Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof

Theodred,

Please look after Faramir. He is a competent liar and will not say if he is troubled. I am writing, therefor, to warn you of the signs.

First, Faramir may not eat. Be certain he does. The day before he left for Rohan I counted his ribs through his skin. If you notice Faramir not eating, please do not let him continue to starve himself.

Second, he thinks he can do anything. It is out of love, not want of faith, that I say that he cannot. Faramir cannot accept limitations. He wants to make the world a better place for everyone, and some times he forgets himself when he sets his feet on this path.

My brother is a good person. There are few more pure, more wise and innocent people in this world. Please take care of him as I could not.

Sincerely, Boromir

Boromir's heart was not pounding. He gave thanks. His chest ached enough with every bash of blood into his veins. He wondered if his heart was capable of pounding. He felt too tired to care. Boromir shifted slightly, and the rings of mail he wore concealed beneath his clothing clinked against one another.

Denethor looked up sharply, and Boromir thought of mice. Faramir once found a mouse, and loved it. The mouse, a little white thing with pink paws and a constantly twitching pink nose, ran away from Faramir, naturally. At the time Faramir was eight years old, and he missed the mouse but harbored no anger towards it or towards nature.

"What was that?" Denethor asked Boromir.

"I cannot imagine," Boromir replied. He drank. Since Faramir left and Meril began living with Boromir, he had taken to drink. Knowing the dangers of such a habit, Boromir never intoxicated himself beyond sense. He swallowed only enough to give him a happy, blurred feeling about the world. He drank cider now, what he considered a woman's drink, bitter and biting.

"You lie," Denethor accused. His hair was graying, and Boromir wondered if this lent him such a poor demeanor: was his vanity bruised? Was he vain? Faramir would have an answer.

"So be it," Boromir muttered. "So be it."

Had family suppers always been so hellish? Boromir did not think so. Then, he had been rather disillusioned of late. Perhaps he simply had not noticed. Every evening Denethor seated himself at the head of the table with Boromir to his right and Meril always to his left. Boromir wondered why this was, for Denethor seemed to bear Meril naught but ill will. Because of this she rarely spoke in his presence.

Boromir brought his shoulders forward and back again in tiny circles. He felt the metal so close to his skin. The armor used to lend him an internal strength, but he had since realized that this was a strength born of faith. Boromir no longer had that faith. He had faith in only a few things: his own physical strength, the rise and set of the sun, and Faramir. Tears came to his eyes, but he would not cry them.

Instead he looked at Meril. Her eyes were focused on her hands, but Boromir knew if she raised her eyes they would be deep amber. She wore her hair in two thick braids, one of which fell forward over her left shoulder, and shorter strands of fringe hung over her eyes. Boromir once told Faramir that Meril had light brown hair, but he had been wrong, for her hair was dark. She was very plain, which Boromir appreciated. He disliked beauty in women.

The two of them were yet unwed. They slept in separate, albeit adjoining, chambers. Since Meril had come to live with Boromir, Denethor had ceased pressuring him to marry, for Denethor did not approve of Meril, who came from a family newly named nobles. This suited Boromir well. Meril was only ten and seven years old, only a year older than Faramir. Boromir could not imagine marrying a child.

A strange memory came to Boromir then: probably the most trouble Faramir had ever been in. Faramir was three years old and Boromir was eight, and Faramir, for some reason angry, initiated a physical battle with Boromir. On reflection, Boromir thought that Faramir already knew how to fight smartly instead of strongly, for he had rammed his head into Boromir's crotch. Boromir's eyes had rolled back, and he had lost consciousness for a while.

He knew not what happened while he was unconscious, but when he awoke Faramir was sobbing and Denethor was shaking him and shouting. At the time, Boromir had not understood the reason for Denethor's anger. He understood it now. Faramir might have ended Boromir's ability to produce an heir. Had it been so, Faramir's children would have inherited.

Boromir still knew not if he was capable of reproducing as he had yet not taken a wife. He wondered if Denethor so hated that Faramir would have been his heir. Or was it simply the injury to Boromir? He tried not to think about it.

That night, Faramir had tiptoed down the corridor to Boromir's chamber and whispered, "Are you awake?" He was only three years old, but he formed full sentences. Faramir had hardly said a word until he was a year old, at least not that anyone heard, but that was a different story.

"What is it?" Boromir had asked.

Faramir hauled himself onto Boromir's bed, and Boromir was amazed how small Faramir was. How could such a tiny person have caused such intense pain? "I'm sorry," Faramir had said. "I was angry."

"Not to worry, the pain is practically gone," Boromir had lied.

Faramir then lay beside his brother. "I love you, Boromir," he said quite sincerely, and Boromir felt oddly guilty. He felt, for some reason, that he ought to have protected Faramir when Denethor was shouting and shaking him.

"I love you, too, Faramir," Boromir had answered.

Now, sitting opposite Meril, Boromir felt a shadow of physical pain from the memory. The ache in his chest grew heavier, and to his shock and shame a tear slipped down Boromir's cheek. He said nothing and hoped no one noticed.

Meril did. "Boromir," she said, quite softly, "what is the matter?"

Boromir forced himself to smile. "Nothing," he assured her. "Everything is fine." He pushed the tear from his cheek with the back of his hand. "I was just thinking of my brother."

"You must miss him terribly," Meril said, and Boromir realized for the first time what she had sacrificed for him. Meril, too had a young brother, a boy of perhaps twelve years. Boromir remembered that now.

"I hope only that he is happy," Boromir said.

"What is he like?" Meril asked.

Denethor pounded his fist on the tabletop. The two young people looked to him in shock. "Faramir will not be spoken of at this table," Denethor ordered.

That night, Boromir took the letter he had written almost a year ago and stamped it shut with green wax. "Look after him, Theodred," he whispered, as though the Rohir might hear him.

Denethor paced the length of his study, spun on his heel and paced again. He had much to reflect upon, much to decide. He had behaved horribly at supper. He knew that.

"Boromir must think I hate his brother," Denethor spoke his fear aloud. He could not admit, even in his thoughts, that he would not hear Faramir spoken of out of love. He could not bear the horror of the truth: he drove Faramir away, made his son so unhappy the boy felt the need to leave home, and who knew if he would ever return? If he admitted this, Denethor would be forced to admit that he had been wrong in his insistence that Faramir take up manly arts; he would admit that everything he believed was skewed.

He much abused Meril because she was like Faramir. Thinking of her, he could think only of the implications of her presence: Faramir. Boromir had taken a woman like to his brother, as though to replace her. She would leave. Denethor knew that in good time she, too, would leave.

Yet, for the moment, how Denethor envied Boromir! How when Boromir and Meril spoke, how the gentle attraction (could it be love?) in their eyes, mirrored his own love of Finduilas. Denethor despised love. He despised its cunning, its indomitability, he despised that it made him feel weak.

Denethor gained relief at the thought of himself as a reflection of Gondor. He thought of himself as the steel of swords and the stone of his great Stone City, his Minas Tirith. He would not crumble, he would not cry. He was not a man: he was Gondor.

That night Boromir and Meril lay side by side, fully clothed and as intimate as ever they would be.

"Have I ever told you," Boromir asked, "that one of Faramir's first words was my name?"

"No," Meril said.

"He was nearly a year old, and no one had heard him speak. Then one night, Mother was holding Faramir and reading to us, and she paused for a moment and I asked if I could hold him. Faramir was still very small at the time, and I a child also, but Mother trusted me to hold him for a moment. I remember being surprised at how heavy he was, and being careful not to drop him. Then Faramir reached up and locked his arms behind my neck in what I hope was a hug, not an assassination attempt, and he said, 'Love you, Boromir.'

"After that he pretty much proclaimed his love for everyone he met, but I do not know that he meant it. That night, though, when I was holding him, I knew with as much certainty as I knew my own name, that he meant what he said."

Meril touched his cheek. "I love you, Boromir," she said, and meant it, and knew he did not hear.

(One week later)

Boromir,

Your brother is in good hands. He eats and makes small, subtle improvements to the world. I think that he is happy, but please ask not of him from me. Write to your brother. Let him know you care. He does love you; that I will say.

Sincerely, Theodred

The day Boromir received the letter, he could not help but smile. Faramir was happy. Faramir was healthy. Boromir breathed more easily. He smiled as he sparred, as he rode, as he bathed, and even smiled as he sat down to what would be one of the most hellish suppers of his life.

"What makes you so happy?" Denethor asked, not kindly but neither unkindly.

"I have had word from Theodred of Rohan," Boromir replied, "and Faramir is well."

Denethor's eyes softened for a moment, gave a flinch of great pain, then returned to iron orbs. "I will not suffer his name at this table," Denethor said, and truly he did suffer Faramir's name: he suffered knowing what he had done to his son, and that suffering made him cruel.

And for the first time, Meril spoke in defiance of Denethor. She did not know Faramir and so could not care for him; in fact because he so occupied and troubled the mind of the man she loved, she despised him a little. But she loved Boromir, and it was for him that she spoke.

"Now stop that," she said. "Faramir is your son, and you cannot deny that he exists! Boromir loves his brother. Perhaps you envy him, for you seem so incapable of such a thing as love. Your heart is too cold for it." She shivered as she spoke, as though the coldness of Denethor's heart struck her to the bone.

Denethor turned to Boromir, who looked at the plate before him. "You see now, my son, why we do not marry below ourselves," he said. "No common-born woman knows her place."

Boromir said nothing. Meril clenched her fists in her lap and stared ahead without seeing. Her shoulders shook and her nails bit blood from her palms. After a while tears began to flow down her cheeks. For a quarter of an hour these conditions endured: there was silence, save the clink of cutlery and the plinking sounds of tears hitting the table. Then a sob was wrenched from Meril's throat, and she ran from the room.

When Boromir returned to his chamber that night, Meril awaited him. She stood in the center of the chamber, composed but poorly so. She had bags at her feet and was dressed to travel. "Meril," Boromir said.

"I love you, Boromir," she said. "I truly love you. Do you see me only as a replacement for your brother? I can endure this life, I will, if you ask it, do what I can to replace your Faramir. If you ask it of me, I will stay. But please, with all of my love I say this: do not ask it of me. If you love me, let me go."

Boromir remained silent for a moment. He strode forward until he was close enough to kiss Meril, and he did, and held her for a moment. Then he released her and stepped away. "If you love me," he said, "you will leave this unhappy place and not look back."

To be continued

Cleasmile: Herbs are as much a hobby as I have; they are truly fascinating and there are some wonderful internet sites concerning them.

Thanks to my three reviewers for last chapter--those were some of the longest reviews I have ever received! And three in one chapter, wow. Thank you all!