A story of Boromir's past and Faramir's future
Disclaimer: I own nothing mentioned below in this humble addition to the characters in the world of Tolkien's genius.
Dead.
It couldn't be!
Boromir?
Boromir, the bravest of the brave? The strongest of the strong? The tallest and proudest man in Gondor, the eldest son of the Steward?
Boromir; the Hope of things lost, the Banner unfurled, the Victor against all odds. Boromir; my brother. This courageous Captain of Gondor, dead? Lost?
Faramir pondered these things as he readied for battle. Was his brother really dead? Was the Horn of Gondor silenced forever? He had doubted the vision of his brother as the mysterious boat glided past him that day, but there was the horn, real as real,… broken.
Was it true? Had it sounded its last desperate cry? Had no help come?
He slipped on the livery of the White City and tightened his belt.
But what could explain his brother's pyre? It had been Boromir, sure enough, but he had worn a golden belt, not a usual accessory to his daily attire. His father had never given him one,
of this he was sure.
It was obvious that Boromir was Denethor's favourite son, but he did not wear the belt when he departed, and he would not have hidden such a treasure, but display it with pride to the pleasure of his father. So what was this mysterious belt? Where did it come from? It had been strange, intricate, like those of golden leaves, surely nothing made from the craftsmen of Gondor. Only Elves could make the like. Had he received it in Imladris?
But Faramir could not be sure that his brother had even reached his destination in the dwelling place of the fair folk. Strange tidings indeed he had brought to his country, after seeing the shimmery boat as it slipped past his fingers.
As to the cloven horn,
He recalled, while pulling on a sturdy coat of mail,
It had been found, cloven in two, one shard found somewhere in the waters, and the other in the reeds north to the Entwash where the keepers of Gondor kept watch.
He laced his boots and slid on his leather gloves. He then placed a Captain's helmet upon his head, its iron wings around his brow, and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He looked alike to his brother, although he felt rather the opposite. He was less tall and broad, and somehow looked more like the gentle shepherd of his people than the great victor of a battle.
His heart ached inside of him for the loss of his brother; but also now for his father, for he knew well that in the Steward's eyes he could never take Boromir's place. He was too different. Not bad, weak, or cowardly, just different, but this his father knew not. If only he could see that Faramir was indeed more loyal to his country than his pride (a character that had been lacking in his brother), perhaps a change of heart might occur.
An unwelcome self – pity began to overwhelm the Captain, and he turned his face away from his reflection. Why couldn't he focus on the task at hand? He needn't feel sorry for himself; for his father's hardened heart had always been thus. But why was there pain now? He supposed that it had always been there inside of him, always pushed aside, as he swallowed his pride. But now, after Boromir's death, why did he feel so rejected?
Once again he attempted to push emotion away, but this time it stayed and refused to be cast aside. One solitary tear escaped his eye. Faramir, the strongest of the strong? The bravest of the brave? No, the name of Boromir could never be his own. His only hope was to create for himself his own reputation, for how can one be himself by going against his own character? He had many friends who loved him for who he was, not the battles he won.
Faramir turned back to the mirror. The Son of Gondor now had more than a vision of the past. He had a dream and a hope for the future. With new courage, he strode out to the city and readied his men, then, with a cry he bravely led his troop to Osgiliath. He would someday prove to his father that each man may prove his own worth, judged by his own standard, and that he was just as courageous as Boromir himself. With a victorious hope, he eagerly awaited the dawn of that day.
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