Faramir couldn't breathe! The nightmare was killing him! Over and over he called out to his dear brother, Boromir, screaming until his throat became raw. In the nightmare, Boromir reached his hand out to him as the earth collapsed upon his golden head. Faramir felt his brother's terror; he knew Boromir was going to die! But there was nothing he could do but watch, watch in horror as his brother suffocated, and watch as the angry earth covered his beautiful face! Faramir managed to reach his hand out to Boromir, their fingertips touching for a brief moment before Boromir was ripped away and the earth buried his beloved brother alive.
"Boromir! BOROMIR!"
Faramir sat bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat. Finally, his lungs were able to take in air. He doubled over, and nearly vomited. He covered his face with his hands and rocked back and forth until his tense muscles began to relax. His face was wet and he realized he had been weeping.
The room was deathly quiet except for the sound of Faramir's ragged breathing. Morning sunshine flooded into the bedroom through the open window. It was going to be a fine day but for him the day would be filled with dread. He sheltered his eyes with his hand; it hurt to gaze at the bright sunlight.
Denethor suddenly rushed into the room. "Faramir? What ails you?"
Faramir tried to cover his swollen eyes with his hand. "Nothing, Father."
"Do not lie to me!" Denethor snarled. "You have had one of your dreams, have you not?"
Faramir did not want to have a shouting match with his father for his head felt like it would split in half. "Yes," he said quietly.
Denethor looked down at his youngest son in disgust, but there was something else in the Steward's eyes. It was worry. The Steward of Gondor was worried.
"What did you dream?" Denethor demanded.
Faramir pleaded. "Please, Father, not now. My head feels as if it will burst."
Denethor began to shake with fury. "I will not leave this room until you make known what it is you have dreamt about! Was your dream of Boromir? I heard you speak Boromir's name! Is he in danger?"
So that was it, Denethor's distress was over his eldest son, his heir. It was painfully obvious that his youngest son's welfare was of no concern to the Steward of Gondor. Faramir should have known better. What possessed him to think that his father cared anything about him? For a brief moment, he thought maybe he should tell his father that he saw his favorite son, his successor, die in an avalanche of dirt, and watch with satisfaction as the old man fell to pieces. But, of course, he would never do that because there was no hatred or bitterness in Faramir's heart, there was only love for the man who cared so little for him.
"No, Father. The dream was not of Boromir," Faramir lied. "I dreamt I was in battle and fighting orcs. I was calling out to Boromir to help me."
Denethor closed his eyes and blew air out through his tense lips. "I see. Good then," he said with relief. "Well, you have slept late enough. It is time you see to your duties."
Denethor turned and walked out of the room in haste as Faramir fell back into bed like a rag doll. He knew a severe headache would soon follow; therefore he tried to bring the dream into focus before the waves of pain came crashing down upon him. What did it all mean? Was he being shown that Boromir's life was in peril? Or was there truth in the dream and Boromir had been swallowed by the earth and died a horrible death? If that was so, then he had failed. He had failed to save his older brother, the brother he looked up to, the brother who had always been there for him. He had not been able to give Boromir even a moment of comfort before death had snatched him away.
His father was right, he was useless, a disappointment, and he should have died at birth. Faramir curled into a fetal position. Tears rolled down his cheeks as the youngest of the Hurin family wept for his older brother.