DISCLAIMER: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.

Again, thank you for all the reviews.

Helena – Well, that's a definite first; no one's asked to put my work in a fanfic archive before, it means a lot. I'll definitely submit it when it's finished!

Morithil.

VIIII

"Tell her that sheds

Such treasure in the air,

Recking naught but that her graces give

Life to the moment,

I would bid them live,

As roses might, in magic amber laid,

Red overwrought with orange and all made

One substance and one colour

Braving time"

Ezra Pound, Life and Contacts; Envoi.

Something Boromir once said to me came back, came back at the moment when Eowyn won the little sparring match earlier, allowing me to talk more freely than I have done for some time. Always free with his praise, my archery was more than once subject to his compliments, as it was this I practiced more diligently than the swordsmanship our father was so unrelenting in impressing upon me. After hitting the centre of the farthest possible target three consecutive times, in much the same fashion and the same determination with which my wife made contact with her makeshift sword, Boromir stalked over to where I was lowering my bow, an grin of elation tightening his face.

"That's the fifth time today that you've done that. Honestly, brother, I would have to scale the outside walls of the tower of Ecthelion and place a target at the top of its spire to provide you with a target that would prove a challenge!"

I smiled, returning the vigorous shake he dealt my hand.

"I think that such a target would prove more than a challenge, brother. Another time, perhaps?"

"Oh, well perhaps when you are less consumed in reading, I will hold you to that. It would make for a fine display of Gondorian skill, and besides, I doubt I would be able to surpass such a feat"

"You are too kind, brother. My aim is fine, but I cannot see that far"

He gave me a strange half-smile, leaning against a cool wall as he looked at me.

"You see further than most, little brother. If only you could see that you are more than worthy of all the praise any man could give you."

"You mean father, I assume"

Boromir grimaced, folding his arms over his chest.

"I mean all men, least of all father"

I fumbled uncertainly with my vanguards, unsure of what to say. He straightened suddenly, struck by some inspired thought, and took my arm.

"Come on, I'm sure that a few ales will cure your infallible modesty, and besides, 'tis certain that the men would be impressed by what you've demonstrated today, Captain Faramir"

I laughed at his firmly tongue-in-cheek formality, and progressed down to the street where my brother wasted no time in informing all passers by of my skill as an archer, my keen sight, my true aim. "You see further than most", he had said, and he was right, for now I look further into the past than I have ever done before.

Eowyn smiled, briefly dazzling me. Somehow this becomes easier, having started, I cannot stop now, and I begin to feel the sensation of not wishing to, either. This hurts, but simultaneously purges the more I speak of less happy days, memories, words.

"I lived in his shadow, perhaps all my life, I am uncertain, but I know that despite this there was no other place I was content to remain. I did not wish to surpass Boromir, never, not in anything, but -", I halted, rearranging my words, "I only wished for our father to hold me with some regard, I did not strongly desire his praise, not at first, but I did not want to forever be subject to his scorn either. Boromir tried, countless times, talking to him, trying to convince him of what he saw as unfair judgement, though I know that my brother always did this as quietly as possible, as if he knew that I would not take well to him continuing to stand up for me even in adulthood. I could never do anything right in our father's eyes, I would ever - "

A deep breath was needed to repeat those words that would torment me in the wake of Boromir's absence. I could feel our father's cold gaze on me then, even then as I sat before the fire.

"Ever cast poor reflection upon him. Always"

I turned to face my beautiful wife, and saw, with a leap of my heart, a flower of outrage open across her face. She opened her mouth as if to speak, her eyes burning with anger and astonishment.

"How?" she demanded adamantly, but quietly, the level of volume in her voice struggling to remain controlled, "How could your father think so of you, Faramir? ''Twas not fair, I second your brother in that, as if you, the best and kindest of men could even think to do so. Ever you sought to have his approval and love, could he not see that you were your brother's equal, that you were equally skilled in your own fields of battle, that as a father the only emotions he should ever feel were love and pride in both his sons?"

She had risen to her feet in an endearing rush of exasperation, her voice raised at the end of her exclamation. The echo of her last words rang in the stillness. How I love her passion, the fiery liveliness with which she grasps everything in life. I smiled wistfully as she joined me on my wooden seat.

"Oh, my love", I sighed, stroking her cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she sat beside me, "if only you knew how many times I wondered the very same, how many times Boromir would voice similar frustration. If only I had met you earlier in my life, you would have given me courage to be able to voice those questions to my father, to break the silence between us, I am certain"

"Nay", she refuted, "you had the courage to endure such silence. I could not build upon such a supply"

She spoke as if she knew, knew the stern looks and leaden silences in grey halls, receding steps on stone floors, shame and hurt stinging like a slap in the face, and all from a few choice words from my father's lips. I struggled to retain my composure.

"You are a wealth of understanding, lady"

She was calmed by this, but on impulse darted forward, landing a brief but fervent kiss on my cheek that warmed my soul. I held her hands, wondered at the long, tapering fingers, white and elegant, strong in mine. Though terrible the scene, I could not help but wonder at her battle with the Witch-King of the Nazgul, could not help envisaging my lovely wife standing pale and defiant in the face of an older, fouler evil. Her hands gripping her sword tightly, her shield glowing in the heat of battle. Oh brother, did you face the evil that took your life in this way? I think so, for if you had been given the choice, an honourable death in battle would have been the most fitting in your eyes, but such death means that you are forever owning of the years you had when you left, never aging in my memory. Immortal.

"You loved your brother very much, Faramir", Eowyn offered tentatively. I choked on my affirmation.

"Yes. He was a hero, a great man, the best in all of Gondor. Even when we were boys, I looked up to him", I smiled at the rare happier, sun-drenched memories, "his confidence, his strength, his mirth"

The strength in tough and calloused hands. The ease with which he wielded his broadsword, a formidable weapon not only in terms of weight and manoeuvrability. The grin that could pierce maidens' hearts with one blow, his contagious laughter. His grim silence, his quiet hope. I voiced this much to Eowyn, who nodded at my words as if savouring the taste of a fine wine.

"Strong is the man that commands the reins of his mount without force, and who, when facing the long journeys alone, takes comfort from the thunder of hooves"

I looked at Eowyn, her face suddenly closed as she stared into and beyond the fire, her voice intoning the words with slow dignity. I savoured the remark before she smiled in explanation.

"An Old Rohirric saying. I never understood what was meant by taking comfort in the thunder of hooves, I thought loneliness could only be cured through company, but I think that when all that lays before you is a long ride, that sound can prove more stirring than conversation"

I mulled over this, marvelling at how closely the words of the saying fitted Boromir. What companionship did he have, setting out for Rivendell alone and yearning to remain with his people, feeling that he could serve them better by fighting on the home front? What dark nights did he spend underneath the clouded sky, with nothing but dreams and the will of our father to insist on his journey? Would I had gone with him, for to spend long days with him in solitude would have proved more favourable than the polite exile our father bestowed on me by making me Captain of the Ithilien Rangers. Exile. Suddenly I realised how much more in common I had with my brother-in-law. I made a mental note to call on the King of Rohan after our return, if his new responsibilities were not taking up too much of his time.

Boromir always made valiant attempts every day to carry his responsibilities as a leader and as the firstborn, of whom much was expected, lightly, and for long years he succeeded. Yet towards the remainder of his time in Minas Tirith I could see this burden grow heavier on his broad shoulders, see his countenance become grimmer, less frequently relieved by a roguish smile, I saw him become more introverted, and I floundered, uncertain in the face of his discomfort.

"Faramir?" Eowyn laid a tender hand on my elbow, searching for me in the shadows of the past. I smiled, a little pained at the little memories I had thought were forgotten.

"You would think me foolish, lady, believing in such frail things as wishes, but even in the moments before Boromir's departure, I thought that those days would last forever, that tomorrow would always find us riding side by side, as if life itself was but a long race and I would forever look across my horse's neck to see Boromir do the same and laugh breathlessly over, over-"

"Over the sound of the hooves", Eowyn finished for me.

I touched her hand gratefully. I thought on the many uncomfortable meals we took in the hall with our father, of the stilted clatter of cutlery on plates, the half-hearted attempts to make conversation that would not provoke rebuke. My food lying untouched. Boromir's cup always empty. Our father's stolid chewing as he glowered over his meal, disapproving of our silences. My brother's eyes hooded under lowered lids as he selected a spot on the solid table to wear a hole through with his quiet fury, knife and fork clutched in fists so tight they may as well have been hewn out of rock. Several times I had thought that my brother, having sat through another in a endless stream of reproaches directed at me, was but seconds away from rising from the table and stabbing the implements into the wood. Or leaping across the table and pressing them to our father's throat. At times like that I loved him with a cold fear in my chest, sensing the tension build in his entire frame, tempted to reach across and touch his wrist to bring him back from losing control. My brother, who in battle, arrows having missed his face by less than an inch, would disregard such near misses and continue barking orders and encouraging the men through his example, came closest to losing himself in violent abandon whenever the three of us were in a room together in forced civility. His disbelief at our father's comments was plain for all to see. Father's praise for him, his disappointment, or on more fortunate days, his total disregard of my presence, as if he were dining alone with his beloved son. And I a tapestry hung on the wall; gaudy and tasteless in the tomb grey marble and white space around them. Death walking the mirrored floors. Our mother's ghost standing behind our father's form, steely-eyed and hunched over his plate, shrouded in cloaks.

I told Eowyn of the dread with which I faced such gatherings. Slow torture under the gaze of our father, the glint in his eye almost daring me to prove his low opinion of me right. She must have seen the exasperation forming on my brow as I recounted such experiences, for she smoothed it with a soft sleeve so that I could continue.

"Your reserve and strength was unflinching. I know that if I, " here she looked away momentarily, as if recounting some similar tableau in her past, "had been faced with such hostility from a parent I would have stormed out of the room, crying abuse and crying tears as I went. I would not know how to take such treatment from my parents"

"You barely knew them, did you?"

" My father was killed when I was a girl, and I lost my mother the moment the news of his death came to us. I did not have them for long"

Her lovely face froze; only her eyes seemed to shake with emotion.

"But this you already know", she shook her head, " and I have interrupted you, mid-flow. Please talk, Faramir"

She is strength and consideration. I continued, my voice less strange to my ears.

"In later days, when Boromir's absence meant that I saw less and less of our father, I found it easier to bear his grudge against me. I lost myself in strategies, battle plans, preserving the lives of the men I commanded, wondering at the loss of life all around me, whether the men I killed bore such sorrows as I did, wondered where they came from, whether they were fighting for something, someone as I was."

"Whatever you fought for, Faramir, I am sure you did so bravely. Do you remember what I told you I thought on looking upon you?"

"You said that I was a leader that men would follow-"

"And so they did, as the men of Rohan with my uncle; to whatever end. I hold to that belief"

Eowyn smiled warmly at me after this, and for a time we sat close in mutual quiet, as if we had arranged such a lull in our talk hours before. Presently she lifted her head from my shoulder.

"I think your father died when he lost your mother"

Such a simple sentence, weighted with pure and breathtaking comprehension. Unexpected. I looked at her, my breath caught in my lungs.

"I think you speak truly, lady. I thought he died again when the news of Boromir's-"

I cut the sentence off in mid-air. I had dreamt again that night, dreamt of a barge and a cargo more precious to me than any mere title or praise our father could award me. I finished what I began with a lump rising in my throat.

"When the news of Boromir's death reached him. He looked at me after the message had been delivered. We had not met for some time, and though the news must have been some days, if not weeks old among the soldiers, I think that he did not believe it until after he held my gaze. He called to me, my father, said my name as sternly and as demandingly as always. When I lifted my eyes to his he studied them, hunting for truth in the dreadful words. And I said nothing. Nothing, and he knew then that it was true"

Her hand sneaked into mine. I clutched at it like a drowning man. I saw the look on his face, how his iron gaze wavered, how the glint of tinder in them was replaced by a dull burning, and it was much for me to hold back tears before I walked out of the hall, not only for my brother, but for the reaction in his look once he realised that I was the only son he had left.

Now I am the sole remainder of an ill-fated family. Eowyn brushes a gentle hand across my heart, and I know that I am blessed to call her my wife.

"It pains me", I carry on, trembling a little with the force of my dark imagination, "that Boromir should have fallen so. Sam-", I look at the fire again, drowning in flames once more," Sam told me, as no one else could, that he had descended into madness. My brother", my voice shook, "so assured, so confident, stoic in the chaos of war, for him to lose himself pains me more than I have let anyone know"

The admission cascades, words tumbling between tear streaked lips now. There is no stopping this confession now.

"Eowyn, you are the first to know this, tell me I am not wrong to speak of it to you, but when I heard of the terrible power of the Ring over him, I felt like denying it, but would have fallen to the ground and wept into my hands if the time had allowed it. I pictured him in my mind, unable to stop the images, Boromir wandering alone and crazed in some dreadful wilderness, and I could not help him, help him who so often came to my aid, all my life. The deepest cut was that some small part of me knew that he concealed and fought any weakness, but not enough to prevent the Ring using it, and it was the realisation of this that wounded me. I could not help him, I could not save him, and I thought then that our father was after all, right in everything he said, right about my failures. I was not there with him. I said many times to myself after that day; it should have been me, and I know that father wished it also. Boromir should live"

Something within me implodes. Suddenly there is warm darkness around me, and I cling to a soft sleeve near me. My breathing shakes my whole body and tears dampened my face and the warm fabric I have pressed it to. I hear myself talking, angry, crushed sentences muffled by the darkness. Boromir should live. He should not be dead. The infuriated outrage of a child in my voice. Tell me I am not wrong to grieve him after so long, to grieve him so deeply still. For him to die and not see Gondor restored after fighting his whole life to look upon it in a time of peace. I am but half conscious of my plea.

I realise that this different, soothing darkness is Eowyn, her arms wrapped around me, mine circling her waist, my head in the space between shoulder and neck, the two of us moulded into a sculpture of grief and comfort. I have lost all control in what father would have seen as an unmanly fashion. He who never admitted the loss of our mother, though he slept every night in the same bed as her ghost and woke every morning to find her gone.

"There is nothing to reproach in grief, Faramir. There is no weakness in grief, or in tears. But From what-", here she pauses, as if combing her thoughts, "from what I have heard, from no less than the two Halflings that he saved, your brother fought most bravely and with honour, one man against many foes, and I know that he did not flinch from such odds, for if he did, where would our friends be? This you know, Faramir, for you have heard it from another who knew your brother also; he was a hero, and if we did not grieve such heroes, Men would be a sorry race indeed"

My tears are not mindful of my shame, and continue to seep out of my eyes. Yes, I have heard of my brother's death from another. The King, who seems to grieve Boromir nearly as often, if perhaps not as deeply as I do.

"Yes, your brother should live, but you should also. Where did you fail him? I know not. It is no sin to know that he was but a man, and had some small vulnerability like the greatest before him, among whom he is now justly named. Therefore do not judge yourself harshly"

His small vulnerability. Yes, in the minute waver in his eyes, his moments of stolid silence staring out across the city. The barely visible doubt gnawing at his great heart. What could he, of all men, be uncertain of in himself? I had thought seeing him thus.

"He did not give his life in vain, Faramir. There are many who I once thought did so, but I will not count your brother among them, and neither should you. Their lives are too great to forsake in favour of recalling their deaths"

I look up from her arms and see, with mingled surprise and gratitude, that her lovely eyes are filled with tears, small wells of liquid that hold more sadness and strength than I have ever seen. What strange tones her voice adopted then as she spoke those words, there is withheld sorrow she has admitted by her tears. I remember that I am not alone in mourning the dead. Oh father, would that you had seen that also, you who sat alone in the empty hall with nothing but the shades of those gone around you.

We sit, brow to brow. I can taste the salt of my tears and know that she can also, having kissed me again. I can hear the wind rustle the grass, feel the slight creaking of the log beneath us. Cool air fans my heated face, and there is something tiny, nearly imperceptible but remarkable spilling out from my chest.

I think it is peace.

"Tell me", my wife murmurs between sighs, "what remains that you cannot reveal to me now"