Of Bonds

The ten year old boy pressed his face eagerly to the glass, narrowing his gray eyes upon a figure in the distance, making its meandering way toward the city of Gondor.

"Oh, but please let it be him, please let it be him!" the boy cried happily, almost in ecstasy with the half- formed idea that the only true father he had known was going to come and visit him once more.

His curly dark hair was cropped short about his head, but he pushed back at it anyway that he might more clearly see. And lo and behold, as the man came closer, he looked up from beneath a gray brimmed hat and smiled, a smile meant especially for the boy in the tower.

"GANDALF!" the child cried, dancing with the anticipation of tales and stories from far-off places, but most of all for the companionship of a parental figure. The boy rushed from the lookout tower.

"Gandalf is here!" he exclaimed to no one in particular, tripping his way down the spiraling stone staircase and stumbling out of the doors of the throne room. He had so much he wanted to say to the wizard! But as the elderly man made his way up the steps, beaten gray traveling cloak nearly glowing in the morning sun, it was all the child could do to stand there and grin stupidly.

"Come now, boy, you've more intelligence to you than to not great an old man properly!" said the wizard jovially as he reached the landing, opening his arms wide.

"Gandalf!" the child laughed, leaping into the man's arms and burying his face in the snow- white beard.

"Oh, my boy, my boy," the wizard wheezed, patting the child on the back affectionately. "It's good to see you again, Faramir."

"What news of the outside world? Have there been any more dragons?" Faramir asked, wriggling free of Gandalf's hug and dropping lithely to the ground, fully showing off the grace inherited from his elvish ancestors.

"No, no more Dragons. But there is still much to talk about, if you wish it," Gandalf answered, gripping the child's shoulder and ushering him into the throne room.

"Yes of course! And more books?"

"Yes, and I have more books for you. Hello, Boromir."

The other boy, standing by the throne of his father, smiled uncertainly at Gandalf. He was never sure what to make of the wizard, for although his brother loved the man, Denethor hated him.

"Have you not anything better to do than corrupt my children, Grey Pilgrim?" the king sneered, sitting carelessly in his seat.

"Apparently not. Will you have me for a few days, king?" answered Gandalf, a dangerous light sparkling in his eye, seeming to grow taller and darker.

The two children looked on in incomprehension as the tension between the two old men filled the room. Then, after what seemed like hours, Denethor waved his hand carelessly. "As you wish," he said, turning back to his conversation with Boromir.

"Come along," said Gandalf genially, taking Faramir by the hand and leading him to the study. It was as if the confrontation between his father and the wizard had never taken place, and the beloved old man had returned. Farmir studied the familiar withered features with loving respect and awe.

"Gandalf, why do you still come here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you still come here when my father hates you?"

"Because I believe that some things are worth the effort," the wizard answered with a sideways glance at Faramir. "Now, about the books…"

*****************

"Books. Have you not anything better to do than books? You should follow your brother's example. He is a valiant warrior, and he does not spend all his time shut up in a study."

Denethor's exasperated sigh was recalled to light now, as Farmir drew the dark hood closer about his face. It was almost his turn in the sword-fighting tournament, and he did not wish to take the chance of one of the citizens recognizing him, for then no one would challenge him.

I can fight, father. I'll show you. Farmir answered him silently. It had been the afternoon after Gandalf left, during midday meal, when the conversation between father and son had taken place. Denethor was not a bad man, Faramir wanted to believe, it was just that the two did not understand each other. So maybe if Faramir became a warrior and won the tournament, they would have common ground to stand on. Maybe then Denethor would have the son that he so badly wanted.

"Come on, boy," ground a dirty man suddenly, pulling Faramir after him with an excruciating grip on his arm. He had just came out of the ring and was presently leading Faramir back into the vicinity. "Beregond's your opponent," he briefed. "Just kept his own in the ring with the last five contestants. Big man, too. I don't know why a kid would want ta fight, but if you wanna kill yourself, s'fine with me."

The man laughed unpleasantly, and Farmir frowned under the hood. He half- pondered throwing off the disguise and chastising the man for his manners, but he too badly wanted to please his father.

It was too late, anyway, for now they were out of the prepping hut and in the blinding sunlight of midday Gondor.

A ring of wood barred the contestants from the huge crowd, all booing and jeering at little Faramir. A tall man stood easily in the sand of the ring, smiling and glowing in his victory. For one moment, Farmir doubted himself, and stood uneasily by the entrance.

"Get in there, boy," hissed the man, shoving Faramir through the gate and shutting it behind him. Turning toward the crowd, he roared "Presenting our next challenger…"

The people all broke out into peals of laughter, at the picture of a little hooded boy bringing down their champion. Looking for a way to escape the threat of Mordor and warfare, and finding it in the bloodlust of the ring, they began to chant: "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

The champion, Beregond, knelt in front of Faramir and said cruelly: "You can leave now if you wish, boy. I don't want a massacre."

The crowd laughed again. "Kill him!" they cried.

But Faramir was undaunted. Deepening his voice, he answered "There will be no massacre."

"As you wish it!" cried Beregond, standing and drawing his sword.

Faramir did the same, and they rounded on each other, each waiting for the other to make the first move. The swords glinted blindingly in the sun, dangerous and sharp.

Farmir peered intently at Beregond from beneath his hood, reading the other's mind as he was wont to do. He will move first. He will thrust at my right, knew Faramir.

But less than a second later, this came true. Beregond thrusted viciously at Faramir, with warrior's precision, but missed his target; for Faramir was ready, and moved with almost superhuman grace to the side.

"Damnit!" cursed Beregond. In a second attempt he drove at the boy's head; but the boy ducked down swiftly out of the way and then flew through Bergond's legs to end up behind him.

Beregond spun gracefully and brought the sword down where the boy should be; should be, but wasn't. He had back-flipped fluidly a few feet farther away.

The match continued this way for almost five minutes, with Beregond trying in vain to knick the boy. No matter how fast the man moved, however, the boy always dodged his assault.

Is he psychic? Wondered Beregond as he thrust again and again, each time more viciously than the last. Little did he know, this was true: for Faramir possessed the farsight of his ancient Numenorean bloodline.

I cannot run forever. I must also attack him, thought Faramir, though he was loth to do it.

So after dodging a series of quick thrusts with the sword, Faramir came up and towards the man's side, quick as a flash, and gashed Beregond's side. The man cried out in pain.

Faramir smiled. Look at me now, Father! I can win this fight without effort.

The crowd, pleased with the antics of the boy, had begun to chant for him, though they knew not his name. Beregond's eyes narrowed, and angered he went after Faramir again.

Faramir dodged his assault yet another time, and full of himself, he decided to meet Beregond's blow. So as the next sword -thrust came for him, Farmir brought up his own weapon and parried.

What he did not account for was that Beregond was a full- grown man, and Faramir was only a boy: and this full- grown man was also angered, and so his blows would fall even more heavily.

As Faramir countered the strike, his weak child- strength gave way, and his right sword- arm shattered beneath the strength of Beregond's blow.

Faramir cried out in pain as his sword fell to the sand, generating a cloud of sparkling dust. He stumbled backward as Beregond came for him again with a smile of triumph upon his face, and Faramir fell and hit his head upon the wooden blockades.

Now, the tradition of the sword fight was to kill your opponent and finish the match. But as Beregond raised the sword above his head to make the final blow, a sudden burst of pity came over him for the crumpled unconscious figure beneath him, and he hesitated.

In the moment of hesitation, another small figure, though still larger than his current opponent, leapt the guardrail and picked up the other's fallen sword, driving Beregond away from the child. He, too, was hooded.

"I shall finish the match for my brother," he said, and to Beregond's confusion drove at him. This child did not dance away from Beregond's thrusts, but caught them all and returned them. It was not long until Beregond was at sword- point to the boy.

"Will you kill me now?" whispered Beregond, frightened and yet at the same time awed at the boy's skill.

The child, sword hand steady, drew back his concealing hood. Brown hair fell straight to his shoulders and flashed in the sun, and blue eyes that were too old to belong in such a young face studied Beregond intently. A wave of recognition and horror took the man.

"S-sire!" he gasped.

All at once the crowd fell silent, aside from the few frightened whispers of "Boromir."

"Forgive me! I did not know!" Beregond whispered, his throat dry.

The prince flashed a dangerous smile. "Of course you didn't. No man can see through material."

"Is that- that is not Faramir?" Beregond said, indicating the poor unconscious boy.

"Verily," answered Boromir. "However, my brother took his own risks, and so we do not hold you accountable for any of the events this day. And since you showed Faramir mercy, I will return the favor and spare your life."

The sword lowered slowly, and then with a sweep of his cloak Boromir departed and lifted his brother into his arms. The youngest princes' hood also fell away, revealing the familiar dark curls of Faramir.

"Thank you, majesty! I am indebted to your grace!" cried Beregond, recovering himself.

Cradling his fallen brother in his arms, Boromir turned and gave Beregond a piercing look. However, he did not answer, and instead made his way through the parted crowd towards the palace.

*****************

It felt like he was floating in a sea of softness. Warmth and comfort flowed through him, and he didn't ever want to awaken from this blessed sleep; a sleep free of dreams.

Vaguely, as if from a long distance, he heard someone calling his name. "Faramir…"

"No, no," he answered them. "Leave me alone. I like it here. Don't call me back."

Being here was better than being alone. Floating here was better than having to deal with his father's criticisms. Here he didn't have to think about how he was unloved. How no one wanted him…

"Oh, please wake up…Faramir…" the voice called him again.

Yes, yes, this blessed sleep…this was what he wanted…he wouldn't have to deal with cruel world ever again…he would just drift away into nothingness.

"FARAMIR!" The voice called to him again, sounding anguished.

Dreamily, he realized that it was the voice of Boromir.

"Why is he calling to me? Does he want me?" Faramit asked.

"I thought I was alone. No one loves me…"

"Don't do this," Boromir pleaded, his voice echoing eerily in this emptiness.

"Don't call me back," he answered. "Don't you know? All that shimmers in this world will fade soon…I don't want to come back…there is nothing left in the world. No hope. No love."

"Without you, I will be alone…please, brother, come back…"

It was Boromir again. If he was unloved, then why was Boromir calling him? Why didn't Boromir just leave him alone?

"Please. I love you…" he heard Boromir say.

And then it was as if the nothingness was flying backwards in streams of colors. He had reached out his small hand, and another one had grasped hold firmly…and it was pulling him out…

*****************

The world came back into focus slowly. Faramir was in a room in one of the Healing Houses, lying in bed, the sun from the window slanting onto the foot of his mattress.

Boromir's arms were wrapped around him tightly, supporting his limp body up into a half-sitting position. One of Faramir's arms was draped across his brother's back, covered in a white cast. The events of the tournament returned to him, and with his free hand he reached up to touch the back of his head…it was bandaged.

"So I'm not dead," he thought slowly, platonically. He lay still for just a while longer, as if stunned, or disappointed, or maybe just to conserve energy, and felt his brother's face buried in his neck, and felt his brother's breath tickle his skin.

Then he reached up and stroked the same hand through Boromir's hair. Boromir gasped and sat up quickly, his forehead touching Faramir's, his blue eyes wide and full of tears.

"Do you love me?" Farmir whispered.

"Of course I do!" cried Boromir fiercely. "I was so worried! They said that you were in a coma and that they weren't sure if you'd wake up, Faramir…I don't know if I would have been able to stand that, you know…and for a while there I had almost believed them. How could you be so stupid?! And why do you even have to ask me that?!"

Farmir sighed happily. Boromir did love him, and even if no one else did, that was okay. And at that point he decided that all he needed was his brother's love, and as long as Boromir was with him, everything would be all right.

They fell into a comfortable silence for while, and then Boromir said: "I do not know if you remember this, Faramir, but when you were four and I was nine, mother died. And before she did, she told me to always take care of you. And I do intend to."

Faramir smiled at his brother, and Boromir smiled back. "Thank you," Farmir said. "For everything."

Boromir shook his head. "It's fine."

"Excuse me," interrupted a deep male voice from the door. Both boys turned to find Beregond standing there, awkwardly twisting his hands. "I came…to apologize for the other day."

"I told you it was alright," answered Boromir, looking annoyed. The man peered down quickly at his feet.

Faramir looked at the man, however, and smiled.

"Beregond, what do you do for a living?"

Beregond looked startled. "I...I am just a simple blacksmith, prince."

"You are an excellent warrior."

"I…no, I…not as good…"

"How would you like to be a part of the Royal Guard?"

The man's eyes widened. Those who were part of the Royal Guard were among the most respected people in the city, and usually of noble blood, not peasantry.

"I would like that very much."

Faramir's smile widened. "Good! Then it is done. In a few days, one should come to escort you to the place and give you a post."

Beregond bowed deeply. "I will never be able to repay the kindness you have shown me, Prince Farmir."

"You will, by your excellent service in the guard, Beregond."

And Beregond bowed again and left, and from that point onward became one of the most ardent defenders of Prince Faramir.

And Farmir, having found love in his brother, cared not any more what his father thought of him. The two from then onward became inseparable despite their differences, and proved themselves true in battle in the dark days to come, side by side.

Such bonds are truer than death itself…

*****************

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all characters associated belong only to the esteemed Mr. Tolkien.

Author's Notes: I was finally forced to oblige the little Farmir sitting in my head demanding a story, and this is what happened. I hope you like it! It's my first Farmir story…and I would be very happy if you dropped a review (it makes me happy to know that other people besides myself enjoy my work)!

To any of those readers who follow LiDR, I'm sorry I haven't updated in a while. But I promise you, the adventures of Legolas and Arwen will return soon…I only needed a little break.

Namarie!