"Do you ever grieve for our lady mother, Faramir?" Boromir called to his brother. Faramir stood out on a balcony overlooking the city, pacing. He was lit only by the soft moon and the starlight. He cast no shadow down upon the white stone.
"Often, I think of her. But I do not grieve for the same mother as you. I did not know her, brother, not as you did. I was too young."
"She was fair, and lovely. Her kindness knew no bounds. She did not deserve to die."
"It is a great pity she did." Faramir spoke softly as he stepped slowly back into the room. Boromir lay in his kingly bed, burning with fever. He was as a ghost, pale, and sickly. A sheen of sweat covered his face, and a tear was making its way down his cheek.
"You should have known her. You are so like to her, Faramir. You are so good, so kind. You should have known her..." Boromir shuddered as a chill ran through him.
"Rest now, Boromir. There will be time enough to talk of Finduilas when you are well again." Faramir went to his bedside, and let him drink from a goblet of wine by his head. "Rest now Brother, rest and heal."