"And afterwards a like dream came oft to him again. . ."
It was not unusual for the younger prince to spend far more time in the Houses of Healing than his vivacious and hale elder brother, but Faramir's recovery proved much longer and slower than anyone had anticipated. Some days Boromir would arrive to find Faramir impatiently pacing the halls, loudly voicing his desire to be released and only partly mollified by the delivery of new books. (What precisely was left in the libraries for his brother to read, Boromir knew not, but Faramir always sent him away with another list of manuscripts to go digging about in search of.) Other times Boromir would arrive to find his brother sprawled listlessly upon his couch, his skin pale and clammy to the touch and his eyes wandering lazily without focus. Faramir refused to admit to any particular pain, though, and the Healers were at their wit's end to find any trace of illness.
Boromir's suggestion that Faramir be allowed to return to the rooms they had shared since childhood, in hopes that a change of scenery might lead to the improvement of Faramir's condition, was met with eager gratitude. That evening, though, Boromir was roused from sleep by the sounds of his brother doing battle with some unseen force. The light of the full moon cast eerie shadows about Faramir's room and glinted upon the sweat of his brow. Boromir was unable to tell it was his touch or his voice which roused Faramir from his troubled dreams, and his fears were not allayed in the least when his brother began speaking rapidly in an unfamiliar Elvish dialect and seemed to have forgotten how to speak in the Common Tongue. After much reassurance, though, Boromir managed to soothe his brother back to sleep, and to his relief Faramir showed no signs of fatigue or illness the next day, nor the next, nor the next. Indeed, months later Boromir had nearly forgotten the incident entirely, and ascribed Faramir's strange dreams to lingering effects of his illness.
He should have known better. Nothing ever happened to his gifted, intelligent, and decidedly exceptional brother by accident.
When not in the field, Faramir generally spent his days huddled over some obscure text in the poorly heated archive rooms, regardless of the weather. As such, it was common for him to develop colds that he would go to great lengths to conceal to avoid being banned from the drafty halls of books. He generally succeeded when it came to deceiving their father, as Denethor paid little attention to him as a rule. It was more difficult, however, for Faramir to avoid his brother's notice. Boromir was therefore taken aback when he returned to their room one evening after a thoroughly pleasant sparring session with a few of the Guards of the Citadel to find a pale, waxy figure with disheveled hair and darkened eyes curled in a chair before the fire with a dark blue mantle that Boromir recognized all too well.
The younger prince looked up at Boromir's entrance gave a rueful sort of smile. "What would you say, brother, if I told you I was losing my wits?" Faramir asked, his voice strained with coughs that wracked his entire frame.
Boromir poured out a cup of water from the basin that stood near. "I would inquire as to why it took you so long to mention it," he replied, only half in earnest.
"Be serious for one moment, Boromir," Faramir rebuked him. "I am not jesting – something is truly wrong with me."
Boromir waited until Faramir's shaking hands were wrapped around the proffered cup before releasing it. "If you were prancing about the halls in brightly colored rags singing hymns of praise to Yavanna , I might believe you were losing your wits, Faramir. As it stands, seeing you pale and drawn and moping about the halls brooding is, of course, concerning, but not much removed from the normal state of affairs after you have sustained some grievous hurt. And you have suffered much of late, brother."
Faramir waved his hand dismissively. "Yes, yes. But I have had worse wounds inflicted upon my body and my soul, though, and have never had to deal with such . . . long-reaching consequences." He rubbed at his forehead wearily before slipping his hands beneath the blanket again.
Boromir sat back on his haunches and glanced over his brother with the long-suffering gaze unique to older sibling. "I wish you would confide in me that which seems to plague your heart so, Faramir," he said softly. "Perhaps by sharing your burden you might relieve yourself of it."
"Would that I could, Boromir," Faramir replied cryptically. "It would be a relief to my mind to know that I am not, indeed, becoming crazed. We shall see what rede the dawn shall bring after this night." The younger prince fell quiet and offered nothing further, and there room was filled with only the sounds of the fire crackling busily on the hearth.
Boromir rose with a sigh and began to ready himself for sleep – if Faramir would not seek his couch there was little his brother could do to force him, and Boromir was weary and eager for the peace of rest. He was just about to climb into his bed when Faramir roused himself from the chair and moved to the window.
"It is as I thought," Faramir murmured as he gazed at the cloudless sky above. "A good night for magic, 'tis said."
"Pardon?" Boromir asked, bewildered.
"It is the full moon, brother dear," Faramir replied, as if that explained all. And as it happened, it did.