Faramir's breath caught in his throat with the wave of horror that swept over him. Had Gorburg's revenge been to take from Faramir what he had taken from the Orc?

Was he blind?

He tried to open his eyes, staring through the swollen soreness. His heart pounded when something shone between the darkness. Light? Yes, he could see something. Blurry but becoming visible. The feet of the Orc in front of him. He let out his breath slowly, he could see! His eyes began to sting again with the movement and he felt tears gather and then spill over.

"Aw, the little baby's crying for his mommy," Lurbak's sadistic voice made him cringe. "Oh yeah, how could I forget, he doesn't have a mommy."

Faramir stiffened at the mention of their mother. It had been so long since he had heard her existence mentioned aloud. Finduilas' name was not spoken in Minas Tirith. For the Steward, painful memories were a greater foe than any enemy that could break upon the walls.

It had been many years since his wife's death, but Denethor was yet to shed one tear. The grief he held inside was still an open wound and he would not even hear her name for fear of the hidden pain it might bring back to the surface. And so Denethor lived on, losing a small part of himself every day that went by without her.

Faramir had only been five years old when he lost his mother, and still the memory and trauma of her death lingered with him.

Boromir was five years older that Faramir, and at that moment he wondered whether his brother would defend her honour . . .

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Boromir had been forced to bite his lip to stop himself from reacting. His fists were clenched so tightly that his fingernails were cutting into the skin of his palms and his eyes were blurred with tears he was determined not to shed. Many of the Orcs had their malicious eyes upon him, eagerly anticipating an outburst of anger or tears over what had been done to his little brother.

Faramir had been brave, and Boromir was proud of him. He had not made a sound, nor shown any sign of fear. And it was only when uncertainty began to creep into his gaze that he had shut his eyes tightly. Boromir thanked the stars he had done it, for now there was at least a chance his brother's eyes had been protected. Gorburg seemed intent on having revenge, but after having done it, he had not even checked the effectiveness of his act. Boromir would have given anything to protect Faramir at that moment, but the cursed wound on his leg prevented any thought of moving.

In that horrible moment, Boromir had almost forgotten his leg. However terrible the pain was that flared from it, he would have welcomed it when the Orc's stroke had fallen across his little brother's face. It would have at least given him the comfort, however small, of knowing there was truly nothing he could have done to prevent it.

He was angry that he felt sorry for himself. It was no one else's fault but his that both he and his brother were trapped here. And to think, all he had wanted was to give Faramir an escape from the condemnations of their father.

Boromir had always suspected the reason Denethor shunned his youngest son was the very same reason Boromir held Faramir so dear.

Some said the two brothers looked much alike, and indeed their dark hair and features bore some resemblance. But in Denethor's eyes there was no similarity, nor in Boromir's own. For the elder of the two was his father's son, grey eyes and strong build as Denethor had been in his youth, and Faramir was the image of his mother.

His eyes were her very own and the joy this discovery had occasioned upon Faramir's birth had become a curse five years later when Finduilas' eyes had closed upon the world.

To Boromir, seeing Faramir being hurt was twice as painful because of his little brother's similarity to their mother.

"Aw, the little baby's crying for his mommy."

Boromir's head shot up at once, Lurbak's taunt breaking him out of the delirium caused by the loss of blood. Faramir was still being held between two Orcs. His head had fallen forwards and his dark hair, longer by far than Boromir's own, was matted against the fresh blood that ran from the cuts on his face.

Boromir's whole body trembled with anger and grief. He felt so helpless and weak!

Boromir's mind began to swim again with the image of Faramir before him. He was sure it was Faramir's resemblance to their mother that pulled father and son further away from each other with each year that passed. What evil fate, so thought Denethor, would take one so beautiful and leave behind another who bore such close resemblance as to make every moment spent in his company torture to the one who had lost who he held most dear. It pained Denethor to see his younger son because he was a constant reminder of what he had lost.

Faramir had raised his head when Lurbak mentioned their mother. It seemed that he too had memories and thoughts triggered by the mention of her name. With the sight of his brother's eyes, scrunched tightly together, Boromir dreaded that Faramir might not be able to see again, that his sight had been destroyed forever.

He thought of the many times he had found Faramir in the corner of the tower library, so deeply absorbed in his book that he would not even sense his approach. He would look up, startled, his grey eyes, the very image of their mother's, staring hazily up at him as though one half of him was still emerged in the land of literature.

Even if Boromir could not find the same overwhelming experience through reading, he knew how much it meant to Faramir to be able to pick up a book and escape reality. How much it would hurt him, Boromir thought, if that were taken from him.

"I have heard talk of her death," Lurbak grinned, "your mother that is. It is said Denethor has grown weak with her passing. Perhaps the death of his sons will be enough to push him over the edge."

"You presume much upon our father," Faramir's voice was clear in the silence. Lurbak whipped around, and grabbing Faramir's hair he pulled the boy's face up to meet his. Boromir clenched his fists in frustration as Faramir spoke, "Denethor is stronger that you think. Our deaths will only make him more determined to destroy you."

"Quite the little politician, aren't we?" Lurbak laughed harshly, but there was a fierce anger behind the jest. A muttering had risen within the Orcs. Faramir's words had spread the seed of doubt among them. Boromir was proud of his little brother. Though sometimes driven to frustration by his Faramir's keen wit and ability with words, this was a situation were he felt no ill will.

Denethor was a wise King, perhaps more gifted in thought than in body. It was said he could read the minds of men, and Boromir agreed that sometimes the Steward seemed to be able to see right through him. It was not so with Faramir.

Denethor had never understood, or else refused to show that he cared about the feelings of his younger son, ironically the one most like him in many ways. Boromir often wondered whether things would have been different in the Steward's house if Faramir had been the elder. Would Gondor hold a brighter future if the upcoming Steward was as quick with his wit as he was with a sword? Boromir knew all to well his lack of skill when it came to dealing in words, their father's greatest accomplishment. Words were a game to Denethor and Boromir knew he would never develop a wit to match that of their father. But Faramir, well, that was yet to be seen. Many a battle of words had taken place beneath the Stewards chair, and Faramir was only fifteen.

Despite knowing how far he fell short when it came to words, Boromir never doubted his duty and ability to rule. In his opinion, Denethor had dwelt too long in shadow, closing himself off from his subjects. It was a Steward's duty to assess the needs of the people and undertake measures to meet them. Gondor needed someone like himself, a man of action. The city needed a great leader, a warrior who could inspire the courage to walk to battle with pride.

And until a King came, which seemed as unlikely as it had all his life, Boromir was prepared to become the leader Gondor so sorely needed.

Boromir's head shot up at once, realising he had been drifting, slipping back into the easy land of his future aspirations. He was happier there, where he did not have to worry about the savage pain in his leg every time he made a movement. But he was here, where his little brother needed him to be strong, to be the protective elder brother he had always been.

"I have heard it said that this one resembles his mother," Lurbak jerked Faramir's head back once more, looking him in the eyes. "I'm surprised Denethor married her if she was as repulsive as I've heard tell."

Boromir looked at the Orc through a red haze of anger. He could hear insults about himself, even his father. But his mother's memory and honour was sacred to him, and he would not let the insult stand. "You speak of her again and I'll kill you here and now!"

Lurbak just laughed at him, "ashamed of having a filthy Elf for a mother, are you?"

Boromir had heard the rumours of the people of Dol Amroth having Elvish blood from far back in the line of rulers. And though there was never any proof to say as much, Lurbak had meant it as a cruel slander at himself and all his family.

A surge of rage leapt through him and he wanted nothing more than to bury his sword in the creature's foul heart, slowly, so he could make the Orc regret his words. With the anger came a sudden strength, and supporting himself with his hands, he tried to raise himself upon his good leg. Doing his upmost to ignore the pain that had paralysed him previously, he moved forwards towards the leader of the Orcs.

Lurbak did not seem at all concerned, in fact he laughed at the slowness in which Boromir moved. Encouraging the other Orcs to do the same. Boromir moved up to him, glaring with such anger that none of the Orcs would have blamed Lurbak if he had taken a step backwards. But the Orc stepped forwards to meet him, and Boromir was so close he could feel the Orc's rotten breath upon his face. Some of the other goblins started cheering, hoping a fight would ensue, or at least a beating.

Boromir was quite ready to have a go at Lurbak, and though there was little hope, he would at least show them not to degrade his family. His heart beat faster as the Orc smiled at him, one side of his lips curled to show black teeth.

Gorburg's knife was clenched tightly in Boromir's fist, hidden from the time Lurbak had foiled the blind Orc's attempts at slashing his eyes out. He had planed to keep it for a time when they might escape, but for the sake of himself and his family he could not let the insult stand. He shifted the knife in his hand, Lurbak seemed to be waiting for him to make the first move, to see whether he actually meant what he had said.

But then Boromir stopped short, Faramir's voice rose over the shouts of the Orcs.

"Peace Boromir, please stop!" Boromir's shoulder's slumped and his hand loosened. How could he start a fight now? What had he been thinking?

"Listen to your brother, Son of Denethor," Lurbak hissed in his face, "You should care more about him than your dead mother. Pity you're not what he thinks you are, the perfect big brother, ha. You only care about yourself!"

Lurbak shoved him backwards and Boromir fell onto his back, steeling himself against the agony in his leg. Lurbak's words had stung him, perhaps it had taken an Orc to see it. Did he really care more about his own safety than his brother's? He had always thought himself a true support for Faramir but now all the times he had failed to defend him against the anger of their father flooded into his mind.

Lurbak must have seen the doubt and worry in Boromir's face for he laughed and signed to the Orcs holding Faramir. They brought him forward and threw him at Boromir's feet. "Take care of him while he still has faith in you," Lurbak said, turning his back on the boys with a snort of amusement. Boromir pulled his little brother closer to him and wrapped his arms protectively around him, all the while hating himself for not being a better brother. He felt what he thought must be a sob run through Faramir's body and he raised the boy's head gently.

If he did not have someone to be strong for then, Boromir would have cried himself. He brushed the dark hair away from his brother's eyes and gently ran his finger over the red wounds. He pulled the boy closer to him and let him rest his head upon his shoulder.

Faramir fell asleep quickly, tired out from the physical and emotional stress, finding comfort in his brother's strong hold. But for Boromir, there was no rest. ~You only care about yourself~