Faramir Fiction Archive

The Competition (PG)

08 July 2007 | 454 words

Title: The Competiton
Author: Laurëlóte
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir
Table/Prompt: 25fluffyfics – Prompt 3. Sport
Rating: PG
Warnings: Yet another fluffy ficlet
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they belong to Tolkien, I merely like to borrow them for my own pleasure

The Competition

The Midsummer Festival. It was the biggest event of the year and Boromir stood proudly on the sidelines watching the ‘novices’ archery competition.

Faramir had been faultless throughout the event, and how here he was, with two other hopefuls, about to begin the final round.

The prize was a place in the Ithilien Rangers; it was the thing that Faramir had been training for; the thing he had dreamed about. Boromir had helped him as much as he could, but now his brother was on his own.

He almost could not watch. Faramir was going last and the other two young men had already hit the centre with their first arrows, but deep down he knew that he had nothing to worry about, Faramir would not miss.

A sense of relief flooded through him as Faramir proved him right again and again.

The target was moved back and finally one of the men made a mistake. They were down to two.

Boromir could barely keep his eyes on the event, not daring to watch anymore, he just prayed to the Valar that Faramir would win his place.

At only 15 years of age it would not matter if his brother did not win, he could enter again next year or indeed the year after, but he knew that Faramir would be devastated after having worked so hard.

As the target moved back yet again, to a distance that he knew that he would never be able to hit, the other man missed the centre, his arrow just catching the edge of the second ring. All Faramir had to do was hit the centre.

His heart was in his throat as Faramir pulled back his arm to realise the arrow.

The arrow spun towards the board at what seemed to be an agonising pace as if it was hovering in the air, drawing out the tension.

As it hit the board the crowd erupted and Boromir felt himself running towards his brother and hugging him dearly before it had even really sunk in that Faramir had hit the centre and had won.

He was the proudest man there that day as he watched his brother collect his trophy, a decoratively carved bow. But the real prize was still to come, and he knew that he would be just as proud as he stood at the gates of Minas Tirith and watch Faramir ride out to Ithilien for the first time.

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Fini

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