Disclaimers: If I owned LotR, I would sell the copyright to some lucrative corporation for an obscene amount of money, which I would then use to buy expensive cameras, tracking devices, and round-trip plane tickets in order to stalk Sean Bean between movie sets. The fact that I am instead here, sitting in front of my Macintosh, writing this disclaimer, suggests that this is not the case.
A/n: And the madness continues…
Faramir was, to put it the bluntest possible terms, Highly Disgruntled.
There were two concurrent but distinct reasons for this irritation. The first reason was that he had just found out from his childhood mentor that a complicated hashing of parallel universes and chemical imbalances was wreaking potentially permanent havoc in his neatly patterned character arc. The second was that, after fighting tooth and nail alongside Éomer and the other Rohirrim to reclaim the fortress of Helm's Deep—which was no mean feat in a physical sense, considering the sheer number of foes, or in an emotional sense, considering that he was obliged to weep miserably every time he decapitated something—he had gone dashing round a bend in the corridor and discovered his elder brother, sitting complacently on a pile of freshly killed Orcs and calmly devouring what appeared to be a box of cookies.
In that moment, Faramir of Gondor was nearly struck dumb with the sheer injustice of it all. He had spent the last five days worrying himself to distraction about Boromir's safety, and now Boromir had the audacity to stand before him and eat cookies as if nothing were the matter at all?
"You (censored) bastard! If you ever put me through that again, I'll kill you myself!"
Boromir's face, which had lit up at the sight of Faramir, rearranged itself into an amused smirk. "Nice to see you, too, little brother."
Faramir folded his arms across his chest and glared at him murderously. "Don't try to distract me with pleasantries! You know exactly what you've done, and it's completely inexcusable!"
Boromir licked some chocolate from his fingertips and frowned. "I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about. Kindly humor me with an explanation." The frown deepened. "Wait a minute… what are you doing here, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be in Ithilien?"
Faramir thought it prudent to ignore the latter part of this speech, instead latching onto the first half with a vengeance. "Humor you? Oh, I'm far past humoring the likes of you! Once we get back to Minas Tirith, I'm going to have you locked up! I mean it! You're not going to so much as stir without my knowing it! And if I ever have another prophetic dream about you dying, then you sure as hell had better be dead!"
"Actually, there's a bit of a story behind that—"
"Don't interrupt me! Do you have any idea the kind of stress you've put me through? Do you have any idea how worried I was? Do you have any idea what Father would have done to me if you'd died? Because of course it would have been my fault! It's always been my fault! Ever since that time when I was seven and you raided Father's secret stash of 'Gondorgirlz Gone Wild' magazines and I got blamed for it…"
"Look, I've apologized for that a mill—"
"I'm not finished yet! And what about Gondor? What the hell was Gondor supposed to do if you were dead?"
"Faramir—"
"And what about me? I don't want to be Steward! I don't want to be Captain-General! All I want is a pack of hounds and a beach house in Dol Amroth! IS THAT REALLY SO MUCH TO ASK?"
"Of course n—"
"Oh, Boromir, I'm so glad you're here!" cried Faramir, and promptly burst into tears.
If Faramir was Highly Disgruntled, then Boromir was now, reciprocally, Scared Out Of His Wits. "Dear Eru, what have I done?" he muttered, rising squelchily from his grisly seat and approaching his sobbing brother warily, as one might approach a wounded animal in the forest when one is not sure if it is docile and in need of assistance, or merely shamming while it waits for an opportune moment to let out a feral scream of attack and leap for one's throat. Tentatively, he opened his arms, at which Faramir fell heavily against his shoulder and proceeded to drench it in a manner reminiscent of the Rauros-falls in one of its more volatile moods.
When the storm had subsided somewhat, Boromir cleared his throat and offered Faramir a cookie.
"Yes, please," replied Faramir in a muffled voice, accepting the box with a small hiccup and inserting most of the contents of the first sleeve into his mouth without preamble. Boromir watched him chew forlornly for several minutes before hesitantly remarking, "You seem… er… well, different."
Faramir sniffled. "So do you. How long has your hair been that color?"
"Oh, that?" said Boromir, blowing a strand of it out of his eyes with a dismissive exhale. "I don't quite know how it happened. It started to look a little strange after our victory at Osgiliath, and by the time my horse and I had forded the Greyflood at Tharbad it was completely blonde. I'm not entirely sure what caused it. Oh, and my nose swelled up like a balloon for a couple of days after I crossed through Rohan."
"Mithrandir says it's something to do with parallel universes colliding."
"What on Arda is that supposed to mean?"
Faramir shrugged. "I haven't the slightest idea. These cookies are good. Where did you get them?"
"Oh, a few Girl Scouts came through here a while ago."
Faramir frowned quizzically. "Girl Scouts? What in the Valar's name were Girl Scouts doing here?" He glanced around. "Where are they now?"
"Oh, they were Orcs. I killed them. They were being overly aggressive about the check."
"You killed them?" gasped Faramir, eyes widening. "Were they civilians?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe."
"Boromir, you can't do that! It's in direct violation of the Geneva Convention!"
Now Boromir frowned. "What's the Geneva Convention? I've never even heard of it."
Faramir sighed. "Well, that's alright—I don't think anyone else has, either."
There was a slightly awkward pause while Faramir fished for crumbs in the bottom of the box, after which Boromir ventured, "So, these parallel universes… are they responsible for your… for your… well, for, well, you know…" He gesticulated in what was evidently intended to be a meaningful fashion.
"My precarious emotional state?" supplied Faramir helpfully.
"Yes, that."
"Supposedly. Mithrandir says it might calm down, given time, but he's not entirely sure. In the meantime, he's given me some magical pills to help." He reached into his pocket and produced some white tablets. "He says they're called 'Pamprin Multi-Symptom'."
Boromir plucked the pills from Faramir's outstretched hand. "A word to the wise, Faramir: never, ever accept medicinal aids from Mithrandir," he said sternly, and defenestrated them.
It was at that moment that Legolas Greenleaf chose to prance onto the scene. "Stop! Stop!" he cried. "That's enough. We're calling off the chapter."
"Why?" demanded Boromir. "It was going so well!"
There was a noise not unlike that of ten thousand readers muttering that they rather thought it contained certain passages of more than usually revolting sentimentality, but that it wasn't really their place to complain.
The Elf tossed his head irritably. "Haven't you noticed what number it is?"
"No, I've lost count. Why, what does that matter?"
Legolas glanced around shiftily, and then leaned forward conspiratorially to whisper, "It's Chapter 13!" He leaned back once more, eyebrows raised meaningfully, eyeing the two Húrins expectantly. They stared back at him, nonplussed.
"So?" said Faramir presently.
"'So?" 'So?'" squealed Legolas. "It's Chapter 13! And, as everybody knows, 13 is an unlucky number—the unlucky number! This chapter is star-crossed! If it continues, dire fates will come upon us all!"
"Somehow that threat no longer inspires nearly as much terror as it used," commented Boromir.
"And anyway, I don't think Boromir and I have anything to worry about," added Faramir. "We are, after all, from Gondor, a land quite unsubtly rife with 7's—which, as everybody knows, is the holiest and luckiest number of the lot."
"Well, that's all very well for you!" cried Legolas. "What about the rest of us? You may have diplomatic numerical immunity, but supposing an anvil falls from the sky and onto my head because you've left a hat on the bed or something?"
"I don't think it works like that."
"Well, I don't see why we should take any chances!"
"Listen up!" interposed Boromir. "This is my fanfic! Mine! My own! It's got my name in the title, my name in the summary, and my name on top of the principal characters list! And if I say that we're having a Chapter 13, then we're having a Chapter 13! End of discussion!"
"But—"
"No buts!" bellowed Boromir. "I'm starting to get sick of all these people trying to commandeer my story! You know, there were four scenes in the last chapter, and I was only in one of them! I call that Being Shortchanged!"
"Actually, you were in two scenes, if you count the courtr—" began Legolas.
"Dear Eru, don't bring that up again," hissed Faramir. "But Boromir's right—this is a matter entirely up to his jurisdiction. I, for one, am completely in favor of having a Chapter 13. After all, The Lord of the Rings in many ways relies intrinsically on the thematic element of fate versus choice. This could make for an interesting literary exercise."
There was a long pause in which both Boromir and Legolas stared at Faramir as though he had gone completely mad.
He shrugged. "I'm just saying."
Legolas gave a flippant tsk. "Whatever, Vladimir—"
"That's Faramir."
"Faramir—close enough. All I'm saying is that if I do happen to break my compact mirror today, I'm going to hold you personally responsible."
"Feel free to do that."
"Oh, and by the way." Legolas leaned forward slyly once more. "You really ought to ask for your money back. That dye job is simply terrible." He smirked prettily and flounced off again.
Faramir blinked. "Whatever was that about?"
Boromir, meanwhile, was peering contemplatively at Faramir's scalp. "He's right. Your roots are a completely different color from the rest of your hair. Mine did that, too, while it was changing."
"Well, what color are my roots?"
Boromir squinted. "Looks like you're going to be a red-head, little brother."
When Boromir had managed to calm Faramir down for the second time—a process that resulted in the consumption of three more boxes of Tagalongs, in addition to six Regulation Hostess Cakes™—they wandered out onto the ramparts for some fresh air. Then, gazing out over the gently swaying forest of Huorns from beneath the shade of a discarded siege ladder, they discussed what course of action they ought to next take.
"I think that we ought to return to Minas Tirith," said Faramir. "The troops' morale, when last I was there, was lower than I have ever known it. The White City is weak while its warriors are prey to such misgivings. Your homecoming would be exactly the boost they require."
"Yes, but I can't go back just yet," countered Boromir. "I don't trust that oaf Aragorn as far as I could throw him—figuratively, of course; literally, I think I could throw him quite far, if the right mood possessed me."
"Your point being?"
"My point being that someone has to stay and keep an eye on his movements, lest he attempt anything untoward."
"Who is this Aragorn bloke, anyway?"
Boromir explained. We will not bother to transcribe the explanation, as we are all very well acquainted with the lineage and circumstances of Aragorn, and, moreover, the explanation provided by Boromir was somewhat more rife with words of a four-lettered nature than would be quite acceptable in a story of this caliber, even if properly censored. Suffice to say, Faramir replied thus:
"Oh. Oh. I see. You're quite right. We mustn't let him out of our sight. We'll have to stay here."
"I'll have to stay here," amended Boromir, "odious though the prospect may be. You, in the meantime, must return home, to bring news of my whereabouts to Father." Boromir paused. "He did send you to find me, didn't he?"
Faramir colored and stared fixedly at his well-worn boots. "Well, not exactly…"
Boromir's brow darkened. "Faramir…" he began, warningly.
"I had a vision after I heard your horn, and… and I decided to come look for you myself," stammered Faramir.
Alarm bells went off in Boromir's brain; it was the first time he'd ever heard Faramir stammer. "With the Steward's permission, of course?"
"Erm…"
"Dear Eru," said Boromir slowly, "at least tell me you delegated someone to fill your post at Henneth Annûn."
"Well, I left a note for Anborn."
"You left a note for… Faramir, do you know what this is called?"
"Brotherly devotion?"
"Desertion. I wouldn't be surprised if there's already a…"
"… sizeable price on my head back at the White City. Yes, that thought's occurred to me as well." Faramir glanced at him meaningfully. "This wasn't my fault."
Boromir buried his face in his hands. "I know it wasn't, but… Valar, I hope this parallel universe business isn't permanent. It would be terrible if I ended up being the more sensible of the two of us." He straightened once more. "Well, it's clear that you can't go back to Minas Tirith, not just now, and certainly not until I've smoothed things over with Father." He sighed. "I'll go back to Gondor. You can stay and babysit Aragorn."
"What?" exclaimed Faramir. "Boromir, if you think I'm going to let you out of my sight for one bloody minute, you've got another thing coming."
"I'm touched," said Boromir sardonically. He was; everyone else had been so unconcerned about his mortality of late. "But this is Necessity. This is Life. This is Duty."
Faramir's lower lip trembled.
Boromir groaned. "Oh, for the love of Arda, don't start crying again!"
When Boromir had managed to calm Faramir down for the third time—this time with the aid of a method they had used since childhood, involving the telling of lighthearted tales in which their father was devoured by a pack of Wargs, and an additional Regulation Hostess Cake™—they returned indoors to the Keep, where Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Théoden, Éomer, Erkenbrand, Gamling, and four other captains were having a last lunch before their departure for Isengard. They were spread around a tablecloth on the floor, all the wooden tables having been used in the barricade. Théoden beckoned to Boromir and Faramir to join them, and they settled down between Legolas and Gamling, ever eager for the prospect of more food.
"It's a terrible tragedy, really; I can't seem to find my block of wood anywhere," said Théoden. "Gamling appears to have lost it somewhere in the battle. And with all the wooden tables and doors blasted to smithereens, I don't know what I'll use to knock on anymore. Incidentally, I've been having this strange sense that I'm going to die a horrible death in the near future. Have any of you had that lately?"
There was a long and terribly awkward silence, which Boromir broke by clearing his throat and, casting his eyes around the makeshift table, saying, "Where is the Lady Éowyn and the other women and children?"
Théoden frowned. "You know, I've been wondering about that myself. Does anyone know where they are?"
"Didn't you send them off down the mountain pass during the battle?" said Aragorn to Gamling.
Gamling frowned. "Yes."
"Well, did you send anyone after them to bring them back once we'd won?"
"Er… no."
"Well, there's no point in going after them just yet. This saves us all their nagging for a bit, at any rate," said Théoden cheerily.
"Please pass the salt," requested Éomer crossly.
Faramir and Gamling reached for the saltshaker at the same moment, and the collision of their hands knocked it over, spilling salt all over the tablecloth. "Oops," they said simultaneously. "Jinx!"
"By the by," said Boromir presently. "I have an announcement to make. I won't be accompanying your party for the inspection of Isengard, Théoden King. Gondor lies on the Enemy's doorstep, and she has the greater need of me." He spoke in deliberately even tones, occasionally casting surreptitious glances in Faramir's direction; mercifully, it seemed that his brother was managing to repress his crying reflexes admirably for the time being.
"You mean you're leaving?" cried Aragorn ecstatically.
"Och!" cried Gimli. "I moost sayng a ballad of celebraetion!"
"That won't be necessary," said Aragorn hastily. "When will you be going?"
"Momentarily. However," Boromir continued, "I am leaving my younger brother Faramir among you as my representative. Faramir is the finest tactician in Gondor, my Lord," he added to Théoden. "I'm sure he'll be an asset to Rohan in its onslaught against Mordor."
"Well, maybe he'll be able to repair some of the diplomatic china the rest of his house has smashed, then," said Aragorn snidely.
"With any luck," said Boromir airily. "Well, I must be off." He rose to his feet, dusting crumbs from his surcoat. Legolas promptly let out an earth-shattering squeal.
"Aiiee! There are thirteen of us! When thirteen people eat together, the first to leave the table is always the first to die!"
Boromir rolled his eyes. "I quake in my boots at the very prospect," he said flatly, and stalked out of the room, kicking a dark-colored stray cat out of the way as he went.
Aragorn sighed smugly and reached across the tablecloth for a soup tureen. "Well, this chapter turned out to be rather lucky after all!" he said merrily, and promptly spilled a cascade of Éowyn's scalding-hot stew straight into his lap.
A/n: If you don't review, you'll have seven years of bad luck. Do you really want to take that risk?