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i.
He is a quiet baby, taking too long to cry out, perhaps already sensing the somber air in the room. As a result he is taken out of the chambers just as Denethor rushes to his wife’s bedside.
ii.
When looking around, Denethor sees no sign of his child. “The accursed child is dead too, then,” He mutters, the shadow of the future already beginning to become apparent, “Good.” He offers no other elaboration, but Finduilas’ midwife clutches the folds of her dress in horror.
iii.
Chief Archivist Tobedir is the only person who could ever take the boy in. Glirdis comes to him in the middle of the night, her limbs trembling as she descends the levels of the city. The baby is barely a day old but Glirdis’ heart is already devoted to him. She is old, and the child is so small, so sweet.
iv.
Tobedir stares at the child for a long time. “His mother wanted to call him Faramir.” He finally says after a long while. “The name of a prince. Who else knows of this child?”
v.
It is a miracle that Denethor and the rest of the lords are none the wiser to a child growing up alone among old books and parchment. Few visit the archives and notice the small child playing in the archive's private courtyard, and archivists and servants have always been particularly skilled in staying quiet when needed. No one talks of the child that lives amongst them, though all talk to the child and adore him. There is none that would speak ill of him, for he is exceedingly loveable.
Even then, few were present at Finduilas’ deathbed, and Glirdis is quick to extract promises of secrecy from her women that had been there. To Denethor, to the kingdom, Finduilas’ second child had died in her womb and does not exist.
Even as Faramir lays in his bed, curled up in Tobedir’s arms after another prophetic dream, no one says anything that might alert Denethor’s attention to this child that he had rejected, that he had wished dead.
vi.
He is taught that he should pretend that he does not exist, not that he does not actually exist. He is taught Sindarin, Quenyan, and takes the initiative to learn far more languages than his teachers would care to know. He drowns in the books he brings back to his chambers.
He is taught the lay of the land, studies agriculture and the care of cattle and sheep. He learns to climb trees and then walls, and memorises the hidden paths that hide beneath Minas Tirith.
He keeps the archives in order, doing the sorting and cleaning work that archivists are too busy to do. He falls in love with the smell of parchment, the feeling of leather and hide and paper underneath his hands. His script is excellent.
His black hair is always cropped short, and covered with a hood at all times, especially when Tobedir takes him down into the markets and taverns. He is taught to never speak to nobility, to never look them in the eye. For while Tobedir sees Finduilas in Faramir, he must admit that it is Faramir's father and brother that shows in his appearance.
vii.
“What are you doing?” Boromir asks when he sees the small child perched on top of a bookshelf. The ten year old had been so terribly bored by the conversation his father was having with the Chief Archivist, and had sneaked into a side room. His words come out with a faint lisp, as he had just lost another tooth this morning.
The child quickly ducks his head so the other boy will not see his eyes. “Sorting, my lord.”
Boromir eyes the bookshelves that the child had clearly climbed up on, and decides to emulate. No sooner has his shoe reached the first shelf that the child squeaks in alarm. “You’re doing it wrong!”
Boromir pauses, and the child wrings his hands nervously for his outburst. “Well, you should come down, then.” He says, surprisingly patient. “I would like to speak to you.”
Obediently the child climbs down deftly, and Boromir is momentarily scared that the child would fall, or injure himself. He does not know where this protective sentiment has come from, and he watches the child with a keen eye.
“I am Boromir. What is your name?” He asks. The child peers at him from underneath the hood of his cloak. “Faer,” The child says, “They call me Faer.”
viii.
Tobedir has never raised a child, but he too carries a title, albeit a minor one. He raises Faramir to be a prince, or at least the concept of a prince that the archivist desires him to become. He tells Faramir the etymology of his name, that he is enough , that his mother thought whatever he would be he would be sufficient . He tells him of her gift of foresight, which Faramir is already exhibiting. He tells Faramir that his name should always be kept secret, that his eyes and hair should never be seen.
He tells him that his father did not want him, that he hated the child that had taken his wife away from him. He tells Faramir that it is not his fault. That his mother loved him so much that she would not have regretted dying.
He does not tell Faramir who his father is, of course. He doesn’t tell Faramir whose blood it is that flows in his veins, does not tell Faramir that Finduilas had known that this child would grow up to be a prince.
ix.
“This is Faer,” Boromir introduces. “Faer, this is Lord Éomer and Lady Éowyn from Rohan.”
Éowyn stares at the small boy curiously. The men of Gondor are different to the men of Rohan, but this boy looks altogether of a different kind.
Éomer tires of the exchange quickly and drags Boromir off to spar with twigs, leaving Éowyn with the other boy. She pouts at this and stomps her foot, but Éomer ignores her. She turns to Faer, whose eyes are glued to a large book in his lap. “Spar with me.” She says. He looks up from the book at her, startled, and Éowyn is momentarily distracted by the grey in his eyes.
Then Faer looks down again, at his feet. “I do not know how to, my lady. Apologies.”
She frowns, then, and props her hands on her hips. “Do the men of Gondor not teach their sons how to fight?” She demands. “Come. I will teach you.”
He is slightly taller than her, but holds himself in a way that makes himself shrink, as if too aware of what his presence could do. She is not afraid of him.
They face each other with branches, and she guides him through the initial sparring stances. He is an obedient student, and she has far more patience than any 6 year old child.
She does, however, grow bored at some point, and abandons him to spar with Éomer instead, leaving Boromir to sit next to Faramir as the younger boy returns to his book. “You did well, little one,” He says, patting the top of Faramir’s covered head. He has been remarkably tolerant for a child and has never asked Faramir to remove his hood in front of him.
Faramir smiles shyly at the older boy, still unaccustomed with having friends that are also children. Boromir finds himself answering his smile, wide and genuine. “What are you reading?” He asks, leaning against the wall as Faramir perks up and begins to tell him of the elven diary he had been reading the whole afternoon.
Boromir is not one for tales, or history, or anything to do with words in particular, but it is the excitement of Faramir that is the most infectious. Boromir is a single child, with a mother who left him too early. He is his father’s only heir, and he is always reminded of it.
With this young boy, however, he feels at home.
x.
Faramir grows up not only appreciating music, but will be a lover of music. The flute is what he starts with, and his mastery over the harp what Tobedir is the most proud of, but Faramir finds the viol the most suited to him. He tames the too jaunty fiddle and endures the heavy drums, but he enjoys the most playing the viol while perched on the rooftop of the archives at night, as his teachers and pseudo-fathers sit near their windows and indulge in the music.
This is how he is first known of, as the lover of music and the master of the viol. The hooded viol player of the archives, the common people start to say, the Musician. He plays his tunes at night for all to listen to.
xi.
“I will not have you disgracing me, little one,” Boromir says, holding a wooden sword out to Faramir. “I will teach you how to fight.”
Faramir wordlessly accepts the weapon, but stares at Boromir in puzzlement. “How so?”
Boromir kicks Faramir’s feet apart. “How so for what?” He asks. “I have lessons at the archive every other day. You will help me with my classes, and I will teach you when the day is done.”
“You will need in me your classes regardless,” Faramir snorts, two years sufficient for him to know he can speak as such to the son of the Steward, “No, I meant how I could disgrace you. It is not like I see anyone else.”
The matter of fact way he says it makes Boromir pause a little, but he quickly collects himself and straightens Faramir’s spine, helping him hold his sword properly.
“You are under my care,” He says finally, “And I will not have any brother of mine be unable to defend himself.”
Faramir does almost drop his weapon and hit his toe with it, then, but his small hands wrap around the hilt of the wooden blade and clenches hard, until his knuckles turn white. For the first time in his life he looks up and meets Boromir’s gaze.
Boromir is mature beyond his young age, but he is still a child who blushes at the pure adoration in Faramir’s eyes. But he is also a child that knows the value of his words, the weight of his promises, and he has not yet learnt to say things he does not mean.
"I have no brother or sister to call kin." He tells Faramir. "I will call you brother, as if you are of my own blood, and I hope you will do the same."
Faramir stands there, quivering, overwhelmed, and Boromir pries the sword from his hands and drops it so they can finally embrace.
xii.
Faer is not unknown among the people. He walks among them, is part of them, is accepted by them. When he grows older he is bold enough to take his viol into markets and pubs and taverns to play a tune or two. His voice is gentle but strong, and his command of words makes him a popular songwriter. His songs are folktales and history, actual stories that he borrows from the archives, the days of old told to the most common of folk.
He is welcomed in slums and taverns and squares, and his songs and stories precede him. Faer the Storyteller, the hooded boy, then man, who is known among Minas Tirith. Even Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth is counted as one of his audience, as Faer talks of Nimrodel in a soft lament. The Prince nods after the end of the tale and buys everyone at the tavern a round of drinks before leaving. He rarely visits Minas Tirith anymore, after his brother-in-law has all but rejected the memory of his sister. A simple night like this is a welcome treat, even if he leaves the tavern slightly unsettled. He attributes it to the great storytelling of the storyteller.
xiii.
Boromir and Faramir quickly figure out that Faramir is more suited to the build of a ranger, rather than a warrior. Boromir does not know the way of rangers, but he can teach Faramir how to shoot an arrow. Tobedir is mildly disconcerted by the number of stray arrows he can find in the archive garden, but before he can berate the boys Boromir and Faramir quickly scurry around to clean things up.
Gradually, Faramir’s arrows hit their mark more and more often, surpassing Boromir in skill. Boromir will always be the better swordwielder, but he makes sure that Faramir can hold his own, and privately observes that Faramir could best many of those who fought alongside Boromir on the battlefield.
“I am leaving Minas Tirith soon, little brother,” He tells Faramir one day, “You must continue to practice, do you hear me? I will be very cross with you if I return to find that you have forgotten all that I have taught you.”
Faramir smiles and hugs Boromir, which is readily returned. “There will be no need for me to draw weapons within these walls, not yet,” He says, “But I promise to do as you say.”
xiv.
“That is Mithrandir, Gandalf the Grey, one of the Istar,” Tobedir introduced, “Go see if you can be of service to him, and let him see you.”
Faramir had trotted up nervously and removed the hood of his cloak. The wizard was very tall, and Faramir was slightly afraid to look at his face, but he did so at Tobedir’s bidding.
The wizard was dressed entirely in grey, with a long white beard that seemed to go on forever. He had removed his hat, and his eyes were furrowed as he took in Faramir. “You are Faramir.” He announced, his voice slow, somber, authoritative.
Faramir had given a panicked glance to Tobedir, and Tobedir sighed. “Aye, this is Faramir. I have not deemed it time yet to tell him of his family.”
The wizard hummed, then, to Faramir’s surprise, knelt down in front of him. “Greetings, young Faramir.” Gandalf said, then smiled.
In the years that Gandalf spends in Minas Tirith, he spends in the company of Faramir, save when he must speak to Denethor and the other Gondorian lords. He listens to Faramir as he sings or speaks to the people, sitting in a corner with his pipe. He tells Faramir of tales beyond the boundaries of time and space. He tells Faramir of Halflings, elves, and of the Last Alliance. He speaks of woes and terrors and the prevailing of free folk over and over again. He speaks of dragons, and the greed of the dwarves. He speaks of Isildur.
Faramir is the Wizard’s pupil, soaking up dead languages and knowledge as quickly as Mithrandir can impart them to him. Gandalf speaks of the rings. Hesitatingly, at first, but as his research progresses Faramir reads more and more, until he comes to his own conclusions as to what Gandalf is searching for.
He tells Faramir of Sauron, of Mount Doom, of the Three and the Seven and the Nine, and then the story of the One. Faramir listens with rising alarm, barely fathoming how it is possible that such an artifact existed in this world, and, if Gandalf’s suspicions are correct, would emerge again in the days to follow.
One language Faramir fails to learn is the Black Speech. He had been eager to learn the language of the enemy, and while Mithrandir had been reluctant, had agreed readily. Yet after the first phrase of Black Speech left Gandalf’s mouth the boy had wilted, as if all of his blood had been drained from him.
They did not speak of it again.
xv.
“My lord Boromir!” Beregond greets as the young man sits down at his table. “Welcome back to Minas Tirith!”
“It is good to see you as well, Beregond,” Boromir claps him on the back, “And this must be your lady!” Heniriel blushes under the attention and excuses herself to the company of other womenfolk.
“Aye, and the mother of my child.” Beregond preens a little, tilting the baby in his arms a little so Boromir can make appropriate cooing noises. “It is Bergil’s birthday tomorrow, and I thought I’d treat him to a performance of his favourite Storyteller. What brings you here, Captain?”
Boromir’s smile is fond. “Same as you and young Bergil,” He says, raising a mug towards where Faer sits, viol tucked underneath his chin, preparing for his performance. “I find this far more effective than the history lessons father gives me.”
Beregond laughs at this. He’s never had any formal education, not like the lords. “Bergil knows far more than his old da by now.” He bounces the baby indulgently, earning him a winning grin.
Then the haunting tune of the viol begins, and an odd but comforting silence settles over the crowd. Even Bergil quiets down and blinks his big eyes at Beregond. The soldier suddenly realizes something and looks to Boromir again. In the flickering candles of the pub, Beregond takes in the slight curve to Boromir’s lips, and the faintly indulgent look in his eyes as he looks to Faer. It is the same way he himself looks at Bergil.
xvi.
Faramir thinks nothing of Boromir’s need to fight, to guard the borders of Gondor, when he clearly loves the city of Minas Tirith so much and is always reluctant to leave. Boromir thinks nothing of Faramir’s discilination to join the army, or even the rangers, even though he knows Faramir has that aptitude and would excel in a battlefield. They are the Warrior and the Scholar, and to imagine each other in another capacity is unfathomable.
Of course, Faramir worries for Boromir everytime he leaves, and will sit on the rooftop of the archives waiting for his triumphant return. Boromir curls up in his bedroll in the wild and wishes that Faer was there to give him advice, console him, fight alongside him.
They never think much about how close they had become, over the years, and how. The sole heir of the Steward, and a faceless, nameless boy of the archives.
xvii.
Tobedir knows of Finduilas’ gift, and he knows how it has manifested in her second child, the child she died to bring to life. She doesn’t love her firstborn any less, of course - but she had foreseen that Faramir had to be born, and she had chosen to give him life.
As an archivist, Tobedir cannot see foresight as anything else but a gift. He is the keeper of history, of truth. He is also the keeper of tragedy, for a kingdom as great as Gondor is full of such tales.
“You cannot stop these dreams,” He scolds Faramir one day even as he wipes away the tears from the child’s eyes, “You must learn to embrace it. You must learn to accept them as truth, as what has been, what is, and what may come. They appeared to you for a reason, Faramir. You cannot spend your whole life hiding from them.”
xviii.
“Are you never curious?” Gandalf asks one day, “Of who your parents are. How I know of your name, and how your gift came to be.”
Faramir looks up from where he is translating some old Haradrim missives. He is a teenager when Gandalf asks this question of him. “I am.” He answers. “But it is not yet the appropriate hour.”
Gandalf hums thoughtfully. “You are far wiser than your forefathers, young Faramir,” He decrees, “But do not lose yourself in visions.”
“Is it not my duty to act upon them?” He asks, “If they have come to me, should I not seek to understand them?”
Gandalf leans back in his chair. “Some of your forefathers believed this, yes,” The wizard says, “But many were driven mad by them, lost in their visions and unable to retain their grasp on reality. How can you make certain that you will not be one of them?”
Faramir puts down his quill and thinks, staring at his mentor. “I cannot.” He says hesitatingly, “But I also fear the regret that would come with not acting upon them.”
“Why do you regret?” Gandalf smiles gently at him, “If Valar dictates that one should meet their end, should we not let it happen?”
Faramir thinks harder. His gaze falls on the shelves of books and scrolls. “Yet, is it not man that forms history?” He asks, “My action is not anything more or less than one other’s decision to kill another, for instance. I am not better or worse than another man for my decisions or actions. Yet my action could redeem one from taking the life of another. I do not believe that it should be for my sake that I seek to change what I have seen, but for what is done unto others. To speculate on what is to happen, yet not take action upon it - I find that far more tiring. If the future turns out to be far worse than what I have seen - so be it. At least I can say that I have done something, rather than having done nothing."
“Aye,” Mithrandir says, and Faramir has the odd feeling of having passed a test. “You are indeed wiser than many of your forefathers already. Remember your words, young Faramir. Never forget that you are not better, or worse, than any other for your gift. For the world can be changed by a small, innocuous action of a young Halfling, yet will also remain the same through the passing of the years. Fear and greed are the two prongs of Mankind’s Bane. Do not let either seize you.”
xix.
The test of the Ring comes to him just as he witnesses Boromir fall to his knees, a multitude of arrows upon him.
The words are vile, crawling over him like oil, and he grasps for breath in his dream. His gaze is enraptured by the small golden object hanging from the Halfling’s neck, and he knows he needs to wake, but is unable to draw himself out.
What a horrible thing! He can feel the shadow of Sauron’s Eye even in a dream, in a vision of the future. Gandalf has left to rescue the Ringbearer, Faramir knows this. He knows that this is of what will come, a possibility in the future, for he knows Boromir has just returned from Osgiliath and should be sleeping in his quarters.
Yet even through time and space and memory the Ring reaches for him, calls to him.
xx.
He scales the walls of Minas Tirith and climbs through Boromir’s window, feet bare. Boromir springs up with a blade in his hands and quickly climbs out of bed.
“Faer?” He asks in a hushed voice, “What is wrong?”
“You are going to Imladris tomorrow.” He says, eyes wide, “You seek to bring Isildur’s Bane to Gondor.”
“How did you-” Boromir stutters, “Your hair!”
Faramir’s hand flies up to touch his head, and with a sickening feeling he realizes that in his haste, he had not brought his cloak with him. His dark hair and grey eyes are illuminated by the moonlight that pours into Boromir’s room.
“Never mind that,” Boromir says in a rough voice, taking a slightly menacing step forward. He further startles Faramir, making him take a step back.
“Your feet are bleeding, you fool!” Boromir snarls, grabbing Faramir by the arm harshly and shoving him down onto the bed. Then a blanket falls over him, shielding his upper body from Boromir’s gaze, and then rough hands tug it around him so it wraps around his head like his hood would.
“There, you stupid boy,” Boromir says and makes to turn away, “I will find some shoes for you.”
“Wait!” Faramir calls out, “You must listen to me. You cannot bring Isildur’s Bane to Gondor.”
Boromir turns around. He is in his sleep clothes, so is Faramir. “How did you know of that, little brother?” He asks, voice weary. There are dark bruises under his eyes.
“I dreamt of it.” Faramir answers, “I dreamt that you went to Rivendell, and was tasked with delivering the One Ring to its destruction. I dreamt that you will fall victim to it.”
“Impossible.” Boromir snarls fiercely. Faramir swallows anxiously. There is something dark over Boromir’s expression, one unfamiliar and unsettling to Faramir.
“Do you think you are strong enough to resist its call?” He says, but before Boromir can answer Faramir shakes his head, clutching to the edges of the blanket tightly. “Even now you doubt yourself. You doubt that it is nothing more than a fleeting notion, yet you fear that it is Gondor’s only hope. I have seen it, Boromir, and you are wrong. Isildur’s Bane can never be wielded by men. Your fears will manifest and your doubts will come true, and you will die for it. If you should die, Boromir, what will happen to Gondor? What am I to do then?”
Boromir looks at Faramir, then, meets his gaze. Faramir is too tired to lower his head. “Listen to me, brother,” Faramir says calmly, “Neither you nor your father can fathom the evil this artifact will bring. If you take Isildur’s Bane for yourself, no matter how honourable the cause - it will lead to both of our deaths, and the fall of the White City.”
Boromir inhales shakily and sits down on the bed next to Faramir. They’re of almost equal height now, men in their prime. “You are certain of this?” He asks. “My father- my father insists that it is a gift.”
Faramir pats Boromir on the knee comfortingly. “A gift to Sauron, perhaps. Bringing the Ring to Gondor will be no different to opening our gates and letting the armies of Minas Morgul pour in.”
Boromir lies back on his bed, a firm set to his lips. Faramir turns to observe him.
“Yet I must go to Rivendell,” Boromir finally says, “I cannot let the Ring fall into the hands of others.”
Faramir sighs and looks back to the open window, where the moon beckons. “If you must,” He says, “If you must, then I beg you to remember my words. You should not go as Boromir of Gondor, nay, but as my brother. Leave Gondor behind. You must heed every warning, and defer to others at all times, even in battle.”
Boromir sits up and lays a hand on Faramir’s arm, making to speak, but Faramir shakes his head. “When Gondor needs her Captain back, she will call for him. Before that, you are nothing but Boromir the warrior and protector. Do not rush to return. Please, Boromir. I beg this of you.”
For a few moments Faramir fears that Boromir will not accept this promise, that he will turn away from Faramir and accuse him of overstepping. The blanket is suffocating over him.
Then Boromir’s hand lands on the top of Faramir’s head gently. Even after more than two decades, almost three, this gesture remains comforting.
“I will try my best, little brother.” He answers, “I dare not promise more.”
Then, “Are you certain that there is not a sliver of chance that the Ring could be used to save Gondor?”
Faramir shakes his head resolutely. “I do not believe so. I refuse to believe so. Not were Minas Tirith falling in ruin, and I alone could save her. It is the weapon of the Dark Lord, and anything it promises is doomed to be deceitful.”
xxi.
Faramir may be a fool, but he is a learned fool. He is learned enough to know his gift of foresight is not one of common folk. He is learned enough to observe his own reflection in the water, and recognize his similarities to Boromir. He is learned enough to find his own name in a legacy of names.
Thus, after Boromir’s departure to Imladris, Tobedir sits down opposite him and explains to him of Finduilas’ own visions, and the events that transpired after her death.
Faramir listens patiently and nods.
xxii.
Faer normally has new stories everytime he speaks, but in the days that follow the departure of Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, he speaks of the same story once or twice every week. Everytime there is something different about it that makes it still entertaining, but it is also disconcerting that Faer repeats this tale like a warning, a premonition. It is not simply a story, of what has been, but of what will come.
He speaks of the rise of Sauron, of dark days to come. Yet he also speaks of the return of Isildur’s heir. He speaks of the return of the King.
xxiii.
At Amon Hen, the Ring grips at Boromir, but Frodo shies away and talks of a warning in his heart that turns him from Boromir. The Ring calls to Boromir, stronger, enticing and entirely too seductive. But Boromir remembers himself, remembers Faramir’s words. He must heed the Ringbearer’s words, because he had promised to try.
The Ring tells him that he can keep his little brother safe if he takes it from this unworthy Hobbit.
Boromir remembers Faer’s tales by the fire, of the tenacity and valour of Halflings.
“I am very sorry, Frodo,” He falls to his knees, “I have failed you. I cannot protect you from myself. Go! Please! I beg you!”
Frodo’s gaze is half-fearful, half-sympathetic, but he does not make any move to approach Boromir, and Boromir is thankful for this. The Halfling turns and disappears beneath the trees, leaving Boromir to wallow in his guilt.
He would perhaps stay there forever, let nature take him and turn him into stone, but even that would not atone for his misdeeds. In the haze of his mind he hears the sounds of yells, of fighting, and he stands up on shaky legs and follows it.
Once again he fails and Merry and Pippin are taken by the enemy, but he manages to ambush the one who seems to be the leader and beheads him. The Horn of Gondor sounds and startles the rest of the creatures, calling Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas to him.
In the midst of battle, the Horn is cloven into two and falls into the water, but he escapes relatively unscathed and calls it a triumph.
xxiv.
Boromir sits on the steps outside the halls of Edoras, unable to sleep. Aragorn sits down quietly next to him, pipe in hand.
“I am sorry.” His future king says. Boromir looks to this man. He has held his tongue so far, the memory of Faer sneaking into his room like a lingering dream, his pleading voice haunting and terrifying at the same time.
His father would call him foolish for being so trusting of this one man, but there is something of Faer that Boromir is devoted to implicitly, even above his father’s mysterious ways.
He has held his tongue and has resisted the urge to ridicule Aragorn, to deny him, and gradually he is no longer able to view Aragorn as the scruffy ranger sitting in the corner of Elrond’s council, but someone Boromir could imagine bowing down to. Aragorn has proven his leadership over and over again, and will continue to do so.
“What for?” He asks Aragorn. In the dark, Aragorn’s gaze reminds him of Faer’s, the night before Boromir set off on his fateful journey to Rivendell. “I know you miss your city, and we had been so close to her,” Aragorn explains, “Yet we were forced to turn away from her borders.”
Boromir sighs. “Speak not of that.” He says, watching the smoke waft through the air in front of them. “I was told not to rush to return until I was called to go home. And with what I had done to Frodo, I am ashamed to return.”
Aragorn tilts his head slightly. “How so?” He asks, but not in a pressing manner.
Boromir watches him in silence for a while, watches as the King of men puffs his pipe patiently, as if they had all the time in the world. He had been raised among elves, and sometimes, Boromir gets the faint impression that the man would not be out of place as an elf, in the branches of Lothlorien, just as he could sit on the white throne.
“I have a brother.” Boromir finally says, “Not by blood, but I cannot recall any blood relative that is more important than him to me.”
If surprised by the change in topic, Aragorn does not let it show. “He must be an honourable man, then, to win the praise of Boromir of Gondor."
Aragorn is the first to hear Boromir refer to Faer as such, and his easy acceptance seems to carry a weight that reassures and comforts Boromir. Indeed, few would understand how the future Steward of Gondor would call a mere archivist his little brother in such fond and reverent tones, yet it seems nothing less than truth.
Boromir does not think his praise counts for much, but nods all the same. “He is of the highest quality.” He says. “I do believe you will enjoy meeting him.”
Aragorn smiles at that, the edges of his eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure. “I look forward to it.”
xxv.
“The Horn of Gondor was delivered to the Steward this morning.” Beregond says in a low voice. “It was split into two halves, found in the waters of Anduin. They say the Steward is overwhelmed with grief. Big changes are coming to this city, my friend, and I fear for you and the stories that you tell.”
Faramir looks across the table of the tavern. “Fear not.” He says calmly, with no ounce of sorrow. “Lord Boromir is not dead, for I feel it in my heart.”
xxvi.
On the way from Isengard to Edoras, Boromir draws his horse to ride side by side with Aragorn. The man quirks an eyebrow and waits for him to speak.
“Before we departed for Helm’s Deep, I have told you of how I erred against Frodo and the Fellowship at Amon Hen,” He clears his throat and says, “And I have told you how my hand was stayed by the words of another.”
“Boromir, you should really stop blaming yourself for that.” Pippin chirps from where he is sitting behind Aragorn. “Aye, listen to the Hobbit.” Aragorn chuckles a little, “But I assume you are not here to give me anymore unnecessary apologies.”
“Indeed.” Boromir agrees. “I believe he will be in need of me, and I must return to Minas Tirith. I have spoken to Gandalf about it, and he agrees to this course of action. I have come to ask for your leave.”
“You have it.” Aragorn answers, “For I will not deny the wisdom of another man’s counsel. Yet, for my own curiosity, I must ask. You trust him with your life. Why?"
"I have no answer for you." Boromir says after a long while. "He is my brother."
Then, finally, “You have a brother, Boromir?” Pippin asks, having little intention of holding back his inquisitive nature.
“Aye,” Boromir laughs, “Let it be known that Boromir of Gondor has a little brother throughout Middle-Earth, from Lothlorien to Mordor, to Rivendell and the Shire.”
Aragorn laughs at that too, and so does Pippin, although he knows not why.
xxvii.
Hours after Boromir’s departure, Aragorn helps Gandalf ready Shadowfax. “You believe that Boromir’s premonition will not lead him astray?” He asks the Wizard, finally allowing himself to express worry over his brother-in-arms.
“Yes.” Gandalf says calmly, even as his movements are swift, “I know of this brother of his heart, whom he speaks of. Faer is the name he goes by, but he is also known in Minas Tirith as the Musician and the Storyteller. He was under my tutelage for many years, although Boromir knows not of it. Boromir is exceedingly faithful and wise to value Faer's council.”
Aragorn lifts an oddly quiet Pippin up to sit in front of Gandalf, ruffling the Hobbit’s hair in reassurance. “I do not believe it is faithfulness, or wisdom, that drives Boromir home.” He says, “It is a great privilege to be loved by him.”
“He loves you too, Aragorn,” Merry interjects, small hands fisted on the edges of Shadowfax’s reins.
“That I know.” Aragorn agrees cheerfully. “A privilege, I say.”
xxviii.
This is what Boromir returns to.
“The Lord of Gondor has returned!” They shout from the Tower, and there is Denethor hobbling down the steps, looking far more haggard than his years. Boromir dismounts quickly and lets his father embrace him.
“Aye, I have returned.” He says, “If you would but give me a moment, I will ride to where you need me.”
Denethor’s expression turns stony immediately, unrelentless and terrifying. “We do not have a moment! Are you not a Captain of Gondor? Or have you been addled by the company you kept? Osgiliath burns, we do not have a moment!”
As such, Beregond reaches the gates of the city too late, and can only watch Boromir ride away.
xxix.
Gandalf and Pippin receive the same frosty welcome from the Steward when they arrive at Minas Tirith. Gandalf is increasingly disconcerted by how much Denethor knows. Pippin shrinks back behind Gandalf, finding no inclination to swear himself to the service of this man. He will wait for Boromir to return, yes, and then he will ask for the honour to bear Boromir’s shield.
xxx.
Just as the Fellowship had first reached Fangorn, Faramir was shoved into the dungeons of Minas Tirith. They allowed him to keep his cloak and hood. His crime was for speaking of Isildur’s heir, yet with his imprisonment the story had only been repeated more and more, until there is none who does not know of the return of the king.
xxxi.
“If you dislike my pupil, then please, return him to me!”
Pippin has never heard Gandalf angry as such, not even when he had spoken to Saruman. “The filthy slanderer is my subject.” Denethor spits, “Mine to punish as I please. Even if I should cut off his tongue for the blasphemy he speaks, it is my right! You have no authority here, Mithrandir!”
“He has spoken nothing but the truth!” Gandalf roars, and Denethor falls back into his throne ungracefully, thin lips quivering with rage. Pippin is frozen in confusion. Were they not speaking of Boromir’s beloved brother?
“You and he conspire for my rule, my power,” Denethor hisses, the very vizor of a mad man, “This man hides behind the guise of a benevolent Storyteller, and I have tolerated too much of him. Now he shows his poison, a viper in the grass, spinning lies to appease your plans to supplant me, trying to convince my people to turn against me! I will not bow to this Aragorn, Ranger from the North! Gondor has no king, and Gondor needs no king!”
xxxii.
Boromir returns and manages to negotiate giving up Osgiliath. His father is more temperamental than usual, which worries Boromir, but as he leaves the hall he hears the small pattering of feet against stone, and Pippin launches himself into Boromir’s arms.
Then Beregond appears, finally managing to catch the Captain, and Boromir finds himself rushing back into the hall.
“You must release Faer!” He thunders, “Whatever he has done to earn your disapproval, I will repay it with my life! You wish for me to retake Osgiliath? I shall!”
“Boromir!” Gandalf cautions, but Boromir does not look away from his father’s stature.
Denethor garbles something unintelligible, his throat bulging obscenely. “Curses!” The man screams, a stranger to Boromir, “He curses my own child against me!”
Then Gandalf steps forward, and the shadows in the room rise along with him, until everyone falls to their knees.
“The only poison is that in your own secrets!” Gandalf shouts, “You are no worthy Steward of Gondor!”
Even through this Denethor manages to claw his way up. “Who are you to say if I am worthy or not?” He wheezes.
“See for yourself who Faer is!” Gandalf exclaims, “I pray that for the sake of Gondor and the Middle-Earth, there will still be some semblance of sanity within you.”
xxxiii.
Tobedir is in the cell next to him, sitting cross-legged with his back against the wall, just as Faramir is sat. They are very alike, he and the man who raised him.
A battle is near, both of them can feel it in the way the ground tremors in anticipation. Faramir thinks of the bow and quiver of arrows Boromir had left him, grateful that he had been able to practice everyday until he had been imprisoned.
He looks up briefly when the Steward stops in front of his cell, four armoured guards with him. Through their helms, Faramir recognizes all of them as men who have listened to his stories, whom he has shared drinks with, and they, too, recognize him. Denethor is nothing like Boromir.
“So you are the man who has bewitched my son.” The Steward says amidst his velvet robes. Faramir frowns, disliking the vulgar phrasing of his words. “Do you doubt me, my lord, or Lord Boromir?”
The Steward’s fingers clench into claws. “I will not speak with a vagabond who hides himself in lies and deceit.” He spits, “Remove his cloak.”
As Faramir is uncovered, he looks up to meet Denethor’s gaze, knowing that the hour is right. His cloak falls and he looks at Denethor calmly, watching as the man’s pupils dilate in fear and disbelief. The guards next to him fare no better, recognizing both Lord Boromir and Lord Denethor’s features in the man they have imprisoned. In the long days of his captivity, Faramir has grown gaunt and dirty, but his hair has also grown, brushing against the side of his chin, and his grey eyes are clearer than ever.
Next to Faramir, Tobedir lets out a sharp bark of laughter. The guards are too young to remember, but Tobedir knows exactly what Denethor can see as he witnesses the countenance of his second-born.
Indeed, Denethor jabs a quivering finger towards Faramir’s direction, yet he points towards the wall behind him rather than the man himself. “Im- impossible.” He wheezes out. “Impossible.”
xxxiv.
Faramir is dragged out of his cell unceremoniously by the frightened guards. Denethor is still yelling at the top of the stairs. “I will burn this witch-child!” He shouts, “For he has brought a curse upon Gondor! I will see this city cleansed!”
Tobedir remains seated in his own cell. Finduilas put her faith in the wrong man, Tobedir thinks.
xxxv.
“We are fighting a war!” Gandalf shouts grumpily as he urges Shadowfax to go faster, even as rubble falls around them. “This man has completely lost his mind!” Pippin clings to the back of Gandalf’s robes, still reeling from the message Beregond had brought him.
As Gandalf and Pippin ride towards the white tree, Boromir is too running through the streets, slashing through Sauron’s army furiously. He has sent Beregond to fetch Faer’s bow and quiver from his rooms, fearing that he will have to use them before it is too late.
xxxvi.
Faramir observes the man who should have been his father calmly, as the guard ties him to the wooden pyre with a guilty look in his eyes. Denethor is nothing but a raving lunatic, oblivious to the sounds of war engulfing the city.
He has not dreamt of fire or smoke before, Faramir thinks idly, as Denethor shouts his spittle and pours oil on top of him.
Denethor rants towards the four guards under the White Tree, the only audience that he has managed to retain as his people fight for their lives. Faramir tunes him out, and listens to the silence as he stares upwards at the sky.
Perhaps, perhaps, this is just one long dream.
xxxvii.
“Cease this madness!” Gandalf shouts, Shadowfax rearing up to disperse the guards surrounding the pyre. “I will have none of your meddling, Wizard!” Denethor roars, and in a mad burst of dexterity, snatches the torch from one of the guards and throws it towards the oil-soaked wooden pyre.
Pippin watches in horror as the structure rapidly catches fire, but perhaps the most terrifying of all is the expressionless face of the young human bound to it. He carries the expression of a dead man, if not for the slow rising and fall of his chest.
From the other side, Boromir manages to scramble up the steps and throw himself at the pyre, his sword and shield bloodied from orcs. But he is not dexterous enough to climb up, and instead his armour is beginning to be seared by the heat.
“No!” Denethor yells at the same time as Pippin, and Gandalf urges his horse forward. Pippin jumps onto the pyre from the back of the horse, and begins to futilely push at the young man. “I need a blade!” He shouts, as the man’s eyes open and fix on Pippin.
“This is not a dream, then.” The man says, his voice filled with clarity, and a sudden wave of coolness washes over Pippin even amidst the fire and heat. A short knife lands beside Pippin, and the man shifts slightly to allow Pippin better access to the ropes that bind him to his fiery grave.
The ropes are old and frayed, and give easily at the edge of the sharp blade, enabling them to both roll towards the edge of the pyre. Boromir reaches over to tug both Pippin and the man off the pyre, and Pippin hastily uses his gloved hands to try to quench the flames on the man’s clothes as they land on the stone ground.
In the rush of events, he misses the gnarly Steward reaching to grab for his first-born, trying to pull Boromir away. At Boromir's harsh glare, he staggers backward in disbelief. He falls backwards into the burning pyre, his own robes soaked in oil from when he had been pouring it onto his second-born. Pippin only manages to look up in time to see Boromir staring at something behind him, an anguished sob choked in his throat, and as the Hobbit turns around all he can see is the burning pyre and the sky behind it.
xxxviii.
As the common folk retreat through the layers of the city in terror, only a few manage to witness a flaming object falling from the sky. Most of them, however, will see Lord Boromir leading the charge out against the enemy with scorched armour, even as his face is pale and bloodless, as if he has seen a ghost. They will remember the actual pale ghost riders of Dunharrow. They will remember Mithrandir in his white robes and white staff. They will remember their fathers and sons and brothers and friends who protect them with every dying breath.
As they reach the top, they will remember the Storyteller that they like so much standing at the edge of the wall, firing arrow after arrow into the hearts of their pursuers, protecting their escape. His hair is raven black, his eyes a stormy grey. He is dirty and muddy and ashen. He is valiant, regal, proud.
xxxix.
“Why did you behave so recklessly?” Gandalf scolds as Heledhel dresses Faramir’s burnt back.
“I thought it was a very long dream.” Faramir answers his mentor, “That this whole lifetime of mine had been a very long dream.”
Gandalf harrumphs in clear displeasure. “Alas, you have succumbed to the same madness as your forefathers.”
Faramir thinks of the man that should have been his father, and shrugs in assent.
Heledhel whacks him on the head for moving.
xl.
“Master Faer?” Two bushy heads enter Faramir’s vision when he is having his morning meal. “Master Meriadoc and Master Peregrin.” He greets.
“You know our names!” Peregrin exclaims cheerfully. “But please, we are Merry and Pippin.”
The Halflings’ joy are as infectious as Gandalf had always described, even though Merry definitely looks like he needs more rest. “I have met both of you in a dream, once.” He says, “Thank you for saving my life.”
“Well, it was Beregond who found out, really,” Pippin explains, “We weren’t going to let that horrid man burn you alive.”
“That horrid man was the Steward of this city.” Merry chastises. Pippin shrugs, clearly not caring for decorum.
“You’re Boromir’s brother, aren’t you?” Merry asks, and Faramir nods. “Aye,” Merry nods sagely, “You two look alike.”
“I think he reminds me of Aragorn,” Pippin says, stealing a piece of cheese off Faramir’s plate. “Don’t you think so, Merry?”
Merry scrutinizes Faramir carefully and seriously. "Aye," is his verdict, "He does."
xli.
“This is Faramir, Finduilas’ second-born.” Gandalf introduces him to the king. The king is just like Faramir dreamt of, and he has seen with his own eyes the work he has done in the Houses of Healing.
“I would kneel to swear my allegiance,” He says, “But I fear Heledhel will murder me if I attempt to leave this bed.”
The king laughs and sits down next to Faramir’s bed instead. “How are you doing, Storyteller?”
“I am recovering.” He answers truthfully, “Better yet when someone will tell me where Boromir has gone.”
The king exchanges a glance with Gandalf. “We did not mean to worry you.” he says, but Faramir cuts him off with a shake of his head. “I am not worried,” He answers, “I know that he is well.”
The king tilts his head to one side. “If you say he is well, then he will be well indeed.” He finally says. “He fell off a wall in battle and is currently kept unconscious for his own sake. But do not worry for him. He will still be my Steward, as he was born to be.”
Faramir lowers his gaze in deference, comforted by what he sees of the king’s heart and mind in the man’s eyes. The king takes Faramir's hands in his, exceedingly paternal despite not looking much too older than Boromir. "I am sorry to say that you will live with some of the burns forever."
"What for?" Gandalf interjects, "It was the boy's father, not you, to leave them on him."
"I am told you were imprisoned because of me." The king explains patiently.
Faramir shrugs, wincing slightly when the motion tugs at the wounds on his shoulder. "The people had to be prepared." He answers, "With Boromir gone, they needed hope, and I knew stories of the king would bring us estel."
Both the king and Gandalf chuckle at that, something sly in the king's grin. "You are indeed Gandalf's pupil." He says, "You have also inherited his ability to speak in riddles."
Gandalf begins to protest, puffing his chest out. The king glances at Faramir, then, and he feels as if the mirth in his eyes is echoed in Faramir's own.
xlii.
The king, Mithrandir, Boromir, and the Halflings have all left for the Black Gate. Faramir would have desired to speak to Boromir at least once before his departure, but between their injuries and Boromir's duties, Faramir's last memory of his brother remains hazy and filled with the scent of acrid burning.
His injuries hinder him too much to ride to war, and thus he resumes his post as the Storyteller.
He sits outside the House of Healing with Merry, and between the two of them they have enough stories and songs to entertain, to instill some life into the broken city, gathering crowds to their feet. Faramir doubts that he would ever have the exuberance to sing the songs of Hobbits, but admits that they are usually of far more cheer than those of Gondor. Faramir no longer carries his cloak anymore, but does nothing to clarify the similarities of his appearance to his brother or Lord Denethor.
Prince Imrahil, acting Steward of Gondor, sits and watches them one day, an indecipherable look in his eyes. Faramir tells a tale of the sea, and Merry later swears that he had seen Prince Imrahil wipe away a lone tear at the end of his story.
"My lady!" Merry jumps up one day, and Faramir looks up to see a lady clad in white approach. She is the slayer of the witch-king. "Lady Éowyn." He greets as well as she sits down on the steps next to them.
"It is exceedingly delightful to see the both of you be in such joyous spirits." She says, her smile sorrowful and half-hearted. "Yet the city has fallen silent, but for your songs. There is no warmth left in the sun, and it grows so cold."
Merry seems to be at a loss in face of her melancholy, and looks to Faramir.
"It is just the damp of the first spring rain," Faramir says, "The darkness will not endure. If it is helpful to you, and if Master Meriadoc does not protest, you are free to sit with us anytime, and we will sing you songs of the sun and of its warmth."
Merry jumps up in glee, hugging Faramir around the neck before throwing himself into Éowyn's lap. Éowyn laughs loudly, then, her smile spreading across her face as she embraces Merry.
For her, Faramir thinks helplessly, he will sing all songs of joy and tell all tales of glee. He will tell no more stories of children without father or mother, he will tell no more tales of greed and power and betrayal and deceit, if she so wished.
She looks over and catches Faramir's captivated stare, and smiles at him once more.
xliii.
"So, you have been my actual brother all along." Boromir joins Faramir, where he is sitting cross-legged on the balcony outside. He sets down a mug of ale next to Faramir, which he takes gratefully and puts aside his empty one. His viol sits beside him, from when he had played a tune for the Hobbits to dance to at Mithrandir’s request. He can still hear the sounds of merry-making coming from the hall behind them.
Boromir looks tired and worn from the journey home, but he is happy and relaxed in a way that Faramir has not seen for a long time.
"Aye." He nods, "I am your brother, Faramir."
"Faramir," Boromir repeats, observing Faramir just as Faramir observes him.
There are years they must make up for, when they were brothers but were not. There are the last days of their father to consider, the last days of their mother. But they both know there will be years ahead of them.
Perhaps Faramir has dreamt of it, wedding a lady in white as she sings the songs of Hobbits that Faramir cannot. That as Boromir sits at the king’s right hand, Faramir will be in his library and archive, acting as the keeper of truth and teller of tales. Their days will be filled with peace and prosperity, of comrades and Halflings and songs and drinks, of celebrations and weddings and travelling through marvelous realms. They will have all the time in the world to make up for what they have lost.
But for now, they sit next to each other simply as brothers do, drinking to the return of the king and the end of darkness. For in their hearts, they have known each other as brother long ago, and they do not need their blood to affirm this for them.
"Remember today, little brother," Boromir smiles widely at him, holding up his own mug of ale. "Today, life is good."
Then they both take a deep swig of their ale, and there is none who disturbs them.