Summary: He can never go home...
A/N: Yes, yes. I know Courage is up for updating. It's hard to do it in book-canon. Should I do a mix? Please review (well, on your opinion of Courage if you've read it and about this story. Thanks.) Enjoy...
Minas Tirith. The White City. It looked so familiar yet so foreign. He wandered through its streets, unnoticed by men. There were some, though, that turned their heads as he passed, as if feeling his presence. But no, they could not see him. No one could.
How long has it been since he has died? He could not remember. He didn't even remember his own name. Why was that?
Shaking his ghostly head, he climbed higher and higher in the City. He floated higher and higher. Suddenly, as he passed a window, he stopped. A man, his dark hair sprinkled with grey, was playing with a young boy. The lad had black hair and the bluest eyes he had ever seen.
"Look, Papa!" the lad cried, holding out a wooden sword. On the sword's blade was the word Eldarion, burned into the wood with a hot iron. "Look what the carpenter carved for me today! He said it's for me to practice my fencing. I'm going to be as good a swordsman as you, one day!"
The man turned around. He drew in his breath. Why did the man look so familiar? Dark eyes, piercing yet gentle, and his face was filled with wisdom.
"That is beautiful, Eldarion," the man said. "I'm hope you surpass my skills one day, my son."
Eldarion grinned broadly.
A quick flash of memory crossed the spirit's face. He shook his head and it was gone. The world was strange, too strange. He stayed at the window and watched the man and his son, Eldarion. They were laughing--Laughter, thought the spirit. Here was another strange yet foreign thing--and shouting at each other affectionately.
A young woman--nay, she was not young; she was one of the fair folk. Her face seemed so familiar, yet the spirit could not place it. Her face was creased in a frown as she scolded, "Aragorn! Eldarion! Little Lori has just gone to bed. Eldarion, don't wake your sister up." Though her tone was stern, her voice was musical and flowing, like a creek in the Spring.
"Aragorn" was something familiar, too. It came like a memory from a distant land across the Sea. The spirit's face frowned and stared closely at Aragorn's face.
Suddenly, Aragorn drew in a breath, as if he sensed that something was close. Aragorn turned toward the window. His face was confused, for he could not see anything there.
"What is it, my darling?" the woman asked.
"I thought I felt..." Aragorn began. But he stopped and shook his head. "Nay, my love. It was naught but a strange tingle in my heart, as if someone I loved very much was close here, staring at me. Nay, it was nothing."
"Gilraen?" the woman teased.
Aragorn smiled. "It would be wonderful to have my mother close to me again."
The spirit did not have any memories of a mother.
The woman said, "The Prince of Ithilien sent a messenger today..."
He did not want to stay in Minas Tirith anymore. Without listening to the rest of the woman's message, he took flight and drifted south-west.
From somewhere in his mind, the spirit knew that this land was Ithilien like the way he knew that City was Minas Tirith. Perhaps he had dwelt in this land--Gondor, his mind told him--when he was still alive. When was he alive, anyway? In the Years of the Trees? in the First Age? What age was this, anyway?
The land of Ithilien was thickly wooded. Then, he came to a group of hills. His mind told him this was Emyn Arnen. It was beautiful and fair. In the midst of the hills was a house. It reminded him of something... The memory of elves came to him.
He walked among the woods. These trees were well tended to. They were tall, strong, and healthy. The man who dwelt here--the woman spoke of a Prince--must obviously love all things that grow. The air was clean and fresh.
And then he saw him.
A man, younger than him, sat on a rock amidst the trees. He was staring at a hole in the canopy above him. The spirit looked up. All he saw were diamonds on a sheet of dark blue velvet; what was so exciting and captivating about that? The man looked away from the stars, his eyes scanning the woods as if looking for something.
The spirit looked at the young man's face. It looked so familiar. It was filled with wisdom and sadness. He felt like he could trust this man. Another memory came to him: He thought he saw the man laughing at something he was telling him... They were happy and they had just drunk to each other's health.
He was startled when the young man stood up so suddenly. The man stared straight at where he stood. And then, as if he himself could not believe it, the man whispered:
"Boromir?"
Images... Voices... Places... It all came crashing down on his mind. Just that name triggered something in his mind. He suddenly remembered who Aragorn was, who the young woman was... And most importantly, he knew--he thinks he knew--who this man was.
"My name is Boromir," he whispered.
He remembered how he died: arrows in his breast. He was protecting the halflings--Pippin and Merry--from Uruk-hai. He had tried to take the Ring from another halfling named Frodo. He paid the price.
"Boromir?" the man said again, as if he still could not believe it.
Boromir peered from around the cheeks, not sure if he really knew who that was. The man was still standing there, looking uncertain. Quite unexpectedly, a tear spilled down the man's cheek. Reluctantly, he turned away, as if to leave.
Now...
Boromir stepped out from behind the trees and called out: "Faramir!"
The man turned around. He used the back of his left hand to wipe away the track his tear left behind. A smile crept across his face. Boromir was right; this was his little Faramir.
"Hello little brother," Boromir said.
"Hello Bore-me," Faramir said, starting to laugh.
Boromir laughed heartily. "No one has called me that in a long time."
Faramir laughed and the two brothers laughed together. Then, Faramir stopped. A dark shadow covered his face as he said, "What happened, brother? You told me you would come home. You told me you would return from Imladris. You didn't." Anger rose in Faramir's voice. "I found your body on a raft, floating down the Great River."
Boromir searched his hazy memory. Then: "I died, little brother."
"I know that."
"I tried to take the Ring from Frodo. I paid the price."
Faramir was silent.
Boromir waved his hand, dismissing all talk about the Ring. "What has happened to you, little brother? What changes has happened to you?"
Faramir smiled. "I am married, Bore-me. I married Éowyn of Rohan. She is at our house right now, taking care of our new son. The King Elessar--whom you will know as Aragorn--gave me princedom of Ithilien. So much has changed since you died, brother."
Now Boromir knew what Arwen--the Queen Arwen--was speaking of.
"Congratulations, little brother," Boromir said. Then he said, "Why aren't you at home right now, Faramir? Why aren't you at home with your wife, Éowyn, taking care of your new son."
Faramir looked away, as if ashamed. Then he said almost inaudibly, "I am afraid, Bore-me. I am afraid. You may not believe it but I am afraid of everything. I am afraid of being steward, of being the Prince Faramir. When you were alive, you were always taking care of me, though I might not have needed it. You told me what to do in my times of trouble. Now, I can't think what would happen, going on without my brother by my side."
Boromir walked up to his brother and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Go home, brother," he said. Faramir looked at Boromir's face. "Go home, little brother," Boromir repeated. "You cannot keep dwelling in the past. If you keep dwelling in the past, you cannot move on, little brother. That is what life is about--moving on. The world does not stop for you. You have to keep moving with it."
Faramir gave a slow nod.
"You can go home, Faramir," Boromir said softly, "but some of us can never."
Faramir realized what Boromir meant and said, "Oh my brother."
Boromir pointed East, "Go home, Faramir. Go home to the life--and future--that is waiting for you. And when you walk home, don't turn back. Don't turn back and face the past again."
His brother said quietly, "My home is that way." He pointed South.
Boromir slapped his forehead. "I am trying to make a point, little brother!"
Faramir laughed. He slapped Boromir's shoulder affectionately. The brothers embraced one last time.
"Farewell, Bore-me," Faramir said. He walked South. He didn't turn back.