Remember Today

One-Shot

A/N: According to TheOneRing.net, today is the day in Middle-Earth which Boromir died. Of course, my feels resurfaced, and, as Faramir is my darling dear, I couldn’t resist. Enjoy, mellonea nin!

  

   Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, and Steward to the King of Gondor, now sat on a precipice by the Anduin, watching the water rush by in its haste to make it to the Sea. It was a chilly day, nearing the end of February, not quite a full year since the end of the War. Much rebuilding was still being done in Minas Tirith, and in Osgiliath. The people of Gondor still mourned for their lost, even brave Faramir, for ’twas this day, only one year previously, that he heard his brother’s horn crying from the North. The young Steward had slipped out of the city, unnoticed, in the predawn hours of the morning for a bit of peace and quiet before the hectic activity of his day commenced (for such was the life of the King’s Chief Counselor).

    Faramir looked to the north and breathed deeply. The morning reminded him much of his days commanding in Ithilien when he would be up before dawn making what preparations were needed for the day. The feel of stone beneath him. The feel of the cool breeze brushing off the river. The moist taste it left in his mouth. But it also reminded him of another day. One that had begun just like all the others.

   He could still hear the sound of his brother’s horn. It was permanently etched into his memory. He closed his eyes, and again he could envision his brother in his funeral boat, floating calmly down the river Anduin. He could feel the emptiness that threatened to consume him. The shock and denial that had immediately overtaken his senses. It had been sometime later before the real grief hit. Before Faramir found a quiet spot to sob out his anguish.

   He mentally brushed these thoughts away, having no need to allow himself to sink into that black pool of despair. Instead now, he could see his brother’s proud face as he led his men to victory. His eyes glittering with warm lights as he greeted his little brother. And he could feel the safety of his brother’s arms as they embraced him.

   Faramir shuddered from the remembered warmth and pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders.

   As he stood there, another day long ago, rose, unbidden, to the front of Faramir’s memory:

   “Boromir?” Ten year old Faramir began solemnly, as he trotted at his brother’s heels. “What’s it like to die?”

   Boromir stopped still, and turned to his younger brother, a shocked expression on his face. “Why do you ask, little brother? That is not something that I can answer, nor do I wish to take a guess at.”

   Faramir shrugged. He had always seemed so wise, and so much older than he looked. Gazing thoughtfully out the window as he spoke, he said quietly, “I heard lieutenant Damrod talking with Anborn about the massacre near Cair Andros. He said a lot of soldiers were killed.”

   Boromir’s gaze tightened. “Aye,” he said softly, “Many lives are taken in battle. It is one necessary evil of war. You will understand when you’re older.”