NOTE: Yes, another LOTR fic. This is actually the first in a potentially three chapter story. I'm working on the second right now. Please leave reviews to let me know what you think and if I should continue the story. I did make up a character or two for this story too, so I took a little bit of leeway in actual LOTR history for that.
The soft, green grass seemed bright and still on the clear summer day in near mid-June. The sun shone brightly and clearly, striking down on everything in its sight with a gentle graze of warmth, rather than the powerful sweltering blast that it subjected creatures to later in the year. On these flawless days, two hours to noon, the sun would shine directly on the white gates of Minas Tirith, making them appear to be almost shimmering when looked at from out of the mountains yonder.
It was about that time as young Boromir sat outside the gates of Minas Tirith, envying those far enough to see the illusion on the passing road. He was forbidden to go outside of the gates unsupervised, but he loved to sit outside the gates and watch the Tree of Gondor flow with the light gusts of wind. Except for some of the times he spent playing with his brother, these were the moments he enjoyed the most.
As Boromir stared out into the distance, his eye was caught by a blade of grass that appeared to be dancing with the flow of the wind leading it. Soon all of the surrounding blades were following the same pattern as a light wind streamed through them. Boromir followed the path of dancing grass to the bare branches of the tree as the wind made them draw to the west. He took deep appreciation in watching wind draft by him outside the gates. His mother used to tell him that every time a light breeze went past, it was just an old soul that has become part of the earth. Boromir would watch the wind and wonder if his mother had just gone by, and whether or not she had seen him.
While the young master sat in his moist and soft place on the ground, feeling as if he was part of the earth, he wished to remain in that one moment until he died, and joined his mother as the breeze going by. The moment would only last a few seconds, however, until the blades of grass settled into the ground, the soft breeze against Boromir's face passed and was replaced with a jolting force accompanied with the clattering of silver armor surrounding as Boromir was yanked up by weak shoulders into the air, then slammed back to the ground on his feet.
He looked up to the two Gondorian guards on either side of him as they dragged him toward the city gates. He glanced at the face of Vorond to his right, which peeked out from behind a helmet that seemed to be radiating light as it reflected the bright sun. Over the past two years, the royal guard, who were just his father's body guard, had become more and more like a caregiver to Boromir as his father seemed to become more removed from Boromir's life.
"Is father angry with me?" Boromir asked, trying to assess the situation. If his father was angry, then he had done something horrible. His father would only become angry at the worst of offenses.
"We've been looking for you all morning, Master Boromir. I was worried sick about you. We thought you'd run off, or worse. You know you're not supposed to be outside of the gates."
"Is father upset?" Boromir asked again, this time the timidity in his voice was replaced with a near hopeful inflection. Vorond only continued to look toward the gates, showing Boromir only the glowing side of his head.
"What were you doing outside here, anyway? You know you can't be out here alone." Vorond quickly asked him. Boromir knew this meant that he wanted him to drop the previous question and answer him immediately.
"I just wanted to watch the sunrise, and to look at the sky." Boromir said, dropping his head. He hated to disappoint Vorond, because if Vorond was disappointed, then his father would be even more so.
By now they had crossed the green, brisk field that extended from the shimmering white gates and stood before of the towering white doors that made men into mice. The mouth of the shining ivory-colored gates creaked wider, a sound which soon became a low rumble that made the earth at their feet shudder, and revealed the worn and hectic city beyond. The mass of occupants passing through the town road all parted and formed a passage, allowing the guards to lead the young master through the street.
"Well, I hope you had your fill of the sky, because you'll be spending the next few weeks helping in the castle." Vorond commented, though he didn't mean it, he never did.
Boromir was lead through the path that was made in the street and stretched to the majestic castle of Minas Tirith; he looked up at the towering pristine castle as he was swallowed into the interior of the translucent haven. The guards loosened their grip and allowed him to walk on his own as they escorted him through the familiar pearl hall.
The shining and untouched white walls of the hall were decorated from end to end with arts that showed the pride of Gondor; ancient artifacts of glorious battles, mesmerizing sculptures depicting honorable and powerful kings, and relics that seemed almost mystic. This hall that left visitors captivated with the sheer wonder of Gondor's kingdom had only a stolid effect to young Boromir, who had seen it most of his life, and little else. He craved something outside of his safe home, but he had never been able to leave.
Boromir and the guards soon reached the end of the hall. Vorond and his companion opened the decorative doors to the Grand Hall behind it. The circular room that had walls of majestic white and pillars of gold that never seemed to age or tarnish. This room was the setting for uncountable games played by Faramir and Boromir on most days; yet Boromir's imagination had become tired of the room and no matter what he pictured it as, he could not be by the least bit excited by it.
As Boromir stood at the center of the room and the guards took leave of him for business more pressing, his sentiment of disappointment and monotony was swept away with excitement and relief as he heard his name enthusiastically screamed from the opposite door of the hall. He looked up to see Faramir racing towards him with wide open arms as if they had not seen each other in years. Faramir leaped to Boromir and, although he failed to reach even three quarters his size, he was almost tackled to the ground with the force of Faramir's embrace.
"Where did you go, brother? I've not seen you all morning!"
"I went outside the walls to take a rest, brother, not to the other side of the world."
"Well, while you were out taking a rest, I had to wander around the halls twiddling my thumbs and helping Vorond at every beckon. Want to play a game?"
Faramir was five years younger than Boromir, but Boromir still spent most of his days at his brother's side, never ceasing to be contented by his company. Faramir never failed as a companion to Boromir, whether being entertained, comforted from his daily struggles, or helped to hatch an adventurous scheme. This was solely because Boromir had nobody else to help with any of these things, other than Vorond, of course, who Boromir considered dreary and stringent. Having no other friends to spend his days with, he considered Faramir to be the best friend and the only one he would need, and they had only grown closer through the past two years as their father grew apart.
"There are no games left to play, Faramir." Boromir said bluntly to his brother, hoping not to upset him.
"Then we can create one. It will be fun." Faramir seemed unshaken by Boromir's complaint. This proposition sounded somewhat exciting to Boromir. They had made many new games over the years, and nothing was more exciting than playing one for the first time; but Boromir was still preoccupied by the thought of his father.
"Later, but first tell me, did father get angry that I was gone?" Boromir tried to seem more worried than hopeful, but Faramir noticed neither.
"I don't know, I have (not?) seen him all morning, but Vorond sure was making a whole lot of fuss about it. You ought not to disappear like that." Faramir informed his brother, feeling that he was helping Boromir by giving him this advice.
Boromir knew that his father must have gotten angry, or at least annoyed, if Vorond had made so much fuss about his "disappearance." This realization was not satisfying to Boromir, but even more upsetting. He knew his father would be upset with him, and his father's disappointment devastated Boromir.
Suddenly a flash of his father standing over him as Boromir watched a prized horse of the kingdom ran out of its confinement and lost itself in the forest came to his memory. His father had not yelled at him, Denethor never yelled, he only gave a soul-shaking glare of disapproval. Boromir had felt his father's disappointment grow into disinterest and shame in him as the horse ran out of his sight behind thick green trees.
This was the same feeling that Boromir felt possess his chest for a split second at that moment in the hall next to his brother. He couldn't stand to have that father look at him like that again, and knew he had to do something. He felt that he should find his father and confront him directly about the event and apologize, that by doing that, he would show him how much of a man he truly was.
"Faramir, do you know where father is now?" Boromir asked with expedience, as if he had an important mission. This made Faramir worried about what Boromir may be planning, or what their father might do to him.
"I think he's in his study room, where he usually is." Faramir informed him, and expected instructions to follow.
"I need to speak with him. Come with me, just in case." Boromir would need Faramir for this uncertain action; Faramir's presence always calmed Boromir in these situations.
Boromir went to the wall of the round room and found a door behind a golden pillar that was identical to all of the other doors behind all of the other golden pillars. He pulled open the door with Faramir clutching him from behind his back, and watched the heavy entrance swing ajar only to see Vorond standing over them on the opposite side of the entryway.
"Hello young masters, where are you two going? You look like two frightened pigeons, what have you done?" Faramir began to explain the expedition before he was silenced by a stare from Boromir, who proceeded to give an explanation that Faramir noticed was very similar to what he had planned to say.
"We didn't do anything, we just wanted to go talk to father." It wasn't until Boromir saw the odd expression on Vorond's face that he realized how unusual this request was.
"Now what do you want to do that for? You've already had an exciting morning. He's busy. Anyway; I don't think you need to bother him." Vorond told them, clearly trying to shoo them off. It was obvious that they would not be able to see their father with permission. "Come now, I'll take you down to the training area." This is where Vorond took the boys when he wanted to entertain them and get them out of the way.
"We can't see him but for a moment? We won't take up his time." Boromir knew that his pleading would be futile, but he couldn't help but to protest.
"You can talk to him later. He's busy right now." Vorond said as he led them down the hallway to a small door that opened to a long spiral staircase that, in contrast to the rest of the unspoiled castle, was old and worn. The staircase was narrow and cramped, dimly lit by hanging lanterns, and made up of wearied unreliable wooden stairs surrounded by red stone walls. As Boromir and Faramir were lead to the base of the stairs, between them and the small wooden door that lead to the guards' training room stood Lord Denethor just exiting the room. "Lord Denethor, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were using the training room. We'll leave you."
"Oh, no, that's fine Vorond. I was just leaving, anyway." Denethor seemed to not even notice the trio until Vorond had addressed him, and even then he didn't even look at Boromir or Faramir. As he began to ascend the stairs and walk the narrow pathway beside Vorond and his children, which he himself could hardly seem to squeeze through, he stopped beside and glanced at the boys, then back up to Vorond. "I'm glad you're bringing them down here now. It's about time they learned the ways of a true soldier." This comment seemed barely complimentary, but it instilled Boromir with a sense of his father's approval, and a hint that he may be proud of him some day. This gave Boromir the courage to carry out his plan and act like what his father would see as a 'true soldier.'
"Father?" Boromir uttered as Denethor began to climb up the stairs behind them and disappear behind the spiral. He turned back and stared at Boromir expectantly, pushing away his previous courage. "I'm sorry I vanished this morning. I didn't mean to worry you." He managed to utter while staring at the step in front of him.
"Oh? You vanished? Well, then I suppose it seems you're back now, so all is well." Denethor waved off his comment and continued up the stairs and around the bend.
Boromir stood in place on the step, staring at the empty air where his father had been. His will for movement had disappeared, and was only able to continue down the stairs with the aid of Vorond's pushes. The devastation of his father's disappointment that Boromir feared so much seemed so little and inconsequential now when faced with the realization that his father had not even noticed his absence; he found that his father simply was not at all affected by him at all.
As Boromir fathomed this and Faramir tried to grasp the full meaning of what had just happened between the two, Vorond pulled them both to the foot of the stairs and pushed them through the door of the training room and onto the hay covered ground, surrounded by a group of six wooden dummy soldiers in garrison form all holding wooden swords.
The smell of the lantern gas from the stairwell was overpowered by the old scent of broken wood and sweat that always consumed the training room and both of the boys were pulled out of their contemplations by the noticeable change. This smell no longer bothered either Boromir of Faramir, nor did the dark lighting that was even less revealing than the lanterns of the stairwell. Though they were both now focused somewhat on the room, Boromir remained in his demeanor of disillusionment.
"You boys stay here, I'll be back down, but I must speak to you father." Vorond closed the door behind him and left the boys staring at each other in the grim room. They had never been left in the training room alone before, but took little excitement in this time because there was usually little to do in the room that entertained the boys for very long.
The boys both stood in the room for a moment, neither knowing what to do or what to say to the other. Faramir soon began to wander around the room, making an attempt to accomplish his original goal of starting a game. He floated from dummy to dummy, naming them all and giving them all stories in his mind; Boromir, however, seemed uninterested.
He stared at the soldier replica in front of him, discerning the multitude of slashes and splits in the wooden face and body that must have been accumulating for decades. As he contemplated the face, he thought that he could see facial features formed by the nearly symmetric slashes made on the head. He considered whether the slashes were made completely by chance, or somewhat intentionally.
He thought that perhaps it helped the soldiers to imagine the face of the enemy on the wooden block. He imagined his father practicing on the dummy only moments before and wondered what face he might see in the wood as he hacked it to bits. He pictured his father, planted in front of the dummy, holding his sword to his chest, taking his typical intelligent and tactical approach, but always looking the enemy in the eyes, never looking away from his target.
As Boromir continued to inspect the battered and worn wooden foes, Faramir continued to explore the room for something that may interest Boromir enough to play with. As he meandered towards the back wall, his eye was caught by a slight twinkle against the dark orange glow of the faintly lit room.
He made his way in between the orderly lines of damp wooden soldiers until he reached a timber warrior wobbling in the far corner of the garrison. Leaning against his legs was the gleaming silver of a tall and broad blade. Faramir's eyes followed the glow of the blade with admiration from the warm and thick black, studded handle to the wide powerful base of the silvery blade, down to the petite but deadly point which penetrated into the thin layer of crisp golden straw.
"Boromir! Quick, come look at this!" Faramir instinctively called, too timid to pick up the blade himself. Boromir broke his entrancement of the face on the soldier to hurry to Faramir's side. He knew that it was something good, many things excited Faramir, but he only took a tone of urgency with particularly interesting findings.
When Boromir reached Faramir's side and saw the glorious blade, he forgot about the wooden face and even temporarily forgot about his father's crushing comment, struck with amazement by the noble and deadly instrument.
"It must be father's, he must have forgot it." Boromir proclaimed trying to contain his excitement. Boromir took the heavy blade in his hand and swung it loftily in the air, allowing it to hover above his head for further admiration.
"We should return it to father before he realizes it's missing. He may get mad." Faramir suggested, trying to hide his intimidation by the blade.
"I just want to look it." Boromir explained without taking his eyes from the majestic weapon. Its beauty empowered him, only made more present by his grasp of the cold metal against his palms. Just by holding it, Boromir felt its power and dominance flow through him, and gained more than power, but also a sense of nobility and honor, even pride. He raised the blade above his head and hurtled its edge into the body of the wooden soldier in front of him. He was impressed by the crevice he had made once he removed the blade from the body.
"I bet father would be proud if we returned it to him. He'd be quite grateful to us." Faramir hoped to sway his brother. He hated using Boromir's admiration of their father against him, but he felt he had to in this situation. This, however, had no bearing on Boromir. He knew that his father would not care if they returned the sword, and probably wouldn't even notice.
The sword stood there, out of Denethor's sight, out of his mind, out of his care. He had once kept hold of his sword at all times. It was so precious and meant so much to him. He had truly loved it. Now it laid here, in an empty dark room, with Denethor nowhere to be seen. He probably didn't even know where it was, Boromir thought to himself. If somebody asked him about the sword, he imagined his father returning a blank stare, with no knowledge that such a sword even existed.
"Don't you want to play Faramir? We can use it in a game." Boromir's proposal intrigued Faramir, as he knew it would. It did not completely sweep away Faramir's fears, but he was less intimidated by the weapon with the idea of a game before him. "I can be father, and we can fight off this whole garrison of Orcs."
"But they're just dummies, they never fight back, and I don't have a weapon. I can't fight a whole garrison without a weapon." Faramir poked holes into the suggested game. He never liked games in the training room, but he knew Boromir enjoyed battle games, so played them with enthusiasm.
"Very well, then you can be my enemy. You can move the dummies arms from behind and fight me as I take them on one by one." Boromir liked this idea even more, it resembled a real fight. This suggestion was impractical, though, with Faramir being only seven years of age and hardly tall enough to hold the arms of the soldier, much less control them.
Despite this, Faramir loyally obeyed Boromir's suggestion and ran behind the nearest wooden soldier and clumsily lifted up its arm that held a wooden sword by half a foot. Faramir had to stretch both arms far above his head to accomplish this.
Boromir held the tip of the sword to the wooden one and stepped from side to side, stalking his enemy. He pulled back the blade and smacked it into the soldiers arm, throwing it back into Faramir's jaw, almost knocking him off of his feet. "Faramir! I'm sorry, are you ok? I didn't…"
"I'm fine. Not even bleeding, just a knock on the chin. I just need a better grip." Faramir lied as he wiped blood from his mouth. He had actually begun to enjoy the game, and didn't want Boromir to stop on his account. Faramir grasped the soldiers forearm with both hands and stood under it. "Ok, I'm ready, go."
"Very well, then evil beast, prepare to perish!" Boromir quickly forgot about Faramir's injury with the excitement of the game. He made two more lumbering whacks at the wooden man. The first which hit the upper breast and the second which was aimed at its stomach, but Faramir managed to move the wooden sword quickly enough to block it.
This made Boromir more aware in his attack. He stopped and pointed his sword at the dummy, taking a few more side steps. He thought about his attack, stared the soldier straight in his eyes, and stepped forward and made three consecutive slashes. The first on the wooden neck, the second pierced his wooden arm, and the third cut into flesh.
When Boromir realized what had happened, Faramir was on the ground writhing in pain, holding his arm from which seemed as if a river of blood flowed and splotched onto the straw ground.
"I….I... Vorond! Help, Faramir is hurt! Vorond! Help!" Boromir screamed, not knowing what else to do. Before he knew it, Vorond had burst through the door, closely followed by Denethor. The solider was swiftly on the ground at Faramir's side.
Boromir turned to the open door that was almost off its hinges and found himself staring at his father in the open doorway. Denethor was staring at the dismal situation wearing a blank face as he watched Vorond care for Faramir.
"I… I didn't mean to. It was an accident, we were at play…." Boromir stuttered.
"Come here." Denethor called to his frightened and worried son. Boromir's pale figure seemed to glow in the dark room as he stood still, unable to obey his father and move his legs out of fear and shock. Slowly Boromir made his was to his father's side, and stared up at his expressionless face. He then observed something odd, which he had never seen on his father before.
An unfamiliar appearance took Denethor's face, his eyes seemed to glow and a hardly discernable smile crawled across his mouth. Denethor glanced up from Boromir to Faramir lying on the ground, and then back.
"You were very good son. You looked like a true soldier." Boromir was lost on how to react to this. It did not console his shame and worry for injuring his younger brother and best friend.
"Um, what do you mean father? I hurt Faramir!" Boromir stuttered, not sure what to say, and almost immediately feeling regret for this, thinking his father might become furious.
"That was an accident, Faramir will be fine. You showed true potential, though. That was skill worthy of a Gondorian soldier." Denethor seemed prouder of Boromir than he had ever been, so much so that he seemed almost excited.
Boromir could not imagine a way to redeem himself. His only friend, his younger brother, was lying bleeding on the floor hardly a few feet away, but the only thing he could think feel was pride. Denethor was not only proud of him, but he was acknowledging him. His could feel his father looking at him as an honorable and noble soldier. More than pride, Boromir almost felt hints of glee.
"Thank you, father." Was all Boromir could say, he was at a loss for any other words.
"Son, I think it's time that you became a slider. You're coming of age, and you've shown you are prepared for that day. From now on you will be attending daily training to become a true soldier. I will personally instruct you, I will make you into a solider. Would you like that?" Denethor informed Boromir of this with excitement. Boromir had never seen such excitement in his father's eyes.
Boromir saw more than pride, but satisfaction and an enthusiasm that was almost youthful. Boromir himself could not help but feel inexplicable joy and glory. He had visions of himself as an honorable soldier wearing glorious armor with the emblem of a white tree, of and his father standing beside him.
"I would like that very much." Boromir said proudly, standing taller. This brought an even larger smile to Denethor's face. The resounding presence of his father's pride in Boromir pushed the shame of his hurt brother from his mind.
"Come with me and I will tell you about your training." Denethor commanded before excitedly ascending the first steps of the stairs, looking back at Boromir the whole time.
As Boromir went to follow him, he glanced back at his brother lying on the ground, stained red with blood. Vorond was leaning over Faramir, urgently dressing his wound. Faramir's white and sweaty face peeked up at Boromir, with a look of helplessness on it. Then Boromir saw what looked like a smile on Faramir's face. Heartened, Boromir turned back to his father, hurried up the stairs, and followed him into his future of glory.