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kylobith · 4 months

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LotR Week - Day 5 (15th Dec)

loss | sacrifice | despair

Word count: 4,573

Boromir’s steps echoed in the stairwell of the Tower of Ecthelion as he descended them at a careful pace. Plunged in the obscurity and left out from the cast of moonlight, there was little light filtering through the sparse windows. One missed step, and he would surely shatter his neck and back on the marble. Clinging to the wall with one hand, he aided himself further, calculating each motion. The halo of his torch enhanced the furrow on his forehead and the dark rings under his tearful eyes. A lump had long settled in his throat, stifling his hitched breath and rendering him incapable of producing a single sound. His aching heart pounded within his chest forcefully enough that he expected it to tear itself asunder at any second. His thoughts plunged into despair, surrendering to the relentless tumult of his mind.

Earlier that night, hurried footsteps and hushed voices outside his door had dragged him out of his slumber. People came and went, the heaviness and recurrence of their steps even causing his bed to quiver. Every so often, the familiar clatter of armour would follow suit. He would have dismissed it without a second thought if not for the maidservants’ peculiar words echoing in the hallway and retaining his attention.

‘Any trace of the little one?’ one voice, which he recognised as that of his father’s housekeeper Tíriel, urged to another.

‘None. Ivorwen and Orodreth have searched the kitchens, but the child is nowhere to be found.’

‘Eru, protect him!’

Lighting up the extinguished candle on his bedside table, Boromir had kicked off his legs from the bed and emerged from underneath the covers. He had risen and marched to the door, yawning and wiping the sleep out of his eyes. Something was afoot, and his instinct had predicted that this would be a very long night.

When he heralded his presence by opening his door, the two servants had started and bowed.

‘What is the matter?’ his groggy voice had inquired.

‘My lord, you should be in bed,’ Tíriel had spoken with the fondness in her tone she reserved for children. Yet this had not sufficed to conceal the alarm that gripped her voice and tensed up every muscle in her frail body.

‘I was until I heard you and the others running about. Now tell me, what is the matter?’

Tíriel had regarded Damrod, the chamberlain, with a discerning gaze betraying her uncertainty. Despite his pursed lips and the vehement shaking of his head, the housekeeper had found herself drawn to revealing the situation to the steward’s older son. If he had awoken at this particular time, then he deserved to know, she deemed.

‘My lord, is your brother in your room with you?’

His heart had stopped. The child they could not find was Faramir?

‘No, he is not,’ he had responded, now wide awake and seized by dead. ‘Is he missing?’

‘Well, he is not in bed, and we have yet to find him.’

Leaving no room for hesitation, Boromir scurried back inside his chambers, placing his candleholder on his dresser, snatching his trousers from the back of his chair, and jumping on one foot as he slid a first leg in it. Dumbfounded at the door, the two servants turned their heads to give him some privacy. A frown marred Damrod’s countenance as he cast a disapproving glare in Tíriel’s direction.

‘Fetch me a torch,’ the young lord called out as he slipped on a warmer shirt and a vest. ‘Tell me which places have already been searched.’

‘My lord,’ Damrod pleaded, ‘it is unreasonable for you to come with us. Please remain in bed; we will notify you once your brother is found. You have an important evaluation tomorrow morning; you cannot miss it.’

Without bothering to put socks on, Boromir laced up his boots and snuffed out his candle. He reappeared at the frame, buckling up his sword at his hip.

‘There will be other evaluations. I have only one Faramir.’

As he set out for the hallways, Damrod had departed in the opposite direction, leaving Tíriel to accompany Boromir. Traversing the lofty corridors of the citadel, he had observed the conspicuous absence of most guards. He could only imagine — and hope — that they were on the same quest as he was.

On their way out, Tíriel had handed a torch from the wall to Boromir, whose fingers had instantly clasped it until his knuckles turned as pale as his face. Although aware that none of her words would ease his anguish, the housekeeper revealed everything she knew about the situation.

As soon as she had noticed that Faramir’s door had been left open, the passing governess had peeked inside the bedchambers, only to find the bed unmade yet unoccupied. After looking around for the boy, suspecting that he might have snuck into his playroom, she had found herself at a loss over the child’s whereabouts. She had questioned the guards in the hallway, but none had seen him leave, having taken their posts only a few minutes prior. One of them, however, had indicated having heard agitation and crying inside the room.

Crying… Boromir’s heart ached at the mere mention of it. What had Faramir gone through that had warranted his sudden disappearance?

Spurred by the guard’s statement, the governess had felt compelled to sound the alarm among her fellow household workers. Most abandoned their duties to join the search for the child, but success had thus far eluded them. The palace, except Boromir’s chambers, had been scoured from stem to stern. No trace of Faramir, whether in the kitchens, in the garderobes, the guest rooms, the offices, or the hall. Not a breadcrumb.

Once Boromir and Tíriel had exited the citadel and stood near the White Tree, five guards on horseback had urgently trotted up to them. Bowing their heads to the young lord, the latter had gritted his teeth, having no use for such triviality at this dire hour.

‘Sentinels, what news do you bring?’ he had queried, resting his trembling hand on the hilt of his sword.

‘Nobody has seen Lord Faramir, and neither have we,’ one of them replied sternly.

A knot had tied in the pit of his stomach. But there was still hope. If his younger brother had not been seen in the city, there was a chance that he was much closer than they had thought. Boromir had drawn in a sharp breath and given orders to the sentinels.

‘Guard the path to the citadel and send one to the gates to notify the guards there. If anybody enters or departs the city, I want to be notified promptly before they do. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘It matters not to me who goes. Decide it between yourselves.’

With a last nod towards the guards, Boromir turned to Tíriel and beckoned her back towards the citadel.

‘Has the library been searched? I believe my brother’s newfound obsession for books now that he can read is known to all.’

‘Yes, my lord. The archivist was awoken and is now watching the library. He vowed to alert us if your brother is seen there.’

‘Very well. Now, we must think of our next step.’

Tumultuous waves of thoughts had coursed through his mind as he internally reiterated every place that had been combed, every post occupied by those who helped. It had left them with few options to consider. Pensive, he had instinctively raised his gaze towards the magnificent Tower of Ecthelion, and an idea had burgeoned in his mind.

‘I must search the Tower,’ he had muttered. ‘I doubt that he bothered to go inside, but if I could reach the top and have a better view of the upper level in case Faramir is outside, I will see him immediately.’

Before the housekeeper could object, Boromir had run off to the doors of the Tower. Climbing the stairs in a hurry, peering through the few windows on his path to the top, he had ignored his erratic breathing, burning the little energy left in him. Despite the burning sensation in his calves and thighs, he had pushed forward, skipping steps if necessary.

In hushed prayers, he beseeched any listening ear for Faramir’s well-being, fervently hoping that his beloved brother had not fallen into the clutches of vicious hands. With each step nearer the top of the stairs, his plea grew louder. His quivering voice yearned to witness his sibling blossoming into a formidable man, partake in a ride to Osgiliath with him, or even share a pastry torn in halves between them.

Battling the urge to collapse on his knees, Boromir had pledged to the Valar to cultivate greater patience for Faramir. He had committed to indulging the child, reading him tales and letting him read others in return, and lending an eager ear to his enthusiastic banter about the new knowledge he acquired. He cared not about their differences. All he wanted was his brother back.

Once at the summit of the stairs, he had flung open the door with an abrupt burst of strength. The guards stationed there had jolted at his sight, clutching their spears and the hilts of their swords. Upon recognising the steward’s oldest, they had eased yet attempted to dissuade him from remaining where he stood, urging him to return to the citadel. Stubborn and much too worried to listen to any of it, Boromir had circled the Tower’s peak, leaning over the marble guardrail, his eyes scanning the city and the Pelennor Fields for possible movement. All he had seen were the scarce figures of adults, no child to be seen.

‘FARAMIR!’ he had called out from the top of his lungs, clutching the guardrail until his nails and knuckles felt as though they would shatter. Gripped by an uneasy foreboding, he had screamed his brother’s name again and again until his voice grew hoarse. There was no reaction besides the guards covering their ears.

One of them had approached the young lord and squeezed his shoulder to pull him back as he nearly bent over the void beneath him in sheer despair.

‘Lord Boromir, you must return to the citadel. I will escort you there myself. If we see Lord Faramir, we shall blow the horn.’

The boy had dropped his hand on the side of his body in defeat, nodding in obedience. Holding his torch still, he had allowed the guard to direct him back into the stairwell of the Tower and to escort him to the terrace below.

And there Boromir was, descending the stairs with tears brimming his eyes, threatening to fall at any second. His legs wobbled underneath him, weakened by his erratic climbing and running, threatening to give in. Before they would, the guard caught him by the arm and held him up.

‘There, there, my lord. Fear not, we will find him.’

Boromir wanted to believe him; he truly did. But something did not sit right with him. How did nobody see Faramir leave his room, alone or in the company of another? Were there no guards stationed at his door? How had the disappearance eluded them?

Before he could delve deeper into the thought, they reached the bottom of the stairs and exited the Tower of Ecthelion. At its foot, Tíriel had waited for his return, and the guard mumbled something that he did not make an effort to hear. He felt the housekeeper’s arm encircle his shoulders, but he gently put her arm away.

The search had to continue. He could not give up.

‘Has anybody asked Ioreth at the Houses of Healing whether Faramir has been seen or brought there with any injury?’

‘Damrod has just done so, but none of the healers saw any child in the Houses.’

‘Let us return to the citadel. We must proceed carefully.’

‘You must go back to bed.’

‘As long as Faramir is missing, I am not.’

They passed the White Tree on their way to the citadel and found the governess leaning against the wall outside the door, pressing a handkerchief to her lips to stifle her weeping. Boromir’s heart sank at her sight. This could not be good. Without hesitation, he leapt forward to meet her.

‘Morwen,’ he hailed, still out of breath. ‘Is there any news of my brother?’

‘No, not yet,’ she sobbed, patting her tear-stained cheeks. ‘It is all my fault!’

Boromir placed a hand on her shoulder and rubbed it. If somebody was to be held responsible, it certainly was not her.

‘There, there, brave Morwen,’ he whispered, taking out his clean handkerchief from his pocket and helping her dry her skin. ‘You did well. You were the one to notify us as soon as you saw something amiss.’

‘It is not that, my lord. I should have said something earlier. The poor child… He has not been himself as of late.’

His ears perked up at the governess’ revelation. As his brow furrowed, he clutched her arms, perhaps tighter than he meant to.

‘Not himself?’

‘Oh, no. For the past year, he has been a troubled soul since the passing of Lady Finduilas. His mind is elsewhere, his eyes sorrowful… So young, so young!’

Something snapped into place inside Boromir’s mind. A gasp rolled off his lip as he shot up, releasing Morwen from his grasp.

‘This is it! This must be it!’

Without explanation, Boromir shouldered his way through the citadel's doors. Resolution and hope rekindled in his heart as he hurtled across the Hall of the Kings, startling the gathered soldiers and servants. Clad in his evening robes, Denethor snapped his head, only to behold his older son, not knowing that he had left his bed.

‘Boromir!’

The boy did not cast so much as a glance over his shoulder as he continued his course. A sharp pain tore through his calf as though the muscle threatened to tear in half.

‘I know where he is!’

And he cursed himself for not having thought of it earlier. How could he have been so daft?

The agitation and the crying in Faramir’s room… He had jumped to the worst conclusions before reasoning. What the governess had said was true. Their mother’s death had inflicted a more profound toll on his younger brother than it had already on him. Faramir had been much closer to Finduilas than himself, much to his regret, and the child was too young to process his grief.

Boromir darted across the bridge behind the citadel, his hair blown back by the night breezes. He placed his torch in an empty sconce at the crypt's entrance and solemnly entered, not allowing his anguish to desecrate the place. He bowed to the tombs in their alcoves before advancing, his hands brushing against his thighs.

Silence reigned in the hall. Even the torches’ flames licked at the air noiselessly, dancing upon the stone slabs and the walls. Their flickering accentuated the traits of each recumbent effigy of the kings and stewards that had once served Gondor and were now laid to rest and immortalised in statues, if not in scrolls and the memories of the living.

Carved into the mountain's flank, the crypt was devoid of warmth. Not even halfway through, Boromir regretted not having taken his cloak on his way out of his room. The cold nipped at him and sunk into his bones, stiffening his joints and reddening his hands.

Nevertheless, any discomfort became trivial when he caught a glimpse of a curled-up form upon one of the slabs ahead. He hastened but abstained from running, approaching the tomb with a measured stride — a place he had not visited often enough to his liking.

Boromir crouched beside the grave and offered a warm smile to the shivering figure facing away.

‘There you are, Fari,’ he murmured, his voice bereft of resentment or anger. ‘Everybody is looking for you. You gave me the fright of the century, little brother.’

There was no reaction from the little boy nestled against the breast of his mother’s effigy. Only stuttered breaths reached his ears as a visible hitch marked his brother’s every inhalation. He was so lightly dressed; Boromir could well imagine that he was chilled to the bone if even he could feel the frost despite the layers upon his back.

His fingers unbuttoned his vest and placed it across his bent knee before pulling his warmer shirt over his head and enveloping Faramir’s frail body. Having slid his vest back over his thin nightshirt, he patiently awaited movement from his brother, a word perhaps, but none came forth.

‘You had a nightmare again, mh?’

This time, Faramir nodded and peered over his shoulder at his brother. His blue eyes were bloodshot and swollen from incessant weeping. Boromir would have struck himself with his own sword at the sight for his stupidity. He should have known long before where his brother would run to for comfort. He would have been there for his brother and held him to ease his fear for as long as needed.

The younger boy rubbed his eye with his tiny fist and spoke at last, his voice feeble and broken.

‘I was so scared.’

Boromir’s eyes softened as they crinkled at the corners, his smile widening. He ran his fingers through the dishevelled curls on his brother’s head in a gentle motion.

‘And father’s scolding for the broken glass at dinner certainly did not help it.’

‘No.’

The older brother sighed.

‘Forget about him, little brother. As long as I am around, you have nothing to fear,’ he intoned, earning a soft smile from the child. ‘Let’s get you back to bed, shall we?’

When Faramir acquiesced, Boromir turned his back to him, maintaining his crouched position with his heels firmly grounded for balance. Gone was the weight that had lingered in the air between them. It had been replaced by the shared and unbridled affection that now enveloped them in its unseen mantle.

‘Come here,’ he instructed with a smile. ‘Hop on, little froggy!’

Faramir’s giggle resonated through the Houses of the Dead, insufflating some joy into its hallways. In other circumstances, Boromir would have seen it as a celebration of life in gratitude for those who were long stripped of theirs, who had rendered the miracle of their sole existence possible. For now, he only wanted to bring his brother back to his warm bed and reassure all who were worried to death about the child’s disappearance.

Having slipped his arms into the shirt's sleeves kindly lent to him, the little boy climbed onto his brother’s back, wrapping his arms around his neck. Much to Boromir’s amusement, the sleeves dangled way past his hands, a comical sight which applied balm to his previously aching heart. He hoisted himself up and carried Faramir, holding him under the knees. Before leaving, he bowed his head to the tomb beside him.

‘Good night, Mother. We love you.’

Faramir nodded, burying his face against his shoulder blade as they exited the crypt. Boromir did not bother retrieving the torch from the sconce, leaving it to burn in peace. They headed towards the citadel in silence as exhaustion gained them both. He dragged his feet across the stone, unwilling to let his brother walk. The poor thing needed to regain warmth, and their proximity enabled just that.

Before his eyelids unconsciously drooped, Boromir flinched at the sight of the sleeve poking his nose. A sharp exhalation swirled out of his nose as he glanced over his shoulder with a grin.

‘Yes?’

‘Are you angry with me, Boromir?’

He patted the side of the child’s calf with the utmost tenderness.

‘I could never.’

‘Not even if I broke your wooden sword?’

Boromir regarded him with suspicion, although the smirk plastered on his face served as a silent understanding that there was no trace of irritation in his heart.

‘Why? Did you break the wooden sword?’

‘Maybe?’

A chuckle escaped his throat as he readjusted his brother upon his back whilst crossing the bridge back to the palace.

‘Ah, that is quite alright. Think nothing of it.’

‘But you love that sword!’

‘Perhaps, but I love you much more than I do a toy.’

Faramir smiled and tightened his grip around his brother, crossing his ankles against the older boy’s stomach. As they entered the citadel again, the first guards and servants to behold the reunited brothers sighed and exclaimed in relief, spreading the word to their colleagues to end the search.

When Boromir entered the Hall of the Kings to notify his father, Denethor stomped in their direction, his traits distorted by an unmatched fury. He pointed a finger towards the younger boy, who tensed up and flinched before a single word left his mouth.

‘You little brat! What foolishness has come through your head for you to disappear so?!’

‘Father, that is enough!’

Denethor halted at once, his wide eyes turning to his older son and yielding to the boy’s authority. Boromir put Faramir down and held him tightly against his side.

‘Faramir was found, and that is the end of the story,’ he scolded his father, scowling at him. As Morwen entered the hall and burst into tears of elation at the sight of the child, brought back safe and sound, Boromir held his brother’s hand. ‘Morwen, will you please take my brother to my bedchambers? I shall keep him company tonight. Please fetch his pillow and his stuffed horse from his room. Go with her, Faramir; I will be with you shortly.’

‘Yes, brother.’

Faramir took Morwen’s hand and followed her away until she picked him up out of sheer joy and carried him to the royal quarters. Boromir smiled as he watched them, sensing the lump in his throat fading at last. Yet when his father spoke, his frown was quick to return.

‘You waste far too much energy on this child,’ Denethor spat. ‘He has spoiled your rest with his antics. Tomorrow is an important day for you, with the master of arms’ examination. Now that you have spent half of the night outside by Faramir’s fault, he has ruined your potential. So do not make things worse for yourself, Boromir. Send the boy back to his room and have him locked up there, or you will not be able to even stand in your armour in the morrow.’

‘Then, tired I will be. But do not ask me to forsake my brother when he is in pain, for I will not obey.’

Denethor’s eyes glimmered with a spark of rage. Nevertheless, he did not lash out at Boromir. No, that was a treatment he usually reserved for his younger son. His father paced up and down in a futile attempt to quiet the thunderous words threatening to escape him, not helped by the older son’s defiant scowl and raised chin.

‘You cannot let the child lead you around by the nose, Boromir. He must grow up, and it is about time.’

‘Father, he is six years old, give him time! Mother’s death has scarred him deeply; do not blame him for his pain.’

‘He will be the death of us both, do you not see it? You cannot possibly care for him all his life to the detriment of your potential and virtues. You have much to achieve, my son, so much to accomplish. Do not let a brainless little boy waste any of that.’

‘I am his older brother, and if it is a burden, it is one that I gladly accept,’ Boromir retorted, leaving time for Denethor to respond. When the latter struggled to find his words, the boy bowed. ‘Good night, Father. I shall see you in the morning.’

When Boromir reached his bedchambers, he found Faramir already in bed, his curls a blond halo around his head while he pressed his yellow stuffed horse to his heart. Finding the sight most endearing, the older boy readjusted the cover on top of his brother, carefully tucking him in. He pressed a kiss to his temple before stripping down to his nightshirt and loincloth. When he slipped back under the blankets, Faramir stirred and sighed.

‘I miss Mother.’

Boromir turned his head with raised eyebrows and smiled softly.

‘Me too, Fari.’

Seeing the tears welling up in his little brother’s eyes, Boromir pulled him against his chest and held him close, rubbing his back to comfort the child. It had been long since he had mourned their mother. Not that he had not loved her. For years, he had enjoyed his father’s favouritism, finding comfort in the knowledge that Finduilas spent most of her time raising and coddling Faramir. But now that she was gone, Denethor’s spite towards the younger boy had been unleashed and had reached greater extents than ever before.

Thus, Boromir had done all he could for the past year to never let his brother alone in their father’s company. He had found countless excuses to lure the younger boy away or distract his father by doing something as simple as handing the maidservant his empty plate with the cutlery neatly laid on top of it to earn his praise and give some respite to his brother. But such moments were never to last, and he was more than aware that it was only the beginning.

Under the palm of his hand, he sensed the shaking of Faramir’s shoulder as the child began to weep again. Wishing to deflect the night's pain and emotion, Boromir chuckled and kissed the top of his head.

‘Hey, Fari, do you remember that day when Mother let you style her hair?’

Faramir’s sobs swiftly turned into stifled chuckles.

‘I got her brush stuck in her hair and couldn’t get it out.’

‘Exactly,’ Boromir responded with a hearty laugh, the happy memory filling him with joy. He could see it all again: Finduilas’ luscious black hair matted around the wooden handle and the boar bristles on one side of her head.

‘She wasn’t even angry at me.’

Boromir chuckled and pressed another kiss to his brother’s hair.

‘No, she wasn’t. You were not there to see it because you were with Morwen, but Mother kept the brush in her hair the entire day, pretending that nothing was afoot. Father commented on it, but she retorted that it was all the rage in Dol Amroth.’

‘She did?’ the little boy gasped in amusement.

‘Yes, she did,’ he confirmed, his smile slowly fading. ‘You know, little brother, Mother loved you with all her heart. And I love you all the same. Never forget that.’

And forget Faramir never did.

One evening, the younger brother entered the crypt again, bowing to the alcoves and following the trail leading him to his mother. He bent to place a kiss upon her statue’s brow and rested a hand upon the slab.

‘Good evening, Mother,’ his solemn voice echoed throughout the halls. With a sigh, he stared down at the cloven horn between his unsteady hands. ‘I fear that I am a bearer of unfortunate news.’

He lay down beside the effigy, no longer tiny next to it, but his head and legs reaching beyond those of the bronze figure. His chest heaving with sorrow, Faramir clutched the horn to his heart and wept for his brother.

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