struggled and squirmed to get away, get to safety but he couldn't break free. Then there was a voice, soft, soothing, familiar, he stopped struggling and looked about sluggishly for the voice. There was a face floating above him now, he knew that face.
"B-Bor-Boromir?" he whispered faintly.
"That's right little brother, I'm here, everything will be well now," He comforted, hated that fearful look he saw in his brother's heavily glazed, unfocused eyes, he looked at him as if he were very far away.
"S'good," He mumbled drifting towards sleep again. Two days later they were beginning the journey back to Minis Tirith, Faramir slept for the most part, but occasionally he would wake, calling for Boromir every time. He still didn't truly know what was going on but he knew that his brother was here and that he promised he was safe, that was good enough for Faramir. But Boromir wasn't telling him everything, he didn't tell him that the healers were saying that they may have to take the right leg, or that if he could keep the leg he may not ever be able to go back to being a soldier for his shoulder may never regain its old strength, for now though he kept him heavily drugged, sleeping away his tribulations. He dearly needed the rest. Even without the effect of the herbs Faramir was hardly lucid when awake, never staying awake for long. They arrived at the city in good time and he got his brother settled in the House of Healing, sitting with him for a time while he compiled his thoughts, then he stood to leave.
"Don't…go…" his brother mumbled, trying to sit up and catch his brother, Boromir pushed him back down gently, holding a hand on his hot forehead.
"Shhhh…it is okay little brother, I won't be long. I promise, just this one thing, then I can stay with you." Faramir nodded weakly.
"Rest little brother, you are safe in our shining city," He stroked his fingers through the long damp locks of hair plastered to his brother's face—a technique that had always succeeded in carrying him into sleep as a child, it still worked to this day.
Denethor sat on his throne, forgetting as he often did that he wasn't a king but just a steward, reading through some political correspondence. He snapped his fingers, the sound echoing off the stone walls, an attendant hustled to his side with a cup of wine. He jumped horrendously when the hall doors exploded open, spilling the cup of wine over his clothes, he tossed the now empty cup at the attendant who scuttled away. He glanced up to see his eldest, Boromir, striding quickly towards him.
"Alas, you have returned despite your brother's failure," He stated spitefully.
"You filthy maggot!" Boromir shouted angrily, everyone looked up at him in shock at his uncharacteristic manner.
"Boromir! I shall not have you speaking to me that way! First born or not!" Denethor snapped.
"How dare you put Faramir in such a position!" Boromir continued.
"I simply put your brother in charge of a handful of men and sent him to battle. A simple task that seems to be to difficult for him," He spat tossing the parchment he'd held aside.
"Faramir was not ready for such leadership," Boromir countered now nose to nose with his father.
"The son of the steward, even the failure second son, should be able to achieve successful leadership of the men serving under him," Denethor driveled pompously. Boromir nearly popped a vein with anger, Denethor found himself backing away slightly nervous as Boromir pushed forward.
"He's not yet twenty and barely three months out of training! No soldier is ready for leadership so soon!" Boromir shouted clenching and releasing his fists so as to not strike his father in his anger.
"He could not even handle simple combat and will never be competent for leadership," Denethor spat. The guards in the room looked at each other fearfully when Boromir growled a low guttural sound unlike anything they'd ever heard from a man. Should they intervene? Would they be alive after this intervention?
"One hundred men against six thousand will always be a failing fight, even Faramir knew that!" Boromir roared.
"Your brother's incompetence lost the battle! He did not think of the consequences for failure!" Denethor declared. Boromir was trembling with rage.
"The consequence. The consequence. He's going to lose his leg save Eru's intervention and that's if he lives! He'll never be able to pull the string of a bow again because he took an arrow slaying a warg that was about to kill one of his men! The valor he showed was far greater than yours ever will be!" Boromir bellowed. Denethor opened and closed his mouth like a fish for a moment.
"You've always protected Faramir from his duties, swooped in to rescue him from failure, I will not tolerate this any longer! The rule of Gonder is mine and no other's. I will choose what battles are conducted and who will command the troops!" Denethor bellowed back. Boromir didn't hesitate grabbing his father by the shoulders and slamming him hard against the wall, holding him a few inches above the floor.
"Listen well for this is your only warning," he hissed, "If you ever do something of this nature again, if you ever put Faramir or any of my men into an unbeatable battle like that again. If Faramir dies of these wounds, I will take my brother, and we will leave Gondor. I will take him, and any other that chooses to follow, and you will be left without an heir, Denethor, Steward of Gondor," He growled. For the first time in his life, Denethor feared his first born. Boromir released his father now and strode confidently from the room knowing that he would easily keep that threat as he left to keep his oath to his little brother, Faramir.
A/N: Did you like? There's a sequel coming in the future. R&R