The Horn that was Broken

"To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides." David Viscott

Dedicated to Evendim, with much love and with thanks for her permission to come and visit her world.

“Daddy?” the little one asked, crawling onto his father’s knee to snuggle and get warm in the much beloved lap.

“Yes, my little one, what do you want?” Faramir reached to pull the sable blanket from the side of his chair. “You are freezing, Elboron! Why are you running around without your shoes or socks?”

“I could not sleep,” came the sleepy reply. “I was cold.”

Faramir smile and cuddled his child closer. “I see, and so you thought to snuggle in your grandfather’s blanket.”

“It is not just grandfather’s blanket,” replied the child. “You are warmer than the blanket.”

The Prince of Ithilien smiled indulgently at his son, reminding himself that all too soon the boy would consider himself too old to cuddle with his father. Already he regretted that day.

“Why do you keep that broken toy on the wall?” asked the innocent. “Might I play with it?”

Faramir glanced up at the wall over the massive stone fire place to the object which had drawn his child’s attention, and smiled sadly. His eyes misted over a bit as his mind traveled back in time.

“Ouch, will you watch out with that thing?” yelped the young man.

“That ‘thing’, as you call it, Puss, is a sacred object,” objected his older brother, with mock horror. The Horn of Gondor, worn only by the Heir to the Steward, was reputed to have the ability to be heard anywhere within the borders of Gondor, thus drawing aid in time of dire need.

“Will both of you be quiet!” groaned Ancir, heir to the Lordship of Lossarnach and lifelong friend to the pair. “How one is supposed to get any sleep with the two of you around is beyond me.”

“That ‘sacred object’ is poking me in the back,” complained the fox haired sibling.

Snickering could be heard from the Ancir’s bedroll. “Fara, do not ever utter such a thing in the taverns of the lower level!”

"Even better, do not even go to the taverns of the lower levels," added Boromir.

Ancir sat up and attempted to fluff up his bedroll pillow and looked over at the brothers. “Faramir, if you would move over a bit, his horn would not be poking you.”

The young man’s comment brought a bark of laughter from Boromir and a choked protest from the sixteen year old presently attempting to get warm the way he always did...by snuggling up to his big brother.

Ancir shook his head ruefully. “Tell me I did not just say that.”

“Leave him alone, Kir,” chuckled Boromir. “The gods know we will soon enough have to act with more decorum. Leave us to our antics these last few nights.

Ancir was tempted to snort then, for he knew well enough that Boromir’s pixie sense of humor would not desert him with the added titles, but he kept his peace, too sleepy to argue.

As snow flakes began to drift lazily down upon them, the trio settled back down to attempt sleep as the fire camp fire crackled near them.

Three days hence the two older youths would be dressed in the ceremonial armor of the Citadel Guards as twenty-one year old Boromir, Heir to the Steward of Gondor, became the youngest Captain-General and Warden of the White Tower in Gondor’s history, and Ancir would remain at his side as his Adjutant.

Five years younger, Faramir would soon be entering the Academy to begin his formalized military training. In truth, Boromir and Ancir had been training the young one since he could hold up the eight pound broad sword favored by his brother. Oh no, Boromir would not entrust his little brother’s training to any other, for the child’s life was too precious to him to entrust to any other. The weapon masters at the Academy would only hone the boy’s skills.

“It is cold here,” sniffed Faramir. His nose was now beginning to run from the extreme temperature on Mount Mindolluin where they were camped.

“It has been a colder than normal year,” yawned Boromir, “doubtless because of the fume being spewed from Mordor. What little warmth there is that could be drawn from Anor this winter is being cloaked by the one whose name we do not speak.”

“You will defeat him, brother,” said Faramir, for in his mind Boromir could do anything.

Boromir knew that his brother was still too young to be touched by the bitterness of the long struggle against darkness. Others might call his complete faith a weakness, but Boromir knew it to be the boy’s strength. ‘And they think I am the stronger of Denethor’s sons,’ he mused.

Boromir knew that, while he was stronger physically, his slender brother had a strength of heart that would see him through many trials. It was a testament to the way the young Captain General had helped to raise the child since the death of their mother when Faramir was only five. Boromir made sure that Faramir never lacked for love or attention and that, perhaps more than anything, had contributed to the lad’s unshakable faith that good would always overcome evil.

Boromir rolled over and placed his blanket over his now dozing brother.

“What are you doing?” hissed Ancir. “Ori!”

“Shush,” whispered Boromir. “Let the little one sleep. I shall be warm enough in my cloak.”

“Come over here, you great lummox,” said Ancir, moving over to make room for his friend. “And leave that great heirloom aside for the rest of the night. I do not fancy having to explain that I was gored by the General’s horn whilst camping.”

Warm not just from his brother’s blanket, but from the love surrounding him, Faramir batted his eyes sleepily as he listened to the banter, and wished that this trip could go on for many years rather than ending tomorrow. ‘We will come back here, brother, when the war is over...’

“Daddy?”

Faramir was brought back to the present by the young voice.

“Might I play with it?”

“Nay, Elboron, for it is not a toy, but a sacred object.” Faramir could not keep the bittersweet smile from his face as he said the words. Cuddling his son and kissing the soft curls atop his head he whispered, “How would you like to go camping with your father tomorrow, Puss?”