There are secrets that the men of Gondor hide.
These are secrets of which he will not speak, deeply hidden in the chambers of Minas Tirith. His father's deep digust for him manifested itself in those chambers, shadowed deeply by rebellious flames from the gilded braziers. He still remembers -alas, he wishes he could forget himself inside the pale spring dawn of his wife- the first time his father brought him- no, kicked him into those chambers, and left him there to stare at the scenes of bloodshed some mad artisan had painted with delirious eyes. Gondorian men, massacred and slaughtered on the roads past Ogsiliath, where he never dared to go. Prayers forgotten on the wings of the Eagles from the lips of dying women, children, the aged past all vestiges of hope as the Tower of the Moon burned, and henceforth even moonlight deserted those courtyards of steel and stone.
And then he had come back. With dominating strength and the anger, deep raven-black as his hair had been before those long years and silver threads robbed him of his prime, his father had made him stare into those pictures of hatred and bloodlust, and pulling his son's golden-brown locks back, ignoring those earsplitting cries of a man-child, thrust the monolith of his hate and his envy, his disappointment and grief (which he would admit to none, not even an empty room), inside the vessal of his dead wife's spirit. The honey-eyed wonder with not a drop of valor in him. How she must weep as the moon wanes.
When he emerges again, he is not the same. He has never been the same. The lords and ladies of Gondor whisper when he passes, watching the lost and forlorn figure of a child wander through the halls of the White City, his angelic locks loose and tumbling, in search of something that cannot and will not be found. He can stand on the highest rampart and the loftiest tower to scream his question with words that will tremble and reverberate upon the Pelennor Fields, but there will be no answer. There will never be an answer, for the highest evil that has taken a man and a father in his prime into its maddening folds thus far has no reason or rhyme.
There is only temporary solace for this second-born son, in his older brother's grasp. Cool, comforting and strong. High above the marble walls, they can sit together and cry for the woman who left them and the world in which they still dwell without a second glance. For death is a better lover than life, and to abandon a fruitless union is no crime. There, he surrenders himself, to the eyes that know him best, that call him "little" without malice or avarice, that sooth and calm. There have never been such fires, which spring loose boundlessly in trial left by his brother's traitrous fingers, that makes him lust and love, sin and repent. A rebirth of sorts, each time they find each other alone, with nowhere else to run. He can see no clouds in the sky reflected by his brother's eyes above, just as surely as he can feel the steel of his brother's will inside him, repairing and healing with love and lost words what was ravaged by a forgotten will. They lie together afterwards on the bed, not knowing what to say but knowing that a spirit guides them.
The years run together, flowing past as do the waters of the Great River, one current into another. All that Faramir of Gondor can remember is the fire between his hand and Boromir's palm, yet even such ardent memories have curled into ash beneath the flame of time. He remembers this memory keenly the first time that he saw his brother with a girl. Brown of hair and dark of eye, a wood nymph from the lands of Mirkwood whose body is free to be shaped as the carpenter wishes. His brother's eyes gleam as cat's orbs in the darkened room, far away from the feasting and the laughter, as he winds his will around this pliant flower, breathless in her lust as she calls out his name, unwary of her envious watcher. As he silently closes the door, Faramir reflects that he had heard the same begging tone in his mother's voice, on the darkened nights when not even one of the seven stars dared to gleam above Minas Tirith.
Those seven stars fly high on the white banner of Gondor, planted on the highest tower of Ogsiliath years later. Hundreds, thousands of Gondorian troops and warriors cheer beneath, a sea of faces laughing and clamoring. He stands nearby, smiling at his older brother standing beside the banner, his proud silhouette a shadow against the grey dawn. It is today, that Gondor celebrates. And it is today, Faramir thinks as his brother hands him an iron goblet of ale, that life is good. For despite the initial fall of Ogsiliath (your fault, he thinks), it has been retaken, and this jewel of Gondor's kingdom, as Boromir has said, will be polished in the future. He can hear the trumpets in his ears, and the laugh in his brother's eyes. For a moment, the relief that comes with the thirst-lessening ale rushes over him and he feels like one of the heroes.
Before his father comes. The figure that smiles and laughs its way through the mass of soldiers, clapping each on the back and bestowing his proud gaze upon their shining armor and able bodies. Where is Gondor's finest? Where is my first-born? The bittersweet words course over him. The moment of peace, so fragile and so precious, is shattered in an instant. He has suddenly lost his thirst, and his fingers tighten beneath their gloves around the stem of the iron goblet, as his glance falls beneath his father's gaze, but he does not miss Boromir's exasperated glance at their father before a smile slides over his face. Once again, the dutiful first-born. Must he always be so brave? He must, he thinks, as his brother walks away angrily and his father follows. They emerge moments later, Boromir angrily shouting something about Rivendell. The elves. Unthinkingly, he volunteers himself for any duty to his country, eager to mend the mistakes he made during the battle for Ogsiliath, but everything about his father's eyes mock him. His pride. His sword. The shirt he dares to wear that bears the emblem of Gondor. Before his father can open his mouth, he knows he will be denied.
And it is with a heavy heart that he bids farewell to his older brother, who obeys without another word, defeat evident in his eyes. Remember this day, little brother... and he shall remember it well, for the memory of his brother's figure upon his horse, erect and proud, with sword and shield, the memory of seeing his brother for the last time, is not easily erased even with the passage of time.
It finds him many years later, as he sits in a dank and dampened cave, his eyes closed but his fingers stretched, fitting to every familiar groove and pattern on the well-loved instrument, until they come across a strange and jagged edge, hesitant as a lover does pause upon finding a fresh scar on a familiar body. White with anxiety, his fingers loosen and two cloven halves of an ivory-white horn fall into each hand. His eyes open, as do the floodgates of grief.
Passing are the years, but his father has not changed. Steel-backed and proudly arrogant, the Steward of Gondor still thinks himself wise with the palantir of old behind his will. A fool, but still his father. And when the question arises in his mind, struck home by the bitter note in his father's tone, he asks it, even though the answer is inside him. When his father answers in a strangled voice, he can feel the halfling's shock, fresh and indignant, but all that Faramir can see is the image of his brother, the last time he ever saw the man who should have been here to do their father's bidding. However, in his brother's stead, there is yet one captain left in Gondor who will do his lord's will, even if it would lead to ruin... and a blood-red dawn!
His last stand of bravery was among the ruins of Ogsiliath, with the damned warriors of Gondor at his back and whatever Mordor had belched up during her feverish labors before him. Arrows and axes will not fell him, not when he has withstood and shouldered the onus of a greater burden for years, the expectations of a father for his son. The expectations of a lord for his vassal. But all promises vanish and fade as he feels his descent beginning, with each precious drop of lifeblood that exsanguinates from his heart by the moment. The arrow he feels in his breast is no comparison to the lancet of hate his father thrust inside him so many years ago and still festers without lessening. All shall fade...
When he does awaken, the fire burning before him is not that of Minas Tirith, razed to ground, or even the fires of a netherworld, haunted by Balrogs. It is a funeral pyre fit for a king. A king and his second-born, he learns later, much later. But it is not late enough for the memory of his father's death to fade, a searing impression made by the flaming figure which disappeared as the ruin of Mordor arrived.
A falling star, disintergrating into ash and stardust as the fires of Mordor finally burnt out. But what of an ending for the lost prince of Gondor? A welcome homecoming in arms that grip as tightly as any warrior, but melancholy eyes that reflect every disappointment he has known, and the heart of a princess, proud and loving. In Eowyn, he finds an equal of the staunchest soul, but she sees the same thing in him that he sees in her: a hurt and mistreated heart that calls to be healed. And thus they shall stay until their very end, healing each other's devastated hearts with delicate hand and step. Mending an endless chain is a thankless task, but they persist, for they understand better than anyone else that the strongest link is that which has been broken and reforged.