Author's Note: Ok, so I really don't know where I'm going with this… I just
really wanted to write about them. Be warned though, there really isn't a
plot. I'm just exploring different situations and interactions between the
father and brothers, trying to explain motivations and reasonings behind
things we see in Lord of the Rings… I've read a couple stories about these
guys and I'm afraid mine isn't all that good.. Nonetheless I felt compelled
to write it. Still not happy with it though… But oh well. See what you
think. (and uh, yeah, you guessed it, I'm not Tolkein).
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Boromir sat at his desk, staring out the window. The sun was high and the air was warm and sweet-scented. How he longed to be out there. He wished he could go riding, or train, anything but this. The 14-year-old boy would rather do anything than sit cooped up, hunched over a book. But it was required that the Heir of the Steward of Gondor was learned not only as a captain and warrior but as a scholar.
"Master Boromir?" Boromir's head snapped up, startled. His teacher was staring at him with a raised eyebrow. "Would you mind turning your attention back to the books and away from the window?" Boromir let out a loud, deliberate yawn. Nonetheless, he turned his focus back to the book once more.
Beside him, sat his younger brother Faramir, who seemed much more interested in whatever it was they were supposed to be reading. Nine years had passed since that fateful day, and Boromir had now grown into a sturdy young man. Faramir resembled him closely, though his hair was much darker, nearly black, and he was of a thinner, smaller frame. His face was more like that of his father, while Boromir's resembled more his mother's. But they both had the same gray eyes, and once seen together, they could not be mistaken as anything but brothers.
Faramir turned his discerning eyes on Boromir, and furrowed his brow, obviously annoyed with his older brother's lack of interest. Boromir squirmed slightly, feeling uncomfortable as Faramir pried at his thoughts. He and Father both seemed to always be doing that, without consciously intending to even; it just came naturally. Boromir, however, seemed to have missed out on that gift.
"Of what significance is this anyway?" demanded Boromir of his teacher. "Why should I care about Arnor's wars with Angmar. They lost, they died, and their kingdom is gone. What more matters?"
"They didn't all die," Faramir pointed out. "In fact, some even say the line of kings still endures, somewhere hidden in the North."
"That's rubbish, Faramir. Don't listen to the ramblings of silly commoners," he said.
"Nurse told me!" persisted Faramir. Boromir bit his lip and looked away, with a grumpy shrug.
Their teacher stood awkwardly in front of them. Taking advantage of the pause between the brothers, he spoke. "It is true that there were many who survived the war with the Witch-King of Angmar, and that there still remain a remnant of the lost Kingdom of Arnor… But they are merely a poor, wandering people, and all dignity has been forgotten in the North. I highly doubt any Heir of Isildur exists."
"Perhaps Mithrandir will know," said Faramir to himself. Boromir rolled his eyes and shook his head with a smile, which Faramir returned.
"Is anything troubling you, brother?" asked Faramir after the lessons for the day were finished.
"Why?" asked Boromir.
"Nothing, you just seem impatient. Anything wrong?"
"Nay, it is naught," answered Boromir. "Only today is such a fine day, and there is so much else I might have been doing rather than learning about some kingdom of Isildur that perished a thousand years ago." Faramir sighed. "Yes, I know you love this stuff, Faramir," he added with a laugh.
Faramir smiled up at his older brother. "Well, lessons are over now. If you wish, we could still get some training time in before dinner."
"That sounds like a good plan," agreed Boromir.
Faramir picked at the food on his plate, feeling a bit nervous. It was the fist dinner their father had had time to eat with them in a few weeks. Often they ate with Elonwe, their nurse. He enjoyed those nights much more this these; they were always over-formal and uptight, and he felt he had to watch every word he said. There was much that went on that silently that Boromir did not notice, so of course, he was always more relaxed. Faramir usually remained silent at these meals, speaking only when spoken to. If the steward was in a decent mood, he would chat with Boromir about how their days had been, Boromir's accomplishments, or things he struggled with. They would talk of Gondor and of enemies, and allies, and things that needed to be done. Faramir paid close attention to all that they said, but kept most of his opinions and ideas to himself. Denethor ignored him usually, but on some days when he seemed to have had a bad day, and was in a foul mood, he seemed to always take it out on Faramir.
"Why aren't you eating?" Faramir looked up from his plate. "What's wrong with the food? Not good enough?"
"I'm not very hungry, Father," he answered.
"Not hungry, eh? Were you eating earlier? Did you have dinner before this with some other company?"
"No, sir."
Denethor's eyes narrowed in annoyance and thought. He disliked these court, polite answers, especially from Faramir. He knew that though Faramir seemed to like to keep to himself, he had a tongue of its own and would ask questions for hours on end, if given the chance. He had observed Boromir and Faramir before, and knew that Faramir was not always so quiet. Why then, was he so silent whenever with him? He was being careful, trying not to let anything slip, Denethor decided. Which meant the boy must be hiding something.
"No sir? That's all you can say?"
Faramir hesitated, stopping himself from responding automatically with another "No sir." His mouth opened as he sought for something to say to fill this awkward silence.
"And now you simply say nothing!"
Faramir hung his head. Denethor chewed his lip, staring with cold eyes at the small, black-haired boy sitting by him. Then he looked away and turned to his food. Faramir wanted to ask, "What would you have me say, Father?" and the words hung on his tongue but they would not come, and then the moment as passed. The silence has stretched miserably long and it was too late to say something now.
Boromir took a bite of his food, feeling a bit uncomfortable. He glanced from brother to father as the three of them sat together at the table in silence. It was nights like these, when he missed more than ever, the cheerful, understanding presence of his mother. But her seat, opposite the steward, was empty and cold, as it had been for years. And though he made no sign of it, Denethor was also grieving her absence at that very moment. And with her absence came Faramir's presence. Denethor thought it a most unfair trade, for the boy sat silent and secretive, observant and judgemental, much like himself. He much preferred the open honesty, emotion and cheerfulness of Boromir… of Finduilas. Perhaps it was this likeness to himself that made Denethor detest Faramir so. And yet there were other qualities unlike him as well, qualities which he despised. The boys' thoughts were constantly straying away from Gondor, to days long past, and he doted on absurd wives tales and foolish tales of crackpot wizards.
"How was you day, Father?" asked Boromir at last.
Denethor grunted, and mumbled some of the days' tasks and Boromir listened, fascinated with his father's works. It had been a rough day, and there had been a very long council, and Denethor had met and discussed with many people, and gone through many records and papers. His life had little else but work, indeed, since Finduilas' death he had put aside all else and considered now Gondor his only love. With the exception of Boromir perhaps. But that too was part of his role as steward. He must raise a proper heir, and so far, it seemed Boromir would make an excellent steward someday. He listened to all his father had to say and took it in without questioning it.
The conversation turned to Boromir's day now. "We've been learning of Arnor, in the Northern Kingdom, and how they were defeated by the Witch- King of Angmar," Boromir explained.
"Ah? I trust you are learned in the history of Isildur's Kingdom now, then."
"I think I must be Father, for I feel as if we've been studying it forever!" said Boromir with an exasperated sigh. "I hope that tomorrow I can learn something more useful, perhaps work on my combat skills!"
"Perhaps," said Denethor with a chuckle. "Now then… Who was the last King of Arnor?"
A silence followed as Boromir considered this question. "Ah…" he stammered. "Let's see… what was his name again? 'Twas… 'Twas… Ar- something or other…"
"Arvedui," came a smaller voice. Denethor and Boromir turned their heads to look at Faramir who sat quietly. He hadn't spoken for several minutes and the other two had nearly forgotten he was there.
"I didn't ask you, Faramir," said Denethor, coldly. "Boromir would have answered. I would appreciate if you did not attempt to show off merely because you spend more time away from military works and memorize stories irrelevant to Gondor."
Faramir bit hit lip, cursing himself for breaking his silence. He had learned early on, that, though his silence seemed to aggravate Denethor, he grew even more angry to hear him speak. It seemed that no matter what Faramir said or did, it only made Denethor angry. Faramir felt helpless and usesless, and wondered what he could possibly do to make his father proud of him for once. "Thanks, Faramir," said Boromir awkwardly, after a pause. "Arvedui… That's the one I was thinking of."
Neither Denethor nor Faramir gave a reaction to that. The table fell, once again, into a cold, awkward silence, hovering in the air above the three men. Boromir looked back from brother to father, feeling the need to say something to bring them back. "I should have known that… It's just… Well, I don't much see the point to studying Arnor so extensively. Who cares about the line of Isildur? Sure, he was Elendil's son, but so was Anarion, and it was Anarion who was the greater of the two, as I think is obvious with the outcome of the two kingdoms."
"Well," said Denethor. "Arnor had its' day. But I think you speak wisely, Boromir. Gondor thrives to its full height, while Arnor is all but lost. Do you not agree, Faramir?" asked Denethor, for throughout all of this talk he had watched Faramir squirm uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye. And though the steward's voice was cool and casual, there was a challenge hidden there that Faramir could sense. But now Faramir was forced to speak his mind, there was no way around it.
"I think, Father," said Faramir. "That Gondor has indeed thrived." Faramir could feel his father's probing stare, searching his mind and feelings. "But perhaps it is not fully correct to forsake Arnor altogether. After all, it may be, that our king may dwell there still." It was a bold statement, but it had been on Faramir's mind all day, and he could hardly pretend to hide it.
Denethor stared at Faramir with cold, unfeeling gray eyes with loathing. But then his face softened, and he seemed to put on a more condescending face, as if telling himself he could hardly be angry for Faramir, for he was young and naive. "Did Mithrandir tell you that?" he asked patronizingly. Faramir made no answer. "There is no king, Faramir, and you had better get that into your head now. For hundreds of years, our line, the stewards, have protected and ruled Gondor with dignity and grace, and we are kings in every sense but in name. This is my duty, and it will be your brothers as well. A lucky thing it is, for both you and Gondor, that you were not born first, as you seem to lack a proper respect for this kingdom."
"I love Gondor!" cried Faramir, and Denethor frowned at Faramir's newly found voice. "I lack no respect for her! It is you who lack respect for Arnor. Just because it would be an Heir of Isildur and not Anarion does not make his lineage invalid. Isildur or Anarion, he would still be Elendil's Heir! And the kingdoms were not meant to be divided forever! Did you not swear an oath to protect the city only until the return of the king? And you would so boldly forsake that king only to assume his role for yourself?"
Denethor rose from his chair and smacked his son hard across the face, silencing him. "I will not tolerate to be spoken to in that manner!" bellowed Denethor, furious. "I am your father and your lord and it is your duty to honor me! Do you understand?!"
Faramir nodded, silently, refusing to look his father in the eye as he fought desperately to hold back the tears. He would not cry in front of Denethor. He had been in the wrong, he knew. He had gone too far. Why could he not told his tongue? Finally, he risked looking up to face his father once more. "Yes sir," he said quietly. "I'm sorry." Denethor strode out of the room with no more than a cold glare at his son.
"Are you alright?" came his older brother's concerned voice. Boromir walked over to Faramir's side, offering a comforting hand on his shoulder. Faramir nodded. It wasn't the first time Denethor had hit him, nor would it be the last. He was used to it. Nevertheless, it stung, as did his father's harsh words and stern looks. Faramir was angry with himself for being hurt so badly. He should be used to it; he should accept it. His father would never be pleased with him, and that was just the way it was. "It's alright," he said, assuring Boromir, along with himself. "It'll just bruise a little… Not a big deal. And he was right. I shouldn't have said that stuff…"
Boromir's silence seemed to confirm Faramir's words, so he told himself that must be how it was. He must have truly been wrong. But though Boromir may have seemed to side with his father, in truth he was rather confused, for though he felt his father had been right in rebuking Faramir, he loved his brother dearly, and felt a strong need to comfort him and help him. He, as the older brother, wanted to protect and guide his younger brother. And Faramir looked up to Boromir full-heartedly, seeing him as everything he wished he could be.
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Boromir sat at his desk, staring out the window. The sun was high and the air was warm and sweet-scented. How he longed to be out there. He wished he could go riding, or train, anything but this. The 14-year-old boy would rather do anything than sit cooped up, hunched over a book. But it was required that the Heir of the Steward of Gondor was learned not only as a captain and warrior but as a scholar.
"Master Boromir?" Boromir's head snapped up, startled. His teacher was staring at him with a raised eyebrow. "Would you mind turning your attention back to the books and away from the window?" Boromir let out a loud, deliberate yawn. Nonetheless, he turned his focus back to the book once more.
Beside him, sat his younger brother Faramir, who seemed much more interested in whatever it was they were supposed to be reading. Nine years had passed since that fateful day, and Boromir had now grown into a sturdy young man. Faramir resembled him closely, though his hair was much darker, nearly black, and he was of a thinner, smaller frame. His face was more like that of his father, while Boromir's resembled more his mother's. But they both had the same gray eyes, and once seen together, they could not be mistaken as anything but brothers.
Faramir turned his discerning eyes on Boromir, and furrowed his brow, obviously annoyed with his older brother's lack of interest. Boromir squirmed slightly, feeling uncomfortable as Faramir pried at his thoughts. He and Father both seemed to always be doing that, without consciously intending to even; it just came naturally. Boromir, however, seemed to have missed out on that gift.
"Of what significance is this anyway?" demanded Boromir of his teacher. "Why should I care about Arnor's wars with Angmar. They lost, they died, and their kingdom is gone. What more matters?"
"They didn't all die," Faramir pointed out. "In fact, some even say the line of kings still endures, somewhere hidden in the North."
"That's rubbish, Faramir. Don't listen to the ramblings of silly commoners," he said.
"Nurse told me!" persisted Faramir. Boromir bit his lip and looked away, with a grumpy shrug.
Their teacher stood awkwardly in front of them. Taking advantage of the pause between the brothers, he spoke. "It is true that there were many who survived the war with the Witch-King of Angmar, and that there still remain a remnant of the lost Kingdom of Arnor… But they are merely a poor, wandering people, and all dignity has been forgotten in the North. I highly doubt any Heir of Isildur exists."
"Perhaps Mithrandir will know," said Faramir to himself. Boromir rolled his eyes and shook his head with a smile, which Faramir returned.
"Is anything troubling you, brother?" asked Faramir after the lessons for the day were finished.
"Why?" asked Boromir.
"Nothing, you just seem impatient. Anything wrong?"
"Nay, it is naught," answered Boromir. "Only today is such a fine day, and there is so much else I might have been doing rather than learning about some kingdom of Isildur that perished a thousand years ago." Faramir sighed. "Yes, I know you love this stuff, Faramir," he added with a laugh.
Faramir smiled up at his older brother. "Well, lessons are over now. If you wish, we could still get some training time in before dinner."
"That sounds like a good plan," agreed Boromir.
Faramir picked at the food on his plate, feeling a bit nervous. It was the fist dinner their father had had time to eat with them in a few weeks. Often they ate with Elonwe, their nurse. He enjoyed those nights much more this these; they were always over-formal and uptight, and he felt he had to watch every word he said. There was much that went on that silently that Boromir did not notice, so of course, he was always more relaxed. Faramir usually remained silent at these meals, speaking only when spoken to. If the steward was in a decent mood, he would chat with Boromir about how their days had been, Boromir's accomplishments, or things he struggled with. They would talk of Gondor and of enemies, and allies, and things that needed to be done. Faramir paid close attention to all that they said, but kept most of his opinions and ideas to himself. Denethor ignored him usually, but on some days when he seemed to have had a bad day, and was in a foul mood, he seemed to always take it out on Faramir.
"Why aren't you eating?" Faramir looked up from his plate. "What's wrong with the food? Not good enough?"
"I'm not very hungry, Father," he answered.
"Not hungry, eh? Were you eating earlier? Did you have dinner before this with some other company?"
"No, sir."
Denethor's eyes narrowed in annoyance and thought. He disliked these court, polite answers, especially from Faramir. He knew that though Faramir seemed to like to keep to himself, he had a tongue of its own and would ask questions for hours on end, if given the chance. He had observed Boromir and Faramir before, and knew that Faramir was not always so quiet. Why then, was he so silent whenever with him? He was being careful, trying not to let anything slip, Denethor decided. Which meant the boy must be hiding something.
"No sir? That's all you can say?"
Faramir hesitated, stopping himself from responding automatically with another "No sir." His mouth opened as he sought for something to say to fill this awkward silence.
"And now you simply say nothing!"
Faramir hung his head. Denethor chewed his lip, staring with cold eyes at the small, black-haired boy sitting by him. Then he looked away and turned to his food. Faramir wanted to ask, "What would you have me say, Father?" and the words hung on his tongue but they would not come, and then the moment as passed. The silence has stretched miserably long and it was too late to say something now.
Boromir took a bite of his food, feeling a bit uncomfortable. He glanced from brother to father as the three of them sat together at the table in silence. It was nights like these, when he missed more than ever, the cheerful, understanding presence of his mother. But her seat, opposite the steward, was empty and cold, as it had been for years. And though he made no sign of it, Denethor was also grieving her absence at that very moment. And with her absence came Faramir's presence. Denethor thought it a most unfair trade, for the boy sat silent and secretive, observant and judgemental, much like himself. He much preferred the open honesty, emotion and cheerfulness of Boromir… of Finduilas. Perhaps it was this likeness to himself that made Denethor detest Faramir so. And yet there were other qualities unlike him as well, qualities which he despised. The boys' thoughts were constantly straying away from Gondor, to days long past, and he doted on absurd wives tales and foolish tales of crackpot wizards.
"How was you day, Father?" asked Boromir at last.
Denethor grunted, and mumbled some of the days' tasks and Boromir listened, fascinated with his father's works. It had been a rough day, and there had been a very long council, and Denethor had met and discussed with many people, and gone through many records and papers. His life had little else but work, indeed, since Finduilas' death he had put aside all else and considered now Gondor his only love. With the exception of Boromir perhaps. But that too was part of his role as steward. He must raise a proper heir, and so far, it seemed Boromir would make an excellent steward someday. He listened to all his father had to say and took it in without questioning it.
The conversation turned to Boromir's day now. "We've been learning of Arnor, in the Northern Kingdom, and how they were defeated by the Witch- King of Angmar," Boromir explained.
"Ah? I trust you are learned in the history of Isildur's Kingdom now, then."
"I think I must be Father, for I feel as if we've been studying it forever!" said Boromir with an exasperated sigh. "I hope that tomorrow I can learn something more useful, perhaps work on my combat skills!"
"Perhaps," said Denethor with a chuckle. "Now then… Who was the last King of Arnor?"
A silence followed as Boromir considered this question. "Ah…" he stammered. "Let's see… what was his name again? 'Twas… 'Twas… Ar- something or other…"
"Arvedui," came a smaller voice. Denethor and Boromir turned their heads to look at Faramir who sat quietly. He hadn't spoken for several minutes and the other two had nearly forgotten he was there.
"I didn't ask you, Faramir," said Denethor, coldly. "Boromir would have answered. I would appreciate if you did not attempt to show off merely because you spend more time away from military works and memorize stories irrelevant to Gondor."
Faramir bit hit lip, cursing himself for breaking his silence. He had learned early on, that, though his silence seemed to aggravate Denethor, he grew even more angry to hear him speak. It seemed that no matter what Faramir said or did, it only made Denethor angry. Faramir felt helpless and usesless, and wondered what he could possibly do to make his father proud of him for once. "Thanks, Faramir," said Boromir awkwardly, after a pause. "Arvedui… That's the one I was thinking of."
Neither Denethor nor Faramir gave a reaction to that. The table fell, once again, into a cold, awkward silence, hovering in the air above the three men. Boromir looked back from brother to father, feeling the need to say something to bring them back. "I should have known that… It's just… Well, I don't much see the point to studying Arnor so extensively. Who cares about the line of Isildur? Sure, he was Elendil's son, but so was Anarion, and it was Anarion who was the greater of the two, as I think is obvious with the outcome of the two kingdoms."
"Well," said Denethor. "Arnor had its' day. But I think you speak wisely, Boromir. Gondor thrives to its full height, while Arnor is all but lost. Do you not agree, Faramir?" asked Denethor, for throughout all of this talk he had watched Faramir squirm uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye. And though the steward's voice was cool and casual, there was a challenge hidden there that Faramir could sense. But now Faramir was forced to speak his mind, there was no way around it.
"I think, Father," said Faramir. "That Gondor has indeed thrived." Faramir could feel his father's probing stare, searching his mind and feelings. "But perhaps it is not fully correct to forsake Arnor altogether. After all, it may be, that our king may dwell there still." It was a bold statement, but it had been on Faramir's mind all day, and he could hardly pretend to hide it.
Denethor stared at Faramir with cold, unfeeling gray eyes with loathing. But then his face softened, and he seemed to put on a more condescending face, as if telling himself he could hardly be angry for Faramir, for he was young and naive. "Did Mithrandir tell you that?" he asked patronizingly. Faramir made no answer. "There is no king, Faramir, and you had better get that into your head now. For hundreds of years, our line, the stewards, have protected and ruled Gondor with dignity and grace, and we are kings in every sense but in name. This is my duty, and it will be your brothers as well. A lucky thing it is, for both you and Gondor, that you were not born first, as you seem to lack a proper respect for this kingdom."
"I love Gondor!" cried Faramir, and Denethor frowned at Faramir's newly found voice. "I lack no respect for her! It is you who lack respect for Arnor. Just because it would be an Heir of Isildur and not Anarion does not make his lineage invalid. Isildur or Anarion, he would still be Elendil's Heir! And the kingdoms were not meant to be divided forever! Did you not swear an oath to protect the city only until the return of the king? And you would so boldly forsake that king only to assume his role for yourself?"
Denethor rose from his chair and smacked his son hard across the face, silencing him. "I will not tolerate to be spoken to in that manner!" bellowed Denethor, furious. "I am your father and your lord and it is your duty to honor me! Do you understand?!"
Faramir nodded, silently, refusing to look his father in the eye as he fought desperately to hold back the tears. He would not cry in front of Denethor. He had been in the wrong, he knew. He had gone too far. Why could he not told his tongue? Finally, he risked looking up to face his father once more. "Yes sir," he said quietly. "I'm sorry." Denethor strode out of the room with no more than a cold glare at his son.
"Are you alright?" came his older brother's concerned voice. Boromir walked over to Faramir's side, offering a comforting hand on his shoulder. Faramir nodded. It wasn't the first time Denethor had hit him, nor would it be the last. He was used to it. Nevertheless, it stung, as did his father's harsh words and stern looks. Faramir was angry with himself for being hurt so badly. He should be used to it; he should accept it. His father would never be pleased with him, and that was just the way it was. "It's alright," he said, assuring Boromir, along with himself. "It'll just bruise a little… Not a big deal. And he was right. I shouldn't have said that stuff…"
Boromir's silence seemed to confirm Faramir's words, so he told himself that must be how it was. He must have truly been wrong. But though Boromir may have seemed to side with his father, in truth he was rather confused, for though he felt his father had been right in rebuking Faramir, he loved his brother dearly, and felt a strong need to comfort him and help him. He, as the older brother, wanted to protect and guide his younger brother. And Faramir looked up to Boromir full-heartedly, seeing him as everything he wished he could be.