"Where does this one go?" asked Faramir innocently. He thrust the figure in front of his brother's face. Boromir snatched it from him, studying it carefully. It was crude - a wooden, stick soldier, made with no real craft or skill.
"He can go there," Boromir concluded, pointing to the back of Faramir's would-be army. Most of them were old toys of Boromir's, and since his little brother had discovered the figures stashed deeply away in Boromir's quarters, he was constantly wanting to play with them. He had few toys of his own.
"But why can't he go at the front?" asked Faramir, reaching to take the soldier from his brother's hand. Boromir smiled.
"Because," he said, "he will be the defence. He will go at the back, and protect the City." He handed the figure to Faramir, who looked at it thoughtfully.
"The defence," he repeated, considering this concept, "then I shall name him Boromir." He looked up at his brother, grinning widely. Boromir could not help but utter a flattered laugh.
"Oh? Why is that, little brother?" he asked, warmth in his eyes. Faramir giggled playfully in his little voice. He placed the figure behind the rest, just as Boromir had motioned.
"He will be there to protect me – just like you, Boromir!" he said, beaming triumphantly. Boromir rustled his hand through his brother's thick hair, and smiled. He glanced to the toy soldiers, and scooped one up from the front row.
"Ah, but who can forget Faramir, great Captain of Gondor?" he said, holding the figure before his brother. "He is the most important soldier of all!" But Faramir's expression was not one of happiness; it was one of great, genuine terror. Boromir followed his brother's glance, and was startled to see his father standing there, looking sternly down at him. He snatched the figure from Boromir's clasped hand, and stared at him disapprovingly. He did not look at Faramir. With a last glance at his elder son, and the soldier he held in his grasp, he furrowed his brow, and turned out of the room, his menacing robe billowing behind him.
An arrow shot across Boromir's view, and his horse quickly reared, almost causing him to fall from the saddle. However, he maintained a strong grip, and managed to stay in control of the beast. He turned to whence the arrow had come, and gasped in great surprise. There, firing arrows deftly from his Elven bow, was Legolas. His shots were incredibly accurate, and Boromir saw him target three or four Orcs, even in this short time. As the arrows pierced their armour, they screeched and wailed, flailing on the ground, and gasped for breath.
Boromir had not expected to see his companions this soon, nor to find them in the heat of battle. He glanced around for Aragorn and Gimli. Soon enough, he found them, Aragorn thrusting at the wargs with his powerful sword, and Gimli covering him with his mighty axe. He sat in complete awe of the Ranger's skill, and wondered how he had ever been so distrusting of him.
Boromir entered the room, and, seeing his brother hunched on the wooden floor, rested against the doorframe. Faramir was clasping something small in his grasp, and seemed in deep concentration.
"What are you doing, little brother?" he asked happily. Faramir jumped at the sound. He brushed his hair from his eyes, and looked toward the door.
"Nothing," he said quickly, shifting his attention back to the objects he held in his hands. Boromir laughed.
"I do not think it is nothing," he said, walking into the room, "come; let me see." Faramir looked abashed, and made a frantic attempt to hide what he was holding. He thrust his hands behind his back, and his face turned a bright red. Boromir knelt down in front of him, and smiled warmly.
"You need not be nervous," he said reassuringly, "I only want to see what my little brother has made." He winked at him. Faramir slowly brought his hands from behind him, although his fists were still clenched. Boromir cupped his brother's hand in his, and gently opened his fingers, a curiosity shining in his eyes.
Resting in Faramir's palm were three figures. These were not the toy soldiers he had been playing with earlier; they were delicately carved, and intricately detailed. Boromir took one in his hand, and held it close to his eyes, studying the astounding craftsmanship.
"Faramir," he said in amazement, "did you make these?" He glanced at his brother, his eyes wide. Faramir nodded, embarrassed. Then, in a flurry of enthusiasm, he pointed at the figure that his brother held.
"That one is you," he said, detailing the features he associated with Boromir. "You see?" Boromir smiled.
"I do!" he said, beaming. "Now, is this one you?" He took another from his brother's palm. It was slightly smaller, and less detailed than the previous figure, but nonetheless was an impressive achievement. Faramir nodded again, a smile forming on his face.
"These are incredible, Faramir!" Boromir exclaimed, raising happy laughter from his brother. "And who is the last one?" Faramir looked at the last remaining figure in his hand, and suddenly turned silent.
"Oh," he said, rather quietly, "that's mother." He gazed up at his elder brother's face, whose expression had now turned to one of grave sorrow. Slowly, he took it from Faramir's hand, and raised it to his eyes. The figure was blank - just a piece of wood, with no distinguishing features. Boromir suddenly realised, to his great terror, that even his memories of her were fading. He could no longer remember clearly what she looked like, or what she used to sing to him when he went to sleep…he had tried so hard to block out those memories, to shut them away in the past, that now they were disappearing altogether.
What Boromir saw next lingered in his memory forever, and troubled him for many days to come. He was startled when a warg shot past him, frightening his horse, which quickly began to gallop away. The beast was snarling menacingly, saliva dripping from its dagger-like teeth. Boromir had barely had enough time to calm his mount, when he saw what he had never expected; Aragorn had been caught on the warg's sharp riding gear, and was being helplessly dragged along the ground. Boromir saw him struggle, trying to prise himself free, but it was all to no avail. With great shock, he saw whereabouts the creature was headed. Frantically turning his horse, Boromir thrust it into a blinding gallop, heading for a nearby slope.
"Faster," he whispered to its upright ear, "faster!" The beast let out a shrill neigh, and charged down the slope, its hooves pounding against the dusty soil. Soon they trod on cobbles, as they came to the bank of a shallow river, which was trickling gently past the steep cliffs above. The precipice was lined with mud, and roots shot out of it like hands, twisting and writhing in pain. Perhaps this land felt the suffering of those who had fallen on its tainted soil.
They galloped through the river valley, over the pebbles and onto soft and gritty silt. Boromir became increasingly worried, as still he had caught no sight of his companion. He knew, by the momentum of the charging warg, that he would have inevitably been thrown from the cliff. Turning, and turning again, he noticed that the river was flowing faster from this point. He realised that a man could easily be carried downstream in this strong current. Fearing for his friend's life, he charged his horse onward, concentrating only on the river before him.
After a short while of searching, he became ever more doubtful of finding Aragorn. He took a time to think things through, as he continued to scan the bank for any sign of life. He wondered why he felt so compelled to save this man. He knew that his father would greatly disapprove of it, of his great warrior son. But Aragorn was fast revealing his loyalty to the race of men, and to Gondor, despite Boromir's earlier suspicions. Deep inside, he knew that Aragorn was a worthy man - a man worthy of the crown of Gondor. He prayed that his father would give up his place of power without a fight – after all, the Stewards had ruled in Gondor for so long, that Denethor would, Boromir knew, consider himself King in his own right. Please, father, he thought to himself, retain the honour of the Stewards, your honour to Gondor's crown, and recognise the rightful King…
He had many doubts that Denethor would recognise this in the way that he had, and he heaved a great and pitiful sigh, when he thought of what was to come.
Suddenly, drawing him out of his thoughts, he saw something on the bank. He galloped towards it at great speed, and as he approached, recognised the unmistakable figure of Aragorn, his arms spread wide, and his eyes gently shut. His face was barely above the water, and, fearing that he could drown, Boromir quickly dismounted, and ran to his side.
The Ranger's face was a sickly pale, and he did not stir. Boromir pressed a hand to his pulse. Sure enough, he was still alive, but merely unconscious. Boromir sighed in relief. He was not too late to save him. Stumbling about in the water, which, like air, seemed to pass straight through him, he called to his horse. He was still amazed at how the creature could understand him, how it could sense his presence and yet not feel him on his back. The animal trotted steadily to Boromir's side, and began to nudge Aragorn's limp form - first softly, then increasingly harder. Boromir found his fists clenching in anticipation, as he saw his companion regain consciousness. Aragorn blinked, and almost instinctively gripped the horse's reins, thrusting himself out and up from the river.
Boromir remained in great awe of his determination, and smiled, as Aragorn heaved himself onto the back of the horse. The Ranger slumped forward slightly, and Boromir noticed a deep wound, sliced into his shoulder, which turned the folds of his tunic a deep red. His lip trickled black blood, and his eyes were merely half open, as if waking from a dream. He took the reins in his shaking hands, and led the horse forward. Boromir rose from his kneeling position, and walked slowly beside the animal, resting his hand against its shining coat. He gazed into its large, unblinking eye, and found that it calmed his soul – something that was sadly rare in these strange days.
They had been travelling for many hours, although Boromir had long since lost track of time – Aragorn gently riding the horse, Boromir walking, unbeknown to his companion, by his side. Aragorn had not uttered a word since they left. He seemed in a great daze, and many times he was forced to stop and rest, placing his hand to his shoulder to stop the constant flow of blood. Boromir felt pity for him, and walked at his friend's pace, determined to stay with them, to stay with something that was familiar to him – for it had been a long while since he truly felt at home.
The sun was beginning to set, turning the grass of the fields a glorious gold. Boromir raised his hand to his chest. He remembered the arrows that had pierced his body, rupturing his nerves, and the pain that had seared through him…he had never felt such a pain. And somehow, although the reality of that injury was gone, the scars remained. He could feel it. Every day, when he woke from the mists of sleep, he could feel that ache once more. He realised, glancing at the fading sun, that he had never seen the sunset on that fateful day.
Why were his memories of that time still so clouded? He glanced up at Aragorn, who was gently rocking up and down with the motion of the horse.
"You know what happened," he said, realising how long it had been since he had spoken. After all, if there was nobody for him to speak to, then what purpose did his voice serve? He paused for a moment. "I do not know why I forget. My soul aches to remember, but I am shown only the pain." His companion did not react, and Boromir sighed in anger. Why can nobody hear me? he asked himself, biting his lip. Lowering his head in despair, he wondered just how real he truly was. His voice trailed off into the wind, but the breeze did not carry it – it merely disappeared.