Title: Prodigal
Author: Ima Pseudonym
Rating: PG
Characters: Boromir and Faramir. No (intended) pairing, but open for individual interpretation.
Summary: A character piece about two brothers and tradition. (Takes place several years before the events of The Lord of the Rings.)
Disclaimer: Any and all characters and places mentioned in this belong in their entirely, or in spirit to JRR Tolkien, and his estate.
Notes: A few small revisions have been made. These, mostly, involve punctuation issues and character facts that escaped my notice when I wrote this. Hopefully this will make for a smoother read. :)
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Prodigal
The sharp notes pierced the silence of the large hall, and Faramir shifted in his seat; boredom giving way in a moment to giddiness.
"Your lesson is not yet ended, Faramir." His instructor (a stern man with hair that had grayed considerably since he had been hired to govern the steward's youngest) pinched the bridge of his nose. Slack and inattentive he could (did) deal with, but this new tenseness, bordering on vibration, in his charge's posture clearly advocated that no more information could be forced into the boy- young man's head that day.
"But that hardly seems to matter, now. We'll continue tomorrow. An hour earlier, mind you." The man conceded defeat without a fight. The boy's father would 'not' be pleased to learn of this, but- well, it 'was' tradition. The smile he received for his concession (a palpable beacon of joy and gratitude) was almost worth suffering the silent displeasure of his employer.
Faramir fled the room; the guards deftly moving from his path, hard-pressed to disguise their own joy. The trumpets meant victory: A triumphant return.
The young lord seized a horn from one of the heralds; who knew better than to attempt protesting the action. Traditions were hard-broken, and this one would be nigh impossible to dissuade. A countering cadence from the young man was set to the more formal one, clashing with the age-old tune meant to greet returning soldiers. It was easily discerned.
From the field, indistinguishable from the group of horsemen (just a dark smudge on the vast field), an answering (though somewhat less melodic) tune was heard: Three short blasts from the horn of Gondor. The brothers greeted one another.
With a short cry of joy, the young man turned his back to the view from the highest tier, and set upon the shortest path to the bottom (short of a freefall). The herald barely caught his trumpet as it was tossed back to him.
Faramir knew no obstacle as he flew through the streets, winding his way to the lowest level of his city. He heard no greeting from the denizens; neither amused nor annoyed.
It was another tradition: More of a game. Boromir urged his tired steed faster. It was his part to arrive before Faramir. His men, beginning to forget the toils and bloodshed they came from, laughed openly as their commander quickly moved from the rear of the group to the head; soon overtaking the front line. Boromir's smile was fierce, seeing the gates far ahead already opening. The wind whipped away any sound of laughter. Victory would, again, be his. His brother could not arrive before him.
As expected, the elder brother arrived first; but had only a moment to dismount, and hand his horse's reigns to the waiting stable master, before Faramir appeared. The young man was flushed, and in full flight. His pace did not slow as he spotted his brother, standing still amidst the soldiers arriving around him. They knew not to come between the steward's sons.
The older sibling braced himself for impact. With practiced ease, he deflected the force of the embrace by swinging his little brother around in his arms: Once, twice. The aches of battle and a hard ride back were forgotten.
Boromir buried his nose in the sweat-darkened curls of Faramir's hair, breathing in the true smell of victory. Home again.
Beyond the excuse of youth (with the younger of them already sixteen), the brothers knew they were too old to continue with this silliness. But traditions were, after all, hard-broken.
END
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A/N: My favorite thing about this drabble? Neither of the main characters speak. XD I know. I'm weird. I keep picturing all of these trial and error situations to the 'tradition'. Like Faramir tossing a horn back to a herald and accidentally sending it over the side of the top tier. (Which would suck for anyone on the lower levels. Do they take cover, when they hear the tune?) Or Faramir headed full-tilt at Boromir when a horse gets in the way, and there's a resultant collision complete with screeching tires, and wobbling hubcaps. What, exactly, would happen if his teacher hadn't let him go? And, most importantly (plus it's the cutest image) how many times has Faramir completely knocked Boromir over? In my head, that's just too freak'n cute for words. :p
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