Title: To Catch a Falling Star
Author's Note: I *really* tried my VERY best to keep all the characters in canon, so um, effort counts? Yes, anyway! I hope you enjoy! Though I got this idea at 12 at night so I don't know how much of it you'll enjoy.
Disclaimer: I have a teddy bear. It's mine. If you're gonna sue me, that's all you're gonna get. Nyah. So I don't own any of the characters that Tolkien owns, because he owns them not me. Savvy?
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Chapter 1 - The Sons of the Steward
"Afraid, dear brother?" the young man taunted Boromir's light footwork as he stepped forward. In one fluid motion, he thrust his silver blade at his opponent, who quickly dodged it.
After avoiding the would-be fatal blow, the steward's eldest son laughed heartily at Faramir's banter, "Nay, Faramir, it is you who should be afraid! I shall make stew out of you and serve you at tonight's banquet."
"Less words, more action!" A twinkle was evident in Faramir's gray intelligent eyes at his brother's jesting. With a flick of his wrist, Faramir parried anti-clockwise, pushing Boromir's blade low to the right. His brother quickly recovered, and began a series of lunges, aiming to disable his young sibling. They lapsed into a deep silence that was broken only by the high-pitched clashes of metal against metal, armored feet squeaking up and down the polished stone floor, and the occasional grunt from one of the duelers as they blocked a blow.
"There, there, there, and there." Boromir steadied the flat of his sword against Faramir's neck, abruptly ending the bout. Though his chest heaved to catch his breath, he flashed a toothy smile as he drew his weapon back. "I win."
Faramir grinned as well, accepting his defeat honorably, and stepped away from the range of Boromir's sword. He wiped away the cool sweat that was beginning to trail lazily down his forehead with a black-gloved hand. "Only because you're older than me. I want a rematch!"
Boromir smiled, feeling brotherly love well up in him towards Faramir, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Tomorrow, young brother, tomorrow. Though I must say, you have improved much."
"Really?" His face lit up hopefully at the praise.
He nodded solemnly as he sheathed his sword and brushed away the rebel strands of dark hair that had fallen into his eyes. "You are as good as Father is at Oliphant-back riding," he said gravely.
"Oh, come off it, you big oaf," Faramir answered in like, slapping Boromir on the arm lightly. The Steward Denethor was well-known throughout Gondor for slipping off even mere ponies - quite a funny sight.
"Oaf?" Boromir's eyes glinted dangerously.
Faramir sheathed his sword as well, and began to un-strap his armor. "Yes, a fat, bumbling, huge, bu-AHH!!" he stopped mid- sentence and yelped as Boromir tackled him to the floor. The mail that he had just shaken out of skidded across the floor with an ear-piercing screech.
"Take it back!" Boromir ordered imperiously, trying to sound deadly serious and hiding the smile in his voice. He grabbed Faramir's arms and twisted them backwards before plopping down comfortably on his brother's back.
"Aw, now look what you did to the floor- it will take the servants weeks to get that scratch o-OW! Brother, lose some weight! By Valor... egh..."
"It's the armor that is the extra pounds," Boromir answered, a grin sneaking onto his face. "Now take it back..."
"But it's the truth- It is against my morals to lie- ow, ow, ow, okay, okay, uncle- uncle- UNCLE!" Faramir yelped as he winced against the pain as Boromir pulled his arms back further.
"Say 'Boromir is the greatest.'"
"Boromir is the greatest, the prize of Gondor, the handsomest Man of all of Middle Earth, the most skilled at Oliphant-back riding, the apple of my eye- please get off!" Faramir ranted on, his voice breathless and high pitched from being squished beneath his brother.
Laughing, Boromir rolled off his young brother. "'The apple of my eye.' You're starting to sound like Grandfather."
"Yes, well, I might as well *be* a grandfather with a broken back and twisted arms," Faramir moaned as he rubbed his back and flopped over. "By Numenor... I don't buy your excuse that that was all the armor..."
"You better believe it, brother-mine."
"Better believe what?" A cold voice sliced through the merry atmosphere, quickly dissolving all humor in the two brothers. "Faramir, what are you doing lying on the floor?" Abruptly, Faramir stood up straight without a word of complaint.
Boromir nodded deeply to the newcomer, putting on a fake smile. "Father." Behind him, Faramir echoed his gestures.
The Steward Denethor gazed fondly at Boromir, but paid more attention to the fallen equipment than at Faramir. "Dueling, I see. That's my boys. Though what I saw right now... that wasn't much of dueling now, was it?"
"No, Father. We just finished, and we were cleaning up," Faramir answered in a quiet voice.
"Hmph! I suppose Boromir won," Denethor's sharp eyes focused on his eldest son.
"Yes I did, Father." Boromir said, "but Faramir almost beat me," he added. "He's quite good. You should see him."
Faramir dared to look up at his father, and clearly saw the surprise and uncertainty that flashed across the man's face, followed by cold indifference. A familiar heavy lump rose in his throat, as he slowly dropped his gaze back down to the black marble patterned floor. He could already foretell what his father would say- he always said it whenever he looked at him with that expression- 'I have no time for Faramir. I have far more important matters to attend to-'
"Boromir, give me your sword. And Faramir..."
Faramir's head snapped up in pure shock. 'He did not dismiss me?' He thought in amazement. He saw that Boromir's eyes were also wide in perplexity as he obeyed Denethor's command. Denethor grabbed the hilt of the sword, paused, then expertly swung it around and pierced the chest of an imaginary enemy in front of him. His form was excellent, Faramir noted. He smirked as he relaxed. "Long has it been since I've touched a weapon- or rode to war," he said almost to himself in a distant, reminiscing voice.
Faramir and Boromir glanced at each other at the last of his words as they tried to stop the corners of their mouths from lifting up. Once, Denethor had tried to ride to war on a horse. His young sons had been in the stable to bid him farewell, but Denethor never made it out of Gondor. The third time he fell off Sago- the horse- he stomped back to the palace, cursing and muttering under his breath.
"Here, boy," Faramir found that Denethor's calculating gray eyes were directed at him, "To me."
"...Pardon?" He blinked at his father, not yet recovered from the sudden turn of events.
Denethor groaned. "A duel. Fight me."
"...Me, my lord?" He looked bewildered.
"How slow can you be, boy?!"
Swallowing all of his other questions for fear of further angering the Steward, he picked up his fallen sword. He was considerably more nervous than he had ever felt when he was about to draw swords with Boromir, one of the guards, or even the Swordsmaster Eunor. Faramir glanced back at his older brother, who gave him an encouraging nod and retreated away from the center of the room, allowing Denethor to come forward.
"And... one- two- three-" Faramir tuned out his father's strict voice, letting it wash over him. His steady eyes never left the blade in front of him- it swished this way and that, it parried and twisted, it danced and cleaved through the air. And he tried to meet it- to stop it- and every resounding strong clang that he heard satisfied him. He was winning- he was pushing the man back to the walls. He could see the desperation beginning to flicker in Denethor's eyes. Faramir lunged at an opening that he saw, but to his demise. Denethor had tricked him. With a short cry, Faramir found himself tumbling to his knees.
"Now you're dead." Denethor placed the sharp tip of his blade in front of Faramir's chin.
"A handy trick," Faramir said, trying to hide his wounded pride. How blind was he to not see that coming? "To trip your opponent when they become overconfident." He could not keep the biting sarcasm from his voice.
"In war, anything goes. Save your notions of honor for courting and flattering young women." Denethor answered shortly. He paused, and then shook his head. "You're terrible." In what seemed to be disgust, he threw the sword aside, turned on his heel, and sauntered out of the room, leaving his flabbergasted children to stare after the gray cloak that swished behind him.
"We're not in war," Faramir gritted his teeth. Angry tears of rage and embarrassment threatened to spring up to his eyes at the Steward's harsh words, but he forced them down. He did not want Boromir, his best friend, to see him in such a weak state.
"Come, Faramir. Don't listen to him. You were fantastic." Boromir said kindly as he dropped to his knees to Faramir's side. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," he muttered. It was different being defeated by his father than losing to Boromir. He could spar with his dear brother any day at any given time; but this was the first chance that Denethor gave him to prove himself, and he came horribly short of what was required. "I'm fine," he repeated, more for himself than Boromir.
'When the day comes, Father, you'll see that I'm as good as Boromir. You will see, and you will finally love me,' he thought in determination.
"He really does love you," Boromir said quietly- almost as if he read his younger brother's mind as he helped him up from the floor. Faramir avoided his brother's eyes in response, and pretended to be busy with sheathing his sword properly. His relationship with Denethor was something that he hated to discuss.
"We should leave, if we finished," Faramir stooped down again to pick up his fallen equipment. As he did, he was able to regain his usual composure. 'Don't let him get to you. Control yourself...' his conscience spoke to him, urging him quietly to feel nothing. He paused, and glanced at Boromir; a strange light in his eyes- the only thing that betrayed his inner turmoil. "Practice again tomorrow?"
Boromir compelled himself to give his young brother an easy, assuring smile and a nod, unable to read the odd expression that settled on his sibling's face. "I thought you hated fighting."
Faramir's lips thinned. "I do, but I have begun traveling with the rangers that patrol the borders of Ithilien. I think my lack of skills in swordsmanship will be a burden to those around me."
"Tomorrow, then. Don't expect me to go so easy on you again."
"Hah! As if today's session was just a walk in Osgiliath for you," Faramir said with an easy smile.
"Of course it was. How could it not be? Now... go on. You've got mathematics lessons when the sun is half past mid-day, right?"
"Don't remind me," Faramir groaned, but he walked off quickly anyway. Boromir noticed that his posture was rigid and erect, as if he were blatantly defying Denethor's cold disapproval, though the man was not present. With a heavy sigh, he gathered his own equipment in his arms.
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Short chapter, but what do you think so far? Should I continue? Constructive criticism welcomed! ^_~
Author's Note: I *really* tried my VERY best to keep all the characters in canon, so um, effort counts? Yes, anyway! I hope you enjoy! Though I got this idea at 12 at night so I don't know how much of it you'll enjoy.
Disclaimer: I have a teddy bear. It's mine. If you're gonna sue me, that's all you're gonna get. Nyah. So I don't own any of the characters that Tolkien owns, because he owns them not me. Savvy?
- - - - - -
Chapter 1 - The Sons of the Steward
"Afraid, dear brother?" the young man taunted Boromir's light footwork as he stepped forward. In one fluid motion, he thrust his silver blade at his opponent, who quickly dodged it.
After avoiding the would-be fatal blow, the steward's eldest son laughed heartily at Faramir's banter, "Nay, Faramir, it is you who should be afraid! I shall make stew out of you and serve you at tonight's banquet."
"Less words, more action!" A twinkle was evident in Faramir's gray intelligent eyes at his brother's jesting. With a flick of his wrist, Faramir parried anti-clockwise, pushing Boromir's blade low to the right. His brother quickly recovered, and began a series of lunges, aiming to disable his young sibling. They lapsed into a deep silence that was broken only by the high-pitched clashes of metal against metal, armored feet squeaking up and down the polished stone floor, and the occasional grunt from one of the duelers as they blocked a blow.
"There, there, there, and there." Boromir steadied the flat of his sword against Faramir's neck, abruptly ending the bout. Though his chest heaved to catch his breath, he flashed a toothy smile as he drew his weapon back. "I win."
Faramir grinned as well, accepting his defeat honorably, and stepped away from the range of Boromir's sword. He wiped away the cool sweat that was beginning to trail lazily down his forehead with a black-gloved hand. "Only because you're older than me. I want a rematch!"
Boromir smiled, feeling brotherly love well up in him towards Faramir, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Tomorrow, young brother, tomorrow. Though I must say, you have improved much."
"Really?" His face lit up hopefully at the praise.
He nodded solemnly as he sheathed his sword and brushed away the rebel strands of dark hair that had fallen into his eyes. "You are as good as Father is at Oliphant-back riding," he said gravely.
"Oh, come off it, you big oaf," Faramir answered in like, slapping Boromir on the arm lightly. The Steward Denethor was well-known throughout Gondor for slipping off even mere ponies - quite a funny sight.
"Oaf?" Boromir's eyes glinted dangerously.
Faramir sheathed his sword as well, and began to un-strap his armor. "Yes, a fat, bumbling, huge, bu-AHH!!" he stopped mid- sentence and yelped as Boromir tackled him to the floor. The mail that he had just shaken out of skidded across the floor with an ear-piercing screech.
"Take it back!" Boromir ordered imperiously, trying to sound deadly serious and hiding the smile in his voice. He grabbed Faramir's arms and twisted them backwards before plopping down comfortably on his brother's back.
"Aw, now look what you did to the floor- it will take the servants weeks to get that scratch o-OW! Brother, lose some weight! By Valor... egh..."
"It's the armor that is the extra pounds," Boromir answered, a grin sneaking onto his face. "Now take it back..."
"But it's the truth- It is against my morals to lie- ow, ow, ow, okay, okay, uncle- uncle- UNCLE!" Faramir yelped as he winced against the pain as Boromir pulled his arms back further.
"Say 'Boromir is the greatest.'"
"Boromir is the greatest, the prize of Gondor, the handsomest Man of all of Middle Earth, the most skilled at Oliphant-back riding, the apple of my eye- please get off!" Faramir ranted on, his voice breathless and high pitched from being squished beneath his brother.
Laughing, Boromir rolled off his young brother. "'The apple of my eye.' You're starting to sound like Grandfather."
"Yes, well, I might as well *be* a grandfather with a broken back and twisted arms," Faramir moaned as he rubbed his back and flopped over. "By Numenor... I don't buy your excuse that that was all the armor..."
"You better believe it, brother-mine."
"Better believe what?" A cold voice sliced through the merry atmosphere, quickly dissolving all humor in the two brothers. "Faramir, what are you doing lying on the floor?" Abruptly, Faramir stood up straight without a word of complaint.
Boromir nodded deeply to the newcomer, putting on a fake smile. "Father." Behind him, Faramir echoed his gestures.
The Steward Denethor gazed fondly at Boromir, but paid more attention to the fallen equipment than at Faramir. "Dueling, I see. That's my boys. Though what I saw right now... that wasn't much of dueling now, was it?"
"No, Father. We just finished, and we were cleaning up," Faramir answered in a quiet voice.
"Hmph! I suppose Boromir won," Denethor's sharp eyes focused on his eldest son.
"Yes I did, Father." Boromir said, "but Faramir almost beat me," he added. "He's quite good. You should see him."
Faramir dared to look up at his father, and clearly saw the surprise and uncertainty that flashed across the man's face, followed by cold indifference. A familiar heavy lump rose in his throat, as he slowly dropped his gaze back down to the black marble patterned floor. He could already foretell what his father would say- he always said it whenever he looked at him with that expression- 'I have no time for Faramir. I have far more important matters to attend to-'
"Boromir, give me your sword. And Faramir..."
Faramir's head snapped up in pure shock. 'He did not dismiss me?' He thought in amazement. He saw that Boromir's eyes were also wide in perplexity as he obeyed Denethor's command. Denethor grabbed the hilt of the sword, paused, then expertly swung it around and pierced the chest of an imaginary enemy in front of him. His form was excellent, Faramir noted. He smirked as he relaxed. "Long has it been since I've touched a weapon- or rode to war," he said almost to himself in a distant, reminiscing voice.
Faramir and Boromir glanced at each other at the last of his words as they tried to stop the corners of their mouths from lifting up. Once, Denethor had tried to ride to war on a horse. His young sons had been in the stable to bid him farewell, but Denethor never made it out of Gondor. The third time he fell off Sago- the horse- he stomped back to the palace, cursing and muttering under his breath.
"Here, boy," Faramir found that Denethor's calculating gray eyes were directed at him, "To me."
"...Pardon?" He blinked at his father, not yet recovered from the sudden turn of events.
Denethor groaned. "A duel. Fight me."
"...Me, my lord?" He looked bewildered.
"How slow can you be, boy?!"
Swallowing all of his other questions for fear of further angering the Steward, he picked up his fallen sword. He was considerably more nervous than he had ever felt when he was about to draw swords with Boromir, one of the guards, or even the Swordsmaster Eunor. Faramir glanced back at his older brother, who gave him an encouraging nod and retreated away from the center of the room, allowing Denethor to come forward.
"And... one- two- three-" Faramir tuned out his father's strict voice, letting it wash over him. His steady eyes never left the blade in front of him- it swished this way and that, it parried and twisted, it danced and cleaved through the air. And he tried to meet it- to stop it- and every resounding strong clang that he heard satisfied him. He was winning- he was pushing the man back to the walls. He could see the desperation beginning to flicker in Denethor's eyes. Faramir lunged at an opening that he saw, but to his demise. Denethor had tricked him. With a short cry, Faramir found himself tumbling to his knees.
"Now you're dead." Denethor placed the sharp tip of his blade in front of Faramir's chin.
"A handy trick," Faramir said, trying to hide his wounded pride. How blind was he to not see that coming? "To trip your opponent when they become overconfident." He could not keep the biting sarcasm from his voice.
"In war, anything goes. Save your notions of honor for courting and flattering young women." Denethor answered shortly. He paused, and then shook his head. "You're terrible." In what seemed to be disgust, he threw the sword aside, turned on his heel, and sauntered out of the room, leaving his flabbergasted children to stare after the gray cloak that swished behind him.
"We're not in war," Faramir gritted his teeth. Angry tears of rage and embarrassment threatened to spring up to his eyes at the Steward's harsh words, but he forced them down. He did not want Boromir, his best friend, to see him in such a weak state.
"Come, Faramir. Don't listen to him. You were fantastic." Boromir said kindly as he dropped to his knees to Faramir's side. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," he muttered. It was different being defeated by his father than losing to Boromir. He could spar with his dear brother any day at any given time; but this was the first chance that Denethor gave him to prove himself, and he came horribly short of what was required. "I'm fine," he repeated, more for himself than Boromir.
'When the day comes, Father, you'll see that I'm as good as Boromir. You will see, and you will finally love me,' he thought in determination.
"He really does love you," Boromir said quietly- almost as if he read his younger brother's mind as he helped him up from the floor. Faramir avoided his brother's eyes in response, and pretended to be busy with sheathing his sword properly. His relationship with Denethor was something that he hated to discuss.
"We should leave, if we finished," Faramir stooped down again to pick up his fallen equipment. As he did, he was able to regain his usual composure. 'Don't let him get to you. Control yourself...' his conscience spoke to him, urging him quietly to feel nothing. He paused, and glanced at Boromir; a strange light in his eyes- the only thing that betrayed his inner turmoil. "Practice again tomorrow?"
Boromir compelled himself to give his young brother an easy, assuring smile and a nod, unable to read the odd expression that settled on his sibling's face. "I thought you hated fighting."
Faramir's lips thinned. "I do, but I have begun traveling with the rangers that patrol the borders of Ithilien. I think my lack of skills in swordsmanship will be a burden to those around me."
"Tomorrow, then. Don't expect me to go so easy on you again."
"Hah! As if today's session was just a walk in Osgiliath for you," Faramir said with an easy smile.
"Of course it was. How could it not be? Now... go on. You've got mathematics lessons when the sun is half past mid-day, right?"
"Don't remind me," Faramir groaned, but he walked off quickly anyway. Boromir noticed that his posture was rigid and erect, as if he were blatantly defying Denethor's cold disapproval, though the man was not present. With a heavy sigh, he gathered his own equipment in his arms.
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Short chapter, but what do you think so far? Should I continue? Constructive criticism welcomed! ^_~