Aaaaaaaaah, shame on me, leaving this hanging for so long. Tssssssk, maybe I should just shoot myself (after this is finished of course). Anyway thanks for the reviews, they were greatly appreciated. (By the way, I own nothing but the plot :(( )
Blue Iris: Great, I like it when people stay interested enough to wonder what comes next! (Favorites list? Yaiks, that sounds rather important :$)
Lady of Legolas: thank you. I promise, though, that I'm not the one who ruins FF.net though, I'm always carefull not to break anything :)
skahducky: ouch, sorry. I don't think this is what you would term as 'soon'. Don't shoot me, please *puppy eyes*
Alynna Lis Eachann: here you go: more Faramir and Legolas interaction!
charysa: Well, Bor's here now, but if he's in time, wait and read (mwhahahaha)! Thanks for the appreciation!
And now we give the word bake to Boromir. Take it away, Son of Gondor!
Chapter 10: Homecoming
------------------------
The moment Boromir left the ship in that enormous jump, he was envelloped in the greatest battle he had ever witnessed. Orcs and Humans were everywhere: fighting, screaming and dying. Glír was nervous beneath him, nostrils flaring wide as the animal caught the scent of blood that hung heavy in the air. If the horse hadn't been trained by the Rohirrim, Boromir would have undoubtfully been thrown of by now.
But they both pushed forward. His shield was on the arm that steered Glír, the other was used for his sword. Orcs and Uruk-Hai ran towards him, screaming as they were felled. He didn't stop or even slow down unless his life depended on it, trusting the horse to find the shortest way to the City.
****************
A little further back, Legolas was having his own trouble in keeping up with his friend. The Human rode as fast as any Elf in his haste to reach Minas Tirith, barely slowing down to take his ennemies out. Legolas' own knives whirled as he rode past another cluster of Orcs, steering Arod with his voice only. He had soon become aware that catching up with Boromir would be nigh impossible until they came closer to the City, where the crowd was pressed tighter together. Cutting free of the Orcs, he bade Arod to follow Boromir's course: if he couldn't catch him, it would be well to stay at least as close as possible. Valar only knew what had gotten into that Human's stubborn head.
****************
As Boromir drew closer to the gate, he saw the King of the Nazgul come out of the City again. His first instinct was to wheel his horse around and flee the same way he had come, but he resisted the urge. The monster was going away and he really needed to be in the City. He recognized the banners of Rohan and Dol Amroth around him, returning to the defense now that the Black Rider had gone. Many called out to him, but he didn't heed them and pressed on into the arch of the Gate.
Both halves of the great gate had been pushed aside, with what looked to have been a battle ram. The construction that in his child-years had seemed so indestructible was now torn and useless to hold back the ennemies that tried to swarm the City. But once again, Boromir paid it no heed, overcome with his concern for his brother. Spurring Glír back into action, he let the horse canter towards the great Citadel in the seventh circle.
He didn't make it all the way up. As he passed the street that led to Rath Dinen, a tug on his soul made him draw hard on the reins. Glír screamed in protest, going far down on his hindlegs to come to a full stop. Boromir leaned to one side in the saddle, trying to make the turn easier for the valiant beast. They went through the curve and the following street.
Strange how things can change so suddenly. Boromir no longer thought about the war raging just a few meters away. The Streets here were quiet, as if the atmosphere of the dead could not be lifted even by a thing so chaotic as battle. Everything here excuded calmth and it made him angry. How dare it be so calm, as if it didn't care about the fate of his brother, as if Faramir wasn't important at all. Silent tears streaked down from his eyes, for there was no question now in his mind of the fate of his little brother. Faramir was dead, lying somewhere in those silent tombes, his father probably sitting at his side. 'Oh Faramir, I'm so sorry.'
When the place were normally the Guard for these tombes stood came into view, Boromir's mind registered some measure of surprise to see nobody was there. Surely, if his brother had been burried, someone would stand watch over it, wouldn't they. He pulled Glír to a stop and swung down from his high perch as he noticed a body lying on the pavement. Crouching beside it, he could tell it was the Guard. Dread seized him, squeezing his heart and causing his breathing to hitch. What had happened here? Were the Orcs already in the City? But if so, why hadn't they gone to the Citadel first?
Realizing there was only one way to find out, the eldest son of Gondor's Steward drew his sword with an audible hiss and charged into the tombes.
***************
If Legolas had thought he would be able to close the gap between him and his Human friend inside the City, he was proven wrong now. While people recognized Boromir and hurried to get out of their Lord's way with only a cry of joy at his return, they placed themselves directly onto the Elf's path, slowing him down enough so he could not get to his friend. Legolas, not one to anger easily, found himself growing irritated swiftly now that Boromir's life hung in the balance.
"Elbereth," he swore softly to himself, "I swear they are doing it on purpose." A wagon laded with water-filled buckets, meant to douse the fires raging in the lower Circles, was pushed on the street in front of Arod, blocking the entire way. Loosing hold on his patience, Legolas called out to Arod.
"Noro lim, mellon nin!"
The effect was gratyfying as the spirited horse neighed loudly and galloped towards the cart as fast as the stony underground allowed. The people surrounding the wagon took one look at the approaching couple before flinging themselves out of harm's way. Arod didn't slow down even a bit as he jumped the obstacle and ran on as soon as he landed on the other side. After a minute or so, Legolas was again able to spot Boromir and resume the 'hunt'.
They followed the Human's trail, but were still too far to be heard even if Legolas would cry out. When Boromir made a sudden turn of of the main road, Legolas frowned. Why wasn't he going to the Citadel? The Elf had suspected that his friend reacted on some call of his father, like Elves were able to feel their parents and siblings.
Siblings! Faramir!
Maybe the call wasn't from Denethor at all, but from Faramir. It made sense, if he thought about it a little more: there indeed seemed to be a stronger bond between the brothers than between father and sons.
A sudden snort and toss of the head from Arod plucked Legolas from his musings. The horse had also taken the turn and now slowed it's pace as the sudden change in atmosphere threw it of. Though not Elven-bred, the rohan horse had by now spent enough time with it's new master to become more sensitive to the world around it. He did not like this place with it's calm, almost chilling air and in slowing his pace enquired of his rider what he had to do.
Legolas let the horse slow to a canter, not wanting to stop going after Boromir, but suddenly feeling more anxious than he had on the Paths of the Dead. Seeing Glír in the distance, he asked Arod to stop at the side of the other horse. Noticing the dead guard, Legolas, for the first time in his nearly three thousand years, had a flash of prescience. The image of an old Man, standing at the bedside of a younger man, surrounded by flames caused him to stagger, grabbing a handfull of Arod's mane to steady himself. The younger Man had had an uncanny likeliness to Boromir! Cursing, he pulled himself back together, and spurted into the tomb in front of him.
*******************
Boromir came to an abrupt stop, boots screeching on the stone floor, as he saw the scene that unfolded before him. Gandalf and Pippin stood a few meters in front of him, unmoving, seemingly as stunned as he was. One of the guards was fighting two others in an attempt to keep them away from the door that he kept closed with his free hand. The door towards one of the tombes where the dead Stewards were lain.
'No,' Boromir thought, 'Oh, Faramir, please no.' His worst fears seemed to become reality. He stumbled backwards, reaching out with one hand to steady himself against the wall, as the other came up to cover his eyes. 'Too late. I'm too late. Oh, Faramir, I'm so sorry.'
Another voice broke through to his stunned mind. Regal and commanding, even in this place, the voice of the Steward of Gondor sounded from behind the closed door. "Haste, haste. Do as I've bidden! Slay me this renegade! Or must I do so myself?" Not understanding what was going on, Boromir let himself fall back into the shadows, hoping the situation would become clear to him. Normally there wouldn't have been a doubt on his mind as to run forward and help his father, but some things just didn't seem right to him.
His father's voice was tinged with a slightly histerical edge that made him want to cringe back. And the guard that held the door closed was no stranger to him either. He recognized the man, Beregond, as a guard that was extremely loyal towards his brother. Why would he turn suddenly and become a renegade? And why was Gandalf here? Surely the Wizard was needed in the City?
The door burst open, revealing his father, holding a sword and looking like an animal that had been cornered and was going to take as many of his adversaries with him into death as he could manage. But Gandalf leapt up onto the stairs, raising his hand in a spell, and Denethors blade flew from his hand to land clattering, but harmless on the floor.
"What is this, my Lord?" Gandalf asked sternly, "The Houses of the Dead are no place for the living. And why do men fight here in the Hallows when there is war enough before the Gate? Or has our Enemy come even to Rath Dinen?"
Denethor narrowed his eyes. "Since when has the Lord of Gondor been answerable to thee?" he asked, "Or may I not command my own servants?"
"You may." Gandalf said, "But others may contest your will, when it is turned to madness and evil. Where is your son, Faramir."
At the mentioning of Faramir's name, Denethor's shoulders seemed to slump ever so slightly. "He lies within, burning, already burning. They have set a fire in his flesh. But soon all shall be burned. The West has failed. It shall all go up in a great fire, and all shall be ended. Ash! Ash and smoke blown away on the wind!"
Boromir heard the madness in his father's voice, and worse still, the defeat that seeped off them. Couldn't he see that there was still hope? That indeed at this very moment, Boromir himself perceived more hope than he had in the last 10 years? Aragorn, Isildurs Heir, had come. Humans, Dwarves and Elves fought together once more on the battlefield outside. This was not a time for despair, it was a time of joy and celebration.
"Bring him out, Lord Steward." the Wizard entreated carefuly, recognizing the madness in the person before him even as Boromir did. "Bring your son out into the light again. There is still hope for him, for Minas Tirith even."
For long moments they stood like that, Gandalf against Denethor, silent, unmoving. Then Denethor turned around and went back inside. He scooped Faramir up from his resting place on the stone table, and Boromir's heart nearly shattered as he saw the condition his brother was in. The youngest son of the Steward was very pale and trembling in the heat of the fever that coursed through him.
Denethor stopped moving when he was a few steps from the door that would lead him back into the greater room. He tightened his hold on the other's body, pressing him close.
"You might think you have all the answers, master Wizard, but I say this to you. You have taken my oldest from me, you will not take Faramir as well. We will die together and rejoin my wife and heir who are doubtlessly waiting for us. You speak of hope, yet I ask you what I've left to hope for. My son will die and my throne will be stolen by your pet-Ranger. I will not give up my son now." The old man drew himself up, turning towards his guards. "Come hither!" he cried, "Come, if you are not all recreant!"
Two of the servants ran up to him, bearing torches, obviously seeking to set fire to the wood that Boromir saw to be stocked in the room.
'No, I cannot let him do this! Faramir, there's still hope for him. Aragorn will know how to heal him, or Gandalf could do something.'
Mind made up, Boromir stepped into the room firmly, shoulders set, prepared to confront his father to save his brother's life.
"Father, no!" he said loudly. The room went deadly silent. Everybody turned towards the newly arrived Human. The guards gaped, one of them mouting 'ghost' as they stared in disbelieve at the 'dead' Heir of their Steward. They threw nervous glances between Boromir and his father. The ones carrying the torches stopped in their tracks, not daring to complete Denethor's command to them.
"Boromir."
The name was like a reverant whisper, passing nearly unnoticed of the Steward's lips. The arms that held his youngest son started to tremble as he saw his much missed Heir.
"Boromir." Denethor repeated, then tore his eyes away from his eldest to look at the limp figure cradled against his chest. "You have come for your brother, have you not?" the Steward continued, "You have come to take him with you."
Boromir looked at his father with amazement. Was this the proud man he had last seen upon his departure from Minas Tirith? Surely this could not be the harsh, yet wise father he had known all his life? His eyes then flicked to Faramir, who had remained unconsious throughout the whole scene. Gods, he looked so pale, there had to be something seriously wrong with him. Yes, he would have to find Gandalf or Aragorn to look at him, since he was fairly sure that nobody in the House of Healing could mend whatever wounds he had.
"Father, you mustn't do this. Take Faramir to the Houses of Healing, let somebody care for him."
Denethor blinked, staring at Boromir as if he had just told him that the sky was green. His son's words didn't seem to reach him, but Boromir took heart as he saw that, even though the Steward didn't hand Faramir over, neither did he seem inclined to have the both of them burned anymore. Deciding to press things a little, he started walking towards his father, standing still at the beginning of the stairs.
"You will keep him safe until I join you?" Denethor's voice broke a little, "I promise it won't take long. I will not desert you a second time." The Steward waited for Boromir's startled nod, then shifted his hold on his youngest and motioned for his heir to come and take his brother from him.
'Desert me? And what business would he have that require him to be anywhere else than with us now?' Boromir knew that something wasn't right, but decided to take his problems one step at a time. First he would get his brother out of here, then he would try to coax his father into leaving this place of madness. Reaching out, he took a firm hold on Faramir and lifted him into his own arms.
His father smiled at him, then frowned and smiled again, his gaze drawn by something that lay behind Boromir's left shoulder. Turning slightly, expecting perhaps Gandalf or Beregond to come and take Faramir, he instead caught sight of Legolas. The Elf had just entered the room and had stopped in his tracks as he felt the tension that hung thick in the air.
"My Lord." Denethor said, bowing his head to the Elf and taking a step back from his sons.
'My Lord?' Boromir was stunned. Never had his father referred to another as 'my Lord' for as long as he could remember. So why would he do such a thing now. And for an Elf no less. Glancing at Legolas, he saw his own confusion in his friends eyes, although his features betrayed nothing of it.
"Have you come to accompany my sons to their mother? Will you not wait for me then?" Denethor's gaze was still on Legolas, thusly missing the dawning apprehension on his son's face.
'Elbereth! He thinks Legolas is here to take us to the place where the Dead go!' While Boromir tried to think of what to do to make his father see that he was still alive, the Steward levelled a gaze on the two servants still carrying the torches. The guards squirmed a little and then slipped passed their Lord to light the kindling in the room behind him. It didn't take long before the wood caught fire and the heat and smoke started to build in the small room.
Boromir shifted his hold on Faramir slightly, handing him over to the Elf. Knowing his brother to be safe now, he concentrated on getting through to his father. He stepped closer to him, near enough to touch, but holding back from the act, afraid to spook him.
"Father, come with us now, please." he reached out his hand, seeking to take that of the Steward and lead him away from the now raging fire in the room behind the older Man.
"I will, my son, I will see you both soon. Tell your mother I'm comming." A small smile graced Denethor's lips, and with those words he took two rapid paces backwards and entered the flames.
"Noooooooooooooo!" Boromir wailed, jumping forward without thinking, only knowing that his father needed him now. Another cry of agony met his own as the Steward of Gondor was overtaken by the fire that run everywhere around him. He was nearly into the flames himself, their heat pulsing against him, as he felt strong arms wrap around him and pull him back. He fought them, trying frantically to twist free, but they were stronger then he was, and in the end he fell back against the chest of his savior.
"Valar, Boromir, I'm sorry." he heard a soft soothing voice in near his ear. Looking at the one who cradled him protectively, keeping his legs from giving in, he stared into the compassionant eyes of Legolas. He turned back to the fire, staying in the other's arms until it had died down and all that was left within the small romm was ashes, the stone bed and a stone very much like the one that had been thrown at them from the pinnacle of Isengard.
**********************************
Poor Boromir. Why do I do this to him? Oh well, it makes a great story :)
That's all for this time. Until the next one!
Blue Iris: Great, I like it when people stay interested enough to wonder what comes next! (Favorites list? Yaiks, that sounds rather important :$)
Lady of Legolas: thank you. I promise, though, that I'm not the one who ruins FF.net though, I'm always carefull not to break anything :)
skahducky: ouch, sorry. I don't think this is what you would term as 'soon'. Don't shoot me, please *puppy eyes*
Alynna Lis Eachann: here you go: more Faramir and Legolas interaction!
charysa: Well, Bor's here now, but if he's in time, wait and read (mwhahahaha)! Thanks for the appreciation!
And now we give the word bake to Boromir. Take it away, Son of Gondor!
Chapter 10: Homecoming
------------------------
The moment Boromir left the ship in that enormous jump, he was envelloped in the greatest battle he had ever witnessed. Orcs and Humans were everywhere: fighting, screaming and dying. Glír was nervous beneath him, nostrils flaring wide as the animal caught the scent of blood that hung heavy in the air. If the horse hadn't been trained by the Rohirrim, Boromir would have undoubtfully been thrown of by now.
But they both pushed forward. His shield was on the arm that steered Glír, the other was used for his sword. Orcs and Uruk-Hai ran towards him, screaming as they were felled. He didn't stop or even slow down unless his life depended on it, trusting the horse to find the shortest way to the City.
****************
A little further back, Legolas was having his own trouble in keeping up with his friend. The Human rode as fast as any Elf in his haste to reach Minas Tirith, barely slowing down to take his ennemies out. Legolas' own knives whirled as he rode past another cluster of Orcs, steering Arod with his voice only. He had soon become aware that catching up with Boromir would be nigh impossible until they came closer to the City, where the crowd was pressed tighter together. Cutting free of the Orcs, he bade Arod to follow Boromir's course: if he couldn't catch him, it would be well to stay at least as close as possible. Valar only knew what had gotten into that Human's stubborn head.
****************
As Boromir drew closer to the gate, he saw the King of the Nazgul come out of the City again. His first instinct was to wheel his horse around and flee the same way he had come, but he resisted the urge. The monster was going away and he really needed to be in the City. He recognized the banners of Rohan and Dol Amroth around him, returning to the defense now that the Black Rider had gone. Many called out to him, but he didn't heed them and pressed on into the arch of the Gate.
Both halves of the great gate had been pushed aside, with what looked to have been a battle ram. The construction that in his child-years had seemed so indestructible was now torn and useless to hold back the ennemies that tried to swarm the City. But once again, Boromir paid it no heed, overcome with his concern for his brother. Spurring Glír back into action, he let the horse canter towards the great Citadel in the seventh circle.
He didn't make it all the way up. As he passed the street that led to Rath Dinen, a tug on his soul made him draw hard on the reins. Glír screamed in protest, going far down on his hindlegs to come to a full stop. Boromir leaned to one side in the saddle, trying to make the turn easier for the valiant beast. They went through the curve and the following street.
Strange how things can change so suddenly. Boromir no longer thought about the war raging just a few meters away. The Streets here were quiet, as if the atmosphere of the dead could not be lifted even by a thing so chaotic as battle. Everything here excuded calmth and it made him angry. How dare it be so calm, as if it didn't care about the fate of his brother, as if Faramir wasn't important at all. Silent tears streaked down from his eyes, for there was no question now in his mind of the fate of his little brother. Faramir was dead, lying somewhere in those silent tombes, his father probably sitting at his side. 'Oh Faramir, I'm so sorry.'
When the place were normally the Guard for these tombes stood came into view, Boromir's mind registered some measure of surprise to see nobody was there. Surely, if his brother had been burried, someone would stand watch over it, wouldn't they. He pulled Glír to a stop and swung down from his high perch as he noticed a body lying on the pavement. Crouching beside it, he could tell it was the Guard. Dread seized him, squeezing his heart and causing his breathing to hitch. What had happened here? Were the Orcs already in the City? But if so, why hadn't they gone to the Citadel first?
Realizing there was only one way to find out, the eldest son of Gondor's Steward drew his sword with an audible hiss and charged into the tombes.
***************
If Legolas had thought he would be able to close the gap between him and his Human friend inside the City, he was proven wrong now. While people recognized Boromir and hurried to get out of their Lord's way with only a cry of joy at his return, they placed themselves directly onto the Elf's path, slowing him down enough so he could not get to his friend. Legolas, not one to anger easily, found himself growing irritated swiftly now that Boromir's life hung in the balance.
"Elbereth," he swore softly to himself, "I swear they are doing it on purpose." A wagon laded with water-filled buckets, meant to douse the fires raging in the lower Circles, was pushed on the street in front of Arod, blocking the entire way. Loosing hold on his patience, Legolas called out to Arod.
"Noro lim, mellon nin!"
The effect was gratyfying as the spirited horse neighed loudly and galloped towards the cart as fast as the stony underground allowed. The people surrounding the wagon took one look at the approaching couple before flinging themselves out of harm's way. Arod didn't slow down even a bit as he jumped the obstacle and ran on as soon as he landed on the other side. After a minute or so, Legolas was again able to spot Boromir and resume the 'hunt'.
They followed the Human's trail, but were still too far to be heard even if Legolas would cry out. When Boromir made a sudden turn of of the main road, Legolas frowned. Why wasn't he going to the Citadel? The Elf had suspected that his friend reacted on some call of his father, like Elves were able to feel their parents and siblings.
Siblings! Faramir!
Maybe the call wasn't from Denethor at all, but from Faramir. It made sense, if he thought about it a little more: there indeed seemed to be a stronger bond between the brothers than between father and sons.
A sudden snort and toss of the head from Arod plucked Legolas from his musings. The horse had also taken the turn and now slowed it's pace as the sudden change in atmosphere threw it of. Though not Elven-bred, the rohan horse had by now spent enough time with it's new master to become more sensitive to the world around it. He did not like this place with it's calm, almost chilling air and in slowing his pace enquired of his rider what he had to do.
Legolas let the horse slow to a canter, not wanting to stop going after Boromir, but suddenly feeling more anxious than he had on the Paths of the Dead. Seeing Glír in the distance, he asked Arod to stop at the side of the other horse. Noticing the dead guard, Legolas, for the first time in his nearly three thousand years, had a flash of prescience. The image of an old Man, standing at the bedside of a younger man, surrounded by flames caused him to stagger, grabbing a handfull of Arod's mane to steady himself. The younger Man had had an uncanny likeliness to Boromir! Cursing, he pulled himself back together, and spurted into the tomb in front of him.
*******************
Boromir came to an abrupt stop, boots screeching on the stone floor, as he saw the scene that unfolded before him. Gandalf and Pippin stood a few meters in front of him, unmoving, seemingly as stunned as he was. One of the guards was fighting two others in an attempt to keep them away from the door that he kept closed with his free hand. The door towards one of the tombes where the dead Stewards were lain.
'No,' Boromir thought, 'Oh, Faramir, please no.' His worst fears seemed to become reality. He stumbled backwards, reaching out with one hand to steady himself against the wall, as the other came up to cover his eyes. 'Too late. I'm too late. Oh, Faramir, I'm so sorry.'
Another voice broke through to his stunned mind. Regal and commanding, even in this place, the voice of the Steward of Gondor sounded from behind the closed door. "Haste, haste. Do as I've bidden! Slay me this renegade! Or must I do so myself?" Not understanding what was going on, Boromir let himself fall back into the shadows, hoping the situation would become clear to him. Normally there wouldn't have been a doubt on his mind as to run forward and help his father, but some things just didn't seem right to him.
His father's voice was tinged with a slightly histerical edge that made him want to cringe back. And the guard that held the door closed was no stranger to him either. He recognized the man, Beregond, as a guard that was extremely loyal towards his brother. Why would he turn suddenly and become a renegade? And why was Gandalf here? Surely the Wizard was needed in the City?
The door burst open, revealing his father, holding a sword and looking like an animal that had been cornered and was going to take as many of his adversaries with him into death as he could manage. But Gandalf leapt up onto the stairs, raising his hand in a spell, and Denethors blade flew from his hand to land clattering, but harmless on the floor.
"What is this, my Lord?" Gandalf asked sternly, "The Houses of the Dead are no place for the living. And why do men fight here in the Hallows when there is war enough before the Gate? Or has our Enemy come even to Rath Dinen?"
Denethor narrowed his eyes. "Since when has the Lord of Gondor been answerable to thee?" he asked, "Or may I not command my own servants?"
"You may." Gandalf said, "But others may contest your will, when it is turned to madness and evil. Where is your son, Faramir."
At the mentioning of Faramir's name, Denethor's shoulders seemed to slump ever so slightly. "He lies within, burning, already burning. They have set a fire in his flesh. But soon all shall be burned. The West has failed. It shall all go up in a great fire, and all shall be ended. Ash! Ash and smoke blown away on the wind!"
Boromir heard the madness in his father's voice, and worse still, the defeat that seeped off them. Couldn't he see that there was still hope? That indeed at this very moment, Boromir himself perceived more hope than he had in the last 10 years? Aragorn, Isildurs Heir, had come. Humans, Dwarves and Elves fought together once more on the battlefield outside. This was not a time for despair, it was a time of joy and celebration.
"Bring him out, Lord Steward." the Wizard entreated carefuly, recognizing the madness in the person before him even as Boromir did. "Bring your son out into the light again. There is still hope for him, for Minas Tirith even."
For long moments they stood like that, Gandalf against Denethor, silent, unmoving. Then Denethor turned around and went back inside. He scooped Faramir up from his resting place on the stone table, and Boromir's heart nearly shattered as he saw the condition his brother was in. The youngest son of the Steward was very pale and trembling in the heat of the fever that coursed through him.
Denethor stopped moving when he was a few steps from the door that would lead him back into the greater room. He tightened his hold on the other's body, pressing him close.
"You might think you have all the answers, master Wizard, but I say this to you. You have taken my oldest from me, you will not take Faramir as well. We will die together and rejoin my wife and heir who are doubtlessly waiting for us. You speak of hope, yet I ask you what I've left to hope for. My son will die and my throne will be stolen by your pet-Ranger. I will not give up my son now." The old man drew himself up, turning towards his guards. "Come hither!" he cried, "Come, if you are not all recreant!"
Two of the servants ran up to him, bearing torches, obviously seeking to set fire to the wood that Boromir saw to be stocked in the room.
'No, I cannot let him do this! Faramir, there's still hope for him. Aragorn will know how to heal him, or Gandalf could do something.'
Mind made up, Boromir stepped into the room firmly, shoulders set, prepared to confront his father to save his brother's life.
"Father, no!" he said loudly. The room went deadly silent. Everybody turned towards the newly arrived Human. The guards gaped, one of them mouting 'ghost' as they stared in disbelieve at the 'dead' Heir of their Steward. They threw nervous glances between Boromir and his father. The ones carrying the torches stopped in their tracks, not daring to complete Denethor's command to them.
"Boromir."
The name was like a reverant whisper, passing nearly unnoticed of the Steward's lips. The arms that held his youngest son started to tremble as he saw his much missed Heir.
"Boromir." Denethor repeated, then tore his eyes away from his eldest to look at the limp figure cradled against his chest. "You have come for your brother, have you not?" the Steward continued, "You have come to take him with you."
Boromir looked at his father with amazement. Was this the proud man he had last seen upon his departure from Minas Tirith? Surely this could not be the harsh, yet wise father he had known all his life? His eyes then flicked to Faramir, who had remained unconsious throughout the whole scene. Gods, he looked so pale, there had to be something seriously wrong with him. Yes, he would have to find Gandalf or Aragorn to look at him, since he was fairly sure that nobody in the House of Healing could mend whatever wounds he had.
"Father, you mustn't do this. Take Faramir to the Houses of Healing, let somebody care for him."
Denethor blinked, staring at Boromir as if he had just told him that the sky was green. His son's words didn't seem to reach him, but Boromir took heart as he saw that, even though the Steward didn't hand Faramir over, neither did he seem inclined to have the both of them burned anymore. Deciding to press things a little, he started walking towards his father, standing still at the beginning of the stairs.
"You will keep him safe until I join you?" Denethor's voice broke a little, "I promise it won't take long. I will not desert you a second time." The Steward waited for Boromir's startled nod, then shifted his hold on his youngest and motioned for his heir to come and take his brother from him.
'Desert me? And what business would he have that require him to be anywhere else than with us now?' Boromir knew that something wasn't right, but decided to take his problems one step at a time. First he would get his brother out of here, then he would try to coax his father into leaving this place of madness. Reaching out, he took a firm hold on Faramir and lifted him into his own arms.
His father smiled at him, then frowned and smiled again, his gaze drawn by something that lay behind Boromir's left shoulder. Turning slightly, expecting perhaps Gandalf or Beregond to come and take Faramir, he instead caught sight of Legolas. The Elf had just entered the room and had stopped in his tracks as he felt the tension that hung thick in the air.
"My Lord." Denethor said, bowing his head to the Elf and taking a step back from his sons.
'My Lord?' Boromir was stunned. Never had his father referred to another as 'my Lord' for as long as he could remember. So why would he do such a thing now. And for an Elf no less. Glancing at Legolas, he saw his own confusion in his friends eyes, although his features betrayed nothing of it.
"Have you come to accompany my sons to their mother? Will you not wait for me then?" Denethor's gaze was still on Legolas, thusly missing the dawning apprehension on his son's face.
'Elbereth! He thinks Legolas is here to take us to the place where the Dead go!' While Boromir tried to think of what to do to make his father see that he was still alive, the Steward levelled a gaze on the two servants still carrying the torches. The guards squirmed a little and then slipped passed their Lord to light the kindling in the room behind him. It didn't take long before the wood caught fire and the heat and smoke started to build in the small room.
Boromir shifted his hold on Faramir slightly, handing him over to the Elf. Knowing his brother to be safe now, he concentrated on getting through to his father. He stepped closer to him, near enough to touch, but holding back from the act, afraid to spook him.
"Father, come with us now, please." he reached out his hand, seeking to take that of the Steward and lead him away from the now raging fire in the room behind the older Man.
"I will, my son, I will see you both soon. Tell your mother I'm comming." A small smile graced Denethor's lips, and with those words he took two rapid paces backwards and entered the flames.
"Noooooooooooooo!" Boromir wailed, jumping forward without thinking, only knowing that his father needed him now. Another cry of agony met his own as the Steward of Gondor was overtaken by the fire that run everywhere around him. He was nearly into the flames himself, their heat pulsing against him, as he felt strong arms wrap around him and pull him back. He fought them, trying frantically to twist free, but they were stronger then he was, and in the end he fell back against the chest of his savior.
"Valar, Boromir, I'm sorry." he heard a soft soothing voice in near his ear. Looking at the one who cradled him protectively, keeping his legs from giving in, he stared into the compassionant eyes of Legolas. He turned back to the fire, staying in the other's arms until it had died down and all that was left within the small romm was ashes, the stone bed and a stone very much like the one that had been thrown at them from the pinnacle of Isengard.
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Poor Boromir. Why do I do this to him? Oh well, it makes a great story :)
That's all for this time. Until the next one!