So when I started off on LJ, there were two things I thought I’d never, ever do: one was to write Lord of the Rings fanfic, because oh, the sacrilege, and the other was to post ANY fanfic here in my LJ …

But then I saw the “Two Towers” Extended Edition and loved Movie!Faramir nearly as much as I loved Movie!Boromir and then I saw “Return of the King” and started wondering whether Faramir was ever going to find out how his brother really died and I mentioned this to bigboobedcanuck, who very gently pointed out that they weren’t, you know, REAL, which of course made me start wishing there had been a scene like this in the movies or something. And then yesterday, there was a flood in our office and the phone lines and network and internet access were all sopping wet and not really functional and I had nothing else to do except sit around and read and I finished my book and then there was nothing to do except write fanfic. So I did.

And because my whorish exhibitionism far outweighs my embarassment about posting, here it is, with profound apologies to Tolkien, Peter Jackson, the English language and all of you, dear readers … (P.S. I hardly think it’s necessary for me to mention that this features Boromir, is it? But just in case the warning's necessary … it does.)

"Memento Mori" 1/1
Rating: PG
Characters: Aragorn, Faramir
Summary: Faramir and Aragorn have a long overdue conversation
Disclaimer: Profound apologies to Professor Tolkien, Peter Jackson and everyone else involved in bringing these fabulous characters to life.


Already the bards sing the deeds of the Fellowship as if its members were heroes out of legend. They tell of Mithrandir and how he brought light when darkness covered the land; of the perian who braved the wastes of Mordor to destroy Isildur’s Bane and of his faithful servant who followed every step of the way; and of the other halflings, one who destroyed the Witch King of Angmar and the other who saved Lord Faramir from his own father’s pyre; and they sing of the King Elessar, who rode the Paths of the Dead with only an Elvish prince and a great lord of the Dwarves as his companions to bring aid to Gondor in her direst need.

Aragorn cannot bear these songs, for there is one of whom no tales are told, one whose name is never spoken. The bards do not sing of the ninth member of the Fellowship that set out from Imladris on an October morning. There is no place in legend for Boromir and his fall into madness and despair. There is no one in Gondor who knows that he died in the arms of the King.

Faramir seems content with his White Lady in Ithilien. He comes rarely to Minas Tirith now and when he does, Aragorn watches him for any hint of resemblance to his brother. In truth, Faramir is not very like Boromir - he is a quieter, gentler man, and he carries his joys and sorrows closer to his heart. He does not have his brother's brilliant smile and turbulent eyes. But sometimes, in the lift of Faramir’s brow or the turn of his head, Aragorn sees Boromir, and the likeness pierces him like a lance.

He knows that Faramir is eager to hear how his brother died, but Aragorn cannot bring himself to tell that tale. The King sits in judgment on himself no less than on other men, and his verdict is merciless. He was no true friend to the one whom he had come to love. He answered Boromir’s summons too late; too late, he spoke the words Boromir yearned to hear. Aragorn fears to see his own judgment in Faramir’s eyes, and so he ignores the unspoken questions and speaks always of the future, never of what is past.

***

Faramir dreams often of the dead. His mother is a gentle, sorrowful vision - bright smile, soft voice, long slow fading. His father is a nightmare of words that wound like poisoned arrows. When he dreams of Denethor, he wakes sweating and thrashing in his bed, the stench of roasting flesh still in his nostrils.

Most of all, though, he dreams of his brother, the golden Captain of Gondor. Thousands cheered him when he rode out, gallant and shining in his armor, and yet he died alone, arrayed for his funeral by strangers. There is no tomb for Boromir in Rath Dinen, for no one knows where his body lies, and it seems to Faramir that no one else cares. In the city Boromir loved so well, none now speaks his name or remembers his ringing laughter. Other captains won the war; other men taste the fruit of victory. Their silence is a shadow on Faramir’s joy in Ithilien.

There is one who could tell Faramir how his brother died. But whenever Faramir has tried to ask, Aragorn’s eyes have grown cold and the questions have died on Faramir’s lips. Was Boromir’s shame so great that even death cannot erase it? But why then does Aragorn wear Boromir’s vambraces always, the soiled leather a strange contrast to the shimmering silks of his royal robes?

***

On a morning in early spring, when the snow still lies in the shadowed corners of the city but the wind is fresh from the South, Faramir rides from Ithilien to seek an audience with his King.

They speak for some time on matters concerning the kingdom – the cleansing of Ithilien proceeds apace; embassies have come from Harad and from Khand, suing for peace and trading rights. Aragorn is well-pleased with his Steward, though he wonders why Faramir has ridden so far when he might have written instead. And then Faramir says, “Sire, if you permit, I would speak with you in private.”

The King frowns, dreading what Faramir will say, but he acquiesces. There is no putting off this day. He nods at the courtiers and servants, and when they have all gone, Aragorn rises and pours Faramir a goblet of wine that glows like blood in the sunlight.

“Speak,” he commands.

“My lady is with child,” Faramir begins.

Aragorn has no need to feign joy at this news. Eowyn and Faramir will have beautiful children and their happiness is dear to him.

“She is with child,” Faramir continues. “And I had thought … If it is a boy, then I wish to name him for my brother. But before I burden the child, I must know. How did Boromir die? Will my son be shamed by the name he carries?”

Faramir’s words sit in Aragorn’s chest like stones. He cannot be silent any longer – if Faramir judges him harshly, then that is his due. Boromir’s brother must know the truth.

“Boromir…” His voice breaks on the familiar sound. “No,” he says. “No man need be ashamed to bear that name.”

“Sire, Samwise the Halfling told me that my brother was forsworn, an oathbreaker. That he went mad and tried to take the Ring. And Frodo would never speak of Boromir at all. The others, Meriadoc and Peregrin – they told me he died for their sakes. I do not know which tale is the true one.”

“Neither,” Aragorn says. “And both.” He remembers the morning on Caradhras, Boromir gazing at the Ring, his eyes clouded with desire. “Your brother was a noble man, Faramir, but the Ring twisted all that was good in him and bound him in chains of wanting and despair until he lost all hope of winning free. And then, somehow, in the end, he came back to himself. He died defending the weak.”

Aragorn pauses, overwhelmed by the memory of how clear and bright Boromir’s eyes were at the end, as he gasped out his last ragged breaths. There are some things that, even now, Aragorn will not tell Faramir: the words he whispered in Boromir’s ear; the weight of Boromir’s body in his arms, close in death as he had never been in life.

But Aragorn will spare himself nothing else, and perhaps his heart will find ease in the telling. He recounts the stages of their journey, and he does not falter when he comes to the last hopeless battle on Amon Hen. “Your brother told me once,” he says, finally, “that if there was weakness and frailty among Men, there was courage also, and honor. In his death he showed me the truth of his words. That is why I have worn his vambraces since that day – to remind me.”

He stops, fearing what he will see in the other’s face, but there is no accusation and no anger. Instead, Faramir’s eyes are filled with unshed tears, and he bows to Aragorn, pressing his hand to his heart. “Sire,” he says, “I thought I was alone in mourning my brother. I do not know how to thank you for this gift.”

Aragorn smiles now. “Tell your children about Boromir the Fair," he says. “Tell them that he was a brave warrior, and a good man, and well-beloved of his brother and his King.”

***

ETA: Many congratulations to erebor and to my dear OTP bigboobedcanuck! Couldn't have happened to two nicer and more deserving individuals!