This is my first fic with absolutely no hobbits! Eek!

Young Boromir and Faramir spend a morning playing outside. Based on an incident hinted at in “Tea With Hobbits” from “Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Hobbits”.

A Valiant Deed

Boromir is 13, Faramir 8
TA 2991 (or 1391 SR)

The Citadel was quiet in the damp cool morning, the rising sun bathing it in a cold pink light that filtered down through steel grey skies. Small puffs of cloud dotted across the sky behind a lone soaring hawk, and standards of the Steward whipped and snapped in the strong wind before the White Tower’s main entrance.

Inside the Steward’s House, sunlight filtered pale through eastern windows as down the marbled halls small footsteps echoed softly off the stone walls. A young boy in a crisp tunic and pressed trousers shuffled through the corridors, dragging behind him a tattered blanket of sable and silver. As he walked, he looked up at the sculptured busts of Stewards past displayed in alcoves dug deep into the stone walls. At the end of the hall, he stopped by the turn in the corridor and looked into the empty alcove where one day his father’s face would sit immortalized by hard stone. So it was that his brother found him minutes later.

“There you are,” Boromir said, running up, his countenance alighted with joy. “A merry hunt you’ve led me on, but I have caught you at last. Didn’t I say you were too old to be dragging this coverlet about?” Boromir reached down and took the blanket from his brother’s hand, rolling it up sloppily to stuff it under his arm until he could find a better place to store it.

Faramir did not move or blink, or turn his head to acknowledge his older brother, who even at such a young age it could be seen would be stronger of might than his younger sibling, or so their father always said. Yet Faramir was already more clever than his brother had been at his age, and Boromir waited now for some witty response. Many moments passed in silence as Faramir continued to stare up solemnly at the empty recess in the wall.

Boromir’s joy dissipated into concern. This grave expression had become familiar to him in the years since their mother’s death. Such forlorn silence could only mean one thing. “Faramir?”

“I dreamt again last night,” Faramir whispered.

“About the wave or one of the others?” Boromir asked, a brief chill raising the hairs at the back of his neck. He shivered involuntarily and brushed the chill off the back of his neck with his hand. Attempting jest, he said, “Now did I not tell that if you wish for the dreams to cease, you must remain awake at all times?”

“It was of mother that I dreamt, and it was different,” Faramir said, his mood fixed on despondency. “She was weeping.” Now he looked at his brother with expressionless, far-off eyes. “She was weeping for you, for what she now knows will happen if you follow your path to its end.”

“My path?” Boromir repeated, feeling now the heavy cloak of dread settling over him. Again, he attempted to shake it off. “Am I destined to go on some grand hike then?”

Faramir nodded, though he appeared uncertain. “It was unclear. She does not wish for you to wither young as she did but she fears it is your fate to perish far from the home that you love.”

Boromir laughed for the nervousness he felt spreading through his limbs. He worried more than he could put into words whenever his brother dreamt such visions. Some small part of him hidden deep at his core, away from his outer skepticism, believed what his brother said. He believed at least that his brother believed what he saw in his dreams but he did not like for Faramir to linger over them too long. He would rather not speak of such things himself, and he much preferred to see Faramir laughing and jesting, or even poring over his books, than looking up at him as he was now.

Hoping to both lighten his brother’s mood and his own fears, he clapped Faramir on the shoulder and pulled him into a sideways hug, ruffling his hair. “Honestly, little brother, I must say you do take your dreams too literally. There is no need to be so dour. Besides, how I can I die missing a home I’ve never left?”

“But she was weeping,” Faramir insisted.

“Faramir, it was but a dream, nothing more,” Boromir said. “Would you like to hear of what I dreamt last night? It’s horribly embarrassing.”

“What?”

“I dreamt that I was late for sword instruction, and that when I arrived I was not only naked and carrying a tin sword but I was also in the wrong class. Do you want to know in which class I found myself?”

“Which one?” Faramir asked, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“In old stodgy Madam Minora’s crafts class with a gaggle of older girls staring at me as if I had grown a second head. You can imagine Madam Minora’s reaction.”

Faramir giggled at this idea. Madam Minora was formidable under the best of circumstances. “You’re lucky it was only a dream then, or you would be writing lines until you are a hundred.”

Now Boromir laughed, fully and heartily. He released his brother from his half-embrace and began down the adjoining corridor. Faramir, no longer soaked in the stupor of his dream, followed happily. “Ah yes, Madam Minora and her lines,” Boromir said. “She’s nearly as bad as Master Amarlicus, though she is more inventive. What directives would she have me write I wonder? How about: I shall not arrive naked to class.”

“I shall have the proper learning tools when I arrive to class,” Faramir said, joining in. “I shall wear the appropriate attire.”

“I shall be on time. I shall not frighten the girls,” Boromir said and the brothers stopped to laugh, stooping over as tears of mirth sprang to their eyes. When their laughter was reduced to breathless hiccups, Boromir continued down the hall. “Come along. The mud upon the training grounds has dried enough to build sand houses. Vaclar is awaiting our arrival to begin. We only have until the end of the council meeting, so we must hurry.”

“What if we soil our clothes?” Faramir asked, following his brother toward the main rear door of the Steward’s House that led to the courtyard where the Guard practiced their drills.

“What of it?” Boromir asked, unconcerned. “The soldiers are always dirtying their uniforms. It means you are training correctly.”

“We are not soldiers,” Faramir pointed out.

“I’ll speak with Father if it comes to that,” Boromir said. “Now come along, or Vaclar will begin the contest without us.”

The brothers ran through the empty halls, their footfalls echoing behind them in a scattering of heavy thuds and skids.  

The training courtyard was located on the southern edge of the Citadel behind the Guardhouse, which stood between the Houses of the King and the Steward. The wall of the courtyard rose high here, towering over them at twenty feet. The floor was barren of plants or grass of any kind for it was much trampled upon, and it was now no more than a blanket of dirt and small rocks. The Guard of the Tower trained there no matter what the weather, for war and battle could come at any time, and the muddy floor was littered with many boot prints.

The children of the Guard and the Steward’s House used the training grounds as a playground when it was not in use by the Guard. The most popular activity was to attempt to run the obstacle course. After heavy rains, the children would often enjoy mud fights or wrestling, an activity that Boromir and Faramir could only participate in when their father was far afield on business. The guards posted at the White Tree would keep watch for Denethor’s return and send warning ahead, giving the boys the time they needed to run into the showers in the guardhouse, clean up, pull on fresh clothes left there for just that purpose and dash to their living quarters just in time to greet their father when he returned home.

When their father was at home, as he was this morning, the most the brothers could hope to do was supervise the games, playing as general or admiral. On mornings when the councils were held, they could often become more involved, but only with the less messy activities such as building sand houses.

Several boys and a handful of girls were already in the courtyard by the time Boromir and Faramir arrived. They called and waved hello to everyone there, then went to the far southeast corner where a young teen boy of fair hair and eyes the color of honey was busy packing wooden buckets with sandy mud. Just a year older than Boromir, he already showed the promise of the valiant and sturdy man he would one day become.

“Morning Vaclar,” Boromir greeted. “I found him.”

“At long last,” Vaclar said, standing up and brushing his hands on his trousers. He looked down unfavorably at Faramir but held his tongue. He learned long ago, after the death of Finduilas, that the brothers would not do anything without the other, and Boromir would brook no teasing of Faramir if it was of ill intent. To Boromir he said, “Are we having a picnic afterwards?”

The younger boys looked at the blanket still stuffed under Boromir’s arm. Boromir shoved the blanket at Faramir, who hurried to hug it to his chest before it could fall to the ground. “Put that in the guardhouse with our clean clothes, then come back out,” Boromir instructed. He watched until Faramir disappeared into the guardhouse that stood just north of the Steward’s House before asking, “Where are the others?”

“They grew tired of waiting,” Vaclar said and pointed to the towering parapet were several boys were trying to climb up the wall while others waited on the ground, watching and coaching. “Atandil already took his turn. He was just at the halfway mark before he slipped. Eradan is next to go.”

“Belendor is doing well,” Boromir said of the boy currently scaling the wall. He was one of the older boys, and so was already receiving his combat training. He was higher than all the others and was nearly at the halfway mark himself.

The halfway point was marked by a long overhang perpendicular to the ground below that protruded out from the wall for four feet. Even the most accomplished guardsman could have trouble conquering the obstacle, and it was at this point that most boys slipped or became otherwise impeded. Very few have managed to climb beyond that point, an accomplishment, it was said, to mark the climber as destined to shine in battle. As Belendor’s grip on the wall failed and he swung out on his harness to fall harmlessly to the ground, Boromir vowed that he would not only pass that overhang himself one day but he would also be the youngest to achieve the feat. Heroism on the battlefield was not enough for him; he wanted to be legend.

Faramir returned then and the three boys stooped over their buckets. Boromir tested the consistency of the soil in his and Faramir’s buckets and nodded. The soil was damp enough to hold form and dry enough to be easily wiped off hands and clothing. “You have done well, Vaclar. This should prove a most hardy race.”

“This will prove to be the day of yet another defeat for you,” Vaclar said. “I do not know why you torture yourself so, but I do enjoy the outcome.”

“I will not be so easily defeated this morning. I’ve been practicing,” Boromir informed.

“Then let us test your finely honed skills,” Vaclar said. The boys grasped the sides of their buckets and turned them upside down. “Go!”

A few well-placed taps loosened the tightly-packed dirt within and the older boys lifted their buckets to perfectly formed sand piles. Faramir’s pile cracked and crumbled along the upper edge but he was not concerned. He knew as well as Boromir and Vaclar did that he was here only to be within his brother’s keep and would not be part of their competition. He had the luxury to take his time. He sat back on his heels and studied the slant of the crumbled edge, picked up his adze and made his first cut.

Boromir was carving out the archway of the front entrance and Vaclar was forming the stairway when Belendor approached. The older boy laughed at the other three and all but leered at the building Faramir was sculpting. Rather than making a grand House, he was carefully crafting a simple farmer’s cottage.

“Why Faramir, what a lovely house you’ve made,” Belendor said.

“Leave him be. He can build whatever he wishes,” Boromir warned, instantly tensing though he continued to go about his work as though he was unconcerned about Belendor’s presence. Beside him, Vaclar pretended to sit back to examine his house so that he was in a crouching position, ready to stand up and step between the older boy and Boromir if needed.

“Typical pastime for the Steward’s sons,” Belendor continued. “Playing in the dirt like pigs in the sty, rather than practicing for drills. Perhaps you think that your father’s position allows you to be lazy.”

“I said leave him be,” Boromir said, ignoring that the comments were now aimed at himself as well. He gave up all pretense and stood but not before Vaclar could wedge himself between them, more to keep Belendor at bay than to prevent Boromir from attacking. Boromir glared over his friend’s shoulder at his brother’s tormentor, not caring that Belendor was twice his size and three years his senior. Vaclar joined him in glaring at the older boy.

“Don’t be jealous because I got further along the wall than you did,” Vaclar said. “It’s really rather petty and trite.”

“Jealous? Hardly. Your little victory will be short-lived and therefore soon forgotten. However, I find that I can no longer abide certain kids being handed whatever they want simply because of their parentage. You should be running the course, Boromir, not babysitting, especially as there are plenty of nursemaids who would gladly do the job for you.”

“I am not a baby,” Faramir said, speaking softly. He was not challenging Belendor, only stating fact.

“Is that so? Then you won’t cry when I do this,” Belendor challenged and promptly stepped on the sand house, destroying it.

Faramir said and did nothing; he would have destroyed it similarly once he was finished, so he wasn’t quite sure what sort of point Belendor was attempting to make. Vaclar leered at Belendor and stepped to the side a half-inch, enough to allow Boromir to pass him without hindrance. Boromir clenched his fists and said through gritted teeth, “I told you to leave him be.”

“I did nothing to him,” Belendor stated with a smirk, “as I will do nothing to you.” He lifted his foot and kicked in Boromir’s sand house with ease.

The next instant, Boromir launched himself at Belendor, knocking the older boy down before he could ready himself for attack. The other children in the courtyard gathered around, either cheering Boromir on or shouting for Belendor to stop. Belendor threw no punches or slaps, and rather allowed himself to be hit a few times before he rolled, pinning Boromir beneath him. He held the younger boy’s hands down to his sides while Boromir struggled for release. “What do you hope to accomplish by this?” Belendor asked innocently.

“Let him go, Belendor,” Atandil said.

“If you want to spar, choose someone of your own bearing,” Eradan said.

“Boromir, you’re soiling your clothes,” Faramir put in.

“Yes, Borry-my-boy. We wouldn’t want Daddy to become cross, would we?” Belendor teased.

“That is enough, Belendor,” Vaclar said and pulled on the older boy’s shoulder. “Let him go.”

“Very well,” Belendor agreed. He let Boromir go and stood, ready to let the matter drop, but Boromir would not have it. He kicked his leg out, tripping Belendor. The older boy caught himself mid-fall but by then Boromir had already scrambled to his feet and gathered a fistful of dirt. When Belendor looked up, Boromir smashed the dirt into his face.

“Boromir,” Faramir warned but it was too late. He no sooner spoke than an angry shout filled the air, causing everyone to freeze in their spots.

“BOROMIR!”

Denethor stormed into the courtyard, scaring the children away. A few short seconds later, only the three that could not run remained. Faramir quickly checked his clothes for dirt, regretting there was nothing he could do about Boromir’s soiled clothing. Belendor wiped the mud from his eyes, doing his best not to growl at the younger teen while in the Steward’s presence. Boromir stood proud, his head lifted high, refusing to be ashamed of his actions. Denethor stopped in front of his sons and Belendor and glared down at them with enough fire in his eyes to melt solid steel. By contrast, the calmness in his voice when he spoke made the glare all the more frightening. “My private chambers. Now.”

A half-hour later, Boromir stood alone in the center of his father’s office while Faramir sat waiting outside. Belendor had been dealt with for his bullying and sent to his father for punishment.

Denethor circled his eldest son, scowling at him with disapproving disappointment. For many long minutes, he remained silent. It did not go unnoticed that Boromir fidgeted and trembled despite his cool appearance.

“Your behavior this morning was appalling,” Denethor began. “Defending your brother is a valiant deed and would be commended had this been the battlefield. However, this childish display hardly equates. We have rules, Boromir, both on the field and at home. You are to follow those rules at all times and one of those rules is that you do not instigate or participate in street fights. Humiliate me like this again and you will know what a real punishment is.”

“Yes sir,” Boromir said. “What is my punishment, Father?”

“You will be polishing every sword in the Tower armory to a sparkling shine. I want to be able to see my reflection in every blade. You will begin tomorrow at sunrise and you will not stop until sunset. You will pause only for lunch. You will return every day until the job is complete. For today, you are restricted to your rooms.”

“Yes sir.”

“You are dismissed.”

Faramir jumped up when Boromir exited the room. “What happened?”

Boromir slung an arm over Faramir’s shoulders and pulled him close. “He said that defending you was valiant.”

“And?”

“And that’s all that matters.”

The end
 
 

GF 7/31/06