T.A. 2999

A white city indeed, Boromir thought as he made his way toward the gate of the Third Circle of Minas Tirith. His booted feet slid a little on the carpet of new-fallen snow covering the street. Large snowflakes were still falling thickly from the darkening sky above, settling on his shoulder-length hair and the collar of his fur-lined cloak.

All around him, people were hurrying homeward in the gathering dusk. Some, who recognized the Steward’s heir, nodded respectfully as they passed. Others walked with heads down, cloaks and shawls clutched tightly, complaining to each other about the unseasonable cold. Snow was not unknown in this part of Gondor, but it was rarely seen before the turning of the year. That was still more than a month away; snow this early was almost unheard of.

Such a contrast to Dol Amroth, where he had spent the past four weeks! The golden afternoons of autumn still lingered there, though the nights were becoming frosty and the wind from the sea could be sharp. But the skies had turned iron-grey while the ship on which Boromir rode sailed up the Anduin, and the first flakes of snow had greeted him when he debarked at the Harlond shortly after midday.

The trip to Dol Amroth had been prompted by a resurgence of activity from the Corsairs of Umbar. A brilliant victory at the ancient port of Pelargir had routed them when Boromir was less than two years old, and they had not troubled Gondor in the twenty years since. But in the late summer they had reappeared and raided several villages on the south coast. Denethor had then taken it into his head that he had been neglecting the naval portion of his heir’s education and had pulled him from his military duties to spend a month with his grandfather, Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth. Boromir was to participate in training exercises with the navy at Belfalas, and to learn as much as he could about the finer points of naval combat and strategy.

Denethor had sent a servant with a horse to meet his heir at the dock. Riding across the Pelennor, Boromir had felt his heart swell as it always did at the sight of the White City rising in majestic tiers up the mountainside, crowned by the Tower of Ecthelion. At the Great Gate, he had stopped for a word with some friends from the garrison and sent the servant on ahead with the horses, saying he would walk up to the Citadel when he was finished. After three days on a ship, he was glad of the chance to stretch his legs.

Now the early dusk of winter was creeping in, and the streetlamps were beginning to be lit as he finally made his way up through the levels. He had spent longer at the gatehouse than he’d intended; it would soon be dinnertime and his father would be expecting him.

Suddenly a child’s shout of “Come back here!” echoed from an alley to Boromir’s left. A small boy burst from the passageway and scampered across his path. He turned sharply, feet sliding on the slick paving-stones, and pelted off down the street at top speed. In his wake followed a larger boy, some distance behind. He tried to copy the first boy’s movements, but was not so lucky; his feet slipped and he overbalanced as he rounded the corner. He landed hard on his side, skidding until he collided gently with Boromir’s legs.

Concerned, Boromir bent over to see that the boy was unharmed. “Are you all right?” he asked kindly.

“Yes, thank you,” the boy sighed as he watched his quarry disappear around a corner far down the street. His tone suggested that he was more aggrieved at losing the chase than hurt by the fall. He took the gloved hand proffered to him, for the first time looking properly at the man standing over him. Boromir nearly chuckled at how the boy’s eyes widened and his mouth opened in astonishment as he realized who was helping him to his feet. The boy’s gaze fastened on the great white-and-silver horn hanging at Boromir’s side, and his thoughts were plain: Only one man in Gondor would carry that. He gulped and made a hasty bow. “I--I beg your pardon, my lord. I wasn’t looking where I was going. My brother--” He bit his lip.

Boromir held up a hand. “I understand perfectly. Little brothers must be kept in line, or there’s no telling what mischief they’d get up to.” The boy looked up at him warily, as if unsure how to interpret that remark. “At least, that’s what I tell my brother constantly,” Boromir continued with a solemn wink. At this the boy’s face broke into a grin of relief.

“What did your brother do?” Boromir asked curiously.

“He used my paints without asking. The blue is nearly gone now.”

“That is a grave offense,” Boromir agreed in a serious tone. “And you may tell him that I said so.”

The boy nodded and strode importantly back down the alley, fortified by the knowledge that no less a person than Lord Boromir himself had condemned the borrowing of his paints. Boromir grinned to himself, picturing the conversation between the two brothers when the younger one slunk home at last.

He glanced down the street. No sign of the younger boy. But another figure was approaching through the dusk, one that Boromir recognized instantly: a lanky young man walking slowly, as if tired, his head bowed against the blowing snowflakes.

Boromir’s grin widened and a spark of mischief entered his eyes. He bent down to scoop up a handful of wet snow, then waited in front of the gate. When Faramir came within ten paces of him, Boromir issued his challenge:

“Halt, ruffian! You may not pass these gates!”

Faramir’s head jerked up at the sound of the familiar voice. A broad grin flashed onto his face and the tiredness left his stance as he returned, “By what authority?”

“By authority of this!” Boromir answered, and threw the snowball. It clipped Faramir smartly on the right shoulder.

Laughing, Faramir ducked quickly to make a snowball of his own. A brief but hard-fought battle followed, which took a decisive turn when Boromir scored a direct hit to Faramir’s face, filling his eyes with snow and temporarily blinding him. Faramir’s snowball went wide, and Boromir used the time gained to hurl himself across the few steps which separated them. He grabbed his brother by the waist and pulled him to the ground, drawing startled looks from passersby who at first took the playful wrestling for a real fight.

Faramir struggled, but with the advantage of size and experience, Boromir managed to pin him face-down in the snow, planting a knee in the small of his back and twisting his arm behind him. Then he gleefully rubbed snow into Faramir’s hair with his free hand.

“Do you yield?”

“Never--aagh!” Faramir’s defiant cry changed to a yelp as Boromir expertly placed just a little more pressure on his arm. “I yield, I yield!” he conceded with a laugh. “Now release me?” He twisted his neck to look hopefully back over his shoulder.

Boromir pretended not to hear. “Let me see, what should be the forfeit?” he asked himself thoughtfully, savoring the moment of victory. Faramir groaned theatrically and let his head fall back to the snowy street. “Polishing my boots for a week, perhaps? Or...” Boromir’s eyes lit on a bakery sign hanging a short distance away. “I know--honey cakes!”

“Honey cakes it shall be,” Faramir agreed. “Now let me up!”

Boromir relented then, and helped Faramir to his feet. “You made that far too easy, little brother,” he said teasingly as Faramir swept caked snow from his sleeve and brushed at the skirts of his coat. “I expected a better fight from you. Are those Rangers teaching you nothing?”

The smile faded from Faramir’s eyes, though his mouth still curved upward. But his only response was, “It was riding drills today, and sword practice.”

Faramir was destined to join the Rangers of Ithilien. He had accompanied them on a training mission once already, and even participated in a skirmish with a small band of orcs. When he passed his seventeenth birthday--still a few months away--he would join them permanently. In the meantime, he also trained with the cadets of the citadel guard.

“Then you need to go out with the Rangers again as soon as possible. Your aim is terrible!”

At that, Faramir’s smile vanished altogether. A small dent appeared between his eyebrows and his gaze shifted downward. Boromir sighed mentally and reminded himself that his over-serious brother was all too likely to take such comments to heart.

“I’m only joking, you know,” he said reproachfully, clapping Faramir on the shoulder.

“I know.” Faramir returned the gesture and made an effort at another smile. “Come, I shall pay my forfeit now, and you can tell me how things are in Dol Amroth.”

Faramir ordered the cakes from an open-mouthed baker’s assistant who would surely be dining out for a week on the tale of how he’d had both the Steward’s sons right there in his shop. They ate as they walked, their cloaks billowing in the sharpening wind as the snow continued to fall. Between bites, Boromir launched into an amusing story about how he’d mixed up the ship’s ropes on his first day of training. By the time they reached the gate of the Fourth Circle, Faramir was laughing heartily and the earlier awkwardness was forgotten.

*******

Boromir barely had time to change out of his travel clothes before being summoned to dinner. Denethor, stately as ever in a fur-trimmed black robe, was waiting in the hall at the foot of the stairs. He greeted his elder son cordially with a smile and a kiss on the forehead.

“The sea air seems to have suited you,” he said approvingly. “How are things in Dol Amroth?”

“A good deal warmer than here,” Boromir replied with a grin. “I’ve brought you a letter from Grandfather.”

“Good, good. You can give it to me after we dine.”

Faramir came hurrying down the stairs then, fastening the clasps on his surcoat as he ran. “You’re late,” observed Denethor.

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“I hope you made good use of your training session today?” Denethor fixed Faramir with his eyes, and Boromir had a feeling that more was being said than the words conveyed.

“Yes, Father.”

Denethor nodded. “Good. That’s what I like to hear.”

Boromir’s return seemed to have put Denethor into a good humour. Throughout dinner he was unusually animated, pressing Boromir for news of his stay in Dol Amroth and laughing heartily at the stories he told. Faramir listened more quietly, putting in a question here and there. The shutters, drawn against the cold night, rattled occasionally in the wind.

After dinner Boromir followed Denethor into his study to discuss the proposals for dealing with the Corsairs which Adrahil had laid out in his letter. When he emerged over an hour later, Faramir was nowhere to be found. He was not in his chamber, nor in Boromir’s, nor in the sitting-room where they often played chess in the evenings when both were at home. Finally Boromir stopped a servant in the hall to ask his brother’s whereabouts.

“He’ll be in the garden, I expect,” the man replied, nodding toward the doors leading out the back of the house.

“In this weather?” Boromir asked, startled.

“I don’t know, my lord. I didn’t see him leave. But he’s been going out there most evenings lately, to practice.”

Boromir thanked the servant and, feeling more mystified than ever, opened the door into the long, narrow garden which ran across the back of the Steward’s residence. The wind sliced through his clothes, causing him to fold his arms for warmth as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. His breath emerged in white clouds which were quickly borne away on the wind.

The snow lay ankle-deep on the ground now, and was still falling from the sky. A set of tracks, blurred by wind and fresh snow, led away from the door. Boromir followed them. Sure enough, a figure near the far garden wall soon became visible through the swirling flakes ahead.

Faramir had put on a quilted jacket and gloves before coming outside, and Boromir heartily wished now that he had stopped to do the same. A quiver was slung across Faramir’s back; he was in the act of drawing his longbow, aiming down the garden. His jaw was set in an expression of determination, and his hair whipped out behind him in the wind. He had not yet noticed his brother’s approach. Boromir knew better than to startle him while his bow was drawn, but quickly called out after he loosed the arrow. Faramir started and turned his head.

“What are you doing out here?” Boromir asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Faramir indicated his bow. “I’m practicing.”

“Surely there are better conditions for practice than this!”

“Aren’t you the one who likes to remind me that the enemy will not wait for fine weather?” Faramir shrugged, nocked another arrow, aimed, and shot. Boromir could just make out a shape at the far end of the garden, which he supposed must be the target.

“If this is because I teased you earlier--”

“It isn’t.” Faramir’s voice was even, but his expression was closed off, as if to signify that he did not wish to discuss the matter.

No, the servant had said Faramir came out here regularly. He had not been in the habit of doing so before Boromir’s trip to Dol Amroth. What could have happened in the intervening month?

Another blast of cold wind blew snow into their eyes. Boromir hugged himself tighter, but could not keep his teeth from chattering.

“How long are you planning to stay out here?”

“Until I’ve finished the quiver.”

Four more arrows, then. Boromir watched as his brother loaded, drew, and released four times in a sequence of smooth, precise motions. Though he could use a bow himself when the need arose, Boromir had no particular taste for the weapon. Faramir, on the other hand, had an instinctive feel for it. His skill was already impressive and steadily growing. Boromir thought he could see improvement even in the time since he had gone away.

When the quiver was spent, Faramir lowered his bow and the brothers made their way to retrieve the arrows from the target. Boromir noticed two previous sets of tracks in the snow, showing that this was not the first time Faramir had made this journey tonight.

Arrows clustered thickly in the straw-padded target, perhaps twenty in all. Most of them, Boromir saw with no little surprise, were quite close to the center. Only two had gone wide, one a hand’s breadth from the central group, the other stuck precariously in the target’s upper edge.

Boromir whistled softly. “I take back what I said this afternoon. Your aim is excellent.”

Faramir gave a noncommital grunt as he pulled the errant shaft from the edge of the target. “Another inch and I’d have lost that one in the snow,” he muttered with a scowl.

“I’m amazed you can hit the target at all in this weather.”

“It isn’t really that hard,” Faramir said dismissively as he pulled another arrow. “The target’s not moving, and I know where it is.”

“But think, if this had been a battle, you would have at least wounded an enemy with any of those shots,” Boromir pointed out encouragingly.

“That’s not good enough!” Faramir snapped. He removed another arrow with an angry jerk. Boromir was silent for a moment.

“Little brother, I think you have something to tell me.”

Faramir turned to look at him defiantly, but, meeting only honest concern in Boromir’s eyes, he slumped abruptly in defeat. He dropped his gaze and nodded.

Boromir clapped him on the shoulder with a reassuring smile. “Come, I’m nearly frozen. Finish collecting your arrows, and then let us go inside and you can tell me everything.”

*******

Boromir led the way back into the house and was glad to close the door behind him on the dark and cold. He rubbed his hands, which tingled painfully as feeling returned. Faramir followed close behind, stopping to unstring his bow before pulling off his gloves. He stowed the bow and quiver in a closet and then the brothers walked down the hall to the sitting room.

A fire was burning in the hearth. The chess table was set up, but Boromir ignored it, instead taking a seat in one of the sturdy wood-and-red-leather chairs beside the fire. Faramir took off his jacket and joined Boromir without a word. His face wore an oddly apprehensive expression.

Despite the tension of the moment, Boromir could not help laughing. “Such a long face! Anyone would think I was going to scold you!” he teased. In a more serious tone, he added, “Remember, I’m not Father. Now, tell me what’s troubling you.”

Faramir was silent for a long moment, staring into the fire as if trying to decide where to begin. Small points of reflected light flickered in his eyes. Finally, he said, “While you were gone, I went out with the Rangers again.”

Boromir nodded encouragingly, but Faramir did not seem to know how to go on. Boromir waited for him to organize his thoughts and wondered what could have happened on this second training mission to upset him so much.

He had half-expected to see this kind of reaction after the first mission. Though Faramir trained dutifully and his teachers were satisfied with his progress, he had never shown any real relish for soldiering. Boromir had privately worried that the experience of killing in battle might unnerve him, and had made a point of seeking Faramir out when the Rangers returned that time. He’d been relieved to find his brother only shaken and sobered, seemingly aged several years in a week, but resolute. The Ranger captain had even praised his coolheadedness during his first battle. Boromir had thought at the time that Faramir’s worst trial was over, so what could be troubling him more than that?

At last Faramir spoke again. “While I was there, the scouts reported a large band of orcs coming down from the mountains near Cirith Ungol. Captain Herion decided to set an ambush for them near the Crossroads, and he took the Rangers-in-training along. He said he would need every hand, since the orcs outnumbered us by a good margin.”

“He placed his students in so much danger?” Boromir asked indignantly.

Faramir shrugged. “We were positioned as securely as possible. The plan was to kill them all quickly, before they could come close enough for hand-to-hand fighting.”

Boromir flinched inwardly at hearing the words “kill them all” from his brother’s mouth. Not that he wouldn’t say similar things himself without a second thought, but it sounded unnatural coming from Faramir.

“So we took our places,” Faramir continued, “and fired on the captain’s signal. And on the second round, I--” He stopped and scowled at the hearthstones. “There was no excuse for it. It was a clear day. I was well-rested. The sun wasn’t in my eyes. I simply...missed my shot.”

Boromir’s blood ran cold. A stray arrow on the battlefield could inflict a lot of damage. Did Faramir accidentally shoot one of his comrades? he wondered in a panic. But then Father would have been angrier at dinner--he’d take forever to get over such a thing--they both would--Faramir would still be in disgrace, surely--

Faramir was still speaking. “I shot an orc in the gut.”

Relief washed over Boromir, followed quickly by puzzlement. “What’s wrong with that? It sounds as if you did very well.”

Faramir jerked his head up and stared. “What’s wrong?” he asked with something like indignation. “I shot it in the gut. It was...writhing on the ground and clutching at the arrow. I could hear it shrieking from where I stood.” The words were tumbling out now. “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I couldn’t hear anything but that sound, and I wanted so much to make it stop, but it was as if my mind had seized up. I just stood there--it seemed like an hour...” Faramir trailed off with a shudder. He turned to stare into the fire again, though Boromir doubted he saw the flames.

Boromir understood then, or thought he did. Raw young soldiers were sometimes taken like this by their first taste of the reality of battle. Either they learned to move past it, or they did not survive long. And he could well believe that the orc’s agony had been compelling. When every recruit took his lessons in simple field medicine, he was strongly warned about the dangers of abdominal wounds, for they were known to cause a slow and intensely painful death.

But this was not Faramir’s first experience of battle. He had killed before, more than once already, and while he plainly did not enjoy it, it had not affected him to this degree. Boromir pointed this out.

Faramir shook his head. “The others were...cleaner. Just one shot and it was over. This was the first time I saw a creature in such agony....”

“An orc. A servant of Sauron,” Boromir reminded him.

“Orc or not, it was in terrible pain,” said Faramir stubbornly. “And I caused it.”

“You stopped it from dealing even worse to your comrades.”

“Now you sound exactly like the captain.” Faramir sat back crossly in his chair.

Boromir sighed and let the point go. “So what did you do?”

“When I could move again, I took another arrow and shot it through the neck.”

Boromir frowned. “I know you meant to be kind,” he began gently, “but that was not well done. You put everyone in danger when you hesitate....”

“I know, I know!” Faramir snapped. “I heard all this from the captain too! He said mercy was all very well, but not to throw it away on orcs. He told me I should never waste time in a battle, to say nothing of arrows. He said I must learn to harden my heart and move on to the next target because”--Faramir swallowed--“otherwise it could have been him or me or one of the others writhing on the ground with an arrow through the gut. He bade me remember that my first duty was to the company, and said I should think always of protecting my friends instead of worrying about wounded enemies. I think he must have scolded me for a quarter of an hour altogether.”

A hard lesson, but a necessary one, Boromir thought sadly. Aloud he said, “Does Father know?”

“Of course,” Faramir replied with a touch of bitterness. “All of my teachers have strict instructions to report everything I do, did you not know that?”

“And has he said anything?”

“He gave me a shorter version of the captain’s lecture. Only ‘duty to the company’ was replaced with ‘duty to Gondor.’ And they’re right--of course they’re right. I do want to protect my fellows, and Gondor. I would kill a thousand orcs every day if I knew it would keep us safe. But--I--” His voice became jerky, one fist clenching nervously on his knee. “If I must--I can, I will kill to defend Gondor, but I would have it be clean, and without giving such pain if I can.”

Comprehension dawned on Boromir. “And so you practice with your bow even on a night like this, so that it will not happen again.”

Faramir nodded and slumped a little in his seat. Boromir idly noticed that he looked very thin, and then suddenly realized that he was still growing. And already he must concern himself with matters of war. His heart ached with the wish that he could have spared his brother this experience, that he could somehow have brought peace to Gondor so Faramir could follow another profession more to his liking.

A gust of wind blew down the chimney, scattering sparks from the fire. Several of them fell into the pale ashes on the hearthstone and slowly winked out, one by one. Neither of the brothers spoke for some time. Then Boromir rose, walked over to where Faramir sat, and grasped his shoulders with both hands.

“Faramir, listen to me. I think what you did was absolutely right. Not”--he held up one hand to forestall the protest clearly rising to Faramir’s lips--“from a strategic point of view. I know you understand that now, so I won’t belabor that point. But you did what your conscience commanded, and that can never be wrong. If we did not do that, we’d be no better than creatures of Sauron ourselves.”

Faramir was blinking back tears. “None of the others understood,” he said in a choked voice.

“They do understand,” said Boromir. “Yes, even Father. They just want you to be a good soldier. And so do I.” He smiled. “I want you to keep practicing with your bow in all weathers so that when you go out again I can rest easy, knowing you are the best shot in Gondor!”

Faramir managed a small smile at that. Boromir looked at him closely.

“It does have to be done, you know,” he said.

“I know,” Faramir answered in a soft voice. Wryly he added, “Do you think I’d willingly become a soldier if I didn’t realize that?”

“I know you would not,” Boromir responded. He leaned down and kissed Faramir’s forehead, then squeezed his shoulder affectionately. “Come now,” he said in a lighter tone as he returned to his seat. “I have the rest of the night before I must leave. Tell me what else happened while I was away, and perhaps we can have a game of chess.”

“And I’ll beat you,” said Faramir, his mouth stretching into a genuine grin for the first time since dinner.

“Don’t be too sure,” Boromir admonished. “I played Grandfather often in Dol Amroth, and he might even teach Father a trick or two!”

*******

Next morning, Boromir set out in the late, grey dawn to rejoin his company in Osgiliath. He would have liked to see Faramir again before leaving, but the two of them had talked far into the night; Faramir was probably still asleep.

He collected his horse from the stable in the Sixth Circle, just outside the Citadel gate, and rode down through the quiet streets. To his left and far below, a sea of fog rolled over the Pelennor. It would burn off when the sun rose, and this unseasonably early snow would undoubtedly melt as well.

As he passed beneath the gate leading to the Fifth Circle, a sudden cold whiteness obscured his vision. For an instant he was completely disoriented, unable to fathom why he could not see, why his face stung with cold, what was trickling under his collar and down the back of his neck....

He reached up to wipe the snow from his face, reflexively pulling back on the reins to stop his horse at the same time. A crow of familiar laughter sounded above him. Once his eyes were clear, he could see Faramir’s face looking down from one of the murder-holes in the gatehouse roof. An empty bucket dangled from his hand and his eyes gleamed with delighted mischief.

“That’s what I’ve learned from the Rangers, brother,” Faramir called down. “Attack by stealth, when your enemy least expects it!”

Boromir rose in his stirrups, shaking his fist upward in mock-anger. “Come down here so I can thrash you for that!”

“I will not!” Faramir replied with an infuriating grin. “The Rangers have also taught me to attack from a distance whenever possible!”

“You won’t be so cheeky when you’ve nothing left to throw because it’s all melted,” Boromir growled, but he was unable to hold back his smile any longer. The brothers grinned at each other for a moment, and then Boromir heaved a sigh. “But I cannot wait that long, as I must be in Osgiliath by breakfast-time,” he said ruefully. “Take care--and be sure to practice!”

“I will!” Faramir answered. “Safe journey!”

And with a wave, Boromir rode into the grey dawn.

END

Author's notes:  This is a companion piece of sorts to “The Fifteenth of January,” although it will stand on its own. Also, while the earlier piece was explicitly movieverse, this story could take place in either the book or movie world.

This story is dedicated to SueB of TORn and TORC. It was originally written as a birthday present for her in answer to a question she asked me about “The Fifteenth of January”: she wanted to know what Boromir might have had to say about the incident with the orc which Faramir remembers in that story. Happy birthday again, Sue!

Special thanks to Sylvia for helping with archery details and to Ariel for valuable feedback!

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