Faramir Fiction Archive

Remnant (PG-13)

30 January 2006 | 419 words

Title: Remnant
Author: Dixon of Dock Leaf
Email: dixonofdockleaf@hotmail.com
Pairings: Boromir/Faramir
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Angsty…don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Disclaimer: They’re Tolkien’s and I know it. Dang.
Feedback: Is a fundamental part of life.
Authors’ Notes: The song-fic bunny attacked from the glove box halfway down the motorway as I was listening to the wonderful Dolly Parton singing Just When I Needed You Most. It made me answer the question of who dealt with Boromir’s possessions after his death. And then it sobbed.

It is the smell that Faramir notices first. Under the stale must of sorrow and the cessation of time lies another scent. It is a scent more familiar to him than his own and dearer, for it is one which, once dispersed, can never be experienced again.

It is the scent of Boromir.

The opening of the door, sealed until now by Denethor’s grief has awoken the air’s memory and the currents drift, trailing the echoes of the past through Faramir.

You packed in the morning
Leaving for Rivendell, sent with the hopes of a people heavy about your shoulders, a mantle of duty

I stared out the window
Helpless to prevent the departure of my soul

And I struggled for something to say
The word-smith, the scholar, the pointless dreamer, maundering the trivial to avoid the truth

You left in the rain without closing the door
Laughing at me with your eyes alone

I didn’t stand in your way
To stop you, to say what I should have been able, to turn you back

Now I miss you more
Too late to tell now

Than I missed you before
Too late for everything

And now where I’ll find comfort, God knows
There is no joy, there is no colour. All is ash since you fell

‘Cause you left me
It should have been so different for you

Just when I needed you most
It should have been so different for us

Yes, you left me
Just when I needed you most

Denethor has ordered that his favourite’s belongings be destroyed, without exception, in order to remain forever cherished; a perfect clarity of sacrifice. Faramir has not obeyed this order. A fire has been kindled but it consumes only old cloth and parchment scraps. Boromir’s possessions are safe, hidden deep in chests, concealed by, and intermingled with Faramir’s own. His father will never go voluntarily to his rooms; the deception is safe.

And the scent of his love is preserved for a little while longer.

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