Disclaimer: I do not own any characters in this story, they belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.
Harsh wind swept in bitterly from the west, driving its shoulder against the jagged mountain side, though as a sentinel of the lands, Minas Tirith stood unfazed and silent. The city had been built by hard strenuous labor in preparations for more threatening dangers, braced against the rocky slope six tiers high with gates of white marble. A long aisle spliced through the middle, a jutting wall to all levels save the topmost, to which it was a great plank.
While most of his people stayed inside, the Steward of Gondor stood tall, proper, and still, only feet from the precipice. His long gray hair flew out behind him, the winds fighting to erode his stern expression, though he took no notice. Instead he stared out at the landscape of rolling plains, dark skies, and swirling snow, sinking further into grief with every flake that sailed past.
Five years had slowly ticked away since his beloved wife Finduilas had been taken from him and their children, pulled from their world entirely by the cruel hands of death. Although every passing day dragged him through the beatings of time, no amount of such torture could steal his precious memories; they were the only things for him to cling to anymore. Given its irony, he had decided the day they had found her to be bearing a second child could not have been more bittersweet, for at the time, his heart had swelled with love and hope. Already they had a healthy firstborn, then were blessed with a second just as strong and beautiful. Unknown to them, in the shadows of fate, tragedy lurked quietly, its glowing eyes set upon collapsing the Stewards' good fortune. Faramir's birth had gone just like the first, Finduilas' exhaustion was easily dismissed, for all women found themselves tired from their labors, Boromir's birth being no exception. Denethor realized, looking back on it, that he should have had the healers pay more attention. Weeks began leaking into months, and rather than recover her strength, Finduilas gradually lost what little remained. During her suffering their second son grew ever more, his life syphoning away his mother's. This she could not see, or chose not to. In fact, her eyes twinkled most after the boys' lessons when Boromir and Faramir would run in, laughing and playing, telling stories at her bedside. Often Boromir was called away to other matters that, even in his young age, he was force to tend to, that which came along with his birth right, leaving Faramir and Finduilas longer periods of time to enjoy each other's company.
But it was not Faramir, her adored favorite who gripped her hands as color drained from her face, leaving her skin translucently grey stretched across purple veins and blue lips. It was not the boy who shouted for healers, voice shaking, body quivering. No, of course not. It had been the one to love her most, the one whose life would mean nothing without her, as he professed countless time before. Who else would stumble over promises he had no power to keep, promises not a single soul could control, however truly intended, mixing pleads to the gods with happier times since passed? He remembered crying out, feeling as though engulfed in flame while the spirit of his love flickered its last in her eyes, disappearing like the light of a faint candle blown out in the night, and to fate's savage lack of mercy, a small boy flung open the door a single moment after her last breath was taken. Fear danced like fire on every fleck of Faramir's blue irises, the little left untouched by dilated pupil. He had her eyes, eyes that even in the face of tragedy and devastation shone with strength and love.
The scene bashed its fists against his skull, screeching that he it was he who had let his own wife die. It plastered the blame and tore at his thoughts until at last he turned, making his way back inside the Great Hall. Inside his chambers there a single key lay wrapped in thin fabric and sheltered by an elegant box, one that had long remained in the highest drawer of the Steward's dresser. He went to it and slid the drawer quietly. He picked up the box as if it were a wounded bird, removing the top to find it empty.
A sudden rage overcame Denethor in a wave. He had to muster all his control to place the box back without splintering the wood.
"Faramir!" he shouted, striding back into the hall were his guards stood at the ready.
"My lord?" asked one, stepping forward.
"Where is he?" Denethor barked, "Where is Faramir?"
"I believe he passed by here less than half an hour ago, my lord, his path seemed to follow that of Fen Hollen."
The Steward's lips parted hesitantly, then decided better, tightening into a thin line. He waved the guard back and marched to find his son, down unlit corridors until arriving to a thick door standing slightly ajar. Unknown to him, Boromir, his first born, stood like a statue in the dark, waiting for his own turn to visit his mother.
Boromir watched his father fling the door open with such force it hit the wall with a resounding crack. Inside, a ten year old boy knelt at his mother's tomb, hands pressed together gently in prayer, head bent low, back curved over. He jerked at the sound, its echoes reverberating about the Hall of the Dead.
"Father!" he exclaimed in frightened shock, immediately jumping to his feet and wiping streams of tears from his face.
"How did you get in here?" Denethor demanded.
Boromir wished he could move or reveal himself to their father but, but he couldn't. Faramir would never bring blame to him, even if he wished it upon himself.
"I-I found the key," Faramir lied, tripping over his words as his mouth ran dry.
"Only the lord of the land is allowed in this place. Tell me child, do you rule this land?"
Boromir shrunk into the shadows, watching with itching guilt as his younger brother took the fall. Of course Faramir had not gone into their father's room; it was insane to think he would steal, he knew far better. Denethor would never have guessed that after seeing his brother so distraught, Boromir had taken the key. He would certainly never think that it had not the first time he had done so.
"No, father," Faramir replied. Boromir knew he was trying his best not to shake, he could not show weakness, especially when he had been found crying of all things. Faramir did not waver, he rarely did.
"Who does?"
The danger his voice wielded sliced through the air, sharper than any blade. It was not to be toyed with.
"You do, father."
"And who will rule after me?"
"Boromir, lest the king return," Faramir answered. It was a simple truth as well as a line to recite. His gaze dropped to the stone floors.
Why can we not share the power? What if I decide I do not want to lead the city? What if I believe Faramir to be better suited? Boromir dare not speak these questions aloud, though the tugged at his voice roughly.
"Look at me when I speak!" Denethor bellowed down to him.
"Yes, father," he said in a firm voice, his back straightened and head held high. In the terror of their father any man would shrink away, just as Boromir did, but through some impossible strength Faramir held, he rose to be what his father wished.
"Who will rule after Boromir?"
"His son, lest the king return."
"Will you ever sit upon the throne of Gondor?"
"No, I will not."
"Then why," sneered Denethor, his deep voice suddenly booming, "are you inside the Hall of the Dead?"
"I wished to-"
"I know what you wish," he whispered. In an instant his grief bubbled into anger, anger exploding into a rage so terrible he grew to be a dark shadow among the dead. "It would be better for you wish you had not been born, do you not agree? Whether you admit it to yourself or not, you are the reason your mother is dead! Bearing you brought sickness upon her; you robbed this noble family of a wife and mother for what?" he spat, his breathing heavy and labored.
The electricity of fear flowed through Boromir's veins and twisted his stomach. He could not let his father say another dreadful word. Faramir had only ever lived to please him, yet refused every time, pushed down over and over, wishing only to know his father's love while for reasons he could never understand it was only ever a dream, eternally impossible to reach, leaving him to only the darkest of nightmares.
"Father, let him be!" Boromir shouted. Only love for his brother could have given Boromir courage to do such a thing. The power of it placed him between the last remaining members of his family.
Denethor whipped around. Rather than glare at him, he simply gave a look of high annoyance. Even being so bold as to challenge his father's actions would be overlooked. He was the golden son, he could do little wrong.
"Boromir, do not be foolish, I know you to be wise enough to walk away," he warned, regaining his control with a low but powerful voice, the undercurrent of a strong river known to only those who had wrestled its strength before.
"Walk away so you can blame mother's death on him?" asked Boromir with a sudden air of defiance.
"I-" Faramir began, wide eyes racing from Boromir to their father and back again.
"It is his blame to carry, you have known this since the moment he was born! Your memory is fresh enough to recall how she had been before-"
"You mean when she was strong so you didn't have to be? Do you feel guilty because you are still angry she gave more attention to your son than she could you?"
"How dare you say such things against me?" Denethor shouted. His control splintered with every word.
"Boromir, please!" cried Faramir, pushing against Boromir's frame so he would back out of the hall. For years he had learned how to deal with their father, and this was not the way. This only stirred and heated every glowing cinder he held. Such words fanned them until they became a blazing fire that could only ever burn its opponents.
Boromir shoved his hands away, striding closer to Denethor. Their stares burned into each other, eyes spitting great fire.
"Do you not see? You blame him for tearing our family when it is you! We can live without seeing her but how can we go on when we are always against one other?" he demanded, arms flying out in question.
"It is not my fault he does not belong here!" Denethor roared. "He is weak and if he cannot reach what little potential he possesses he shall ruin what I have built for Gondor!"
"Little potential? Every day of his life he has proven better than me, yet you refuse to acknowledge his accomplishments and now he has learned to do so as well! You are destroying what could be the best thing for this country, his future could be great if you allowed it-"
"Father, he doesn't mean this!" Faramir cut in. They had to stop fighting in front of her grave, every word from their loud voices crashed against each other's like rock and stone, conflict that disgraced her memory. He knew he was the reason his mother had died, he had been told so long before. He hated himself every day for it. But still this was worse; he was the reason the two were so livid, hate bubbling between them while they ought only love each other as father and son were meant to. His father's wish was his own, for him to never have existed. Their family would be whole and happy, never knowing the plague of sorrow and disappointment brought about by the disgrace of a child called Faramir.
A tidal wave of emotion swept over their anchor of heavy words and crashed against Faramir's pleading voice. He stood there, helpless, being dragged under, drowning in frustration while Denethor and Boromir shouted in such fury that a fistful of guards appeared inside the hall, awaiting their commands.
It took some time for the three to notice them, though when Denethor did, he reached a different sort of anger, one reserved for Faramir and those he could not find compassion for.
"YOU WERE NOT ORDERED INTO THIS HALL, IT IS TRESPASSING WITH EVERY STEP. GET OUT BEFORE I SENTENCE EACH ONE OF YOU TO DEATH!" he barked. His voice was a beast of its own.
When the last guard disappeared into the corridor a silence fell upon the three, each waiting for something they could not explain. Fearing the others would return to their arguing, Faramir spoke, his voice quiet and calm.
"I apologize father, for all that I have done. I shall never be so foolish again and I accept all consequences for my actions. From this moment forth, whatever you wish, I will carry out. You need not consider me a son, but rather a servant of your will."
Denethor looked upon Faramir with indifference, but beside him, Boromir froze. He has sentenced himself to death, if not in flesh, in spirit. How have we come to this?