WHISPERS OF THE RING
A Question Between Brothers
"Boromir."
The Steward of Gondor turned sharply upon hearing his name spoken by the very man he had been heading to see. "Brother," he replied, and then "Faramir." He could not keep the surprise out of his voice. "You should not be out of your bed."
Faramir gave him a faint smile, bloodless lips thin in his pale face, before proving Boromir right by collapsing against the wall. He propped himself up, a near-pathetic sight if not for the sheer determination on his face. The expression alone prevented Boromir from rushing to his side. "I am tired of lying down like an old man to die."
"You are hardly going to die," Boromir said, but there had been times in this past year when he would have been lying. "Let me get you back to your room."
His brother treated him to another wan smile. "It has only taken me half of the morning to reach this hall."
"Half a morning! You must be dead then, and the rats have dragged you to see me." Boromir stepped to his brother's side and slid his arm around him, supporting him but allowing him the freedom to walk if he so stubbornly insisted on doing so.
"I feel as if I have missed half my life waiting for my body to heal, so half a morning was little to spare to see my brother."
Boromir could not repress a grin of his own, for though Faramir's presence outside of his room was a concern, his appearance had washed away the distress of his encounter with the Elf. He had seen the dwarves-- it turned out, battlefield comrades seeking to renew alliances-- and they had executed the orc, but none of that had eased his mind as the simple company of his brother. "It is hard, I suppose, to know the passing of time when one is wracked with fever. But you must still be feverish to make so perilous a journey for the mere sight of a fool such as myself!"
His brother's laugh was weak, but filled with joy; such as Boromir had not heard in him since his wounding by the foes of Mordor. What filth they poisoned their blades with, he knew not, and no healer in Gondor had known, but they had kept up the application of kingsfoil, and some inner strength in Faramir had sustained him when many thought that he would die.
Nearly to his room Faramir slipped, pulling Boromir from his thoughts and nearly to the floor. He braced his brother with one gloved hand across the chest, catching them both, and Faramir gasped and laughed at once. "Brother," he said, still struggling to catch his breath, "You are wearing gloves within the tower! Are you sure you are not fevered, to feel it so cold indoors?"
At once Boromir's body made to freeze, but he kept his stride, turning them both into Faramir's room. He felt a lie upon his tongue, and though his heart cried at him to speak it, he could not find voice to deceive his brother. He could not speak of the ring, to anyone! And yet it betrayed him to not speak of it to his blood, his beloved brother whom he owed that same loyalty he owed Gondor.
But why, he thought, was he so compelled not to speak of it? And also, why should he speak of it! What right did others have to know of it? Would they not laugh to discover that he found his faith in something so small and simple as a golden ring, gifted to him by chance? Would not even his own brother make mockery of him, a powerful man of Gondor, Steward, who wielded his strength through a bit of jewelry?
The contradiction of it all caused him to burst into untimely laughter, earning him strange looks from his brother.
"What causes you to laugh, brother?" Faramir asked as he was returned to his bed, and the blankets neatly drawn around him as if he were a child once more.
Quickly a lie came to Boromir's lips again, spoken before he could hesitate or consider it. "I was recalling a peculiar messenger who came to me today, an Elf, with yet another claim that the man he represents is the rightful King of Gondor."
Faramir, though his eyelids were already heavy, furrowed his brow and continued his pursuit. "And did you verify his tale for lies? Elves are rare to speak outright deceit, though often they speak in riddles, and rarer still are they to represent a Man."
"Do you doubt me, brother?" Boromir's words came out sharper than he meant them. "I am to meet this man, but I am sure in my belief that no heir of the bloodline of Elendil exists."
For a while his brother made no response, and Boromir wondered if Faramir had finally drifted to sleep. But eventually, he spoke. "Do you recall when we were children, Boromir, and you asked of our father how long it would take for a Steward to become King, when the King does not return for so many a year?"
Boromir's back stiffened. "Yes. He said that in Gondor, many thousands of years would pass, and still we would be Stewards and not Kings."
The sickness seemed to clear from Faramir's face for a moment, and his eyes glittered, as if he saw into the very heart of his brother. "Would you be King of Gondor, Boromir?"
Chill Boromir grew, chill and cold and sick in his gut. He rubbed at the ring beneath his glove in agitation, and did not notice his brother regard the action with wary eyes. "Would it not be just?" he asked of no one, and then, "Why has no 'heir' stepped forth before this day? Before I, humble Steward of Gondor, broadened her borders and made her mighty once again? Is not the blood of the Numenoreans in my veins, and was not our father strong and noble enough to have been King of Gondor?"
Faramir was quiet once more, and seemed to think long before speaking. "Was it not more noble, perhaps, that he would uphold his position of Steward, though he performed all duties of the King, out of faith that the King might some day return?"
To this, Boromir had no answer, and he did not wish to unleash the anger that seethed through him upon his brother.
"But you are still Steward, and you have addressed what claims are given though they must seem ludicrous in your eyes, and so you have proven yourself honorable as well, brother." Faramir reached out and clasped his forearm, and it seemed that a cloud was lifted from Boromir's eyes.
"I would do well by Gondor, for she is my heart, and my love," he said. "I may not be King in name, but Gondor will know who has given her glory."
Faramir made no reply, but drew his gaze again to the gloves his brother wore. "What do you conceal from me, brother? Have we not always been comrades, and have we held no secrets from each other, even in the rivalry for favor in our father's eyes?"
"More true that I have never been able to conceal aught from yourself and Denethor both," Boromir said, and his voice was bitter. "But what would you know of me? What do you think I conceal?"
Faramir's finger brushed briefly the spot where Boromir had worried the ring through the glove. "Your hands, brother. And with the concealment of your hands, I feel you have concealed your most intimate heart from me."
Quickly Boromir drew back, and his lip curled as if his brother had mortally offended him. "You shall not have that!" he hissed, and Faramir did not know his own brother for the hate that was in his eyes. "You shall not have that secret of my soul, not even you, Faramir! For you would steal it, too, would you not? My throne, my power, my secrets, but these things you shall not have!"
But as Faramir's hand fell away from his, Boromir was struck by the rashness of his words. Worry filled his brother's face, atop the pain and exhaustion that already resided there; worry and a wary fear.
"I am sorry, Faramir," he said finally, steeped in regret. "But this is a secret I cannot share, not even with you."
"Brother--" Faramir said, with deepest concern; but it was the concern that drove him out, and in the end he fled.
"I am sorry," Boromir said once more, and escaped without further exchange.