Disclaimer: All characters, places, things, hobbits and everything in between belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien

Chapter 6: Bearing Down

Boromir held Faramir down with his hand on his throat. Faramir began to choke, trying to speak.

'Boromir. Boromir, it's me. It's Faramir. Your brother. Stop!' But he could only gag. His mouth began to go dry and eyes water. His heart was pounding in his ear was the only thing, besides his own thoughts of helplessness and despair, he could hear. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to look into his brother's eyes, as he knew, Boromir would kill him. And when he peeled them open again, tears shinning atop of the green-brown ovals of seeing and feeling, he saw, that Boromir had his sword readied to stab through his heart.

'This will teach you, you ruffian, to never come between a man and his quest. I will not kill you myself but I will not help you find your way back home.'

He raised his sword and time slowed for Faramir. He grabbed his brother's hand and wrist, still groping his neck and tried to wrench it away. He was able to push it away for a second, but Boromir had his concentration bent on one place and grasp Faramir's bruising neck all the more harder. Faramir grabbed the wrist again, fighting for air and was able to twist it back, yet much to his horror, he realized that he had intuitively pulled the wrist back harder than he meant and the bones cracked and bent. Muscles tore inside the flesh and a dark red and blue swam in the wrist already.

Boromir cried out in pain and loosened his grip on the sword, trying to clasp his awry hand, yet his eyes flamed with vengeance and turned his attention back to Faramir who had rolled onto his stomach, coughing and choking, trying to find his voice. Faramir began to stand back up when suddenly a large weight hit him from behind. Boromir's breath was hot on his neck and he could hear his brother saying foul names in many languages. Faramir coughed again and was able to speak, hoarsely.

'Boromir, stop, stop! It is I! It is your—'

However, Boromir had already gotten onto his knees, raised his sword, keeping his other hand loosely at his side, and brought the blade down, with as much force as he could muster into Faramir's right shoulder. The icy blade was the first thing Faramir felt but then the blade went through nerves, flesh and came out into the grassy plain. Faramir cried out in pain, screaming at his brother, his hoarse voice forgotten for his pain over rid all.

'It's Faramir! Boromir it is I! I am Faramir!' And he cried out again when Boromir pulled the sword out of the flesh.

Boromir had been aiming again to finish off this ruffian, his own hand throbbing with pain. Broken no doubt he had thought the moment the ruffian had snapped it. But this was no ruffian…

No, no! He thought, agony shrouding his mind. No. Faramir was in Minas Tirith with his father, waiting for his return. Faramir would never follow him against his father's wishes, for the consequences would be to great to bear. No matter what his Father thought, he was the Steward and being the Steward he had the power to arrest Faramir on treason or abandoning his troops in the times when they needed him the most. Yet Faramir had even told him, weeks before, when Faramir had done everything within his power and order to restore Osgiliath and keep the orcs at bay, that he did not care what Father thought of him any longer. For no matter how large of a deed he could do, his Father would not see his younger son for what he was. And here was Faramir, almost dying by his own brother's hand, running from their father.

'Faramir? My brother?' Tears stung his eyes and he let his sword drop from his hands in surprise.

Faramir closed his eyes for a moment in relief, but soon the currents of sorrow washed that relief away.

'Yes, brother.'

Boromir paused for a moment and fell heavily onto the ground from his haunches. He clasped his burning hand and bowed his head, anger and disbelief clouding his mind. Shock ran through him and a moment of dead silence passed through camp. Faramir was breathing heavily, trying to find the strength to move onto his back, but his wound hindered him and he moaned slightly. Boromir brought himself out of his own thoughts of pain and blinding tears and stood up over Faramir, squatting down to be able to speak.

'Do not move, you'll only make it worse. Let me help you.' Boromir placed his broken hand in his lap and with the other searced around Faramir's shoulder until he found the bleeding wound. He asked quietly for permission to cut the tunic to see the gash and, eyes widening in fear, he looked upon the sword's awfully deep incision. In the dim moonlight, he saw the skin was torn back, almost like a sheet of metal, torn by an axe, with edges that were rough and jagged. Blood flew freely from the opening, like a river out of a spring. Boromir ripped a strip of his cloak off and pressed the material to the lesion.

Faramir winced from the pressure but, after a few long moments of the cloth being pressed against the pierced skin, the pain dulled slightly and the bleeding began to slow. Boromir did not speak, his face was emotionless as he helped Faramir stand up and walk over to the cooling fire. He set his brother down on his rolled out bedding and tried to throw some longs on the hot coals of the fire, but with his aching wrist, he could not and groaned silently. He walked over to where Ethel was standing quietly and rummaged through the bags.

'Would you like me to do anything, Boromir?' Faramir asked quietly. His eyes hoping to catch his brother's but Boromir did not look up and only shook his head.

Boromir fumbled with his pack until he found bandages and a flask of some herb medicine. He took a sniff of it and pushed it away with disgust. Many times in their childhood and after they had this herb put on their wounds and the wound usually hurt more after it was placed on it. It burned and throbbed yet it helped the healing all the more and he carried it (along with the bandages), awkwardly back to where Faramir lay.

Faramir followed Boromir's movements through half closed eyes. The weakness from the loss of blood was beginning to set in and his mind began to close down. The wound was still bleeding, not as heavily but Faramir could still feel the blood running down his shoulder. He tried to reach across his body with his left arm to apply pressure to the injury but his arm felt to heavy to lift. He looked down on his hand and through the dirt and blood; he saw it was deadly pale.

He squatted down, to the right of Faramir and when he looked he could only see his brother's knees and his good hand. He could tell, however, that he was tense; his movements were stiff and full of brooding. Faramir knew that the fact that he had almost run his own sword thorough his brother's heart haunted him.

'Boromir…' He said quietly and trailed off. Boromir was holding his brother's shoulder up to wrap the bandage around it, the medicine already soaking in the wound, and stopped at his brother's voice.

'I am almost finish, Faramir. Try to sleep while you can.' He said softly.

'No, Boromir, I am neither complaining nor moaning. The wound does not trouble me. What troubles me is you. I can see through your heart brother. What ails you?'

Boromir sighed and did not answer. It was not easy for him to keep his emotions hidden from his brother, as they were both trained in the art of seeing into another man's heart and motives. He could not brush off his brother's question and so he kept his answer reserved for latter talk. Right now, he had to clean the paining wound and bandage it.

When he had finished, his work quick yet adept, he gave himself and Faramir some water and reclined next to his dozing brother. Faramir fought for wakefulness for he knew his question would be unanswered unless he persisted. Boromir was wrapping his own wound tightly in some of the bandages and a tight fabric, not as cleanly as with Faramir's wound but good enough for the time when Faramir spoke for he could see it was not the broken bones that were paining his brother.

'Boromir, do not begrudge yourself for your actions. We have both been trained to be vigilant during the times of danger. You were acting on duty. Boromir, I truly am okay. That wound is a mere scratch compared to many others.'

'Even so,' Boromir answered, his eyes locking with his for the first time that night. 'Were I to query before acting, I would have known it to be you.'

'Yet you did not and I am okay.'

'Faramir, I could have killed you!' His blunt and distressing words echoed throughout the camp and Faramir was taken aback. He did not realize his brother felt so horribly, for what he could have done. He sat up, his shoulder crying out in pain, and put his arm around his shoulder. Boromir laid his head in his hands, ignoring the pain that shot through his wrist, trying to stop the lump of fear and anguish from coming out in a sob. 'And I what troubles me the most is that I did not give you a chance to explain you doings. What kind of captain am I? To kill out of misgiving thought? Not even a chance to prove yourself or your loyalty. Look at what I have become.'

Faramir paused for a moment, absorbing his brother's words. He found what he was looking for.

'Not so many days ago, you told me something before we rode off into battle at Osgiliath. Do you remember what you told me?' Faramir asked quietly, Boromir nodded slightly, head still bowed.

The wind blew from the north and the ominous trees around them swayed in a dance. The fire flickered, sending flashes of heat to no particular area at a time but against the cold wind, it gave a good feeling of warmth and safety. Faramir took his arm from around Boromir and wrapped a blanket around himself and his brother before continuing.

'You had said that during these times, we must forget who we are and who we were, for to live the life of a soldier we must put on a mask of the merciless and slay those who would do ill against the good. During that time, Boromir, I did not understand your words for they seemed harsh and unfair yet I looked back and saw, that is what I had to do to keep our men and our city safe. Boromir…'

He squeezed his brother's shoulders tighter and continued with a last thought, almost absent mindedly, '…you must listen to your mind and not your heart.'

Boromir sat still for a second, his breathing was the only thing heard, then he chuckled quietly. He indeed had told his brother, yet during the time he had tried to give his brother hope or an excuse for killing at the least and did not discern his own words. But now he saw and his mood lightened.

'Oh my dear brother! You sound like the old man who once visited Father and said to us we were so rude and ill trained that he was surprised that we did not fall on our own swords.'

Faramir laughed as well, not understanding the connection between his words and the crazed man who had come so many years ago, but he did not ask for his brother's humor mattered the most to him. He laughed again, recalling some of those fond memories. 'Oh yes, I remember such a man. Do you remember when we placed spiders in his soup that evening and he thought it was some sort of…'

'…vegetable from his homeland and Father looked at it for one second before turning to us.'

'We were in so much trouble! I recall that you had to help in the Library for a month, sorting books and scrolls.'

'How could I forget!' Boromir groaned, remembering the long hours he had spent in the old building, smelling of sour milk and old herbs. He did not realize how much of a punishment and a pleasure it was to Faramir to go there everyday on his own bidding. He grinned.

'And you had to take my position at the training camp.'

Faramir's smiled faded for he did not like to remember his times out in the battle field doing drills with the men whom would push him around and mock him 'little brother' even though Faramir had the power to send them away to the Steward yet he did not, and had only thought that some men were too cruel to belong in Minas Tirith and maybe after he was a more able and capable soldier they would finally respect him.

Yet the month went by and Boromir now able to recite the whole history of Middle Earth and Faramir able to name every stance and block in military history switched back to their normal routines.

Faramir smiled again and laughed. 'Those were good times, weren't they?'

'Aye, Faramir.' Boromir said quietly and looked at Faramir who met his eyes. They looked away and sat next to one another for a moment of comfortable silence.

Boromir was, however not going to let his brother slip away into sleep tonight without knowing why he was here. He separated himself a little from Faramir's arm and wrapped the blanket more securely around Faramir.

'What are you doing here, Faramir?' He queried softly.

Faramir sighed heavily and pulled the remaining threads of the blanket into his arms. Boromir helped Faramir lay back into the mat, careful as to not irriate the wound and reclined next to him.

'I needed to come.' Faramir answered.

'Why?'

Faramir was silent.

'Because,' Boromir continued. 'It was foolish of you. The Steward will not allow such an action to go unnoticed. Did you think about this?'

'Of course, I did. It pained me to leave. Leave my men, my city my home but Boromir; I came to see if you would come help me.'

Boromir shook his head sadly before Faramir had finished talking.

'I cannot, you know I can't.'

Author's Note: Thanks Elenhin and some of the other author's out there who helped me see my mistake. This poses a problem because I already started the other chapters and forgot about Boromir's little injury which was the whole point this story began. Well I got some revising to do, don't I? Thanks again! Expect Chapter 7 up some time this weekend.