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

Faramir inhaled deeply, sorting through the smells of hay, horses and saddle leather. Surely the smells were identical in Gondor to those of Rohan, yet to him the sensation was dulled. He felt as though he had tea-stained an oil painting. Was it the smell of stones he failed to identify? Could rock compare with the free night air?

Faramir wrinkled his nose, then shook his head. "I knew all along," he told himself. "I knew I sojourned in Rohan, and sojourned only." He detested the lie nearly so much as he detested himself for having believed it. Even so, Gondor felt unreal, like a dream. That the land of his birth should feel foreign did not strike Faramir as odd: Gondor had always felt foreign to him, a language whose words he knew but the nuances of which bypassed him mercilessly. The difference now was that it felt foreign in comparison.

The moment Faramir stepped out of the stable, Cal leapt onto him. The grey wolf had reached her full size now; Faramir had tried to develop a response to her affection, bracing himself against the full onslaught of the animal, but with a hunter's strength and eighty-five pounds propelled by it, she was too strong for him. Faramir allowed himself to slump to the floor, smiling. Soon you shall have a true opponent, Cal! My brother is far stronger than I am! He thought the words rather than speaking them, as Cal had driven the air from his lungs.

Boromir would often jest that he was born without a brain and his brother with no strength, and between the two they were a perfect man. True to his joke, he did not think, only felt and acted. He saw, and his mind numbly registered seeing, his little brother, home, at last returned to Gondor, where he belonged after four long years. He felt his heart re-form itself, scabbing over the gashes of Meril's leaving. Righteousness failed to heal him, but Faramir had that power. And when he saw the grey wolf attack his brother, he felt a lurching horror. His instincts sparked, and acted as his internal warrior demanded.

Cal fell at once, rolling to the dirt and howling. Faramir yelped. "Cal, what--" He needed not ask. The dagger lay in the dirt not two feet away. Glaring, he sought the source of the missile. "Boromir?" The glare melted away; Faramir's face crumpled. "Why?" he whispered.

Boromir could not understand. He knelt beside his brother in the dirt. "He was attacking you," he said. "What was I to do, Faramir?" When his brother shook his head and, mute, turned to the ailing wolf, Boromir persisted, "Bear, what was I to do? He would've killed you."

"Cal's my friend," he whispered. "I've got to treat her." He scooped up the animal in his arms and staggered to his feet.

Boromir bit his lip. He could not have known Cal was a friend to Faramir and that they only played. Nevertheless, he felt guilty. His knife had slashed the wolf across the chest. Like as not, the animal would die. Boromir trotted to catch his brother. "Let me take her," he said. When Faramir recoiled, Boromir insisted, "I am stronger than you." Faramir ceded. The boys were such a sight no-one in the Citadel questioned them. In Faramir's long-unused bedchamber, Cal was deposited with great care onto the bed.

"Oh, Cal…!" Faramir turned to his brother and, without thinking, informed, "I need water and cloth, bog moss and cherry laurel. And a sharp knife."

Boromir surrendered the knife at once, and left without a word. Faramir cooed softly to the whimpering wolf. "Shh, Cal. Hold still now. Hold still." He hacked carefully at Cal's fur, blood sullying his hands. Tears fogged his vision, but he rubbed them away and scraped at Cal's skin until the area around the wound was clear. By then Boromir had returned. Without a word to his brother, Faramir began to clean the wound. When at last he was satisfied that he could not be more thorough, he applied the antiseptic moss and wrapped bandages tightly around the wolf's middle.

"Now what?" Boromir asked quietly.

"Now we wait. Oh, Boromir!" Faramir wailed, then gained control of himself with a few deep gulps of air.

For a few moments, the air grew heavy with silence. Faramir sat on his bed, stroking and cradling Cal's head, as Boromir stood awkwardly aside with his thumbs looped through his belt. "Why the cherry laurel?" he asked.

"In case," Faramir replied. He needed say no more: in case the worst should happen, he needed mercy at the ready. Boromir could think of nothing further to say. He waited quietly as his muscle cramped, trying to entertain himself by watching the shadows lengthen. The whimpering wolf went on whining and whimpering, until at last, not long after nightfall, Faramir's attentions could not cease the wolf's cries. He unwound the bandage. The skin beneath was enflamed and laced with darkness. Faramir shook. "I cannot let you endure this," he whispered. "Forgive me, Cal. Oh, Eomer, Eowyn, forgive me…"

He brewed a tea of cherry laurel and gently eased the brew into the wolf's mouth. Drops trickled away from that maw and little was completely swallowed, but in time Cal's eyes closed and she ceased her whining. Faramir bit his wobbling lip as he stripped the bed and wrapped Cal in the sheets until she seemed only a mound of soiled laundry.

Relief coursed through Boromir. At last, a situation in which he knew how to behave. Not a full second passed before he felt guilty to be glad of his brother's wretchedness. He sat beside Faramir and took his brother in his arms. Faramir grabbed his brother's arm and hung on tightly, biting his lip hard enough to drew blood. He shivered. "Easy, Little Bear. She can't feel any pain now. It is all for the best." Boromir muttered as many empty platitudes as he could recall, knowing calming lay not in the words but in the voice speaking them.

This knowledge proved itself accurate, nearly, as Faramir's shivers reduced and he gradually loosened his grip on Boromir's arm. He was preparing a swift expression of gratitude when footsteps rang in the corridor without. "No," Faramir whimpered, "not now, please!" But Boromir was powerless to stop his father striding into the chamber, demanding, "What is this I hear of my second-born returning without so much courtesy as to greet his father and lord?"

Denethor, cruel a blow as his words were to Faramir's shaken mind, acted not out of malice. Rather, he was hurt. His son had been home more than half a day, and had not come to him. The pain of this rejection had festered throughout the afternoon, lingering long after the disappointment at Faramir's lack of manners and respect. Now his anger erupted to conceal his pain. Always, always the boy rejected his father!

When Faramir only stared, glassy-eyed, Denethor demanded, "Well? What have you to say for yourself, Faramir?" Boromir tightened his grip, reasserting his presence. "Do not seek to hide behind your brother. You will answer to me!"

Faramir burst into tears. He had been pushed too far already. His first day in Gondor in four years, and already his wolf was killed by the one person he counted as an ally. Now his father was furious, and everything proved too much. Why had he ever left Rohan?

"Fara, shh, don't cry," Boromir consoled futilely.

"Faramir--" Denethor began, taking a step forward, but Faramir cried out, "No! Please do not strike me, please, I can stop…" He sniffled and rubbed his eyes with the backs of his wrists, to no available. In truth, Denethor had intended to offer his son what poor comfort he could. He was no beast, to smack a crying child! Uncomfortable as he was around the emotional boy, Denethor knew that no amount of violence offered consolation.

"Perhaps you should go," Boromir suggested, as his brother continued to bawl. Denethor took this advice and disappeared. "Fara, he didn't know."

"He frightens me, after all that," Faramir moaned. "I am frightened of him! Please don't let him harm me, Boromir, I am sorry and I hardly understand… I can stop weeping, truly…" He felt idiotic saying these things, howling like a child.

"Hush, fool, and weep all you like." Taking this invitation, Faramir turned to curl against Boromir, muffling his sobs against his brother's shoulder as he whimpered the tale: how he had come by the wolf pups and taken responsibility for them, how Eowyn had taken to them like an eagle to flight, how confused Lark and Cal had been when Faramir rode away from Rohan, how they had run between him and the children until at last the wolves were rent one from the other, Lark to remain with Eomer and Eowyn to guard them. Perhaps, Faramir, considered, Cal should have stayed in Rohan, also. He had been a damned fool indeed to bring a piece of Rohan into Gondor. Of course stones blocked out the sun.

Throughout all of this Boromir held tightly to Faramir, cooing sympathetically at all the right moments and promising that, Valar only knowing how, all would be well in the end. He managed to ignore Faramir's mumbled comment that he was brother to a spiteful liar. The most hurtful thing Faramir whimpered was, softly and pitiably, "I want to go home."

It was early morning by the time the boys crept back into Boromir's bedchamber. Once Faramir had calmed, they had borne away the wolf's body and burned it. A long while Faramir had waited, until the last of the ashes danced away on a fair wind. Then, shivering from cold, he followed his brother back inside.

For some hours they simply rested and gained news of one another. Faramir found, to his surprise, that he could recall few specific moments of his time in Rohan. He tried to offer feelings and sensations to his brother, but in the end both satisfied themselves with vague recollections: Faramir teasing the wolf pups, wrestling with them; Faramir and Theodred riding out together; Eomer and Eowyn, sorrowful little strays who grew fond of Faramir before he abandoned them. Boromir knew more specific moments of his past. None had been overly pleasant, and all were stamped in burning ink on his mind. "I had thought," he recalled, "that your presence would heal all wounds."

"I'm sorry."

"No, Little Bear, I am. You work no miracles. But I am glad to have you home again."

"Thank you." Faramir sighed, then said, "I missed you, but I never wanted to return. I came only because I am duty-bound."

Boromir knew not what to say. He loved Gondor. He would die for her. "Duty is often a fair guide."

"It was when I played myself at chess. I only played the light pieces out of duty, but they won the board."

"What a good son of Gondor."

Faramir whimpered, and fell silent.

Later that morning, the boys led a quiet raid on the kitchens and quietly broke their fasts. Faramir was more famished than he had suspected, having skipped supper after a full day of riding and heavy emotions. He felt yet empty to think of Cal, but not crippled. "Will you be all right if I leave you now?" Boromir asked. He, too, had played hooky of late, shirking the practice yards to comfort his little brother. Ooh, but how good a sword would feel! Boromir understood swords.

"I'll be fine," Faramir promised. Alone, he stretched his legs out before him and slumped his shoulders, resting gladly against a low wall. Staring out at the deepening sky, he felt care and weariness fly from his mind and body. This was home, Faramir realized, no place but a feeling inside of him. Thus he had never left, never returned, merely moved his body like a pawn in chess.

"Faramir."

Faramir scrambled to his feet, his peace fading swiftly in the face of humiliation as he stood before his father, a half-eaten apple in one hand. At least he no longer felt fear. "Father. Good morrow."

He expected Denethor to begin a discussion of the previous night's events, as Theoden would have, recounting and explaining his own actions. Rather, Denethor said, "Welcome home, Son."

How are we to learn, then, without reflection? Father, do not do that, do not curse us so, please! Even as he thought it, Faramir understood. Denethor was perhaps ashamed, perhaps afraid, something of his inability to act appropriately and especially his inability to comprehend. He would pretend the previous night had never occurred, act as though Faramir had arrived just that morning. "Thank you, Father. I have missed Gondor."

Faramir justified himself with a rhetorical question: Would I deprive an old man of his walking-stick? At the same moment, he accepted that he did not accept his father's reactionary politics. He only awaited a time when his cautious progressive policies might be put into play. Boromir would inherit, and writhe, and always there would be Faramir, whispering in his ear.

"Forgive that I cannot remain and gossip, perhaps later… In the moment there is a petition needing my attention, proposing lowering age of acceptance into the army…"

Faramir smiled. That would please Eomer, if he accepted Faramir's proffered hospitality. "Surely we will talk when time allows." He knew time would never allow. Knowing made him smile.

I'm back.

The End