Hello, everybody; ModernDayBard here! My explanation for this is simple: like with Sam, there were too many 'little scenes' that popped to mind with this prompt to choose one over the others. Enjoy pure winter fluff!
DISCLAIMER: Neither of us owns any of the characters, settings, lore, or cannon events.
The city of Minas Tirith placement often shielded it from harsher winters and snowfall, but 'often' is not 'always', as that wintry day was wont to prove.
The first thing nine-year-old Boromir, the Steward's eldest son, knew that morning was that his little brother, Faramir, had pelted into his room and thrown himself on top of the bed (and Boromir), bouncing in sheer delight as he babbled something excitedly. It took the elder brother a half-moment to dig himself far enough out of the (warm) covers to make out what the four-year-old was saying.
"Snow, B'mir! Snow! Snow! Come see!"
Boromir was out of his bed the instant the first word filtered into his mind, dashing to the window and staring out at the white blanket covering the white city. Though the two boys had not seen snow themselves, they'd heard tales enough for the sight to set both to vibrating with excitement. They'd have charges outside, sleep clothes and all, had their mother not entered at that moment to collect them for breakfast.
It was the first time she could remember either child protesting 'having' to eat.
Finduilas watched her younger son eat as quickly as he could, with frequent glances out the window. "Chew, Faramir, the snow will not melt today. You will have time to play."
Obediently, the smaller boy did slow down, but Boromir was slower still—in fact, he was barely picking at his plate. From the look on his face, the steward's wife knew exactly what her eldest had realized: based on the way his pace had slowed on the way to breakfast, he'd realized it before sitting down.
Faramir may have time to play, but he would not.
Finduilas glanced out the window, at the snowy scene that was so rare, here. Boromir was still a child—what was one day of getting to act like it? He'd have so few, in the coming years.
"Boromir, how have your lessons been coming—are you keeping up?"
"Yes mother," came the serious answer. Boromir may not have had a scholarly disposition, but his sense of duty hardly allowed him to fall behind any task his parents set him to.
Finduilas smiled. "Then I think I know what I need you to do today." The serious expression on the young face almost made her laugh, but she kept her mirth hidden just long enough for her surprise: "I need you keep your brother company out-of-doors today. I think you just might be the only one able to keep up with him, in this state."
Disbelief turned to heart-melting surprise and delight as the child nodded emphatically. "Yes, mother!"
Breakfast was finished quickly, after that.
Of course, Finduilas knew better than to think that Boromir alone could keep Faramir out of trouble—in fact, in most of their last misadventures, her more adventurous son had been the instigator, with his brother following devotedly, impressionably, after. She could have asked some of the servants or guards to watch the boys, but the excitement of her children was infectious, thus she took it upon herself to be the one watching them.
And not a moment too soon, as she caught up with them trying to 'borrow' a shield out of the armory that would be big enough for the two of them to ride down the snowy slope of the rear courtyard on. Quickly, she stepped in.
"Boromir, Faramir, that's not what the shields are for. Besides, the metal will get too cold, even with all the layers you are wearing."
"But Faramir wanted to slide!" Boromir protested as she replaced the equipment.
I'm sure he did…after you convinced him that he did. It only took a moment's thought for Finduilas to land on a solution. Gesturing wordlessly for them to follow, she led them to a disused storage room and found some flat, wooden crate lids large enough to hold one small child each.
The compromise was deemed acceptable, and while the flat squares proved a little unwieldy and hard to steer on the slopes, the snow was thick enough to prevent injury, and from the sound of the boy's laughter, the slightly slower speed stole none of the fun.
Boromir was right—this was fun!
For his first few trips down the slope, Faramir had squeezed in front of his brother on the larger of the crate lids, riding down together, but now he had worked up his courage sufficiently enough to ride on his own.
At first, all went well, and he scrambled up the slope (struggling a little with the awkward lid), ready for a second trip. The second ride down, something was different. Perhaps he was on a slightly different part of the hill, perhaps, in his eagerness, the small child sat too far forward on the ill-balanced wooden square. But whatever the cause, he was not yet halfway down the hill when here was a sickening bump and somehow, the lid flipped itself over—on top of him!
There was enough snow, and he was small enough that he didn't fall all the way through to the courtyard beneath. But the top layer of snow was loose here, not yet packed down by other sliding trips, and the rough wood had snagged him, pulling little Faramir with it as it continued its downhill plunge. At last, the terrifying tumble ended in a deep drift that, for all his flailing, the buried little boy couldn't pull himself out of.
But he didn't have to: Boromir was there, having run after him as soon as the crate lid overturned (and fallen a bit of the ways himself), ready to dig him out and pull him up.
The smaller child was hiccupping and shaking, but before tears could begin in earnest, his big brother had pulled him close. "It's okay, Faramir. I'm here—I'm always here."
It was a promise spoken in the earnestness of a child and believed in the innocence of one, for neither could then imagine a time where it wouldn't be true.
There were no more sliding trips after that, but there was still plenty of fun to be had (and plenty of energy to burn off once Faramir had recovered his good spirits).
The brothers had been pelting each other with snowballs for a few minutes now—their latest game—and neither noticed their father crossing the courtyard, preoccupied with whatever serious thoughts the Steward of Gondor was beset with that day. And neither did Denethor really take note of what the boys were playing…
Until a stray snowball struck his face, halting him where he stood.
"I'm sorry father," his eldest spoke quickly as he turned to take in the scene. "That was my throw."
Denethor surveyed the courtyard before speaking. The boys stood, facing each other, Boromir standing only a few feet away form Denethor, indicating he would've been the one with his back to the steward—not to mention he still held a forgotten snowball in hand, while his younger brother, facing the walkway, was empty-handed (and not yet a sure aim). "Was it truly, my son?"
But the elder boy did not back down, even as he qualified his blatant lie. "The game was my idea, father."
"I see." Denethor turned his unreadable gaze on the smaller child. "Faramir?"
"Yes, father?" the tiny voice answered.
"I would like to propose an alliance, then. If you should like a demonstration of what I can bring to such an arrangement—"
Before either confused child could answer, Denethor, Steward of Gondor, had stooped, formed a snowball of his own, and thrown it at Boromir in a single motion. Boromir gaped in surprised, then laughed in delight, even as Faramir, apparently having accepted their fathers offer, also launched his next attack.
Boromir stumbled back, now beset from two sides, but still laughing. "No fair! No fair!" he protested between gasps and giggles, even as he tried to return fire, struggling to decide which to target.
"Charge!" to the surprise of all three, it was Finduilas who then entered the fray to balance the terms of engagement, joining her eldest son.
Sheer chaos—cut through with the laughter of all four—soon reigned as the alliances constantly switched around, and the mock-battle soon devolved into a free-for-all and a flurry of snow.
After the confusion of the snowball fight had faded into helpless giggling, but before the time had come to go inside for dinner, Finduilas proposed another game for the four: rolling huge boulders of snow, packing and stacking them into the forms of men.
Boromir had been a little disappointed he could not 'borrow' equipment to outfit them as citadel guards (she was going to have to keep an eye on him around those store rooms in the future—if the smallest swords or shields went missing, she may have an idea of where to look), but Finduilas pointed out certain deadfall branches resembled certain weapons, so they had to decide which were the spearmen, the swordsmen, and so on.
As Boromir sought out more branches for arms (and arms—they had to hold their gear somehow, she reminded him), she turned in time to note an exchange between her husband and youngest son.
"They're not right."
Denethor looked at the small boy and his troubled expression. "We'll have to imagine the armor, my son. The metal would rust out here."
"They don't have faces," Faramir pointed out, frowning.
Denethor scooped up some loose pebbles from the ground and crossed to the nearest figure, placing two for eyes, one for a nose, and using the rest to mark out a line that may have been a mouth. He turned to see Faramir's expression had cleared a little, and the boy had also picked up some loose stones, only to realize he was too short to reach any of the heads.
Well, there was an easy solution to that: picking the small child up, he held him at eye-level to the snow piles, letting him give them all faces.
Finduilas smiled, grateful her husband had decided to stay outside with them—this would be a day they'd all treasure in memory, she knew.
But even the best of days must end sometime, giving way to the peace of a winter's night.
The steward's family rested by the fireside after a warm meal, the two boys sprawled out on the floor, playing with some small figurines while their parents claimed the chairs closest to the cheerful blaze, watching with contented smiles.
Predictably enough, it was the youngest that surrendered first to sleep, leaning up close to his big brother, who wordlessly grabbed a nearby blanket to wrap around the slumbering child.
As peace likewise wrapped around the family, Finduilas could only hope that, whatever darkness the future held, the four of them would have enough days like today to help them hold on to the light.
So, yeah. My longest one so far, but I couldn't resist—we never get to see this family at their best in either books or film, and we don't even really get to see the brothers be brothers, so I wanted to give them something happy in this season of joy (plus, I just love reading fluffy stories with Boromir and Faramir as kids, so I thought I'd try to write one)!
Hopefully, you enjoyed it, and look for Endurance's next chapter tomorrow!
And since this is my final chapter in the story, have a Merry Christmas, everybody!
While these aren't song-fics, we did want to keep up the tradition of song recommendations at the end of each chapter, so:
Song: Peppermint Winter
Artist: Owl City
Song: It's Christmas Day
Artist: Family Force 5
(Have two—I couldn't decide!)
