For a long time, Faramir does not remember.
"Was it over quickly?"
Mithrandir's shoulders stoop a little, beside him. In victory, the White Wizard has seemed almost ageless; proud and unwavering in the face of darkness from afar. Now he looks as he always looked: a man both burdened and wise.
"His mind was given over to madness," he answers softly. "I think…the part of him you knew, therefore, suffered less."
It is not comfort. There is no comfort, to know that his father burned. It pains him still, a blade to the heart, to think of the dreams that died with Boromir. To think of what dreams still live on, right and victorious, but not for the line of Stewards.
"I have you to thank, then."
"For life?" Mithrandir shook his head. "No. Thank all those whom you have always thanked. A single moment does not change that."
.
Ah, but moments did. Faramir can count to his name stinging blows and words, and silences that echoed down the corridor of years.
"The people need you." He had said, as Boromir saddled his horse. Boromir was too impatient, as always, for the help of lackeys.
"I am doing this for our people."
I need you, Faramir thought, fingers numbly clenched against his palms. But he is a man, a man well on the other side of battles, and this one most of all, and—he cannot need his brother like this. Not anymore.
.
He is not in Minas Tirith when his brother dies.
Still, he knows where his father is. Faramir is lately given to visions—or perhaps this is no vision at all, simply a truth he knows well. Denethor, as close to the throne as he can ever be; swallowed by the loss of his only hope and future.
Faramir has never hated his father. That would have been easier.
Love and hatred and agreement are three different things; even when they mingle, they do so as uneasily as dregged wine.
Agreement, then, centered on only one—one shield and horn and hero.
Boromir.
Faramir finds himself hollow with certainty. Certainty, as much as it can be found in silver waters, foul dreams, and the knowledge that darkness has covered the House of Ecthelion before it covers the rest of Middle Earth.
.
"…that our places had been exchanged? That I had died, instead of Boromir?"
A pause. An interminable pause that is no kindness to Faramir, though he understands it.
"Yes. I wish that."
His father was made for war, as was Boromir.
Faramir was made for grief. So are all children born to the death of their mother.
"If I should return, think better of me, father."
His father's answer echoes down the corridor after him; he nearly takes it to the end.
.
In time, he remembers. Remembers searing heat and stench of blackened oil. Remembers the wailing and the shadows, damned, climbing the walls. Remembers pain and the blur of battle, somewhere far below.
It was over quickly, for him.
Not so for his father, wracked by all his mind had cursed him with. Not for Boromir, who died for the people he could not save.
Faramir stands under the sky, above the white city, and marvels anew—as men do every day—that the clouds have all rolled back.
The line of stewards has not ended. His brother would be glad; his father might, at least, be grateful.
Before his brother died, he nearly succumbed to weakness. Before his father burned, he looked upon his younger son and loved him.
But the years are echoing all through the city, and suffering is a memory as much as hope can ever rise to be a future.
A single moment does not change that.