Always

Written By: GreyLadyBast

For: Fawkes

Had it not been for a trick of acoustics, Boromir would never have known how bad things had gotten.  As it was, he very nearly did not stop when he heard the muffled weeping over his own hurried footfalls.  He was already late for practice.  He could not afford to be later.  Still, the familiar cadence of his little brother's sobbing tore into his heart, and he knew his conscience would give him no peace if he ignored it.  Since he was already due for a scolding, he may as well make it worthwhile.  Taking care of Faramir was more important than swordplay, anyway.  His mother said so, though his father disagreed.

Decision made, Faramir proved harder to track down than expected.  The same acoustical quirk that augmented gentle weeping played tricks with direction.  More than that, the boy was an expert at Hide and Seek.  He was always the last found, if he could be found at all.  But the crying did not stop, so neither did Boromir.  His brother needed him.

Persistence, as always, paid off.  He eventually found his brother huddled in an alcove behind the statue of a forgotten king. 

"Faramir?" he called softly.

"Go 'way!" came the muffled reply.

Of course Boromir did not obey his brother's command.  Instead, he crawled into the tiny space where he hid.  It was a tight squeeze for the bigger boy, but Boromir managed.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Something is obviously wrong, Little Brother.  You do not cry for no reason.  Tell me, I may be able to help you," Boromir insisted.

"I'm fine," Faramir sulked.

"No, you are not fine, and I am not leaving until you tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong!" Faramir snarled, "Go 'way!"

"Is it Mother?" Boromir asked, fear clutching at his heart.  He could think of few things to put his baby brother in such a state other than their mother's ailing health taking a turn for the worse.

Faramir sniffled, "No, it's not Mama.  Not really."

"Is it Father, then?"

When Faramir did not reply, Boromir knew he'd hit a nerve.  Though he could not really understand it, he knew his father was often at odds with his younger brother.  It made no sense to the older boy.  Not quite five, Faramir had not lived long enough to really earn their father's disapproval, or so Mother insisted.  Nevertheless, it seemed to Boromir that the younger boy could do nothing well enough for their father.  And Boromir could do nothing to change the situation.

They remained silent for several minutes.  Faramir sucked his thumb (something he would let no one but his brother or his mother see  him do) and cuddled the battered toy Boromir had sewn for him years ago.  Their mother had insisted that a future Captain of Gondor must know how to stitch his men's wounds, and to learn to sew flesh one must first learn to sew cloth.  So Boromir made a gift for his baby.  It was supposed to be one of the mythical Halflings of the North.  That it looked more like a lumpy blob made no difference whatsoever to Faramir.  His brother had made it just for him, and he loved it beyond words.  It made him feel safe.  He took it with him everywhere.

The silence lengthened.  At last, Faramir asked plaintively, "Bory, is it my fault?"

As Boromir had no idea what Faramir was talking about, he asked "Is what your fault?'

"Is it my fault Mama's sick?"

The question took Boromir entirely by surprise.  "Of course it's not your fault!  What gave you that silly idea, anyway?"

Faramir refused to look at him.  Boromir took his baby brother's chin and gently forced him to look him in the eye.  Then he asked again, "What made you think such a thing?"

The younger boy gulped, "Father."

Boromir's eyes narrowed, but he kept his cool, "And how did Father make you think Mother's being sick is your fault?"

"I heard him say so, to Unka Imr'il," the child blurted out.  Their uncle was in Minas Tirith visiting his sister, their mother, because she was so sick.

"Were you eavesdropping, Little Brother?"  Faramir reluctantly nodded.  "You KNOW you're not supposed to listen in on the adults!"

"But it wasn't my fault!" he protested.  "I'd left Flooby"-----Flooby was the stuffed Halfling's name-----"in the study under the big desk when I was learning letters, and I went back to get him.  And then I heard the door open and I heard Unka Imr'il's voice and I wanted to show him how good I'm doing writing so I went to get out from under the desk but then I heard Father say. . ." he trailed off.

"What did Father say?"

"He said 'She's been sickly ever since that brat was born!'  That's what he said.  I heard him."

A sharp spike of anger startled Boromir.  He was only ten years old; he didn't even know a person COULD feel such rage, let alone directed at his own father.  But the unfairness of blaming Mother's illness on the baby shook him to his core.

Still, he controlled his expression as best he could.  A show of anger now would only frighten Faramir, and that would not do.  With tightly pursed lips, Boromir asked, "And what did Uncle Imrahil say to that?"

"He said that the wasting disease ran in the women of his family, which Father knew when he married Mama, and he shouldn't blame it on me."

"Uncle Imrahil's right.  Mother's sickness is NOT your fault, Faramir.  It never was and it never will be, no matter how unreasonable Father gets!" Boromir sternly insisted.

"Are you sure, Bory?"

"I am absolutely positive, Little Brother."

Faramir seemed reassured.  For a while they sat quietly, taking comfort in each other's presence.  Eventually, the younger boy spoke, "Bory?"

"Yes, Faramir?"

"Will Mama die?"

Boromir thought hard before answering.  He had been taught not to lie, but he'd also been told to protect the baby.  In the end he decided that in this case, the best way to protect Faramir would be to prepare him for the inevitable.  That meant telling him the truth, "Yes, she will die."

Faramir sniffled, "Soon?"

Boromir nodded.

"Is that why Unka Imr'il's here?"

Boromir nodded again, "You know Mother is his sister, and he wants to say goodbye to her before she dies."

"Will you say goodbye, Bory?"

"I will.  It'll be hard, but I will."

"Can I?"

Boromir paused.  He wiped tears he could not let the baby see from his eyes as he replied, "If that's what you want, then yes, you can say goodbye, too.  I know Mother will like that."

"Will Father object?"

"He might, but I will make sure you get a chance to say goodbye.  I promise," Boromir vowed.

Faramir nodded, satisfied on that score.  He knew his big brother always kept his promises, and if Bory said he'd get to say goodbye, then he'd get to say goodbye.  The thought of Mama dying made him sad, but at least he'd get to make sure she knew he loved her lots before that happened.

That thought brought up another worry to be addressed.  Faramir knew his father didn't like him, though he did not know why.  He was afraid of what would happen without Mama there to stand between them.  So he asked again, "Bory?"

The older boy sighed, annoyed out of his own budding grief, "Yes Faramir?"

"Who will love me when Mama dies?"

Boromir stared down at his baby, dismayed that he even felt the need to ask such a thing.  It showed how much Father's scorn had rattled him.  He thought of what Mother had said the last time he'd been to visit her, just hours ago.  She'd said that Faramir would need taking care of, and made him promise to look after him.  She had told him to protect the baby, even from Father.  Boromir had not understood the request at the time, but now, watching Faramir's tear-stained face look so trustingly up at him, he did. 

So Boromir did the only thing he thought he could do.  He gathered Faramir into a tight embrace and said, "I will love you, Little Brother.  Always."