DEFINING MOMENT

Chapter One

Chapter One

TA 2988

Minas Tirith

Boromir couldn't take his eyes off the funeral pyre with his mother's body inside it. The choir's melancholy song didn't match his mother's vibrant, sea-tunes she so loved to sing.

He heard a snuffle beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Faramir wipe away tears.

Boromir felt his father stiffen beside him. Though he was close to Denethor, he knew this was not the time to reach for his hand. Instead, he held out his hand to Faramir.

And the song continued on, mournful, unpromising, and filled with lament. The White City was quiet. It was veiled in darkness.

They spoke words over Finduilas, beloved wife of Denethor, but Boromir wished they would cease their prattle and leave. He needed time to be alone and away from all this sadness. He'd had his share of sadness these past few months.

As soon as the funeral was officially finished, Denethor strode away from the hall to his chambers, away from well-wishers and guests.

Boromir gripped Faramir's hand tighter. He felt a surge of anger towards his father. Faramir needed a figure to look up to, to love. He was only five.

He glanced towards his little brother, wishing he could leave the hall as well. But the hordes of people blocked his way. He remained seated on the long bench, ignoring the jostles behind him as the guests stood and tried to leave.

"What will happen now?" He could barely hear Faramir's whisper above the echoes in the White City.

He turned to Faramir and tried to smile. The words clogged in his throat. "We will be fine, little brother. I will look after you. All shall be well."

Faramir nodded bravely and adjusted his focus back to the funeral pyre. "We shall never see her again, will we?"

He had to be honest with the child. "She has gone to the Halls of Mandros. That's where the Elves go, too." He said that to Faramir just as much as he said it to himself. He already missed his mother.

Faramir sat on the bench, motionless. "Is Father upset?"

Boromir had noticed long ago how his father had withdrawn from the people who loved him, becoming grim and remote.

"Never mind about Father," Boromir put up a brave face for Faramir's sake. How long had it been since he'd talked with his brother? "Come along. I will find Cook and we'll get something to eat. I'm starving."

Faramir nodded and wiped the remaining tears off his face. Boromir kept a firm grip on his brother's hand. He didn't want him getting lost with among all these people Faramir didn't know.

Some of the lords and ladies bowed in respect to him. Boromir kept his face glued on the white tree outside the Citadel.

Minas Tirith had seven levels. Boromir made his way to the fourth level, making sure to do his best to avoid the fifth level. That was where the tombs were, and he didn't want to be reminded that was where his mother would soon be laid.

"What do you want from the cook, Faramir?"

Faramir said nothing for a while. Boromir didn't rush him.

"I want some bread."

Of all the treats he could partake, he'd have bread! "I'm sure the cook has loaves of bread cooling."