So this chapter is longer than the others and contains a lot of introspection and my take on the relationship between Boromir and Faramir. The plot will definitely get moving in the next chapter though.
At dinner, Boromir could do no more than pick at his food. He has been obsessively contemplating the dream until he felt ill, and the impending conversation made him all the more nervous. Although he has not eaten since breakfast, Boromir found that he was not at all hungry.
Even though the brothers grew into adults many years ago, Denethor often insisted that when all three of them were in Minas Tirith, they ate breakfast and dinner together, something about family traditions and nobility. Boromir did not particularly care for these family meals, since they were often wrought with tension between Father and Faramir, or Father and himself. However, tonight Denethor was absent. Normally Boromir would have enjoyed spending time with his brother, but the weight on his mind led him to be uncharacteristically silent and morose. He nibbled on some bread while distractedly listening to Faramir talk about some book he's been reading.
"Out with it, brother. What troubles you so?"
Boromir looked up. Well Faramir certainly didn't beat around the bush with that. Smoothing his features into a neutral mask, he said, "I was just thinking about that dream we all had. About the Broken Sword and Isildur's Bane."
"Oh? What about it? Did it come to you again?" Faramir's excitement showed clearly on his face.
"Nay, nothing like that. It just seems to be a bit… odd, you know? Riding off into the wild chasing an enigmatic poem from a dream. It's an intriguing dream, I don't deny it, but is such a journey really worth it?"
Faramir looked somewhat offended. "Haven't we already talked about this? The dream came several times to Father and to me. Even to you once. I cannot comprehend how you still think that it means nothing."
Boromir sighed. "That's not what I meant to say. Of course it must mean something. It's just so awfully vague, you know? What I wanted to ask… Well, have you perhaps had any other dreams? With more information in them, perhaps, or instructions?"
"Instructions? Brother, you amuse me!" Faramir began to laugh. "Since when do the Valar provide a nice set of instructions to accompany their revelations to Men?"
"Well now would be a good time to start! No matter. I simply wondered if you had any other dreams. Premonitions, warnings, prophesies…you know, that sort of thing."
"No, I have not. Only that same dream as before." Suddenly Faramir's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why? Have you? That nightmare you had last night, when you nearly roused half the city with your bellowing… What did you see?"
Boromir felt a wave of cold twist inside him; he was not prepared for so direct a question. Lie! Now or never! At last he uttered "Oh, that… I can't even fully recall what I dreamt, probably Osgiliath or some battle. I dream of it often, swimming the river…"
Which was true enough, in a way. Boromir was indeed often assailed by the memory of that horror. The Nazgul gaining on them, bounding across the bridge, the cold dread tugging at his heart… Not unlike the dread and despair he felt in those dreams of his…
Boromir looked at Faramir, who nodded sympathetically. He bought it. Boromir startled inwardly at his thoughts. It was as if he felt some kind of perverse delight in tricking his brother. Despite the great love and support between them, there was always an inevitable portion of sibling rivalry. As they grew and fell into their respective roles, the rivalry diminished, but flare-ups still occurred.
As odd as it may be, through the years, Boromir, the heir to the ruling seat of Gondor, the Steward's favorite son, now the Captain-General of the army, had resented Faramir. For he saw what their Father somehow could not – that Faramir was far more perceptive and understanding than Boromir could ever hope to be. Even when Faramir was a boy, he showed a wisdom beyond his years, and that both impressed and irked Boromir. He was the older, he should also be the wiser. He knew that such petty jealousy was unbecoming of a Captain-General, but he was not so cowardly as to lie to himself and deny its existence. Even with this dream about the Broken Sword – it came multiple times to Faramir and Father, but to Boromir it came last, and only once. It was as if the Valar decided to tag him on as an afterthought, like one would appease a petulant child so he won't feel left out. Leave the wise to the thinking, they said, and you stick to the fighting.
Boromir could still plainly recall the day when it all became painfully clear to him. He was fourteen summers old, and had come home, weary after a day full of sword-practice and weapons training, only to find a nine-year-old Faramir eagerly immersed in a history book. The boy's eyes shone as he read tales of ancient kings, their deeds (noble and otherwise), the origins and lore of Gondor. Odd, thought Boromir then. Ever since I was six and able to hold a small wooden sword, Father carefully chose the best sword-masters to teach me, making sure they trained me dawn to dusk. Never was I allowed to spend a day lounging in a chair reading whatever I please. Of course, as the heir to the Stewardship, Denethor made sure that Boromir learned enough to participate in councils and state affairs, but even then, his scholarly lessons revolved around things like navigation and battle tactics. And as he was watching Faramir flip the pages, it hit him: he, Boromir, was designed to become a leader of armies, to lead men to their deaths in battle, valiant, brave, honorable deaths… but nothing more. No matter how high a rank he would achieve, when all was said and done, his destiny and purpose was to go to battle and die for Gondor, at the end of an orc's arrow or a Southron's sword. Always brave, always noble, always honorable, never less, but that was it. It was then that Boromir's faith in his father wavered for the first time. He is raising me like a calf for slaughter… In his heart Boromir knew he did Father an injustice, but a sense of betrayal overwhelmed reason. That night, in a desperate attempt to change something, he snuck down to the library, brushed off the dusty tomes, and attempted to read through whatever it was that his nine year old brother found so interesting. Fifteen minutes later, he finally gathered the courage to admit to himself that he was tragically bored ere he could finish a full page. If a soldier is what I am to be, then I will be the best soldier Gondor has ever seen, he resolved, and the next day Boromir threw himself into weapons training like never before, reveling in that terrible art of war and battle and death, until it consumed all his doubts and insecurities.
Not all, as it turned out. Sitting here across from Faramir, lying through his teeth, Boromir wistfully imagined what it would be like if the Rivendell quest had been his. He could show his wise and learned brother that he, Borormir, was good for more than slaying orcs and directing armies. He would go to Imladris, partake of the wisdom of the Firstborn, learn of the meaning of the dream, of Gondor's hope and salvation, and, enlightened, he would fly back to Gondor bearing the news.
Suddenly disgusted with himself, Boromir slammed his cup of wine down on the table, quelling a rising tide of nausea. How pathetic. Jealousy was an ugly, monstrous emotion, capable of driving men to ignoble acts. This was Faramir, whom he has sworn, on his mother's deathbed, to love and protect. How dare he usurp such an important mission from his brother out of spite?
"Boromir?"
"Eh?"
"Boromir, you spilled your wine." Faramir's deep and concerned eyes stared into him from across the table.
Unable to bear that gaze just right now, Boromir turned away and dabbed at the wine puddle with a cloth. Red stains appeared on the white napkin. So much like blood.
"I ask you one last time, brother. Is all well with you?"
Anger flared in Boromir's chest once more as he looked at his brother. Who was Faramir to question him and take him to task like he was some erring young foot-soldier?
"Aye, well enough. I'm simply weary from the interrogation. Now if you'll excuse me," Boromir stood up, and, without finishing his sentence, left Faramir sitting alone at the dinner table, next to the untouched food.
As soon as he was in his room, Boromir allowed his proud shoulders to slump as he slid to the floor and put his face in his hands. He was angry, angry with Faramir, with Father, with those thrice-accursed dreams of his, and above all, angry with himself.
He winced as a hazy memory came to him… Faramir was no more than two or three, always crying, asking Boromir to play with him. At last Boromir told him to sod off in the harshest language a seven year old could know. Remember, Boromir, he is your little brother. Right now he is weaker and smaller than you, and even when he won't be, you must love, cherish, and protect him. You may very well be the only one who can. At the time he didn't understand his mother's hint at the fact that she might not be there for Faramir, but he learned his lesson.
To love and protect… And yet, if his nocturnal revelations were to be heeded, Faramir was about to ride off to his demise, or some unfathomable fate worse than death.
Oh, Mother, Boromir whispered into the dark, I know not what to do. He realized then, that the biggest grudge he held was against her, for leaving so soon, for making him face this decision alone in this dark room.
Perhaps Faramir would hate him after this. Perhaps he would hate himself. But Faramir could only hate him if Faramir was alive. Better to be hated by a living brother, than to have no brother at all.
Boromir stood up, drew a long shuddering breath and wiped his face. Then, he quietly slipped through the door, directing his footsteps towards Denethor's study.