(Author's Note: Here I turn away from the Elven folk to, my favorite, the land of Gondor. This story will chronicle some of Faramir's memories of his dear departed brother Boromir, as sometimes told to Éowyn his wife. Just a brief note, I mention that Éowyn and Faramir's son is named Elboron. In the LOTR appendices, their GRANDSON is named, Barahir, but I do believe in one of the History of Middle Earth series, Elboron is mentioned as their son's name. If anyone knows the exact book and page, I'd love to know. I welcome and enjoy your reviews, and, like all writers, seek *constructive* criticism to improve their writings. Enjoy, and Cheers! – Rilwen)
Disclaimer: I write for fun not profit here, and all that belongs to Tolkien is his and nothing that I would ever infringe upon. I only hope to pay tribute to my favorite characters.
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~ Remembrance ~
Chapter 1: The Journal
Raindrops fell lightly on the paved streets of the White City as servants, commoners and guards alike sought shelter from the incoming storm. A somber mood had fallen on Minas Tirith, no doubt brought on by the dark clouds that now loomed overhead. Staring into the same sky with eyes of a deeper grey was Faramir, the Steward of Gondor.
Ever since waking that morning to an empty bed, he had sat down by a window of the Merethrond, the great Feast Hall of Minas Tirith. From there he had not moved, despite attempts by his page and even King Aragorn himself.
A leather bound journal lay in his lap, sadly he flipped through the pages of rough parchment, black wisps of his long hair hiding the expression on his face. In this journal Faramir had written his thoughts, dreams, and facts of war and city; all compiled and hand-written with his flowing script.
He found, at times like this, when his heart was heavy and he did not care to hear the minstrels of Gondor or study Elven lore, that the journal called to him and begged to be opened. Every single time he fell victim to the journal's call, and endured the torture of certain entries that lay inside.
A folded piece of parchment slipped out from the pages and flitted to the ground by his feet. He eyed it first then leaned over and retrieved it, slowly unfolding the paper. With a bitter chuckle he sat back against the sill, stroking at the dark goatee on his fair skin.
"How evil you are to me, constantly reminding of the very torment I look to you to soothe."
With a quiet sigh he beheld the sketch of two young boys on horseback.
"Boromir, o brother…the years do not ease my grief over your death."
Faramir felt a hand on his shoulder, and he jumped in surprise at the touch. A soft voice answered.
"I did not mean to scare you…perhaps I should go?"
"Éowyn…" he whispered as he gazed at his wife. Her golden hair fell over her shoulder in a braid tied with golden thread. She wore a dress of pale blue with flowing sleeves and a low back that gave him sight of her soft skin.
Faramir embraced his wife and kissed her lips letting her take away the mournful thoughts in his mind. But Éowyn was quicker than the Steward, and immediately she knew that something was wrong. She took his hand and was about to speak when she the sketch Faramir held in his rough hands. A frown creased her features and her voice softened with pity.
"I had nearly forgotten…our son would not let me sleep and my mind is far from rested."
"Perhaps he too feels his father's grief for the uncle he never knew."
Éowyn stood behind Faramir as his attention once again turned to the rain outside. She slipped her arms around his waist they stared out at the Seven Circles of their city and home in silence. Faramir was glad the White Lady of Rohan did not see the tears coming to his gray eyes.
"It was this day, years ago, that the guards of this city heard the great horn blow. The world was still dark then, and my company and I were struggling to fight off swarms of orcs that threatened Ithilien and our lives. Yet the horn's call seemed only a dream…a trick of the wind that faded as soon as its course shifted again. But it was no dream, dear Éowyn, it was the start of a nightmare."
"My love, he would not want you to suffer so... I do not want you to suffer so."
"Do you not rue the anniversary of Theoden's death? Do you not replay that moment a thousand times over, wondering if perhaps you could have stopped it?"
Éowyn bowed her head and rested her face against his shoulder.
"Yes, I do."
"Then multiply that pain and regret twofold, and you would know the feeling of losing Éomer, as I lost Boromir."
"Perhaps it would be best, if you remember the good times you had with your brother. Like this moment here…"
She took the sketch of Boromir and Faramir on horseback and smiled, turning that same shining smile to her husband.
"Tell me of this day Faramir, if you were not too young to recall."
~*~
I was seven years old, Boromir was twelve. It was the first time he was large enough to ride a grown horse. We had spent all day getting used to our steeds, I had a pony named Goldleaf, Boromir chose to call his horse Nightwind. Even at such a young age, the idea of being a warrior was drilled into his mind…
Boromir, elder son of Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor, gripped the reins of his horse as he easily wove in and out of a small track of posts. Thrice he had done the task effortlessly, and the smile on his face could not have grown any larger. A cool breeze blew across the Pelennor Fields, ruffling the young boy's dark hair out of the grip of the cord he used to keep the growing locks away from his face.
"Faramir! Faramir did you see me? I ride like the horsemen of Rohan! Nay, better! For I am a soldier of Gondor!"
Boromir raised his hand up in the air in triumph as if he had been victorious in a great battle. Faramir ran up to his brother with an apple in his hand. He was clad in a dark gray tunic and black pants, and his hair was a dark mess of wayward locks, too long to keep controlled yet too short to tie back. He paid no attention to his brother's reverie as he jogged up to the steed Boromir named Nightwind and stroked the creature's black mane, feeding it the apple. Boromir looked puzzled as he hopped off the horse and kept a grip on the reins.
"Didn't you hear me?"
"He's hungry, he wanted an apple."
"Let me guess, you heard it talk?"
"Yea!"
"Faramir! Nightwind isn't an elf horse, he doesn't talk. He's not a horse from Rohan either!"
"I can still hear him."
Boromir sighed and shook his head.
"You've been reading too much again. And you never come to sword practice! Father will disapprove."
"Mother liked my stories."
At this comment Boromir grew silent and frowned. It had only been two years since their mother's death, and while Boromir chose to shove the pain into the depths of his mind, Faramir was younger and did not have the strength to do the same.
"Don't talk about Mother."
"Sorry." Faramir pouted and ran over to a haystack where he had left his belongings: a children's book of Elven lore and a small sack of snacks for the horses.
One of the boys' servants came over to take Nightwind from Boromir's hands, leaving the little master to stare at his brother, his arms defiantly crossed over his chest. He was angry that Faramir dared bring up their mother, Finduilas, again. He specifically told him he no longer wished to think about his mother, for it was too sad to think about, and Lord Denethor had always told Boromir the soldiers of Gondor did not cry. Yet as he watched his little brother flip through a book with eager eyes, he suddenly grew angrier. Why did their mother have to die? Why couldn't anything have been done to save her? They had been left alone without her caring smile and warm embrace while they were still too young to fully understand the concept of death. But
Boromir jogged over to his little brother and sat down next to him. Faramir turned his back on his older brother and brought the book up to his face.
"I'm sorry Faramir…I didn't mean to talk to you that way."
"Go away."
A mischievous glint sparkled in Boromir's grey eyes, and he stood, grabbed Faramir's book from his hands, and began to run around the Pelennor Fields in circles, taunting and daring Faramir to chase him. Faramir at first held back, shaking his head and standing with his sack, reaching for an apple to launch at his rascal of a brother, but then he realized Boromir was truly sorry for how he had behaved, and he felt just as much pain as Faramir did over the loss of their mother.
"Prepare to die, evil orc!"
Faramir grabbed his wooden practice sword from his belt and held it high in the air, crying out and chasing after Boromir. The siblings burst into laughter as they parried swords and tackled each other to the ground. By now they had attracted a crowd, who simply watched on shaking their heads with a hint of a smile on their faces. The bond between the brothers was unbreakable, and it appeared nothing would tear them apart. Boromir gained the upper hand in the scramble and pinned Faramir down. Their raven hair was spotted with leaf and twig, and by now their clothes were soiled with mud and grass stains.
"Boromir the Great wins once again!"
"Huzzah big brother!"
Boromir stood and picked Faramir up, dusting him off.
"Come Faramir, get your things and let's go home and wash up. We get to watch Father's meeting with the soldiers tonight!"
Boromir gave him a few moments to gather his belongings, then took his hand and together they ran off to Minas Tirith.
~*~
Éowyn frowned as Faramir finished recalling that day. Her husband bowed his head, letting raven locks cover his handsome face and hide the tears that ran down his pale cheeks. The White Lady of Rohan took the sketch of the brothers and tucked it into Faramir's journal, gingerly setting it aside on the sill of the window by which they sat.
"Perhaps…now is not the best of times to speak of Boromir."
She stood and approached the window pain, touching her slender fingers to the cool glass as rain pattered against it. The long sleeves of her gown flowed down into the skirt of her dress, trailing behind her like a pale river. Lost in thought she gazed out into the Pelennor Fields, her husband's sorrow bringing back some of her own as she remembered those she lost on that dreadful day. For a moment her arm throbbed, and in her mind visions of the Witch King flashed between scenes of fallen Rohirrim and her beloved Uncle. Awoken from her reverie by movement behind her, she turned to see that Faramir had gotten to his feet and gone for a cup of ale.
Éowyn took care to pick up the journal as she followed Faramir to the table. As he was about to refill his glass, Éowyn pulled his hand away and gazed into his eyes, a stern look in her own.
"That is not the road to take. You know this well enough, Faramir."
Faramir sighed and took the journal from his wife's hands, tucking it into the belt he wore around his black tunic.
"Where is Elboron? For now more than ever I need to see the innocence in his eyes and feel the love in his smiles. He alone remains untainted by the darkness we survived."
"Follow me then, my lord. Our son is sleeping, but I beg you do not wake him, it took me quite awhile to quiet him."
"Nay, fair Éowyn. To see you both at once is all I ask for now."
