Written for the Childhood Memories Challenge at The Burping Troll.

A Worthy Purpose

By Deby

1393 S.R.

Gondor

"Excellent, Faramir, another bulls-eye." Boromir clapped his brother on the back and Faramir glowed under his elder brother's praise.

In the privacy of an unused courtyard, the younger son of the Steward of Gondor had spent countless hours under the tutelage of his brother. Over and over, he would notch, sight and let the arrow fly. Every spare minute had been spent working toward their joint goal and now, it seemed, he had reached it.

Boromir yanked the arrow from the straw-stuffed target and added it to the large 'hit' pile on the grey flagstone. In the beginning, the 'miss' pile had been the larger, now it was nonexistent. The boys had chosen their practice place well. When they started in the fall and through the long winter months, there was no one to see Faramir's initial frustration. Now, as spring gave way to summer, the only audience for the younger boy's efforts was the bees that flew in and out of the honeysuckle blossoms that cascaded over the stone walls of the courtyard.

"Look, brother, every one of those hit in a space smaller than the palm of my hand." Boromir grinned happily and with open admiration. "And at forty paces I might add. I'm five years your elder and I don't have your accuracy."

Watching his brother swell under the hard-earned praise, Boromir wished there were more opportunities to see that light in his brother's face. Hopefully, his plan would work and there would be one. Now if only their father would cooperate . . .

Faramir knelt and started to load his quiver with the spent arrows. Boromir ruffled the dark, slightly too long, mop of hair. Some of his friends professed to abhor the company of their younger brothers, an emotion Boromir could not understand. With their mother dead and their father constantly busy with the responsibility of ruling Gondor, Faramir was all he had. Faramir felt the same. Still, it never hurt to remind him who was the elder and wiser, supposedly, of the two.

"It's a good thing I'm better at the sword or I wouldn't be father's favorite anymore," he teased and instantly regretted it.

The slim white hands with long supple fingers, the hands that had the look of the man he would become though Faramir was but ten years old, stilled in their labor. He raised troubled grey eyes to his brother. Eyes, like his hands, that belonged to someone much older.

"Why doesn't father love me?" Faramir asked in a heartbreakingly quiet voice.

It wasn't the jest that precipitated Faramir's question; the boys had long ago decided the title of 'favorite' was more of a burden than an honor. Nay, it was an oft asked question and every time Boromir thought he'd convinced Faramir that it wasn't true, their father would destroy his painstaking work with a careless comment or deed.

"You know Father loves you." Boromir dropped to his knees and held Faramir by the shoulders. "Maybe not as much as I do, but he does in his own way. He just isn't very good at showing it."

This is why Faramir loved his brother more than anyone else in the world. And bless his heart, Boromir honestly believed every word he said, every time he said it. But Faramir had seen the way Denethor looked at Boromir and how the glow, the pride leached from the father's face when his glance happened upon his younger son. Nothing was ever quite right. No effort was good enough. He, Faramir, would always be a faded copy of Boromir. Though, thankfully, not in Boromir's eyes.

"Besides, wait until we show him your bowmanship." Boromir stood, raising Faramir with him. "I cannot tell you how it pains me to admit it, but you," he poked Faramir in the chest, "are better with a bow now than I was at your age." The smile returned to Faramir's face and his spine straightended. "Don't get cocky little brother, I may not have your accuracy but I can shoot farther than you."

If anything, Faramir's grin widened and mischief sparkled in his eyes. "Only because you're bigger than me . . . for now."

"Wretch," Boromir said affectionately and cuffed his brother. "Now get the rest of those arrows. You're ready and we have an appointment."

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and between Faramir's shoulder blades. Why couldn't they have set the time for the cool of early morning or, at least, early evening when the sun would have slid behind the mountains and not be beating on Faramir's head. Or was it just his nerves? Or his prospective audience?

Boromir stood behind Faramir's right shoulder. He flicked his finger and thunked his brother on the back of the head. "Relax little brother; it is only father, not a horde of dragons."

Stepping back so that his booted heel landed on his elder brother's toe, Faramir hissed, "Stop that." Annoyance displaced some of the nervousness but not all. "Then why do I wish it was a dragon opening that door?"

The ornate doors swung open and Denethor strode down the steps outside of the Great Hall, past the withered White Tree and to the triangle of green lawn where his sons waited for him. Faramir thought he seemed tired and ill-tempered. Boromir was certain the lines on his father's face cut deeper than usual. Just as the elder son was sure there were new threads of silver in the hair that had once been as raven black as his or Faramir's. The Steward always seemed thus after another long night in the White Tower wrestling with ever darkening future of Gondor. His gruffness confirmed the boy's suspicions.

"I assume you called me here for a worthy purpose."

Faramir tried not to quail under his father's stern glance. Maybe this was not the best time for their demonstration but it was too late to turn back now. Thankfully, they had decided Boromir would speak.

"We have, Father." Boromir kept any last minute misgivings he had to himself and let his pride show in his voice. "Faramir and I have been working hard and there is something we, actually Faramir, would show you."

Faramir took a deep breath and let it out slow and easy. He didn't look at his Father; rather he fixed his gaze on the guardians of the White Tree. He remembered how he and Boromir used to try and bait the guards into speaking. They pranced around like fools, pretended to fall and injure themselves, told silly, pathetic jokes but nothing worked. They even dared each other to climb the White Tree but as neither of them were brave enough to face the whipping that was sure to follow, they never found out if that sacrilegious stunt would have gained the guards attention.

"Well boy, don't stand there like a useless lump of stone." Denethor gestured towards the target that stood between them and the point of the courtyard. "You brought your bow for a purpose, use it."

Faramir bit the inside of his cheek while Boromir imperceptibly squeezed his shoulder. It was a common disparagement yet it still had the power to sting and eat away at his confidence.

"You're better than me and you know it," Boromir said under his breath. "Now show him."

Faramir dipped his chin down a hair to indicate he heard and reached for his first arrow. Boromir stepped away as Faramir turned towards the target. As he drew the string back, Faramir closed his eyes and cleared his mind. The bow was part of him and he had come to know it intimately, just as his brother had taught him. The draw wasn't right and he knew it so let the string ease back. Confident once more, Faramir opened his eyes and in one smooth motion drew, sighted and let the arrow fly.

There was a satisfying thwack as the dart struck the target. Even a blind man could see that it hit dead center.

"That's it."

Before Boromir could rush to his defense, two more arrows, in rapid succession, sang as they pierced the air and rushed to meet their fellow. While not touching, all three were no more than a finger's width apart.

With a noncommittal grunt, Denethor turned to Boromir.

"The master-at-arms does not know of this skill."

Faramir opened his mouth and shut it again, his cheeks burned. He knew better than to speak when he had not been addressed.

"Because he was not responsible." Convinced of the rightness of what he was doing, Boromir had no difficulty in standing up to his father. "Faramir and I have worked every day. He has been a tireless and diligent pupil. If he had known, the master would have been proud of Faramir just as I am."

Denethor's mouth lifted in a rare smile and Faramir felt hope beating in his breast that this time it was for him. Boromir had left a massive opening that would require little effort on the father's part to take advantage of it.

"I knew there had to be a reason." Denethor threw a casual glance Faramir's way. "You're a credit to your teacher." He threw his arm around his eldest son. "I knew he couldn't have done it on his own, he hasn't the patience or the perseverance. You have done wonders. An excellent steward needs to be a teacher as well as a leader. It is good to know you possess both skills."

Faramir stood there, hollow and drained. All that time and effort had been for what, a left-handed compliment rendered invalid by the words that followed. He should have known better than to get his hopes up, it was always this way, always.

The look on his brother's face added fuel to Boromir's fury. He had done everything but say the words for Denethor. Nay, he had said the words; all his father needed to do was repeat them. As much as he loved his father, Boromir found that at times like this it was quite easy to hate him for his thoughtless cruelty.

He shrugged out of Denethor's embrace, twisting so that he faced Faramir and Denethor did not.

"I did not do this to garner your praise for myself father, you give it all too freely," Boromir said as he tried to temper his voice. He did not want to antagonize Denethor and make matters worse. "But you have another son who has gone great lengths to gain a moment of your attention and a word of approval."

The Steward's face hardened. "I know what will save Gondor from darkness and I have seen her hope," Denethor lowered his voice and injected it with ice, "and it is not your brother. He receives the attention and approval he has earned, no more. Do not speak to me of this again."

Boromir looked at Faramir who looked at . . . Boromir didn't know what. Neither paid attention to Denethor's departure. The great courtyard was silent, not even the birds dared to speak. The boys stood for a long time, as motionless as the guardians of the White Tree. From one of the lower circles, the carefree laughter of children floated on the breeze.

finis

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