Author's Note: This story is set approximately thirty years before the Quest of the Fellowship and the events in The Lord of the Rings. The most peculiar relationships of the Steward Denethor II with his wife Finduilas, and his two sons, Boromir and Faramir, and the brothers' relationship with each other, have always fascinated me. I have therefore attempted to explore them a bit more fully than was allowed in the books proper.
One of the delights of Tolkien's world is that the primary characters are well-sketched, providing us with opportunity to conjecture what they might have done and said in other situations. I have done so here. Most of the information that I have used from the books was implied, not stated outright, but I do not feel any of my inferences are out-of-bounds from the characters. I have tried to keep in accordance with Tolkien's timeline whenever possible.
If you enjoy it, write a review and let me know!
The Tower of Ecthelion glimmered faintly in the grey light of dawn, but no other sign of cheer could be seen in the city. The great Standard of the Stewards, a White Swan against a field of black, hung at half-mast above the pinnacle, inert in the heavy stillness of the air. The City was in mourning.
The mood in the Steward's Hall was no less sombre. The curtains were drawn over the tightly-shuttered windows, and the very air was heavy. Small throngs of people were crowded together in corners, but they too were silent.
At the far end of the room, just in front of the massive black marble dais, stood a litter draped in black silk. Upon this lay Finduilas, Lady of Dol Amroth. Her eyes were closed as if in sleep, but no breath stirred in her, and she lay pale and still.
She was still young, but her fair face bore the signs of care beyond her years. Small wrinkles, lines of worry and burden, feathered the corners of her eyes. Her tall, slim figure was clad in a gown of pale rose silk, which brought out the faint blush that lingered on her high, sculpted cheekbones and shapely lips. Girt about her slim waist was a belt of seven silver stars, the symbol of the city that now mourned her loss. Her hair pooled in jetty waves around her shoulders and fell into her lap, where her soft white hands rested demurely, clasping pale niphredil blossoms like those plaited in her hair.
A little apart from her stood a tall, imposing man. His hawk-like features were set, and his jaw clenched tightly as though to curtail any visible sign of sorrow. But even his stern will could not conceal the furrowing of his dark brows, nor the tears that glittered in his sea-grey eyes.
A boy of about ten stood beside him, and though his young features were set in emulation of his father, his clear green eyes watered with tears that would not be restrained.
His younger brother clung tightly to his hand, his blue eyes wide and watering with sorrow and disbelief. His sandy hair tumbled into his eyes, and his small lips trembled. He was not more than five: too young to quite grasp why his mother made no move to comfort him. He looked up at his brother with questioning eyes, and Boromir squeezed his hand in reassurance.
The pallbearers, dressed in the sable and grey of the City, took up the litter, and a dolorous procession formed as they bore her slowly through the streets of Minas Tirith. Denethor walked just behind Finduilas, and a little behind him his sons marched in slow cadence. Faramir's grip on his brother's hand had not relaxed.
"Where are we going, Boromir?" he whispered.
"To the River Anduin, Faramir. We will sail Mother's funeral barque from there."
"And where will she go then?" Faramir asked.
"Out to the wide sea, and she will sail to the dream-lands beneath the stars," whispered Boromir. He did not know if it was true, but he felt obliged to comfort his brother. And it might be true. Faramir did not seem contented with this answer.
"Will she come back?" he asked mournfully.
Boromir bit his lip. "No," he said softly. "No, Faramir. Mother cannot come back."
Faramir's small shoulders began to shake, in promise of sobs soon to come. Boromir squeezed his hand again. "Shhh. Father will not want you to cry."
Obediently, Faramir swallowed hard. "I will not," he whispered. Boromir smiled at him.
The funeral entourage arrived at last at the banks of the River Anduin. The pallbearers halted, and slowly lowered the litter. Two soldiers brought forth a small boat, in the shape of a swan and carved with Elvish characters. Into this they reverently lowered the body of Finduilas, Lady of Minas Tirith.
Denethor stepped toward the boat and knelt beside it, slipping a niphredil blossom into his wife's cold pale hands.
"No vi sîdh[i]," Denethor said slowly. His voice was strained. "Gar îdh na-den i methen ned lû[ii]." He bent over her, and passed his hand over her still, cold face. "Navaer, melethnín.[iii]"
Solemnly the pallbearers took the boat and led it out into the river. It was overwhelmingly quiet; apart from a few women in the crowd who could not keep from weeping, all were still and silent. The current caught the boat and swept it away from the bank, carrying it swiftly over the glittering waters. It soon passed from sight, out beyond the horizon on the River Anduin, and from there to the endless grey seas.
Denethor watched the boat
until it vanished from sight into the burning horizon. Then he turned.
"Come, my sons," he said. The procession returned to the City in silence.
The rest of the day seemed like a waking dream for the two sons of Denethor: quiet and still and seemingly unending.
Faramir stood in the balcony of his mother's chamber and watched as the cheerless sun sank below the horizon under the cover of grey clouds. A cold, stiff wind blew up, but he made no sign of retreating from it. The heavy stone door behind him opened, but Faramir did not notice his visitor until he spoke.
"Faramir?"
He did not answer.
"Faramir," repeated Boromir, coming over to him. "You should not be out in the chill air. You will fall ill."
Faramir looked at him. His eyes were red and swollen from weeping. "I do not care," he said. "I want to be near her."
Boromir put his arms around him. "I know it," he said, biting his lip to keep from weeping. "So do I."
"Why did she leave us?" wept Faramir. "Did she not want us any more?"
"No," said Boromir. "She loves us, Faramir."
"Then why did she go?"
"Because she had to. She was called and had no choice."
"Is it always like that?" asked Faramir.
"Yes," Boromir answered. "No one may choose when they die."
"I want her back," Faramir cried, abandoning all pretense of not crying. "I did not kiss her goodnight." Sorrow overcame them both, and the brothers wept together.
"Shhh," said Boromir after a little while. "We should not cry longer. Mother would want us to be strong for her. We are men of Gondor, Faramir."
Faramir bit his lip and nodded. "Then we must be brave men," he said. "But it is very hard."
Boromir stroked his brother's hair. "It is not always easy," he said. "But I kept something for you that I think will help."
Boromir led Faramir into their mother's chamber. From a large stone chest he took something long and large, and set it about his brother's shaking shoulders. It was a mantle, of soft velvet deep blue as a midnight sky, and set about the neck and hems with stars of silver. It was of course much too large for him, but just to see and touch it was a comfort. Faramir's watery blue eyes widened.
"For me?" he asked, stroking the soft cloth tenderly. "To have?" Boromir nodded.
"Where did you get Mother's mantle?" Faramir asked in wonder. His voice was still raspy from weeping.
Boromir smiled, hoping to keep his own sobs in check. "It was a gift from her," he said. "You are so young…she feared you might…you might not remember her as well as I do, and she wanted you to have it to keep her always with you."
"Thank you," said Faramir absent-mindedly, closing his eyes and nestling deeper into the mantle.
Suddenly the great stone door opened. Denethor stood in the doorway, grim and stern. "This is not a room to play in," he said. He did not sound pleased.
Faramir looked at him, wide-eyed and afraid, and said nothing. Boromir spoke up quickly in defence.
"We were not playing, Father," he said. "I only thought – "
Denethor's eyes traveled swiftly from one boy to the other, and to the mantle of his wife, now draped around Faramir's small shoulders. He stopped his son mid-sentence. "Put it away," he said gruffly, in a voice choked with anger or grief or both – Boromir did not know which. "And do not come in here again. It is a place for ghosts." He turned and left as quickly as he had come.
Boromir helped Faramir gather up the mantle – it was far too heavy for his small arms to manage alone – and they hastily retreated to their own chambers.
"Why is Father angry with me?" asked Faramir. "I always seem to make him angry, and I do not try to."
Boromir frowned. "I do not know," he said. "Perhaps he is just grieving."
"But I have always made him angry. Ever since I can remember I have angered him. Does he dislike me, Boromir?"
Boromir's brow furrowed in thought for a moment. "Of course not," he said at last. In truth, he did not know, but now was not the time to damage his brother's frail spirit further. "Perhaps he merely does not know how to act with one so young."
"But you do not anger him," Faramir replied. Boromir shook his head.
"I do more often than you would think," he said, with the serious air of one much older than his ten years. "I do not think he bears ill will against you, Faramir. I simply think perhaps he does not know what to do with you."
Faramir nodded. "Perhaps." He sighed. "Mother knew." His lip quivered again, promising more tears. Boromir hugged him tightly.
"Go to sleep now, Faramir," Boromir said softly, turning to leave.
"Boromir?" called Faramir.
"Yes?"
"Thank you," he said falteringly, trying to swallow the sob that held his throat tightly. "You are the best of brothers."
Boromir smiled at him. "I would say the same of you. Now go to sleep. We will have lessons in the morning."
Faramir nodded and lay down obediently. "I will. Maer elei, muindor[iv]."
[i] "Be in peace."
[ii] "Have rest until the end of time."
[iii] "Farewell, my love." in Sindarin.
[iv] "Good dreams, brother."