Fandomweekly Challenge 243 - Forgotten
Jan. 3rd, 2025 12:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
m_findlowTitle: Forgotten
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Faramir, Boromir
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 1,000 words
Content notes:
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Faramir, Boromir
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 1,000 words
Content notes:
Author notes: Written for Challenge 243 - Redemption at ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomweekly
fandomweeklySummary: Faramir is weighed down by the disappointment of being overlooked to represent Gondor.
Faramir watched silently from the doorway as his brother dressed. It was a soothing way to empty his mind, focusing only on the movement of hands and cloth and leather. It wasn't until Boromir donned his doublet, a dark, almost black leather emblazoned with the white tree of Minas Tirith that the reality of the situation sunk in, dropping a heavy weight back into the pit of his stomach, a reminder that he would not be accompanying his brother, nor wearing their sigil with pride.
Boromir must have caught the change in his expression. ‘I shall be back before you know it.’
‘And I shall attend our Lord and Father in your absence, much though it shall aggrieve him.’
Boromir heaved a sigh, golden hair falling across his face as he reached down to tighten his belt, sword pommel gleaming in the muted light. ‘Are we going to have to talk about this? You know what Father is like.’
He strode across to the open archway, taking in the view of all that surrounded them. From high atop the city, a view that spanned the Fields of Pelennor, across to Osgiliath in the east, Emyn Arnen in the south, and always, beyond the Pelennor, stretching far, and yet far too close for comfort, past the broken city of Osgiliath, the black mountains of Minas Morgul. ‘Then there is nothing to discuss.’ Faramir sighed and turned back to face him. ‘You know I have nothing but love for you, dear brother, but I cannot live in your shadow for all of my days.’
‘Think not on this as a punishment,’ Boromir attempted to console him. ‘Father would like nothing more than to have the tale of our might and glory spread far and wide, and this provides the perfect opportunity.
Boromir clipped to his belt the great horn, carved from a single oliphant tusk, not gleaming white but tarnished with age and use, bound in leather and ornate smithwork. It was the horn that sounded through the ruins of Osgiliath as Boromir led his men in battle. Faramir had heard its call as they cut down orc and goblin by their dozens. Finally, after long months of skirmishes and ambushes, ridding the old city of its filth, reclaiming the western side of the river in the name of the White City. A true victory – a great victory – in which two brothers fought valiantly side by side, their men cutting down the enemy until the last, and any remaining had turned and fled, hopefully never to return.
Lord Denethor saw it as the greatest victory of Gondor in many years, praising his eldest son, but offering nothing to his youngest, despite Boromir's calls for their victory to be shared. It was the victory they needn't have celebrated had Faramir, by his father's words, not let the city be overrun with orcs in the first instance, allowing the shadow to creep ever closer to Minas Tirith. The Steward of Gondor would not forget, nor forgive, Faramir's excuses. They simply could not hold the city with so few men when the south was filling with hordes of foul things, determined to take back their lands and destroy all men. None desired the orcs to gain a foothold and a place to encamp so close to the city, but Mordor's forces were growing in number and strength. A great battle was coming, it was only a matter of when.
‘Tell father you do not wish to be sent on such an errand.’ The words spilled from Faramir before he had a chance to dwell on them and consider whether they were wise to utter.
Boromir smiled, almost teasingly. ‘Deny Father out of spite? Such that he would send you in my stead? Despite his distrust of Lord Elrond, he would not deny the invitation. His pride is not yet so great.’
The words stung Faramir, as if his brother had missed the point entirely. Here was a golden chance to do something more than to wield a sword or command a sortie of men. A council of Elves, Men and Dwarves was unheard of in living memory. The alliances of old were faded by history. This was not some fool's errand, but a chance for Faramir to redeem himself in his father's eyes. To bring word from those that faced the dangers of Mordor daily. To petition for alliances to be reforged anew. ‘Sauron grows stronger by the day. The city needs its greatest warrior to defend its reaches. That should be sign enough for those still living in peace in the west that it is their aid we need, not the other way around.’
Boromir stepped over and clasped him by the shoulder. ‘The city stands tall, whether I am here or not. Let the Elves summon us to Rivendell for whatever their reasons be. If they truly have found the weapon of the enemy then I shall bring it back to Gondor.’
‘Ever the great son who saved his kingdom,’ Faramir replied, feeling his bitterness returning.
Boromir cupped his cheek with a gloved hand. ‘A time will come when Father will see that he has two great sons. The White City shall never fall for as long as you and I should fight for it.’ Boromir leaned forward, placing a kiss on his forehead. ‘I love you, little brother. More than any father could. Keep the city safe until I return.’
‘What other choice do I have?’
Boromir pulled him into a hug. ‘You are destined for great things. Keep faith. We will drink to your greatness when I return.’ He ruffled Faramir's copper hair, as he had done a thousand times since they were boys. ‘I must go,’ he said, walking from the room. ‘With luck, I might disgrace myself and then where shall you be?’ he called back, warm laughter filling the hallway.
Faramir sighed in the now empty room. ‘Still second to you in all things,’ he whispered to himself.
Faramir watched silently from the doorway as his brother dressed. It was a soothing way to empty his mind, focusing only on the movement of hands and cloth and leather. It wasn't until Boromir donned his doublet, a dark, almost black leather emblazoned with the white tree of Minas Tirith that the reality of the situation sunk in, dropping a heavy weight back into the pit of his stomach, a reminder that he would not be accompanying his brother, nor wearing their sigil with pride.
Boromir must have caught the change in his expression. ‘I shall be back before you know it.’
‘And I shall attend our Lord and Father in your absence, much though it shall aggrieve him.’
Boromir heaved a sigh, golden hair falling across his face as he reached down to tighten his belt, sword pommel gleaming in the muted light. ‘Are we going to have to talk about this? You know what Father is like.’
He strode across to the open archway, taking in the view of all that surrounded them. From high atop the city, a view that spanned the Fields of Pelennor, across to Osgiliath in the east, Emyn Arnen in the south, and always, beyond the Pelennor, stretching far, and yet far too close for comfort, past the broken city of Osgiliath, the black mountains of Minas Morgul. ‘Then there is nothing to discuss.’ Faramir sighed and turned back to face him. ‘You know I have nothing but love for you, dear brother, but I cannot live in your shadow for all of my days.’
‘Think not on this as a punishment,’ Boromir attempted to console him. ‘Father would like nothing more than to have the tale of our might and glory spread far and wide, and this provides the perfect opportunity.
Boromir clipped to his belt the great horn, carved from a single oliphant tusk, not gleaming white but tarnished with age and use, bound in leather and ornate smithwork. It was the horn that sounded through the ruins of Osgiliath as Boromir led his men in battle. Faramir had heard its call as they cut down orc and goblin by their dozens. Finally, after long months of skirmishes and ambushes, ridding the old city of its filth, reclaiming the western side of the river in the name of the White City. A true victory – a great victory – in which two brothers fought valiantly side by side, their men cutting down the enemy until the last, and any remaining had turned and fled, hopefully never to return.
Lord Denethor saw it as the greatest victory of Gondor in many years, praising his eldest son, but offering nothing to his youngest, despite Boromir's calls for their victory to be shared. It was the victory they needn't have celebrated had Faramir, by his father's words, not let the city be overrun with orcs in the first instance, allowing the shadow to creep ever closer to Minas Tirith. The Steward of Gondor would not forget, nor forgive, Faramir's excuses. They simply could not hold the city with so few men when the south was filling with hordes of foul things, determined to take back their lands and destroy all men. None desired the orcs to gain a foothold and a place to encamp so close to the city, but Mordor's forces were growing in number and strength. A great battle was coming, it was only a matter of when.
‘Tell father you do not wish to be sent on such an errand.’ The words spilled from Faramir before he had a chance to dwell on them and consider whether they were wise to utter.
Boromir smiled, almost teasingly. ‘Deny Father out of spite? Such that he would send you in my stead? Despite his distrust of Lord Elrond, he would not deny the invitation. His pride is not yet so great.’
The words stung Faramir, as if his brother had missed the point entirely. Here was a golden chance to do something more than to wield a sword or command a sortie of men. A council of Elves, Men and Dwarves was unheard of in living memory. The alliances of old were faded by history. This was not some fool's errand, but a chance for Faramir to redeem himself in his father's eyes. To bring word from those that faced the dangers of Mordor daily. To petition for alliances to be reforged anew. ‘Sauron grows stronger by the day. The city needs its greatest warrior to defend its reaches. That should be sign enough for those still living in peace in the west that it is their aid we need, not the other way around.’
Boromir stepped over and clasped him by the shoulder. ‘The city stands tall, whether I am here or not. Let the Elves summon us to Rivendell for whatever their reasons be. If they truly have found the weapon of the enemy then I shall bring it back to Gondor.’
‘Ever the great son who saved his kingdom,’ Faramir replied, feeling his bitterness returning.
Boromir cupped his cheek with a gloved hand. ‘A time will come when Father will see that he has two great sons. The White City shall never fall for as long as you and I should fight for it.’ Boromir leaned forward, placing a kiss on his forehead. ‘I love you, little brother. More than any father could. Keep the city safe until I return.’
‘What other choice do I have?’
Boromir pulled him into a hug. ‘You are destined for great things. Keep faith. We will drink to your greatness when I return.’ He ruffled Faramir's copper hair, as he had done a thousand times since they were boys. ‘I must go,’ he said, walking from the room. ‘With luck, I might disgrace myself and then where shall you be?’ he called back, warm laughter filling the hallway.
Faramir sighed in the now empty room. ‘Still second to you in all things,’ he whispered to himself.
