Disclaimer: Boromir, Faramir, Denethor and all other related characters belong to JRR Tolkien. No intentional copyright infringement is intended through their use.
A/N: Absolutely no slash is intended in this piece. Just brotherly love.
Dedication: For Archet. Happy Birthday!
Trust Must Be Earned
It was the day of the week that Boromir, the elder son of Denethor II and the late Lady Finduilas, had naught to do. It was a day of rest, for he had been trained in the craft of warfare for the whole week, as it had been ever since he came of age at twelve. But though he had had years to get used to it, he never found the day of rest particularly useful, being a person of action.
Boredom afflicted him, and with a sigh, he descended the stairs to the city grounds.
"Brother!"
Boromir flinched at that voice which called his name, but halted. "Yes, Faramir?" His voice was tight. "What is it you wish of me?"
Faramir was the second son of Denethor and Finduilas, being five years younger than Boromir. "I had naught to do as well, and saw you. Where are you going?"
The older boy sighed. "I wish to go for a swim." He started his walk once more, but Faramir followed him.
"May I go with you?"
Boromir glanced about him. There were many Gondorians about their businesses, and if he vented his anger now, many would see it and he would shame his father. Yet, to deny his brother that request would cause himself more pain, for Faramir would persist in asking why he could not follow.
"You may."
A smile came onto Faramir's face that served naught but to infuriate the older of them even further, and Boromir quickened his pace down the seven levels that Minas Tirith was build upon.
Once they were out of the city's walls, Boromir hastened to a small river that was nevertheless, swift. But he had swam in it for long and the currents held no fear for him.
Faramir sensed his brother's mood clearly, but understood not the cause of it. Even before he himself had came of age, he had looked up to Boromir as a person he loved; as a person who was great, and Faramir wished to be like him. "Brother, why are you frustrated?"
Boromir stopped again, and his breaths were long and deep. "Why do you keep wishing to follow me around, Faramir?"
The younger of them shifted his body that was beginning to take on a finer and more graceful form. "I like you, Boromir. You are my brother. Do you not…trust me about you?"
Boromir turned. "Trust you? When I first picked up a sword without Father's permission, you saw it but did not keep silent."
"That was so long ago," Faramir murmured.
"When I wished for a steed of my own, you had to tell Father about having seen men fall off their horses."
"I was younger then, and worried for you."
"Father did not listen to you for that, thank what powers that heard me." Boromir glared at his brother. "Trust you about me? Nay. People may forget easily, but not I. Trust must be earned, and you have not earned it." He walked to the river without waiting.
Faramir followed more slowly, thinking hard. When he reached the river, Boromir had already taken off his tunic and boots and waded into the water, ignoring the presence of his brother.
He had always been more for book and lore than weapons and warfare, for he was slighter in built than Boromir, and knew that he could not be as great a commander of men as his brother would be, one day. That was why he admired his brother so, but being un-jealous of his strength and grace.
He loved his brother, and knew his brother loved him, though Boromir would not show it. But trust. Boromir did not trust him, and that was grievous to know.
There was a loud splash and a startled shout that tore Faramir from his thoughts. His eyes caught on Boromir in the water, and he was instantly shocked to see that his brother was flailing his arms, bobbing up and down from the surface. The river was also dragging him away.
Without thought, Faramir quickly shed his tunic and boots, and ran to the river. The water tore at him and the undercurrents dragged at his feet.
For a brief moment, Faramir stopped with doubt: he was not a strong swimmer, having only learnt the skill two years ago, while Boromir had learnt for seven.
There came another desperate thrashing by Boromir that snatched his doubts away, and he plunged in, letting the river aid him in the course to his brother.
When he almost reached Boromir, he started his strokes to slow him down. But the current was strong, and almost drew him past his brother. His hand shot out and clasped the one of his brother.
"Cramp," Boromir hissed.
They were being dragged further away from the bank, and the undercurrents were becoming stronger.
Faramir struggled for the bank, using a combination of jerks and strokes to drag both of them unto land. The river played a game of tug with them, but desperation lent them strength, and both almost reached the bank.
Faramir hoisted Boromir onto safe ground with an arm. As he began to step up, he lost his footing under the attack of another undercurrent, and with a startled yell, fell back into the water.
Boromir lunged forward and caught his brother by the ankle, anchoring his body against the river for the moment, and slowly, painfully, pulled Faramir out till the both of them were high up on the grassy bank, panting.
Faramir suffered from some cuts on his elbow and a few bruises on his ribs, and Boromir winced to see those.
"My thanks, brother,"
"Nay. No need for them." Faramir smiled, and in his face something aged slightly with the wisdom of death.
Boromir gazed at Faramir for a moment, and without warning, drew the other into a hug which quickly ended.
"Come. Let us retrieve our clothes and return. I will clean your wounds, and teach you how to fight, for you cannot be buried in books all the time!"
Faramir laughed and rose, dripping water (as his brother did) all over the grass. "Thank you, Boromir."
***
Denethor gazed out of the window at his city, and the noise of the clashing of swords in the courtyard below caught his attention.
He saw his two sons together, both armed with swords, though Faramir was not allowed one yet. And he watched as Boromir taught the younger one thrusts and slashes to attack foes with.
His heart was lightened at that sight, for he knew that Boromir held little trust in anyone but in Denethor and in himself, and did not even confide in Faramir about aught.
They are so alike.
Denethor smiled and withdrew from the window. He would say naught of having seen them together.