Faramir Fiction Archive

The Weight of Silence (PG-13)

Written by Empy

15 April 2005 | 1298 words

Title: The Weight of Silence
Author: Empy [Email]
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the Tolkien estate. No infringment is intended and no money made.
Warning(s): implied consensual sibcest.
Summary:
Feedback: Yes, please.
A/N: Written for Faramir_Boromir, for the fic request meme. She requested “POV of AU Boromir, now Steward of Gondor, attending Faramir’s funeral”. I’ve changed the timeline somewhat, so the fic is set *after* the funeral rather than during it.

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The slate by the tomb is still empty. The craftsmen have not yet had the time to carve your name into it. I let my fingers trace the letters onto the plaque, watching as they fade away as the temporary warmth leaves the stone: Faramir II, son of Denethor II, T.A 2985-3018.

It should have been my name written on that stone, not yours, brother.

I can see my face reflected in the glossy marble of the casket. They say we were alike in face and voice, and my tear-blurred vision plays such tricks on me. I can smell the flowers still, and it tears at me. I would have preferred the reek of blood and grit, the stain of mud and rotten leaves. Not this cold and formal effigy of you that they buried.

There was a gash on your cheekbone. Who got in so close to scar your face? You were always such a good swordsman. Perhaps the stones of the river cut your face, Faramir. The Anduin cleansed you and cut you anew. It leeched the colour out of your face and brought the palsy of death to your limbs.

I remember the pale face of your commander as he brought your body back to our camp at Osgiliath. Though you looked no more than a sorry bundle of wet cloth and sticks, I knew. The terrible knowledge struck me so hard that my very heart faltered. Dead. Still, if asked I would admit I knew of your passing even before that. We shared the same blood, Faramir. What wounded you scars me also.

Why else would I have woken at night to a scream that was my own?

Many came to honour you, despite the dire times that are upon us. Imrahil is here, leading his host from Dol Amroth. The commanders in chief of your troops, though sorely decimated, massed their ranks to salute you. The scribes and scholars have written elegies for you; grave-songs and praise.

I know they would have pleased you. You always were the lore-learned one, little brother.

There are no stars in the perpetual half-darkness of this room, and the moonlight does not reach you. I know you would have objected. I will have them chisel stars into the dome, or else carve a statue of you to place in the Citadel. You should be able to see the night sky.

Lover’s deeds, I realize. I did love you, more so than brothers do, and it was a bitter blessing that it passed for fraternal love.

Still. Quiet. I cannot abide this silence any longer. I wish to talk to you, wrest answers from you, but I cannot. What would the people of Gondor think if they saw their Steward sit on the floor of a mausoleum, gibbering at a casket like a madman?

You did call me mad once, Faramir, when I cornered you in Father’s study and stole a kiss mere moments before he walked in with his emissaries. It was not madness, brother dear, only love. There is other madness, perhaps true madness, at work in me now. You would frown if you learned that I kept the arrow that pierced your heart; that I painstakingly removed it from your shattered chest.

You were strong, Faramir, but no mortal can withstand the strike of so crude a dart. It pierced your armour as though the metal was a butterfly’s wing.

I wish that you felt no pain in that moment, but I am a soldier and I know all too well that there is no such thing as a painless death in battle.

Father cursed his long sight, cursed the gift of prophecy that let him see your last living moment. I saw his eyes, Faramir, and they were those of an animal. The sorrow drove him mad, and how I fear that I will meet the same fate.

In a last fit of insanity, he rode out into battle at the first assault on the White City. His blood still stains the wide stone-paved road that leads to the First Circle. He died a hero, as did you. He died defending his city, this cold stone fortress on the very border of the Black Land. He left me so bitter a legacy, hollowly echoing halls and endless cold rooms now without inhabitants.

With our father dead and me his eldest son, I must follow tradition and take over the Stewardship. I let my hand slide over the hard cold marble of the casket, my other hand knotting into a fist so tight my fingers feel like they are breaking. I can show no grief, least of all now when our land must be defended.

This is worse than fever, worse than battle-wounds, for no amount of healing herbs will give me rest. I have not slept for days now, it seems, and the hours bleed into each other. Neither food nor wine pleases my palate, and tastes only of ashes and rain. I wish to go out into battle again, lose myself in the raging chaos I know is always present. Perhaps I seek death to break the solitude.

You are cruel to leave me, brother. Endlessly cruel. And the bitterest cruelty of all is that you bent my will to let you leave. Would it have changed anything if I had died in your place? It is not a thing I should ponder now, for all it does is bring back memories in a flood. I had thirty-five years to protect you, and I imagined I had succeeded in sheltering you as much I could from harm.

I failed, Faramir. I failed so grievously.

We had time for a last kiss on the eve of your departure, brother. A harsh kiss for courage, and yet one for comfort. You were the one assuring me that you would return, and I wheedled to make you change your mind, but you stayed firm, foolish little one.

I should say that I hate you for forcing your will on me, but I cannot. I could never hate you, Faramir.

The pain is singing in my veins like a fever, making the room tilt and the light warp. The wind sighing outside is a song, shrill and low all at once, and the light draft in this chamber feels like ice-cold hands tracing over me. Over my heart, surely feeling the fevered beat; over my aching sides and along my throat.

It feels all too much like hands. Your hands.

I cannot breathe properly, but I must force myself to stand upright. I am sure my face is twisted into a snarl, a rictus of composure, and when I walk out, my head will be bowed. You will forgive me if I do not cry. There is no strength left for tears.

The sky is grey with clouds, and rain hangs in the air. It is difficult to breathe, even though rough winds rip at the banners that hang lining the passageways. Nothing has been gained, and I have lost all too much. This city is my stone tomb, a dead shell for me to love though it holds nothing of value to me. You were its shining jewel, not I.

[END]

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