#9: Bond

It took Boromir twenty minutes of searching before he found Faramir in one of the inner courtyards. The doors had been barred and the young boy was trapped in the small, grassy area, curled in a ball against a corner to escape the cold.

Boromir shook his little brother until he blinked sleepily, yawning to reveal a pink tongue, a small double-row of baby teeth. Without question, Faramir draped his arms over Boromir's shoulders and let his older brother carry him into the house.

"I tried to be good, Bo, but father got mad at me when I talked to the man." The drowsy voice made Boromir's heart clench painfully. "And I is hungry now." And cold, soaked through, on his way to a fever. Boromir wrapped his arms more securely around the little boy in his arms, promising himself that this would never happen again.

Boromir was happy that, for once, Faramir was not waiting for him at the door. The four-year-old's small sphere of the world consisted of the two highest levels of the citadel, and every time Boromir left them, whether for school or play, Faramir would always wait impatiently for his return.

Except for today. Boromir, returning from a long, confusing lesson about holding his sword (why he needed to hold it differently was beyond him), found that the entry way where Faramir usually waiting, chewing chestnuts contentedly while swinging his feet lazily on a stone bench, was empty. "Good," he sighed, rushing up to the baths. Father would be angry if he was late to supper, and putting up with his baby brother's questions would surely mean that he would have to shorten his bath. And, o! did his muscles ache!

"Bo?" Boromir looked up at the name, expecting to find Faramir, intruding once again on his bath, but looking instead into the face of Colins, the youngest servant in the household and Boromir's best friend. "The Steward has left his rooms. If you don't hurry, he'll be at the dining hall before you." There was apprehension and warning in Colins' voice, a sure sign that something had gone wrong in the household while Boromir was away for the day.

Boromir nodded, thankful for the tip, and threw on his clothes in a hurry. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to ignore his aching muscles and he rushed out of the room. He was halfway down the hall before Colins caught up to him.

"Shoes, Bo?" The blond servant smiled, thrusting the boots into Boromir's arms.

"Were you not here, Colins, I would forget my own head." Boromir laughed, "Do not ever let me go to war without you." Even at nine, he knew that one day he would participate in one of the wars that were fought around Gondor, would probably lead men into one of the seemingly unending battles. Colins would indeed go with him into battle, would save Boromir's life o n four separate occasions before dying under an orc spear in the Battle of Osgiliath, the last battle Boromir participated in before joining the Fellowship.

But neither knew their futures as nine year olds, standing in the hallway in the cold waning sun, and Colins laughed a little, because he knew that his Bo (he was the only one, other than Faramir, to think of Boromir as "his Bo") would, indeed, forget his head in the morning if Colins didn't remind him to screw it on tight. "Don't keep your father waiting."

Boromir tugged on his boots as he ran, skidding to a halt in front of the door to the dining hall just as he buckled the last clasp. He looked up at one of the guards in front of the door. "He in there yet?" Everyone who lived on the top level of the citadel worked together so as not to incur the wrath of the Steward more often than strictly necessary.

His father entered just as Boromir managed to sit down in way that made it look like he'd been waiting in the same spot for an hour. Denethor raised one eyebrow at him as he took a seat opposite Boromir, fifteen feet away. "How were your lessons, Boromir?" His father asked, already eating the first course that had been placed in front of him.

"Interesting. Although I realized today that I am not quite the master of swords I thought I was." That revelation came only after going seven rounds with a fifteen-year-old, the apprentice of the blacksmith, and being thoroughly beating every time. And his muscles ached so! "I had to leave early to escape the rain."

Denethor, as he usually did, seemed completely uninterested in Boromir's day. And his son was fine with that. The less time he spent with his father, the better. Tonight, Boromir knew that he would be regaling Faramir with the same story, adding details, real and imagined, until his baby brother's eyes widened with wonder at the adventures his older brother always seemed to have without him.

Thinking of Faramir made Boromir glance around the table, which was empty of the four-year-old's happy chatter. A prickling unease lifted the tiny hairs on the back of his neck when he realized that Faramir wasn't present, but he dismissed the gut feeling as gooseflesh from the cold.

It wasn't until near the end of the penultimate course that Boromir mustered up the courage to ask his nagging question. "Father, will Faramir be joining us for supper?"

"Your brother has disgraced me in front of a trader. He will not receive his supper until he has learned to be respectful to his betters."

Boromir had to bite his tongue to keep from retorting that his shy, polite little brother would never have dishonored their father by being rude to his guests. He couldn't even say that it was wrong for a four-year-old boy to be denied supper, because his father glared at him so coolly that Boromir bowed his head over his plate, cheeks hot with indignation.

He asked to be excused within five minutes of his father's callous announcement and received the usual reply, the monosyllabic "go." Boromir fled the room as quickly as he could without appearing to be fleeing and caught Colins' sleeve as soon as he left the hall. "Where is Faramir?"

Colins, Faramir's preferred playmate whenever Boromir was unavailable, furrowed his small brow in sudden worry. "I haven't seen him since this morning. The Steward requested him to sing in front of one of his guests."

That was unsurprising in itself, for Faramir, with his high, unchanged soprano, was easily one of the best singers in Gondor, and Denethor often called on him to sing. It was the only in singing that their father rated Faramir as Boromir's better. "You did not see him after?"

"No." The worry that Boromir felt flitted obviously across Colins' face. "Usually he stays in the kitchens in the afternoon, but I went down there earlier to get warm and he wasn't anywhere."

The slow feeling of panic that had been boiling in the pit of Boromir's stomach expanded suddenly, choking of his speech with worry. Finally able to talk past the sizable lump, he said, "Search the kitchens again, and all the rooms on the upper floor. Check his usual hiding places."

Colins barely heard the words before he was off, and a second later Boromir was peeling off in the opposite direction. Checking the entire main floor, especially accounting for all the places a rather small four-year-old could possibly hide, would be no easy task. He ruled out the courtyards and the Great Hall automatically – they were too cold for Faramir to hide in – but a careful check of the remaining rooms yielded only more worry, now intense, in the pit of his stomach.

In desperation, he started the courtyards, praying that his little brother had not decided to hide under a bench and had frozen in the cold wind and weather. Boromir knew that winter sicknesses could kill. He'd seen it happen to many young friends over his short lifetime.

One courtyard was barred from the inside, and Boromir had to find Colins in order to lift the heavy pieces of timber. The desolate, grassy area was, at first glance, deserted. Boromir almost backed up, almost lifted the heavy beams to re-bar the entrance, when suddenly Colins broke from his side, crossing the small area in a few long strides.

Faramir was curled in a ball, his lips blue, his eyes closed. His clothes and skin were soaked with cold rain, but when Boromir went to lift him into his arms he flinched back at the force of the fever emanating from Faramir's body. Trying again, he knelt and shook the boy, feeling suddenly sick to his stomach at the thought of his brother out in the cold all afternoon.

"Faramir? Little brother, it is time to wake up." The feeling of relief that washed over him as piercing blue eyes opened to meet his own was…indescribable.

"Bo?" Even as Faramir talked, Boromir was scooping him into his arms. As soon as they exited the courtyard, Colins draped a heavy blanket around the younger son of Denethor. Faramir leaned his head into the crook of Boromir's neck, that little spot, Faramir claimed, had been made just for him.

"I is hungry, Bo." Faramir yawned, pink tongue extending beyond blue lips. Boromir turned over his shoulder to tell Colins to run ahead to the baths, to make sure there was one that was warm (not hot. Long ago his instructors had impressed on him the importance of warming up a freezing person slowly). But Colins was already gone, sprinting ahead, leaving the brothers to themselves.

Boromir knew he had a temper. Knew, because everyone he'd ever met had told him to attempt to control it. And he did try that night, as he looked at his brother, who was well on his way to a flu or worse. "Faramir…" he started, though he was loathe to disturb the boy who seemed to have fallen asleep against his chest. "Faramir, why were you in the courtyard?"

If his little brother had said that their father made him stand in the courtyard all afternoon, Boromir would have…he didn't know what he would have done. Denethor was his world, and though even at nine he knew the man was bitter, twisted, and sometimes even cruel, the Steward was the only person standing between Boromir and the harsh world. He tried to make it different for Faramir, tried to become a mentor, a father, in addition to a brother, yet Faramir still constantly sought their father's praise. And never received it.

But Faramir didn't accuse his father, not of this act (though there would be worse in their lifetimes. Their father had two sons, and he only needed one as his successor. The other, in his mind, was weak. Expendable.) Instead, the four-year-old snuggled further into Boromir's warm chest. "I was hidin'." The young boy confessed. "Fwom you."

"Why?" Boromir asked, genuinely surprised at the answer. He didn't need the constant reminders from the servants, teachers, staff that were constantly in and out of the citadel to know that Faramir hero-worshipped him.

"Fadder is mad at me." Faramir murmured, "Said I don't get no supper. I is hungry, Bo." Faramir said again, his voice low and sleepy.

"I know, kiddo. What happened with father?"

Faramir sighed, a strangely old sound. "He said I…'sippointed him." Disappointed him. A, there was a phrase that Denethor liked to whip out. No matter how many times Boromir told his brother that he was smart, strong, interesting, worthwhile, Denethor could always breath Faramir's spirit with those few words. "Said I can't do anything right."

"Ah. And you thought I'd be the same as father?" Even though Boromir had never said a harsh word against his little brother. Faramir was the world to him, a bright light in his otherwise strict upbringing. The small nod against his shoulder hurt him deeper than any of the bruises on his body.

In that short walk to the bath, Boromir tried to impress upon his brother that he would never be disappointed in him, that he would never overlook him, that he would never, ever, be like their father.

It wasn't until years later, when Faramir celebrated his eighteenth birthday by riding into battle on their father's orders, that Boromir realized that the love of a brother may not be enough.

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