Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

Chapter 4

Faramir was already awake when Haldir arrived the next morning to check on his patient, and he greeted the Elf with a friendly smile. Haldir saw that the swelling was already starting to lessen and the dark purple and blue bruising was not as tender to the touch as it had been the day before.

“Your ankle seems to be less injured than I believed. How is your headache? Do you need something to relieve the pain?” Haldir asked as he walked over to where Faramir was sitting on the edge of the mattress, apparently ready to try a few steps on his sprained ankle.

“No, it’s hardly noticeable,” Faramir replied with a slight frown. He was certain he had fallen asleep in his brother’s embrace… or had he? Boromir was nowhere to be seen so perhaps it was just an illusion? He could not have known that once he had seen his brother settled for the night, Boromir had sought out his own bed.

“Was Boromir really here? I am not sure I am in full control of my senses,” he asked in confusion, the question barely leaving his lips when elvish reflexes reached out with a steadying hand as Faramir swayed slightly from standing up too quickly. Haldir had no time to reply before Boromir, who had just entered the talan, spoke up.

“Aye, little brother I am here, but as for being in control of your senses, well… have you ever been? ” he teased, laughing at Faramir’s scowl as he offered the support of his own arm, drawing him into a warm hug when Haldir moved aside.

“More often that not, fortunately for you,” Faramir replied with a gleam in his eye that spoke to Boromir of mischief and instinctively he knew exactly to what Faramir was alluding. The look that passed between the two acknowledged the many times a certain elder son of the Steward, in his cups from a rowdy night at the tavern with his soldiers, had been seen safely and discretely escorted to his chambers by his younger sibling. They both laughed heartily at the shared memory.

“I take it my brother is well enough to be allowed to bathe? He certainly needs to,” Boromir asked Haldir, his mood still jovial.

“So do you, you are certainly no sweet smelling flower,” Faramir retorted, feigning insult by pushing his brother away. Haldir smiled at the affectionate byplay and nodded his head.

“Aye, but only if you promise not to try and drown each other,” he said with an amused smile on his lips and sounding to both men like a parent scolding boisterous sons. Haldir turned to leave but was stopped by an unexpected embrace.

“I can not thank you enough for rescuing Boromir,” Faramir said with sincere gratitude.

“You are welcome, but I did naught but my Lady’s bidding,” the Elf replied with a hint of pride.

“Then next time you see her, please offer her my thanks as well. I would do so myself, but I doubt that the Lady Galadriel will ever be seen in Minas Tirith again.”

“Nay she will not, and we shall all bear the burden of her loss,” Haldir spoke with unaccountable sadness and Faramir wondered what he meant although somehow he knew now was not the time to ask. Haldir nodded a silent thanks for the man’s understanding and left the brothers to prepare for their bathing expedition.

***************

Having inadvertently capsized his boat on one occasion as he journeyed to Amon Hen, Faramir knew that the waters of the Great River and the many streams that fed it ran ice cold in these parts, so he was surprised to find the water of the bathing pool was of a more pleasant temperature.

“It is warmed by the heat coming from a hot spring somewhere at the bottom of the pool,” Boromir explained as they quickly undressed.

“Boromir.” The name was spoken in a soft, pained whisper and Faramir could not stifle his gasp of alarm when he saw the new, pink skin stretched to form the ragged scars on his brother’s upper body, scars that Boromir knew would never completely heal thanks to the poison on the Uruk’s arrowheads.

“Not a pretty sight, are they?” Boromir asked, flinching slightly at the tenderness of the wounds he still felt in when he allowed Faramir to lightly trace the one closest to his heart.

“Nor are mine,” Faramir replied as he lifted his under tunic over his head to reveal the scars of badly burned flesh. Boromir’s response was a sharply indrawn breath and a rapid increase in his heart beat as anger and sorrow at his brother’s mistreatment overwhelmed him with full force.

“Those are not the only marks you bear, are they?” he asked gently wiping away the single tear that traced a path down Faramir’s cheek. No words were needed as he saw the answer in the pain in his brother’s downcast eyes. Meeting death in battle was something every soldier accepted might be his lot, but facing death at your own father’s hand was something else entirely.

Boromir was grateful they had both escaped their fate, that the wounds to their bodies were healing, but as for the heartache Faramir was still suffering… Boromir swore silently that he would do all that he could to appease it.

“Do you want to talk about father?” he asked, the offer of comfort to be taken in sharing Faramir’s pain obvious in the softly spoken words.

“Not yet, I would rather not let such a dark time intrude on my happiness at finding you alive,” Faramir replied with affection.

“Missed having me around to annoy, did you little brother?’ Boromir’s tone was playful and served to lighten the sombre mood.

“Me? Annoy you? As I recall, it was usually the other way around.” Faramir rolled his eyes and snorted with mock derision, a sound that changed quickly to a yelp of surprise when, without warning, Boromir lifted an unsuspecting Faramir over his shoulder and unceremoniously dunked him in the water.

Faramir came up spluttering, outraged as much by Boromir’s laughter as at having been caught off guard, the look on his face giving his brother fair warning of his intent.

“This means war, big brother!” Faramir declared, using words that both recognised from their childhood.

“For Gondor! ” Boromir shouted the expected reply, his eyes alight with amusement as he waved his fist in the air and then brought it down fast onto the surface of the pool near Faramir, splashing water all over his face.

Faramir responded by swimming out of reach, then disappeared below the surface, revealing his whereabouts when he pulled Boromir’s legs from under him causing him to fall backwards. Naturally Boromir had no choice but to retaliate and the battle raged only for a few minutes before both were forced by breathlessness and tiredness to declare a truce and head for the shore.

Dressed only in their leggings, the brothers lay side by side on the soft green grass, allowing the warmth of the sun to dry them, simply enjoying each other’s presence.

“Tell me about Rivendell, did you meet Arwen there?” Faramir asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence after a time. Boromir raised himself up on one elbow and favoured his brother with a disapproving glance.

“Aye, I did, but I hope you do not address our Queen in such an informal manner,” he said reprovingly, only now realising that he was speaking to the new Steward of Gondor, the role that had fallen to Faramir as the only surviving heir, at least as far as everyone else knew.

“I have been given leave to do so in private conversation, just as I, and those close to him, I hasten to add, refer to the King as Aragorn,” Faramir replied, unknowingly breaking into his brother’s musings.

“Then there is no insult. As for Rivendell…”

It was fortuitous that Boromir had packed some bread and fruit for a noon meal because the morning soon faded into afternoon as he spent several hours describing all that he had seen and done both on his journey to Rivendell and after his arrival. Faramir’s curiosity was insatiable and he was so enthralled by the tale that Boromir did not begrudges answering the many questions he found to ask along the way. Faramir noted that his brother was reluctant to speak of the hobbits and Frodo in particular, and just as Boromir had done with his questions about Denethor, Faramir allowed the subject to pass unremarked. There was plenty of time ahead to delve into the darker side of their lives.

“Your turn to answer questions now little brother. How does my city fare?” The yearning and love in his voice as Boromir said the words ‘my city’ came as no surprise to Faramir who knew how deeply engrained Minas Tirith was in his brother’s heart. He watched the myriad of emotions pass over the elder man’s face changing swiftly from anguish as listened to description of the destruction caused during the war, to grateful joy when informed of the restoration plans.

“Once Legolas, Gimli and their friends have finished their work, the city will be even more beautiful than before. I’ll wager you can hardly wait to return,” Faramir said with his own sense of pride emerging in his voice. Boromir remained silent, pondering whether now was the time to tell Faramir about the choice he had made. It took but a heartbeat for him to realise that no matter when he heard the news Faramir would be disappointed.

“I will not be returning to Minas Tirith, Faramir,” he said his heart breaking even as he said the words. Faramir’s eyes widened with astonishment and his throat became so tight and dry he could barely whisper an agonised “Why not?”

“There is no place for me there now,” Boromir replied trying to fins the words to explain his reasons.

“You are the Steward! It is your duty to return and serve the King!” Faramir exclaimed, knowing he would willingly step aside for his brother. He was content to be the Prince of Ithilien only.

“Nay, ‘tis you who are the Steward,” Boromir replied, shaking his head for emphasis. “I forfeited the right to stake that claim when I allowed myself to be seduced by Sauron’s ring. I cannot be trusted when I dishonoured myself and those I had sworn to protect, especially Frodo. Faramir, please understand, I. suffer from the same weakness as father, the same weakness that Aragorn feared flowed in his blood, and that had kept him in exile all these years.”

How well he now understood how harshly he had misjudged Aragorn. His reluctance to take the throne until he overcame his fears had been the only choice possible for a man of honour. As was Boromir’s choice now.

“Sauron is destroyed, you have nothing to fear from him any more,” Faramir reminded him.

“Perhaps not, although I can still hear his voice in my mind in the dark of night. I am not fully rid of his influence and what if another evil should arise? I would be a danger to all that I love and not only because of my fallibility,” Boromir replied with immense sadness.

“What do you mean?” A cold shiver ran down Faramir’s spine at the look on Boromir’s face. “Boromir, what is wrong?”

“My days may yet be numbered.”

“No, that cannot be, you look so well!” Faramir declared desperately.

“ I have tried my best to hide it, but my injuries have not fully healed, nor are they likely to. I have trouble enough breathing when I walk let alone when trying to wield a sword, my shield arm is useless and at times my scars ache as if they were freshly made. I can no longer lead our army, I am a broken warrior, little brother.”

Faramir was shocked beyond words. He had never seen his brother so totally devastated and knowing not what to say to ease his brother’s pain, Faramir simply enfolded Boromir in his arms and held him close as the tears streamed freely down both their faces.