A/N: According to , today is the day in Middle-Earth which Boromir died. Of course, my feels resurfaced, and, as Faramir is my darling dear, I couldn't resist. Enjoy, mellonea nin!

Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, and Steward to the King of Gondor, now sat on a precipice by the Anduin, watching the water rush by in its haste to make it to the Sea. It was a chilly day, nearing the end of February, not quite a full year since the end of the War. Much rebuilding was still being done in Minas Tirith, and in Osgiliath. The people of Gondor still mourned for their lost, even brave Faramir, for 'twas this day, only one year previously, that he heard his brother's horn crying from the North. The young Steward had slipped out of the city, unnoticed, in the predawn hours of the morning for a bit of peace and quiet before the hectic activity of his day commenced (for such was the life of the King's Chief Counselor).

Faramir looked to the north and breathed deeply. The morning reminded him much of his days commanding in Ithilien when he would be up before dawn making what preparations were needed for the day. The feel of stone beneath him. The feel of the cool breeze brushing off the river. The moist taste it left in his mouth. But it also reminded him of another day. One that had begun just like all the others.

He could still hear the sound of his brother's horn. It was permanently etched into his memory. He closed his eyes, and again he could envision his brother in his funeral boat, floating calmly down the river Anduin. He could feel the emptiness that threatened to consume him. The shock and denial that had immediately overtaken his senses. It had been sometime later before the real grief hit. Before Faramir found a quiet spot to sob out his anguish.

He mentally brushed these thoughts away, having no need to allow himself to sink into that black pool of despair. Instead now, he could see his brother's proud face as he led his men to victory. His eyes glittering with warm lights as he greeted his little brother. And he could feel the safety of his brother's arms as they embraced him.

Faramir shuddered from the remembered warmth and pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders.

As he stood there, another day long ago, rose, unbidden, to the front of Faramir's memory:

"Boromir?" Ten year old Faramir began solemnly, as he trotted at his brother's heels. "What's it like to die?"

Boromir stopped still, and turned to his younger brother, a shocked expression on his face. "Why do you ask, little brother? That is not something that I can answer, nor do I wish to take a guess at."

Faramir shrugged. He had always seemed so wise, and so much older than he looked. Gazing thoughtfully out the window as he spoke, he said quietly, "I heard lieutenant Damrod talking with Anborn about the massacre near Cair Andros. He said a lot of soldiers were killed."

Boromir's gaze tightened. "Aye," he said softly, "Many lives are taken in battle. It is one necessary evil of war. You will understand when you're older."

Faramir shook his head. "But why? Why must anyone die?"

Boromir licked his lips. In truth, he had most likely been uncertain of how to put this answer to his younger brother because he did not know one himself. "Those who die, Faramir, they do so for a cause. They died not because they wanted to, but because they knew their lives were taken for a good reason."

"What cause could be great enough to take someone's life?"

Boromir thought for a moment. He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You remember those stories you used to read as a child." Faramir nodded. He still read them. "People died for love. They died to protect their families, or their homes, or their lords."

Faramir looked thoughtful again. Finally, he said, "I would die for you, Brom."

Boromir smiled faintly. "And I for you, little brother. But let us hope it may not come to that."

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

Faramir gasped, his eyes flying open. He spun to face his assailant, inwardly berating himself for allowed himself to drift. His hand fell to his sword hilt, but before he could draw it, another hand closed over his own, and the Steward found himself gazing into the fond depths of the King's eyes. "My lord," he croaked, ducking his head. His face was cold and wet from silent weeping.

Aragorn wrapped a kind arm around his young Steward's shoulders. "Where is your guard?" he asked softly, a knowing smile of understanding twitching on his lips.

Faramir pulled a sleeve across his face. "In Minas Tirith, my lord. Forgive me, I did not hear you approach."

"'Tis alright, my dear Steward. Though, I thought we had an agreement that you would not sojourn from the Citadel without your guard on you at all times."
Faramir blushed. "Forgive me, my lord. I wished to be alone."

Aragorn gave him a kindly squeeze. "Aye, I do understand. However, it is not my wrath you need worry about."

Faramir gave a small groan at the reminder of Beregond's constant mother-henning. "He is almost as bad as my old nurse-maid," Faramir grumbled.

Aragorn gave a low chuckle. "But he does not worry needlessly with you, young prince."

The two stood in silence for a few moments, yet it was not an awkward silence, but rather one that falls between two companions when they have begun to reminisce and think of old times.

The King looked to his friend, and, seeing the slightly troubled expression on his face, asked, "Where have you ventured this time, young Steward?"

Faramir started, answering truthfully, "The day my brother rode for Imladris, my lord."

Aragorn said nothing, knowing himself what this day meant to his young friend. In truth, it was a grievous day for the new king as well. Both had lost a brother in Boromir. But, over the past year, they had both gained a new one in each other. The King was only mildly surprised to feel tears in his own eyes. He looked to the North now as well, shielding his eyes from the sun's rising rays in the East. He drew a deep breath, remembering his own final words to his departed friend.

"Be at peace, son of Gondor."

"My brother," Faramir began, faltering slightly, and drawing Aragorn from his own thoughts. "He was not perfect. Nor am I, but…" He seemed uncertain of what he wished to say.

Aragorn decided to speak for him. "But he was a great man, and a great warrior. He fell defending those he loved."

Faramir blinked, and then nodded. "I know, and I expected no less. Still," he licked his lips, and then shook his head, "I have decided that mere words cannot possibly do him justice. I cannot describe the feeling of my love for him."

Aragorn looked at his friend. "Words can never do those we love justice, but it does not stop us from trying." Upon feeling the shudder that ran through his Steward's body, Aragorn tugged him tighter. "Come, Faramir. It is cold, and it would not do for the entire city to see the King and Steward ride in, unannounced and unkempt, so early in the morning."

Faramir drew a shaky breath. "As you wish, my lord. You are right."

"I thought I told you to stop calling me 'my lord' when are in private, Faramir," Aragorn added teasingly, giving the younger man a gentle cuff over the head.

Faramir smiled faintly. "Sorry."

But still both lingered, watching the sun rise over the Anduin. And if both saw the misty figure of a boat on the waters, neither said a word. Instead, they simply tightened their hold on one another. And they shared a moment longer remembering their friend, comrade and brother, Boromir, Captain of the White Tower.

"Remember today, little brother."