Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and all related people, places and things were created by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Notes: Boromir and Faramir's grandmother is, in this story, said to be Rohirric. I could find no information anywhere on Adrahil's wife, so took this liberty.

"You look ill."

Mornings were not Faramir's favorite time of day. He was perfectly capable of waking up and going about his day, but that did not, could not change the fact that he hated mornings. Mornings most of Faramir still wanted to be lying in bed—well, all of Faramir still wanted to be in bed. His eyes did not quite believe that they had to stay open, and his limbs felt entitled to more rest.

Luckily, the boss of the body woke quickly, and his whirring taskmaster of a brain kept Faramir moving. It also helped him maneuver conversations with certain people who, after two months, still confused him.

"Good morning," Faramir replied, as though to a similar greeting.

He took his seat in the king's study. Caring for a nation fresh from war took a great deal of work, especially for a man still finding his bearings who had fired most of his predecessor's advisors. King Elessar accepted assistance from Faramir, who knew the political workings of Gondor better than any living man and quite a few dead ones; Legolas, who had seen a kingdom run, if not all too smoothly; and anyone else he trusted. Mostly, as with today, it was Elessar, Faramir and Legolas at work in the study.

Legolas looked at Faramir. Faramir had the sensation he was being examined closely, that this look was the Elven equivalent of staring. "You do," Legolas remarked, referring to his earlier statement. "You're growing paler."

Faramir, who had left a tax proposal unfinished the previous night, responded absently as he leafed through old reports, "I slept well, thank you for asking, and yourself?" Not responding seemed downright rude, but Faramir knew nothing he said actually mattered at the moment. He contentedly carried on his half of a polite, distant conversation.

"And you smell different."

That earned Faramir's attention. He had never particularly cared about his smell. He smelled. Everyone smelled. So Faramir stared at Legolas, wondering if he might perhaps need to respond to the actual meaning of this statement. Then he said, "Yes, the weather has been lovely lately," and returned to his work.

"Dirtier," Legolas continued. "Or… cleaner? Less… pure."

Normally Elessar kept clear of Faramir and Legolas's 'conversations'. This time when Faramir, unable to put a lid on his curiosity, glanced at the king, he caught him smiling. Elessar met Faramir's eyes and both quickly dissolved into laughter.

As Faramir returned to his work with a blush staining his cheeks, Elessar explained, "That means something else among Men, my friend."

"What does it mean?"

The colloquialism had over the years grown so strong in Gondor that the word was rarely used in an innocent context.

"You said Faramir smells like he has been with a woman."

Faramir thought of Eowyn. He thought nothing inappropriate, only remembered how she looked when she smiled, the way her expression softened and grew more cheerful when she noticed him. The bottom of Faramir's stomach dropped out when Eowyn's expression shifted like that. He loved her so much it hurt. That heated Faramir's blush and spread it to his ears, so that he had to focus on his work and his breathing.

Meanwhile, Legolas asked Elessar, "Does he not seem different to you?"

"Somewhat, I suppose."

"It helps if you actually look," Legolas returned drily.

Elessar did, and the next thing he said was, "It's his hair."

"Yes!"

At that Faramir looked up in surprise. His blush had faded in those twenty seconds. "My hair?" Then, realizing: "You thought I had red hair." How strange it must have seemed, then, to see his hair slowly change from red to dark chestnut. Faramir could not keep from laughing. It felt good: he had not laughed in a good while. "May the Valar save us," he uttered, a common enough blasphemy, "I am a Man of Gondor! Boromir only looked as he did because of our Rohirric grandmother."

Elessar sighed in defeat. "All right. You've piqued my interest, I am putting aside my work. Explain. If you would," he added. Faramir was nothing if not obedient. At first Elessar had been surprised by his behavior, but quickly learned that, though clever, Faramir did not always realize when folk were joking and would almost invariably do as his king commanded. Or rather, said—Elessar did not think he had commanded anyone outside of battle, not truly.

"Well, Boromir—" Faramir stopped himself there. He missed his brother very much, but he had not been undone by that loss. Yes, he missed Boromir; yes, he hurt; yes, he sometimes thought about his big brother and cried. Overall, though, Faramir was a healthy person moving on with his life in a healthy way.

Most had interpreted this to mean he was a simmering cauldron of violent rage waiting to boil over and destroy himself.

Faramir began again, "Last summer, before Boromir left to find Imladris, we came into possession of a… a powder, from Harad. We had no idea what it was. It burned but as any thing burns; the wisest of our healers knew of no use for it; it was neither poisonous nor particularly good to eat; it seemed to have no properties of any use, then…"

"My apologies." Faramir turned to leave; yes, this room was his and all the possessions in it, but he had returned hours earlier than intended and stumbled across a maid tidying up. He knew her name, though he could not seem to think of it. No matter: she was at her work.

She shrugged. "Don't bother me none."

Faramir hesitated, but he had a free handful of hours and a book of poetry calling his name. He went to fetch it from its resting place under his pillow. Of course the book had to be moved when he slept, but something about a book or its essence there made him very happy.

"Only I wonder, who's it for? 'at," she explained—Tadiel! That was her name. Tadiel indicated the little box on the nightstand, the box with the Harad powder. "Not for you, but your fair brother, I wouldn't wonder?"

Somehow being younger and older, big brother and little, heir and spare, had not been enough irony. Boromir was light and his brother dark.

"What?" Faramir asked. Not a poison, then.

"This!" Tadiel tapped the box. "I wouldn't've guessed it, meself, not on either of yez, ye've aught else t'do, an' it's a shame, but I suppose the sons of the Steward will act as the sons of the Steward will act."

Faramir picked up the box. "Miss Tadiel, what is this?" he asked.

As though it were the most obvious and natural thing, Tadiel replied, "Why, it's that southern dye, innit?" 'Innit', in that case, meant 'and we both know that's what it is so why are you asking me silly questions'. "I knew a man once—soldiering man—now he brought it for his wife—"

"A dye?" Faramir interrupted. He knew he was being rude, but Tadiel seemed not to mind. Well—Tadiel seemed content to defer to his rank. "For cloth?"

"For your hair!" she said, touching her own. "A drop of water, there, dye, red as roses. Not on you, perhaps, but your brother..."

"All right, that's how you came into possession of such a thing," Elessar said, following the story to this point. He realized once he had said it that this was not how Faramir had come into possession of such a thing. Actually, the king was yet a bit foggy on that point, but it seemed unimportant. Faramir and Boromir had the dye, that was what mattered. "But why use it? And why on you?" he added, unable to keep from wondering what Boromir would have looked like.

"Because Boromir was the elder," explained Faramir matter-of-factly.

Having grown up neither among men nor with slightly older brothers, neither Elessar nor Legolas understood.

Boromir was not the smarter brother. He was not the brother who studied without being told to do so. He was about twelve years old, in fact, when Faramir began correcting him on his history and spelling. But one thing Boromir taught his younger brother: that there is no more wonderful smell than a sweaty, dirty man. This wisdom Boromir imparted by, when the mood took him, grabbing Faramir in a headlock. Faramir was from an early age familiar with the smell of Boromir's armpit, a stench strong enough to knock a Rohirric stallion out cold.

"It'll be fun, Faramir!"

"Fun for who?" Faramir replied, making feeble, half-hearted attempts to extricate him from captivity.

Boromir laughed. "For me," he said, the most obvious thing in the world. Faramir stopped struggling and Boromir poked his belly to make him laugh. "Come on, you'll enjoy it as well. I promise. And if you don't, we'll talk about history and you can tell me how stupid I am." Boromir released his brother, but grabbed Faramir by the scruff of his neck and kissed his temple. Boromir had a way of making his affection an act of competition. "You're the best, Chewtoy."

"Boromir held you in a headlock... last year?"

"'Chewtoy'?" repeated Legolas. He glanced at Elessar, who shook his head. It was a silent question and answer, an inquiry on the normalcy of that particular nickname and a response that no, it was not normal.

Faramir had not meant to say that. It slipped. "When I was twelve, I told him once he was like a bulldog, all brawn and no brains. Boromir told me if he was a bulldog, I was his chewtoy. Since he liked to beat the daylights out of me--in the brotherly way." Why that particular nickname stuck with him through the rest of his life, Faramir would never know, though perhaps because Boromir liked it and it was not particularly inaccurate. "And yes, Sir, I let him do so."

Explaining would be useless. Boromir was the sun, and Faramir had worshipped his big brother. He hated the idea of soldiering, but eagerly joined the army to follow in Boromir's footsteps. He had even intentionally done poorly in his studies, for a time. That blind devotion faded with age, but the thought patterns Faramir had built in his youth would never fade. He had always loved his brother and only fought him when Boromir wanted him to. So when he was thirty-five years old and Boromir played at bullying him, Faramir let him.

From the king's expression, though, he did understand.

"It was thick," Faramir said. "Really heavy stuff. Neither of us believed it would be 'red as roses'. The next few hours blur, but I remember clearly standing ankle-deep in water the color of mud after a battle and Boromir pouring unbelievably cold water over my head. He was right, though. In its own very strange way, that experience was enjoyable."

"And the color is only now fading?"

Faramir shook his head. "Oh, no," he said, "I did it again just a few months ago, with the leftover powder. It was my way of mourning my brother."

To his surprise, Elessar found himself smiling. He had never thought mourning could be quite so amusing. "Do you have enough for once more, for your father?"

The question brought an impish sort of smile to Faramir's face. "Oh, aye. I should like to mourn Denethor that way: with an act that brought him to the boiling point!"

End