Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places
thereof
*****
Boromir closed his eyes lightly and reflected on the conversation between him and his younger brother that afternoon.
"You do not truly intend to wear that?" Faramir asked, looking his brother up and down. "You look awful in it."
Boromir laughed. "What do you know, Little Brother?"
Faramir answered in his not-quite-serious, not-quite-laughing voice, "Apparently more than you do." He crossed the room and, unasked, began to look through his brother's garments.
"I do not need your assistance," Boromir called over his shoulder.
"You are our father's heir, Boro-mir," he over-enunciated the first syllable, "and if I do not help you now, you will require my first-born!"
Indignant, Boromir snatched a pillow off his bed and threw it hard at Faramir, who batted the missile away without turning to look at it.
"Don't be such a goose, Fara! I doubt she will be much attentive to my raiment, anyway."
"Perhaps not, but if your clothing makes you the more beautiful she will notice this. Trust me: do not wear the blue tunic."
Boromir laughed. "I like the blue tunic."
"It is fine for sparring, Boromir, but if you insist upon wearing blue--" Faramir's voice took a pained tone "--at least wear the dark. Although, I warn you, you look better in red."
Though he scoffed, the elder doffed his blue and donned the wine-red tunic proffered by his brother. He did look better...a little better, Boromir consented, gazing at himself in the glass. "Is she much like the others?" Faramir asked of the woman his brother was courting that night.
"In what way?" Boromir asked. "She is a woman, yes, but rather quieter, I suppose."
"Hair?" Faramir asked.
"Yes..."
Again his tone laughed. "What colour, Boromir, and does she wear it long and bound or free?"
"Brown, light, and she wears it bound in tails or braids," Boromir answered. He thought this to be true, at least, but could not be sure. Women did not interest him in particular, not to say that men did but simply that Boromir had no romantic side. His thoughts, Faramir said, had been too early corrupted by war.
"And her eyes?"
"Oh, I don't know! Brown." Faramir gave him a look to wilt the branches of the White Tree and Boromir thought hard. "Amber," he answered at last. Knowing Faramir's third question, he answered, "She dresses plainly."
Faramir smiled. "Bring her daisies, and tie them with this." He handed Boromir a blue ribbon.
"Roses," Boromir argued. "Women prefer roses."
Faramir's laughter-tone took no argument into it. "I would guess her to be a girl, Boro-mir, and no more than two years my senior. Bring her daises and tie them with the ribbon. She can adorn her hair with it. She will," he insisted. "Believe me."
Uncertain, Boromir consented. Faramir truly smiled then, and he said, "Good; now we will tend to your appearance."
Boromir sighed and protested, "I am wearing red, as you insist, Little Brother!"
"You must wear your hair down," Faramir answered. "If she wears hers up you must wear yours down." Boromir submitted. Faramir unbound his brother's locks and, with some comment, combed out the snarls and tangles.
Boromir drew himself out of his reveries and pushed open the door to his room. He was not at all surprised to see Faramir sitting sideways, that is to say sitting in a chair with his legs thrown over one of the chair's arms, with a book in his lap. Faramir juggled an apple from one hand to the other, absent took a bite and ruminated without looking up from his book.
"Well?" he asked.
"You know everything, Little Brother," Boromir said. "Her favourite flower is the daisy, she tied the ribbon in her hair, --oh, and she even commented on the red."
Faramir neither looked up nor gloated, but he said, "I told you so." He said this quite simply, stating a fact without opinion.
"You did tell me. When I marry, if I marry, you must come to live with me, unless I find a woman who reads minds," Boromir joked.
"Only your firstborn," Faramir retorted, his tone distracted. Boromir hated that, the way his brother knew precisely what he said and meant without looking up from his text.
"When will you begin to take an interest in women?" Boromir asked. "You are five and ten years of age."
"Plenty a child. I do not have to marry," Faramir answered, "and you do, Heir."
"Why does this word fly from your lips with spite?" Boromir asked. "Has Father said something to you?"
Faramir closed his book in a leisurely manner and turned his eyes to his brother. "Ignore it," he advised. "'Tis only stupid thoughts."
"Aye? In your head, stupid thoughts?" Boromir asked. He knelt beside his brother. "Tell me of these stupid thoughts."
With reluctance, answering only out of absolute loyalty, Faramir said, "I do envy you, some times, Brother. You are far more beautiful than I and of greater skill with weaponry, and only the entire court knows it but you have our father's favour. Forgive me, I do not wish you ill," Faramir finished hurriedly. He readied himself to leave but Boromir pushed him down.
"You surely do not mean to say this and simply walk out on such a sour note?" Boromir asked. "Faramir...what name is 'jeweled hunter' but one of honour?"
"'Tis 'sufficient'," Faramir answered. He slid from beneath his brother's hand and made to leave but Boromir stopped him: a brief struggle ensued at the end of which Faramir was pinned to the floor.
"I envy you, brother," Boromir answered, "for not being watched at every step and turn. I envy you for being quick-witted and wise. Sometimes I envy myself for being your big brother."
Faramir twisted against his brother's muscle but to no avail, for Boromir had strength where Faramir had wit and reflex. Therefore Faramir was forced to listen to Boromir's exaltation of his goodness, try though he did to keep the sound out. He squirmed and shut his eyes tightly, as though a lack of vision would equate a lack hearing.
At last Boromir stood up and offered a hand to his little brother. Faramir accepted this help, thinking at last to be free of his brother's lecture, but not yet! "If you will not take my word, Little Bear," Boromir said, using his childhood name for Faramir, "take this." He went to his bed and took a box from underneath, a box of dark wood with a rough carving in the lid.
Boromir would not let his brother see the contents of the box, but took a slightly aged bit of parchment from within. Faramir watched in awe, never having seen this box before. Even the rough and unartistic rose carved likely with the same dagger used to clean a man's teeth (for this was the fashion of the day) held his eyes.
"This is a picture of Mother," Boromir said, handing the parchment to Faramir. "Please take a care with it!"
He need not have worried, for Faramir handled the drawing with the utmost reverence. His mother, his beautiful mother, could be no more than sixteen years old in the sketch. She stood in the breakers. Her chest was flat, her hips straight, her nose crooked, and her skin breaking out and freckled.
"Uncle Imrahil drew it," Boromir said quietly. He knew his brother heard. "He says the next year she bloomed into a beautiful woman, but until then hardly a man would look at her. You are not ugly, Little Brother.
"The picture doesn't leave this room," he added almost as an afterthought.
Faramir nodded and reached to return the drawing to his brother. Suddenly a clap of thunder and a bolt of lightning drew their attentions to the open window, through which they could see the first blanket of precipitation fall over Minas Tirith.
Boromir grinned. "What do you know, Little Bear, a thunderstorm," he said. "Remember how you used to fear the thunder?"
"Perhaps for tonight we might pretend that we are still small," Faramir suggested, voicing what he knew to be his brother's implication.
They spent the night together, watching the picture of the Lady Finduilas and each seeing the red-brown lines come to life, seeing their maiden mother dance in the sea-spray.
*****
The End
*****
Boromir closed his eyes lightly and reflected on the conversation between him and his younger brother that afternoon.
"You do not truly intend to wear that?" Faramir asked, looking his brother up and down. "You look awful in it."
Boromir laughed. "What do you know, Little Brother?"
Faramir answered in his not-quite-serious, not-quite-laughing voice, "Apparently more than you do." He crossed the room and, unasked, began to look through his brother's garments.
"I do not need your assistance," Boromir called over his shoulder.
"You are our father's heir, Boro-mir," he over-enunciated the first syllable, "and if I do not help you now, you will require my first-born!"
Indignant, Boromir snatched a pillow off his bed and threw it hard at Faramir, who batted the missile away without turning to look at it.
"Don't be such a goose, Fara! I doubt she will be much attentive to my raiment, anyway."
"Perhaps not, but if your clothing makes you the more beautiful she will notice this. Trust me: do not wear the blue tunic."
Boromir laughed. "I like the blue tunic."
"It is fine for sparring, Boromir, but if you insist upon wearing blue--" Faramir's voice took a pained tone "--at least wear the dark. Although, I warn you, you look better in red."
Though he scoffed, the elder doffed his blue and donned the wine-red tunic proffered by his brother. He did look better...a little better, Boromir consented, gazing at himself in the glass. "Is she much like the others?" Faramir asked of the woman his brother was courting that night.
"In what way?" Boromir asked. "She is a woman, yes, but rather quieter, I suppose."
"Hair?" Faramir asked.
"Yes..."
Again his tone laughed. "What colour, Boromir, and does she wear it long and bound or free?"
"Brown, light, and she wears it bound in tails or braids," Boromir answered. He thought this to be true, at least, but could not be sure. Women did not interest him in particular, not to say that men did but simply that Boromir had no romantic side. His thoughts, Faramir said, had been too early corrupted by war.
"And her eyes?"
"Oh, I don't know! Brown." Faramir gave him a look to wilt the branches of the White Tree and Boromir thought hard. "Amber," he answered at last. Knowing Faramir's third question, he answered, "She dresses plainly."
Faramir smiled. "Bring her daisies, and tie them with this." He handed Boromir a blue ribbon.
"Roses," Boromir argued. "Women prefer roses."
Faramir's laughter-tone took no argument into it. "I would guess her to be a girl, Boro-mir, and no more than two years my senior. Bring her daises and tie them with the ribbon. She can adorn her hair with it. She will," he insisted. "Believe me."
Uncertain, Boromir consented. Faramir truly smiled then, and he said, "Good; now we will tend to your appearance."
Boromir sighed and protested, "I am wearing red, as you insist, Little Brother!"
"You must wear your hair down," Faramir answered. "If she wears hers up you must wear yours down." Boromir submitted. Faramir unbound his brother's locks and, with some comment, combed out the snarls and tangles.
Boromir drew himself out of his reveries and pushed open the door to his room. He was not at all surprised to see Faramir sitting sideways, that is to say sitting in a chair with his legs thrown over one of the chair's arms, with a book in his lap. Faramir juggled an apple from one hand to the other, absent took a bite and ruminated without looking up from his book.
"Well?" he asked.
"You know everything, Little Brother," Boromir said. "Her favourite flower is the daisy, she tied the ribbon in her hair, --oh, and she even commented on the red."
Faramir neither looked up nor gloated, but he said, "I told you so." He said this quite simply, stating a fact without opinion.
"You did tell me. When I marry, if I marry, you must come to live with me, unless I find a woman who reads minds," Boromir joked.
"Only your firstborn," Faramir retorted, his tone distracted. Boromir hated that, the way his brother knew precisely what he said and meant without looking up from his text.
"When will you begin to take an interest in women?" Boromir asked. "You are five and ten years of age."
"Plenty a child. I do not have to marry," Faramir answered, "and you do, Heir."
"Why does this word fly from your lips with spite?" Boromir asked. "Has Father said something to you?"
Faramir closed his book in a leisurely manner and turned his eyes to his brother. "Ignore it," he advised. "'Tis only stupid thoughts."
"Aye? In your head, stupid thoughts?" Boromir asked. He knelt beside his brother. "Tell me of these stupid thoughts."
With reluctance, answering only out of absolute loyalty, Faramir said, "I do envy you, some times, Brother. You are far more beautiful than I and of greater skill with weaponry, and only the entire court knows it but you have our father's favour. Forgive me, I do not wish you ill," Faramir finished hurriedly. He readied himself to leave but Boromir pushed him down.
"You surely do not mean to say this and simply walk out on such a sour note?" Boromir asked. "Faramir...what name is 'jeweled hunter' but one of honour?"
"'Tis 'sufficient'," Faramir answered. He slid from beneath his brother's hand and made to leave but Boromir stopped him: a brief struggle ensued at the end of which Faramir was pinned to the floor.
"I envy you, brother," Boromir answered, "for not being watched at every step and turn. I envy you for being quick-witted and wise. Sometimes I envy myself for being your big brother."
Faramir twisted against his brother's muscle but to no avail, for Boromir had strength where Faramir had wit and reflex. Therefore Faramir was forced to listen to Boromir's exaltation of his goodness, try though he did to keep the sound out. He squirmed and shut his eyes tightly, as though a lack of vision would equate a lack hearing.
At last Boromir stood up and offered a hand to his little brother. Faramir accepted this help, thinking at last to be free of his brother's lecture, but not yet! "If you will not take my word, Little Bear," Boromir said, using his childhood name for Faramir, "take this." He went to his bed and took a box from underneath, a box of dark wood with a rough carving in the lid.
Boromir would not let his brother see the contents of the box, but took a slightly aged bit of parchment from within. Faramir watched in awe, never having seen this box before. Even the rough and unartistic rose carved likely with the same dagger used to clean a man's teeth (for this was the fashion of the day) held his eyes.
"This is a picture of Mother," Boromir said, handing the parchment to Faramir. "Please take a care with it!"
He need not have worried, for Faramir handled the drawing with the utmost reverence. His mother, his beautiful mother, could be no more than sixteen years old in the sketch. She stood in the breakers. Her chest was flat, her hips straight, her nose crooked, and her skin breaking out and freckled.
"Uncle Imrahil drew it," Boromir said quietly. He knew his brother heard. "He says the next year she bloomed into a beautiful woman, but until then hardly a man would look at her. You are not ugly, Little Brother.
"The picture doesn't leave this room," he added almost as an afterthought.
Faramir nodded and reached to return the drawing to his brother. Suddenly a clap of thunder and a bolt of lightning drew their attentions to the open window, through which they could see the first blanket of precipitation fall over Minas Tirith.
Boromir grinned. "What do you know, Little Bear, a thunderstorm," he said. "Remember how you used to fear the thunder?"
"Perhaps for tonight we might pretend that we are still small," Faramir suggested, voicing what he knew to be his brother's implication.
They spent the night together, watching the picture of the Lady Finduilas and each seeing the red-brown lines come to life, seeing their maiden mother dance in the sea-spray.
*****
The End