My Brothers In Arms

For angel_death_dealer. Who demanded her promised baby Faramir story as my punishment for reading things I should not. I hope you're happy now, my duck, because my angst-y little ways have returned.

I understand that Finduilas is a Dúnadan, and therefore by Tolkien's descriptions the brother's should be similarly dark haired, my depictions are somewhat wrong. But it is not often I get to write of fox-haired children, and so I entertain the idea of the Faramir from the movies into my little sandbox.

Disclaimer: As par the course, the characters of note, of whom any recognise, belong to Tolkien in some form or another. Although other characters belong to themselves, despite my belief they are mine, they have too much life of their own for that to be truth.

Prologue

She was on par with the princesses. By the age of five his mother, having filled his head with such fanatically beautiful tales of fantasy and fable, was to him one of the old princesses, her pale beauty and dark hair were never perfectly caught in the portraits of the House, but they served as a permanent reminder to him of his princess-like mother.

They served a better reminder than his own memory, which oft woke him, crying in the dark of the night, the image of his mother, paler than pale, dark hair limp and thin on her pillow, thin lips parted as she panted her final breaths, her silver eyes hidden as her hand slipped from his...

The tightening of fingers around his hand drew him from his thoughts, and he tipped his head upwards, meeting the eyes of his brother. Boromir's own grey eyes swum with unshed tears, and again he squeezed at the tiny fingers trapped within his own, promising he was there for his brother. Faramir in turn took a slow breath – unheeding of the tears tracking down his face – and returned his gaze to the pyre. His mother lay within the flames, her ashes rising with the aid of the wind, and Faramir shuddered as he watched the shrouded form burn.

The lament was starting up behind him, rising to travel through the air to the silent watchers gathered to mourn, but he blocked it away, it mattered not anyway, he wanted his mother, who lay in the flames before him, he wanted his father...

He tipped his head again, not towards his brother, but to his father instead. The man stood as tall as ever, a single mark on his face evidence to his grieving, though he had forbidden even his children to cry. To Faramir he cut a terrifying sight, as tall and domineering as ever, swathed in black robes of mourning, and never once looking from the flames that were interning his late wife.

The clutch on his hand tightened again, and Faramir suddenly found himself swathed in the strong hold of Boromir's arms. He twisted into the safety, turning his head from his mother's body to bury his head in his brother's shoulder, and silent wept.

His tears led to exhaustion, and he slept, for the next thing he was aware of was Boromir setting him back onto his feet, clutching his shoulders as he swayed back from his dreams of his ailing mother, and long fingers wiped at the tears that still clung to his face.

"Ai, little fox, your cheeks are like frost!" he exclaimed, bundling the small child to his side again, for although the pyre had been high, they had stood a short distance from it, and the winter was settling in for the long haul, the encroaching air thick with the promise of the morning frosts. It had been pneumonia to finally take the ever weakening Finduilas from Middle Earth, and her youngest son who had ever stayed at her side whilst her husband ruled and her eldest fretted; it was understandable therefore that Boromir worried for the small imp that reminded him greatly of their mother, in constitution as much as in countenance, for her health had been waning within, if not prior to, the pregnancy of her youngest, and as such the child was often sickly

Faramir for his part made no reply, but turned his face back into his brother's shoulder, seeking his sibling's body heat and unknowingly avoiding their father's disapproving gaze.

"Faramir-" Denethor began, upset at the child's behaviour through the service, but silenced himself at Boromir's frown, as the elder boy clutched the small fox-haired head to his body and nodded his head towards his father.

"It grows cold out here, father," he stated carefully "And neither Faramir nor myself have eaten today in our grief, perhaps this conversation is better suited for the morn?" he allowed for no response, a daring act from a child of ten and only three years into his page service, but instead turned to sweep back into the familial rooms of the House, leaving Denethor to stand at his mourning post alone, and watch the ashes fly on the wind, as the attendants stood by and waited.