He arrived alone and unheralded on a pale, rain-washed morning – a weary traveller bespattered with the mud and dirt of many leagues. From Lossarnach to Anorien he had ridden pausing only for a mouthful of bread and fresh horses. Now at his journey’s end, he was conscious of nothing but a cold sweating fear clenching and unclenching in his belly, and for a moment he felt as though he might be sick.

            “Faramir was near death,” his father had written in his small precise script, “and I believe that it was the medicine woman’s skill alone that brought him back from the precipice. I left him in her care, for he could not be moved, nor could I stay. I do not know yet if his arm is safe. Go Boromir and see him, and when he is well enough, say that I send for him. You know what is in my mind, but give him no other message from me, for you know his contrary nature. I give him into your keeping and I shall be grateful if he lives – I ask the Valar for nothing more.”

            Near death. Boromir shivered. Once before, he had known a great sorrow, a childish sadness that had diminished with the fleeting of the years, until in manhood the memory of his mother’s passing was no more than an old wound that ached when the wind blew too keenly. Now he was afraid, deeply afraid that he too would drink from the cup of bitterness that had been his father’s; for his young brother’s death would bring him a grief like no other, a red rending of the heart and soul from which there would be no healing. 

            Here, in this quiet place where the village path straggled into the woods, here in this old house of yellow sandstone wreathed with climbing ivy and honeysuckle lay his young brother – dead or maimed perhaps - he did not know. He was not a man much given to prayer, but now Boromir closed his eyes and whispered with all the force of his will: O Valar, do not take my brother from me. Let me find him alive and whole. In payment for his life, I offer mine in return. Let it be so. Please let it be so. When he looked up into the green oak leaves trembling in the breeze, he saw that they were heavy and jewel-bright with dew and the iron grey sky told him nothing. So the Valar kept their secrets.   

            He tied his horse to the remains of a stone gate post and took with a heavy tread the smooth-scooped steps that led up to an ancient bronze-studded door. Thrice he knocked, then waited in impatient silence. For a long while, Boromir heard nothing save for the distant cries of woodland creatures and the burbling of a nearby stream; nor could he spy anything through the thick whorled window glass. He was about to knock again when the door creaked open and a young woman in a dress of plain juniper green wool stood before him. Long hair she had, the colour of a robin’s breast feathers, and a pale delicate face, pretty enough, save that eyes that met his own were the lightless eyes of the blind.

            Swallowing his surprise, he said rapidly, “Good morrow, lady. I am Boromir son of Denethor. I seek Faramir my brother. Is he here?”

            With smiling grace, the girl made her obeisance. “Greetings my Lord and peace be upon you. I am Nienna, healer and sister to Haldor of Anorien and I bid you welcome. Your coming will be a great comfort to the Lord Faramir. He has spoken of naught but you these two days past.” 

            Faramir was alive. A flood of relief, greater than any than he had ever known. In a rush Boromir demanded, “Is he well? The arm – ”

            Laughing, she said, “He is well, and the arm is a little stiff at the elbow, no more. But unless I am much mistaken all will be as it was. Oh my Lord, let you not be standing here – make haste, for Lord Faramir awaits. Here, let me take your horse, and I will see him fed and watered.”

            “Nay! Surely that is a man’s task.” 

            “I have stabled my brother’s horses since I was a child, and I handle them as well as any man,” Nienna lifted her chin with gentle pride. “Yours will do well enough with me.”   

            “I meant no offence, Mistress. Only that I do not mean to trouble the lady of house with such an errand.”

            “And there is none taken, my Lord.” She descended the steps with the nimbleness of long use and took the reins with an expert hand. “Your coming will bring Lord Faramir much joy. Go now, follow the path by the round pond and you will find him in the garden under the cherry tree.”

            “Thank you.” For an anxious moment he was tempted to linger and watch, to offer his assistance, yet he had no wish to insult his hostess. With a small sigh, he shook his head and did as she bade him.     

*          *          *         

            Long ago the walled garden had been part of a small villa complex, a summer retreat of a noble family longing to exchange the heat of Minas Tirith for green country and good hunting. In later years as the grand house and its family fell from splendour, its apple orchards returned to the wild and the garden, with its carefully sculpted beauties withered and died.

Pausing at the half-ruined archway that opened into the shaded greenness within, Boromir heard the first faint notes of harp music trembling in the still cold air. Then like a dream, a familiar voice rising, rich and honey-warm into song, and he saw in the far corner of the garden under the gnarled boughs of a cherry tree a slight young man with a harp on his knee. Faramir. For a time, he stood listening, hot tears burning in his eyes, and remembered another singer, another voice and the silver harp that had gone with her beyond the circles of the world.

His feet made no sound, for he had a warrior’s lightness of tread; and as he passed the mossy crumbling wall that sheltered neat squared plots of kingsfoil, rosemary, lavender and thyme, the singer in the dappled shadows sang on.          

A sparkle through the darkling trees,

a piercing glint of light he sees,

and there she dances all alone

upon a treeless knoll of stone!

Her mantle blue with jewels white

Caught all the rays of frosted light.

She shone with cold and wintry flame,

as dancing down the hill she came,

and passed his watchful silent gaze,

a glimmer as of stars ablaze…

“Greetings, brother,” he said huskily, “You sing well enough for a man sick unto death.”

“Boromir!”

Joyfully, they embraced; laughing, he held the other man at arm’s length, and after a long searching look, said, “Yes, it is I! But is this truly you Faramir, or do my eyes cheat me?”

“Of course it is,” Faramir scoffed. “Am I so changed since we met last summer that you do not know your own brother?” 

“Aye, you have, for I see a new sorrow in your eyes. You’ve grown up, little one,” Boromir replied lightly, then laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I am sorry I could not come before, but with all this rain there was nothing left of the roads from Lossarnach but bog.”   

“You are here now, and for that I am glad,” Faramir said simply. With the eagerness of a child, he fell to gathering up the harp he had laid aside, the quill and sheet music that fluttered to the ground with the excitement of Boromir’s arrival, “Will you be staying long with us? Oh Boromir, I have so much to say to you.”

“No. I shall stay only till the morrow’s morrow,” Boromir said, as the delight faded from his brother’s face. “Our father’s business calls me home,” and hesitating, added, “but before we ride away, I must speak with Haldor. I have sent for him and – ”  

“We?” Faramir asked sharply. “What do you mean?”

“We.” He felt his heart sinking, for the old wariness had come into Faramir’s eyes. “Brother, sit with me a while. I have something to tell you.”

So, they sat together on a worn military cloak Faramir had spread over the stone bench mottled with damp and with a deep breath, Boromir began, “It is our father’s wish that you come home with me. He would like – very much – to see you again.”   

A small hard silence followed. At length, Faramir turned to him and said with a careful blankness, “Does he? He saw me not four nights ago, is that not enough?”

“Faramir –”

“Please Boromir, say no more. He commands my presence and as I am a soldier of Gondor, I must obey my Lord the Steward or else be forsworn,” then, softly, almost under his breath, “I have not forgotten my oath.”

“Little brother, it is not like that. He calls you home, as a father to a son.” 

“Home?” Faramir exclaimed, then with a great effort stilled himself. “Only tell me, how long must I remain in Minas Tirith? When may I return to Ithilien and my troop?”  

The words stuck in Boromir’s throat, and for a long while he struggled within himself, his loyalties to his father and his brother at war with each other as they had done since the day his mother died. But today, of all days he could not find it in his heart to resist the silent entreaty in Faramir’s dark gaze. It easy, so easy to forget that he was only nineteen summers old, little more than a boy.

“I was not to tell you, but I feel I must,” he said slowly, like a man feeling his way in unfamiliar terrain, “You see, little brother, I have never had the knack of keeping anything from you. What our father has in mind for you I do not know – not precisely anyway – perhaps a place in the Tower Guard or the Osgiliath garrison. But he does mean that you should leave the Company of Ithilien altogether. The danger is too great in Ithilien, he sees that now.”       

            All the while Faramir listened without a word, cradling the harp in his arms like a thing infinitely precious and soon to be lost forever. If Boromir expected an outburst, there was none, only an infinite and terrible stillness.                 

He found himself floundering, for this new Faramir was a stranger to him. “I thought you would be pleased. You could serve with me, and none shall harm you, not while I am by your side. You were waiting for his summons, were you not, these three years past?”

“I waited as a starving beggar hungers for a feast, ‘tis true. The hunger remains, but I have since learned to satisfy myself elsewhere. It was a hard lesson.” He turned to Boromir, “I was writing a song,” he said dully. “Oh it is nothing grand, just a few verses for the joy of making something new. It isn’t any good, really.” Setting the harp aside, Faramir linked his hands with great care, an old boyhood trick he turned to in moments of strain. “Boromir, have ever known how it is to have a thing you love taken from you? Three summers ago I laid down my old life and was born again into this one. It was no easy thing, but I have a family now that I have grown to love. Haldor is like a father to me, I have my sword brothers and here, I have something more…” he paused, and a flush coloured his pale cheeks. “These few days past have been the happiest of my life. But none of that matters to him, does it? He has never cared for me. Not since she died.”   

“I will not let him take this life from me, Boromir. I shall fight him if I must. But because you love him as I do you, I will not ask you to join me. Only promise me that you will not stand in my way, for I am a man grown and must choose my own path. And you need not fear, for I shall fend well enough for myself.”

Profoundly shocked, Boromir did not reply at once. All his life, he had been first in his brother’s affections, and now there was another. Haldor. A man he had never liked; a man whose mind and heart were entirely his own; a man who guarded the ancient privileges and independence of the Rangers with the subtlety and cunning of the fox he was named for. “He is a clever and dangerous man. Beware of him, Boromir and keep him close, for I do not trust him,” his father had once said, and silently, Boromir added to the tally of Haldor’s offences the crime of theft, for he had stolen the one thing that he loved most in the world. In his heart love, guilt and pity warred with hatred and the first black stirrings of jealousy. Yet he could not deny Faramir, for the bond between them would not be broken; he would not suffer Haldor, nor any man to come between them. Mastering himself he answered quietly, “If you are sure - very sure – you have my word.”

“Thank you,” Faramir said, with a smile that lit his eyes. “I have never been more sure of myself.” 

“So, now that our pact is made, I believe that we have left our lovely hostess for far too long and etiquette demands that we should return to the house. I hope that she is a good cook, for I swear that I shall perish if I do not have some stew soon.”

Thoughtfully, Faramir said, “You’d best ask Morwen then.” He raised a fair eyebrow and grinned, “I came close to breaking a tooth on one of Nienna’s honey cakes yesterday. Whatever else she might be, she is no cook.”   

*          *          *

Author’s note:

Dear all, I’m sorry to have left this story hanging for the last 6 years, but here’s my new chapter. It’s been a long time coming, but there are more in the pipeline. This is my first Tolkien fic (or continuation of one) for ages, so I welcome any comments you may have!

This chapter explores a different aspect of the brothers’ relationship – like all elder and over-protective siblings, Boromir needs to let go and let his brother grow up. I think it only natural that Boromir would feel a little threatened that Faramir has found a new home among his fellow rangers, with Haldor as the new father figure in his life.  

The poem I have passed off as Faramir’s is from the Lay of Leithian, Canto III in Christopher Tolkien’s The Lays of Beleriand, 2002 Edition, Harper Collins, page 179.