Author's note: Here's a rather lengthy chapter to make up for the shortness of chapter six. Continuing with the flashback, this takes place a few months after chapter seven, and we finally find out exactly what Faramir has been holding back from Boromir.

No sibcest in this one, just angst and a bit of violence.

Reviews and constructive criticism are always, always welcome. Thank you to those who have left wonderful comments :-) Please drop my co-author a line at jholsh1@towson.edu.

~*~*~*~

Faramir hurried back from the library, weighed down with a heavy stack of books he had chosen to occupy himself with. With his head down, he hunched over the books to hide them, as though his father would suddenly bend the corner and see Faramir with the large editions of geographical maps, poetry, and epic stories. Since Boromir had left, the younger son had spent even more of his time in the grand library, passing his days there deeply absorbed in books. What he couldn't finish, he would sneak to his room that night.

Denethor disapproved of Faramir's love of books, and often forbade him to read, forcing him instead to focus on archery and combat skills. Faramir was careful, now, not to be caught after one incident with his father in which several books were burned in the fireplace of his room.

He quickened his pace, anxious to get back to his room so that he could finish the history of the First Age of Middle Earth, but stopped suddenly as he collided with something soft. The books tumbled to the ground, the pages crinkling from the impact. Faramir looked up to see what he collided with and paled immediately seeing that he was faced with several large, burly boys that had taunted him incessantly since Boromir's departure, and even before then.

"Forgive me," he mumbled, stopping to the ground to collect the novels, "I did not see you."

"Of course you didn't, you've always got your weaseling little face buried in books!" one of the bullies scoffed with a laugh. He and his two friends had backed Faramir up in a corner and were jabbing him in the ribs with their fat fingers while the leader taunted him mercilessly. "What are you reading about today, huh?"

Faramir's breath began to come in short gasps as the towering bullies started to surround him, trapping him in a corner like a small, defenseless mouse. "I-I was reading about the First Age," he replied, trying to keep his voice from trembling. He shied away from their prodding fingers, but found that as soon as he backed away from one set, he encountered another on his other side.

"Oh really?" the head boy jeered, whose name was Derufin. "Tell us about it, little lady!" His friends took that as the cue to grab Faramir's arms, stripping him of any defense he could have put up. Derufin stepped forward and glared at Faramir. "What's wrong, cat got your tongue?" he said with a sneer.

Faramir struggled against the strong hold on his arms, though his slender frame could not match the strength of the two brutes holding him. Boromir had always told him that if he was in an adverse situation to never let his assailants see his fear, and he always kept whatever advice his brother gave him close to his heart. Fixing his chin in a facade of confidence, he glared at Derufin defiantly, though fear still mingled with the slight daring in his eyes. "I am not a lady! Let me go!"

Derufin laughed, the sound grating and harsh on Faramir's ears. "Don't talk back to me!" And with that he swung his fist at Faramir's face, hitting him squarely in the jaw with a resounding crack. Derufin's cronies laughed similarly to the way their ringleader had, and began taunting Faramir relentlessly as Derufin watched the blood trickle down Faramir's chin from where his lip had torn on his teeth.

Tears sprang to Faramir's eyes as pain radiated through his face. He could already feel his cheek beginning to swell from the force of impact of the blow to his jaw. He valiantly blinked them away, though, and with a burst of strength unexpected from both him and his aggressors, he yanked his left arm free of the hard grasp it was held in. Recalling combat training that he would have much rather forgotten, he swung at Derufin quickly, catching the larger boy in the nose. The soft bone broke with a sickening crack, and Faramir stared at reddened hand in disbelief, unable to conceive the idea that he had just committed violence.

Derufin stumbled backwards a couple paces, cupping a hand under his nose as it dripped liquid rubies. "You'll wish you hadn't done that," he said in ominous, tremulous tones. His lackeys, outraged by Faramir's attempt at retaliation, immediately took action. Before Faramir could slip from their imprisonment they were on him, one holding down his wrists as he flailed and the other straddling him, delivering punch after punch. Derufin, still holding a hand up to his injured nose, let loose with a sharp kick into Faramir's ribs, eliciting a muffled cry of anguish from the steward's youngest son.

"Can't defend yourself without that oafish brother of yours around, can you?" Derufin spat.

Though pain ravaged his body from the repeated blows, Faramir did his best to remain silent, not wanting to give the toadies. The odd grunt would be forced out of his mouth after a particularly harsh kick to his side, or a violent blow to his abdomen. Soon red began to fill his vision from repeated blows to his face, and he blinked furiously, expelling blood that had dribbled down into his eyes. //Boromir!// his heart cried out, desperately wishing for his brother to come and save him, though he knew in his mind that his brother was too far away to help him.

Another blow to Faramir's stomach caused him to gag and retch, spilling blood onto his tunic. He thrashed against the hold on him, still trying to get away, to defend himself, but his struggling became weaker as the onslaught continued. "Stop," he rasped shakily, no longer able to defend himself against the assailment.

Derufin was poised to kick Faramir again, but the sound of approaching footsteps and the clatter of armor ceased the trio's beating. "Guards," Derufin whispered acidly. "Let's get out of here -- let the soldiers find the princess!" With that, Derufin and his friends scrambled up from the ground and beat a hasty retreat back to their own stomping grounds, somewhere on the lower levels of the city.

A tower guard rounded the corner and immediately gasped to see the crumpled form of a young boy lying in the corner. He swiftly came forward and knelt beside Faramir, taking the small, limp hand into his own strong one and uttering gentle words. "Young sir, can you hear me?" The guard did not recognize that it was Faramir; he was so bloodied and beaten.

The soldier's two companions quickly came to him, one of them seeing that it was Denethor's youngest son who lay there, seemingly unconscious. "Girion!" he said urgently, "That is the Steward's son!"

Girion tentatively raised Faramir from the ground, taking the boy into his arms. "Go tell the Steward," he ordered, worry coloring his voice. They swiftly moved off to the throne room. Girion remained there for a moment, rubbing the blood from Faramir's porcelain white cheeks with his fingers. "My lord Faramir, can you hear me?" he asked, alarmed.

A weak groan came from Faramir's lips, the only indication of the jarring pain that shot through his body as he was lifted. Blood trickled from his lips and onto the shining armor of the guard leaving a rust-colored tarnish on the gleaming metal. His lips moved as he tried to say something, but no more than a rasp of breath escaped his body. A tear slipped from his eye, cutting a path through the dried, brick-red stains on his ashen cheeks. His eyes slowly rolled back into his head behind half-closed lids, giving the guard an eerie impression of one in his death throes.

Wasting no time, Girion ushered Faramir up to the houses of healing. People gasped to see the bloodied figure being borne past them as Girion rushed through the labyrinthine pathways. Finally, feeling slightly winded, Girion arrived and burst in, crying "Quickly! The steward's son is in need of attention!" Barely a second after Girion's command left his mouth two nurses came forward and led him to a small room where a white-sheeted mattress awaited Faramir.

"Thank you, sir," one of the nurses said, not showing any dire concern in her words. "We will mend him." Girion hesitated in the doorframe for a moment, his heart going out to Faramir. The nurse cleared her throat and he bowed to her before silently turning and returning to his post.

The other nurse had meanwhile removed Faramir's bloodstained tunic and was observing Faramir's wounds with graveness painted on her face. "He has several broken ribs," she whispered. "His lip is cut... who on earth would do this to a poor boy?" she asked, looking up at her fellow nurse with moist eyes.

The other nurse knelt down on the other side of the bed and laid a small ivory white hand on Faramir's blood streaked forehead. "I do not know who would do such a thing," she murmured, now unafraid to show her concern and despair for the tiny broken figure that lay before her. "It is a pity that his brother is absent, otherwise he would see that no one ever laid a hand on him." Her hazel eyes were also rimmed with tears, but, remembering her duties, she reached for a damp cloth and wiped away the blood caked on Faramir's face and body. As she washed away the red stains from Faramir's jaw, she noticed a silken cord hanging around his neck. Her hand shaking slightly, she lifted it to look upon a cracked marble amulet, shaped like a star. Three of the points were chipped off.

Faramir barely clung to consciousness, though it was a great feat to do so because of the severity of his injuries. But he was beyond pain; his battered body afforded him at least that comfort. He watched the two nurses work to dress his wounds and cleanse the blood from his body, the images that permeated his dulled mind disjointed, blurry. //Boromir,// he thought to himself over and again, //Boromir...Boromir...//

"Boromir," he managed to wheeze, the word audible, but only just. His head fell to one side as he finally lost his fight against unconsciousness.

***

Throughout the next several days, Faramir drifted in and out of wakefulness as he slowly recovered from his brutal assault. Even when he was awake, however, he was not fully cognizant; instead his mind was slowed, mired down by the extent of his injuries and his body's need to recover. It wasn't until the sixth day that he had been in the houses of healing, that he was fully aware of his surroundings. As he finally rose from his near- comatose state, his eyes looked around the spacious room where he had been treated, taking in his surroundings.

And was quickly faced with his father. Glowering down at him, Denethor's face showed no relief at his son's recovery, nor worry over his still ailing condition. His lip trembled, jerking itself into a displeased, disdainful sneer. Faramir swallowed hard and forced himself to sit up the bed as best as he could, though pain radiated from his sides from his broken ribs. "Father..."

"I see you are awake, Faramir," Denethor said imperiously as he glared down at Faramir's thin form. "It's about time."

Faramir nodded and then winced at the effort of even the slightest move of his body. "Yes, I am awake," he said, on his guard. Denethor's moods had always been unpredictable when it came to dealing with him, and he never knew exactly what to expect from his father.

Denethor sat on the stool next to Faramir's bed but did not make any gesture of comfort for his aching son. "Why did you not defend yourself like you've been taught?" he inquired caustically.

Eyes widening, the memory of his assault slowly came back to Faramir; how he was outnumbered, how his assailants were so much bigger than him, how he couldn't fight against all three of them. "But, father, I did defend myself! I was out--"

"I have invested hours upon hours in your training, Faramir, I do not wish to see it go to waste!" he boomed.

"But, father!" he started to explain again, "I recalled my training! I tried to defend myself, but I was outnumbered! They took me by surprise and- -"

"And you let them humiliate me with your weakness!"

"That was not my intent, father. I did the best that I could." Faramir kept his eyes lowered, afraid to raise his gaze to Denethor's in defiance. "I apologize if I have brought humiliation on you."

"Not only do you chagrin me, but you degrade our entire bloodline with your mistakes. You are of the house of Stewards, Faramir, and I will not have a son that prefers to bury himself in books when he should be learning the skills to bring glory to his name!" His voice lowered to a scathing whisper. "Though I daresay, any glory you could bring me would pale in comparison to your brother's quality."

Faramir's cheeks flushed scarlet as his father's tirade lashed into him deeper than the thickest whip in the armory. Even in his own heart he knew that he would never live up to the greatness of his older brother, though he always tried his best to please the biased Denethor. "I do my best, father," he muttered.

"Your best," Denethor scoffed, laughing grimly. "You know nothing of the word."

Faramir blinked back tears, willing himself not to cry in his father's presence, knowing that it would only increase the disappointment and scathing remarks flung at him. "I will do better in the future then. I only wish to please you, father."

Denethor was standing now, back turned to Faramir. He spoke without looking at his son, saying "You wish to please me, you say?" Slowly he turned, eyes ablaze with a sinister light. "Then I have a task to give to you."

Faramir blanched at his father's harsh gaze, afraid of what was happening behind the pair of cold eyes. "What is it that you ask of me?" he asked bravely. //If this is the one chance I have to prove myself to him//, Faramir thought to himself desperately, //then I will do it. No matter what it is.//

"I'm sending you out on your own, Faramir. In the wild. You will be alone, and have to fend for yourself. Your brother went through it and survived, I feel it is only just that you do the same." His voice was icy cold, yet a fiery light was kindled in his dark eyes as he tried to gauge Faramir's reaction.

Faramir stared at the blanket covering his legs for a long while. On my own... He would never be able to survive by himself. Boromir was everything that he was not: valiant, courageous, brave, a warrior was etched into his very being. Faramir was the exactly opposite: bookish, quiet, gentle; the very thought of violence made his body quiver in disgust. He had no desire to fight, to learn how to be a great captain of Gondor; all he wanted to do was stay in the city, absorbed in his poetry and literature. But his father was right, what glory was there in that? What esteem would it bring to the strong bloodline that flowed from his forefathers?

"I will go."

Denethor smiled, if the expression could even be considered such, and turned wordlessly from Faramir as he departed, robes trailing behind him. "He won't last one night," he mused grimly as a sardonic glint played in his eyes.

***

The sun slowly sank behind the darkened mountains to the east as the day slowly came to a close, the evening chill slowly spreading through the woods of Ithilien. The underbrush shook as small creatures sallied to and fro in their last search for food as the light failed. As the moon took the sun's place in the sky, its ghostly light reflected off of the stone remnants of buildings and the leaves of the trees, giving the woods an ethereal glow.

Faramir was huddled underneath of his threadbare blanket in a small clearing in the dense forest, which was no more than ten feet across. He had built a small pyramid of stray twigs and dried grass, and had spent the better part of a half hour trying to set a spark to the kindling. His hands trembling with cold, he continued to strike two rocks together in a vain attempt to create enough friction to create a fire. After a few more moments with no results, he threw the stones to the side, frustrated. He pulled his blanket around himself tighter and shivered, the cool evening air permeating the thin fabric.

As he had for several nights before, he berated himself for being so unable to take care of himself in the wild when his brother was so capable at the same age. It had been easy enough for him to find food with his sharp archery skills that were far advanced for his years. It was at night that he had the most trouble; as soon as the sun set behind the Mindolluin. For the past several nights, much like this one, he had been able to start a fire to keep warm, and instead he shivered well into the night with only his traveling cloak and thin blanket to keep him warm. He could already feel himself coming down with a chill, however his attention was not caught by his own health and well being, but the thought of his father when he found out that Faramir had failed at even the simplest task a man of Gondor should be capable of.

This thoughts turned back to Boromir, and how easily he would have made it through this excursion. And how he *did* make it through, with flying colors according to their father. Though the longing for his brother had always been constant since he had left Minas Tirith, Faramir felt a sudden pang of yearning for Boromir. Though he berated himself for being so dependent on his brother, Faramir knew that he would not be in such a predicament if his brother had ventured out with him.

He stood abruptly. Whether it was from the haze that lingered around his mind, or the desire to go and prove his skills as a budding ranger to his Father, Faramir decided to set out on his own to find Boromir. He knew that his brother had been sent away to patrol the borders of Gondor with his own small, but puissant, company, and doubtless they would spend more time along the Mountains of Shadow, investigating the lingering evil that seemed to radiate from the malevolent land to the east of Gondor.

"Ithilien must not be so terribly far from where Boromir is," he said to himself, standing purposefully. With several kicks of his heavy boot, he scattered the twigs and kindling before gathering his meager amount of belongings. It seemed perfectly rational in his mind; he would find his brother and return to the city with his father thinking that he had done well. He would have both his brother near him again and his father's approval.

He set off through the woods, following his instincts at first to lead him towards Boromir's company. He soon found that his inclination easily led him on the right track when he found the heavy tracks of soldiers moving off towards the south. Dropping to one knee, he inspected a track carefully, sifting the dirt and analyzing exactly when it had been made. //Not four days ago//, he said to himself, cataloguing the information into his memory. For the first time since Boromir had left, a glimmer of excitement slowly built up inside of him. //I will get to see Boromir!// his heart sang, longing to confess to his brother every hardship he had endured since his departure.

Faramir's mind thought of nothing but his brother as he followed the tracks tirelessly for nearly five days, not stopping to rest or find food for fear that he may lose the tracks he followed carefully. For the first few days of his trek, he stubbornly ignored the growing pain that built in his overtaxed body, still suffering from the severe wounds that he had received only a few weeks prior. Denethor had sent him out well before he was fit, but Faramir went dutifully, not wanting to give his father another chance to point out his numerous weaknesses.

It wasn't until the fifth day of his face-paced expedition that he finally collapsed, exhausted from lack of nourishment and the still-battered state of his body. His body hit the ground with a hard thud, and he was inundated with wave after wave of dizziness. Groaning, he tried to pull himself off of the ground, but slid back down to the cold-hardened earth before he had hardly managed to get to his knees.

Too exhausted to try to move, Faramir simply laid where he had fallen for what seemed like an eternity. He lost track of how many hours or days had passed; he was only aware of the throbbing of his body and the fog that seemed to wrap itself around his head. He knew that at some point it rained, great sheets of water that bore down on him, drenching him through to the bone. The fine silk cord that he wore around his neck was worn down by the rain, slowly disintegrating as the tempest continued, wearing down the delicate fabric until it was no more than a few strings. The broken star amulet of his mother's fell to the ground, forgotten.

Faramir shivered and trembled as a lingering chill seeped through to his bones. More time passed, though he was not sure if had been only minutes, or an entire week. A fever ravaged its way through his rapidly thinning frame, whatever weight he had managed to put onto his spindly body quickly melting away as sickness ate its way through his weakened form. His last thought before the world went black was of how he was a failure not to just his father, but to Boromir as well.

***

Denethor paced the great hall of kings furiously, his boots clicking on the white marble floor the only sound that echoed through the grand assembly room. Courtiers stood at attention, waiting for their lord to speak, waiting to carry out any order the Steward gave to them. They watched on, their eyes wide as Denethor's countenance grew darker and darker, as his hunched posture grew tighter with anger with each tour of the room he made.

"Has there been no word from the gates?" he asked abruptly, spinning around and fixing his beady glare on the four courtiers. "He has not yet returned? There is no sign of him?"

"None, my lord. We have had a watch set up for the last several days awaiting the young lord Faramir's return, but none have seen him."

Denethor began to traverse the large hall again, the tempo of his pace increased in agitation. "He was due back a week and a half ago! No word from him, no sight of him. He has probably gotten himself lost in the wild! What have I done to deserve such a failure?" Denethor fumed to himself, forgetting momentarily the presence of his aides. "He cannot even survive in the wild on his own for a short amount of time! I will not tolerate such deficiency!" He whirled around, his eyes blazing with anger. "Send out a dispatch! Have that child brought back to the city as quickly as possible."

The four aides bowed respectfully and left to fulfill Denethor's mandate. As soon as they left, he threw himself into the sub-throne of the Steward, his eyebrows drawn together in frustration. "Clearly there is nothing that can be done to better him," he muttered to himself. "He will never be as good as my first. My *only*," he corrected.

***

Five men garbed in brown and forest green raiment were scarcely visible as they each threaded their way through the thick trees in Ithilien. They had been on Faramir's zigzagged trail for nearly two days, and they all felt that they were getting closer to their goal. The dispatch orders had reached them in the morning two days ago; the steward's youngest son had gone missing and was to be fetched and brought back at once. One of the men, the one furthest ahead descried up ahead an abandoned cloak, stained with dirt and dust, crumpled into a heap in the middle of the path. As he gradually moved forward, crouched on the ground, he sharpened his hearing so that his mind was focused on every snapping twig or rustle of leaves. It seemed for a moment that he could actually hear the trees' respiration, but his concentration was suddenly shattered by a small coughing noise off to his right. With slow precision, he moved in the direction of the cough which had now turned to shallow wheezing. Right below him at the foot of the hill, curled up into a small ball, was an ashen-faced boy of no more than fourteen struggling to stay alive.

The ranger slid down the hill without raising any sound until he was just a few feet away from the quaking form. He flicked his hazelnut eyes back and forth, making sure that his companions knew of his position and were prepared to come to his aide, should the situation warrant. Making eye contact with each of the other men, the ranger dared to speak in his most non-threatening voice, saying "My lord Faramir?"

A slight groan was the only indication the prone form gave to show that he heard the ranger speak his name. Faramir's eyelids were halfway closed, his eyes rolled back into his head so that only the whites were displayed in a ghost-like fashion.

Branches rustled and bracken crunched as the four other rangers broke out from their hiding places and came up to circle their companion and Faramir. One of them nodded urgently, claiming, "That is indeed the young master Faramir, he looks uncannily similar to his brother, whom I have known since childhood!" Another leaned down next to Faramir's limp form, running a hand over the cracked lips and clammy cheeks.

"We must get him to safety; had we been much later he would not be living," he said pointedly. "Get him up, quickly!"

Promptly, Faramir was lifted up and borne away under the sun-dappled trees, flashes of bright sunshine nearly blinding him through his lidded eyes and causing sharp spikes of pain to radiate through his forehead. Though in great need of expedience, the rangers still managed to pass through the woods noiselessly until they came to their stronghold at Henneth Annun. Moving like shadows with deadly silence, the band disappeared past the curtain of falling water and down into the caves where the air was heavy and humid.

"You're safe now," a voice whispered to Faramir as he was taken by another set of arms and placed on a crisp, clean cot. For a flashing moment the voice sounded like Boromir's, but it was in fact a man of with much greater years which he had used to refine his skill as a healer and ranger speaking. The ranger gently removed all but Faramir's mud-stained leggings, careful not to disturb the ailing boy. He wondered how long he had been lost out in the wild; Faramir's ribs clearly showed through his pallid skin. It was apparent that the boy had been starving for a long while. He picked up a stick-thin wrist to check for a pulse, expelling a slight sigh in relief when he found one, though it was thready and weak.

With all the care as if he were mending a baby bird's broken wing, the healer tended to Faramir's wounds, though many of them look like they pre- dated the young boy's expedition. Brow knitted but mind not questioning, Faramir's caretaker worked his magic as the youngest son of Denethor fell into a sleep marked by a string of terrifying nightmares.