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woodelf68 · 24 minutes ago

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As Certain Dark Things are to be Loved, Part 1

Summary: Rowan Gold knew there were three certain things in life: death, taxes and his innate inability to be loved. Which is why he hardly believed it when he found himself, pushing fifty and a pariah in the town he lived in, sparking with the local town librarian, after an accidental public touch that left them both reeling. Belle French was everything he wasn't: beautiful, kind and loved. And now a stone around his neck he can't wait to rid himself of. Love made you sick, after all. Made you weak.

Soulmate AU

Rating: M

He sat somewhere closer to the back, in case things got boring enough to merit an early exit. Town meetings were a chore, but a necessary one, in particular for someone who owned most of the real estate property inside the town borders. There was nothing pressing in the calendar, nothing that had caught his eye, but he still felt the need to put on an appearance, lest people think he had gone lax.

As people settled around him he surveyed the scene, locating and studying the key players. He was up on local gossip enough to pick up on how the Nolans were not sitting together. According to what he had heard deputy Nolan had matched with mousy little Mary Margaret Blanchard when she chaperoned her classroom around the local shelter, where good old David volunteered during his spare time. All it had taken was a brush of their forearms as they helped the kids wash their hands after feeding the goats for their marks to appear. And now a once-solid marriage was in shambles as a result. He spotted the good deputy with his new mate, both huddled in a corner, trying obviously not to attract attention while Abigail sat on the opposite side of the room, looking proud and indifferent next to her father, though he could spot a tightness around her eyes, a flatness to her expression that spoke of a carefully-controlled facade.

There was nothing for it, though. Everyone knew that an outside mark was a deathblow to even the strongest of marriages. His own hadn’t survived even the possibility of it. One day Milly was fawning over sappy soulmark stories that she read online and the next she was gone, leaving a note about how she couldn’t “settle” for a life with him anymore.

He then spotted Regina, looking somewhat less kept together than she had been when they had first met. Back then she had been an ambitious young thing, who he had seen advance from council member to mayor, always thick in the midst of politicking. Now she split her time between her mayor duties and being a stepparent to little Ronald, the son of her mate. At least no marriage had been broken with that sparking, Robin having been widowed for over a year before he had matched with Regina.

And yet, this did not mean the sparking hadn’t come at a cost. Regina, he had soon surmised, had lost her edge. The ambition that had served her so well before was now dampened by biological impulses, by that irrational imperative people called true love. Hogwash, really. An absurdity he had believed in, once upon a time, when he was a wee lad, small and poor and unloved, left behind by both his parents, driven away from the only comfortable home he had known by a system that saw him as nothing more than a case number. Back then he had yearned to spark, had wished for the fantasy of a mate that would love him for who he was. Someone who would never leave him.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The place was getting packed, fewer seats left open. Two people motioned as if to occupy the spare seats next to him and so he casually flexed the hand on top of his cane, his moonstone ring glinting and drawing attention to the fact that his hands were bare. An extreme faux pas in polite society, where unbreakable bonds were forged with the merest brush of skin against skin, and where skin touch in general, even for people who were matched, was reserved for family members and close bonds. But he enjoyed the way people would scramble out of his way or squirm and avoid shaking his hand in the off chance they might get shackled to one such as him for life.

He knew no such thing would happen. It was something he had struggled to learn growing up, but the lesson had since sunk deep and was now a comfort of sorts. He was unlovable and incapable of love. There was no mystical other half waiting for him to mark them, no fated meeting of the souls waiting just around the corner. And realising that had been liberating, in the long term. Had allowed him to become the man he was today. Powerful. Rich. Influential. Storybrooke was his little fiefdom, and he liked exerting his power in the shadows, pulling strings so things went just as he wanted them to.

He leaned back against his seat once the unwelcome interlopers scurried away, making sure he had a good grasp of the room. Next to Midas he saw King, surly and taciturn as always, and then Dr Hopper, close to the stage- he moderated town meetings to keep the set schedule, which was the one time the pawnbroker heard the psychiatrist talk without stuttering- and next to him, shuffling some cue-cards, the new librarian. Well, not new. She had arrived in Storybrooke over two years ago, but in a town where nothing happened a newcomer tended to stay that way for long.

She was an odd one too, which he imagined didn’t help her assimilate. And he didn’t mean the accent. People talked about how she read too much, often while walking around or even doing her shopping, and how she tended to befriend people in the fringes or deemed undesirable, like the sassy waitress, Ruby, too scantily-clad and unapologetic about living her single, unmarked life to the fullest, or the miner, too brash and rough for polite company. Rumour had it the librarian liked going out drinking with them, and held her own. So wrapped-up in her library that she missed town events and didn’t even seem interested in dating, even though she was unmarked and, therefore, it wasn’t a social taboo for her to do so. Quite the contrary. The expectation for the unmarked, especially when they were young and beautiful as Miss French was, was for them to seek out potential mates, to chase the dream of the ultimate life bond. Nevermind that sparkings were rare, and that it was normal for people past their thirties to get married and move on from chasing a pipe dream.

Apparently the local stud, a brainless small-town hero called Gaston Legume, had contrived to touch her skin days after meeting her, in a manner both forceful and very public. That, for anyone else, would’ve meant sexual assault charges, but when the good sheriff had interviewed all witnesses they all seemed to recall the event differently, and believe firmly it had all been quite accidental. Miss French had, wisely, declined to press charges, though she seemed rather relieved no sparking had taken place. Not that such proof had deterred Gaston. No, the idiot seemed under the impression that the touch just “hadn’t been long enough” and had, apparently, attempted another accidental brush on at least four separate occasions.

He didn’t know much about the librarian, but he was glad she had been spared a lifetime with Legume. She was always kind to him when he withdrew books or passed her on the street, as if she wasn’t aware of his beastly reputation. Smart of her, of course, to play nice with a member of the town council. Trying to get on his good side would serve her well as a person in charge of one of the few public buildings in town.

The meeting started soon after and, like he had already guessed, the first item on the agenda was a request from the library for the allocation of funds to start a computer literacy program. The notion would later be formally put forth for the town council to decide on, but he guessed Miss French was hoping to garner some popular support to put pressure on the council to vote in her favour. One glance around the room told him that she wasn’t having much success. The mayor looked bored to death of the whole thing, Midas was talking with his daughter and he was pretty sure King was trying to surreptitiously watch a basketball match on his phone. No one else seemed very supportive, with the exception of the ever-loyal Ruby, who was nodding furiously at every point the librarian made, and, strangely, Leroy, the drunk fisherman, who he could not imagine ever being even in the same room as a computer.

After Miss French finished and people broke into truly tepid applause, the meeting moved on, with Dr Whale taking the podium to talk about an annual blood drive he wanted to set-up. He was half-listening, his mind already on the organisation for that month’s rent day, trying to remember which tenants were behind and by how much, to see who would have to be threatened with eviction notices, when he felt rather than saw someone sit down next to him. It was the damn librarian, maintaining a respectful distance between them but clearly unbothered by his presence. It would have bothered him, but the other available seat he could spot was next to Mr Legume, so he figured he could allow the girl a certain amount of leeway, given the circumstances.

Sadly for her it seemed her ploy to escape him was in vain, with Gaston casually strolling to where they were and unceremoniously shoving Mr Clark out of his seat so he could occupy it instead, with Whale shouting into the microphone in order to try and get people’s attention back on his pet project. He saw the librarian tense, her entire body language screaming her discomfort, yet only Ruby, too far away to be of any real assistance, seemed to notice or care, her face indignant as Gaston removed her gloves and tried none-too-gently to grab at one of Miss French’s forearms under the pretence of pointing something out. The librarian, likely wishing she had put on something other than a three-quarter sleeve cardigan, was attempting to either pull her gloves as high as they went or shove her sleeves down as much as possible, though neither was helping much.

The meeting droned on and on, one insipid proposal or trivial town nonsense after the other, with people breaking into their own private conversation, contributing to a low murmur that he strained to listen to, just in case he caught something useful, something he could tuck away in his mind to use later. That’s why he wasn’t paying much attention to what was happening right next to him, aware only of some peripheral movement. He wasn’t quite aware of how it happened. Only that Miss French stood up, apparently determined to politely ask him to go past him and out, banking on Gaston being too afraid of the pawnbroker to follow her. But before she could the lummox lounged at her, forcing her to scramble out of his way in a hurry. He reached out, an automatic reflex, to grab her before she stumbled into him. He was barely aware he had done it before a searing pain flared in his hand and shot up his arm, as if lightning was travelling through his blood.

None of the stories he had read as a child came even close to the reality of it. The sheer shock, the way the moment seemed to stretch on forever, like time stopped. His senses stilled until he was only aware of where his hand still held onto her forearm, of her harsh breathing close to him, of how she smelled. Then, a moment later, he was dumped back into reality, like someone had splashed ice water over him. He recoiled back, letting go of the librarian’s arm as if it was on fire, uncaring about the way she slumped to the floor without his support. Around them both a crowd was forming, people’s whispers growing loud as word spread around that the librarian had sparked with the town monster. He stared at his hand, seeing the beginnings of a mark, like the electricity that had passed through him had left a burn on his skin. It was painful, raw and red and strangely ugly, not like the ones he had seen in drawings as a child. He hated it instantly.

Like a wounded animal trying to suss out danger he glanced around, seeing all eyes on him. Him and Miss French, who was lying on the floor, looking at her forearm, too shocked to move, it seemed. He should care, shouldn’t he? He should want to help her up, shouldn’t he? But all he wanted to do was run. He felt too exposed, too raw. Like he was cut open and everyone was gaping at his insides. He wanted to run. And so he did, using his cane to prop himself up even though his legs felt like they wouldn’t be able to support him, barking at people to get out of his way, pleased when others scrambled to clear a path for him, his reputation wrapping itself around him like a shield.

Even though the brisk walk home was hell on his ankle he was glad he had not driven to the meeting, since he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have been able to keep his hands from shaking enough to drive. The moment he was in the safety of his Queen Anne he shed his overcoat and poured himself a drink, having to use his left hand since his right one felt pretty much useless at the moment. It took three glasses of whiskey for the initial tremors to subside and two more for him to gain enough courage to shed his suit jacket and roll up his right sleeve, exposing the totality of the soulmark. It was similar to an electric burn on wood, and though it was still red and swollen if he turned his arm a certain way it seemed to glint gold. It wasn’t the pretty swirls he had once envisioned, to shark and jagged in places, more an injury than a work of art. And long, reaching up his forearm and almost to his shoulder.

He wondered, rather ironically, whether he had any gloves he could use, to cover the only part of the mark anyone would be able to see. He would order some in the morning, he told himself. Or maybe, hopefully, he’d wake up and find out he had dreamed up the whole bloody mess. He poured himself another glass, wondering how many would erase the memory of the librarian, left behind to fend for herself, from his mind.

He woke up in the morning with a splitting headache, which he told himself was because of the whiskey. He felt tempted, for a second, to go downstairs to fetch the rest of the bottle and give himself a day off to lick his wounds in peace, but in the end he forced himself to power through, taking a couple of aspirin along with his coffee and resolutely ignoring, as much as he could, the feeling beneath the pain, something on the back of his mind, like a flicker. Something that he knew didn’t belong to him.

Following routine allowed him to clear his thoughts, and as a blessed side-effect it meant he could avoid interaction with most people. He drove his Caddy to the shop, studiously avoiding even a glance at the library across the street, where he balanced his books and restored antiques, pausing only to eat lunch that he had Dove fetch for him from Granny’s, the one deviation from the norm. The tall giant, thankfully, didn’t question the change or mention anything about recent development, even as he grew more ornery and short-tempered as the days dragged on and his headache grew, along with the pain radiating from his right hand, which he dutifully bandaged every morning, to keep it from prying eyes in the off chance someone thought to wander into his shop.

Someone did, at last. Sheriff Swan burst into his shop early one morning, looking fresh as a daisy, something he could not help but envy. Even though he showered, shaved and dressed that morning, like every morning, taking care with every aspect of his morning self-care routine, he knew he looked as awful as he felt. Dark circles under his eyes, wan complexion, sharp features looking sharper from his rather recent loss of appetite. Everything tasted like ashes to him now.

“You know what I’m here for, Gold.”

“And good morning to you too, sheriff.”

He knew, of course, what the blonde woman was talking about, even though he had been trying hard not to think about it. Mates needed to register, just like people who got married did, the principle was the same. Such a union needed to come along with a change of legal status, to avoid a clusterfuck of issues if a mated person died without declaring their bond to their partner. But registering contradicted his very solid plan of ignoring the situation until it went away, so he had decided there wasn’t any need for it. Nothing had changed, after all, with the exception of the unsightly mark on his right arm and the faint buzzing on the back of his head, beneath the ever-present headache he was now beginning to get used to.

“Cut the bullshit, Gold. I have better things to do with my day than to harass you into signing paperwork you know you’re supposed to in the first place. I’m not a clerk, I’m not your errand boy, I have real responsibilities waiting for me out there, so let’s make this quick.”

She pulled up a few forms tucked into a manila folder, along with a cheap-looking pen that advertised the Marine Garage.

“I’ll be happy to pay the fine and let you get on with your day, sheriff.”

“Oh, no, because that just kicks the problem further down the line. And I’m not coming here for this again.” She opened the folder, gesturing to the places where he was supposed to write his name and sign. “Look, Belle filled up her side days ago, with no fuss. Dr Hopper is right outside, ready to notarise everything so there is no further delay. You can get this over and done right here, right now, or we can drag this off for days, or weeks, wasting your money and both our time. Which is not happening. Sign the damn forms.”

He thought seriously about refusing, both to piss off the good sheriff and to have another opportunity to reject what was happening. He didn’t want the damn bond, and he certainly didn’t want anything else that went with it.

But, in the end, she made a damn good point. All that would do was compound the problem, make it bigger and bigger till he was forced to deal with it. And, if it ever got out that he had fought, and lost, that petty little tug-o-war, it would hurt his reputation. Better to get it over with quickly, and forget about it. With that in mind he took the papers, noticing how his hands trembled. He was getting more and more unsteady each day, and had to force himself to hold the pen- his Montblanc, there was no way he was going to sign anything with that piece of plastic the sheriff had provided- between his fingers without it shaking. As he did he saw the irritation in Sheriff Swan’s face melt into a look of pity and hated her for it, shoving the folder back in her hands the moment he was done with it. She, in turn, took a couple of pamphlets from her back pocket and laid them over the counter, looking solemn.

“Look, I know you’re going to do whatever the fuck you want, but I strongly recommend you read up on bonds and go to your doctor so they can explain to you all the potential side-effects and must-dos of your new condition. A lot of popular knowledge is utter bullshit but some of it is very true, including that people who bond late in life have more trouble adjusting than younger people.” She gave him a pointed look. “I mean, Belle looks better than you, that’s for certain.”

“You’ve seen her?”

He never meant to ask, the words tumbling out of his mouth without his permission, and hated himself for it. He didn’t care, so why did he ask?

“She’s doing okay, all things considered. The bit of mark you can see around her neck seems to be losing some of its angry red colour.” She paused and sighed, as if she was reluctant to say whatever else she was thinking about. In the end, her stubbornness won out. “She’s a nice person, Gold, better than you deserve. I’m guessing she’s trying to give you space, given how evident it was to her, and to everyone else there that night, how not okay you were with the whole thing in the first place. But by ignoring her, and it, you’re hurting her and you both. So please get your head out of your ass and deal with this like a responsible adult and not a petulant child.”

With that last little insult the sheriff departed, and he told himself the entire dreadful interaction was his own fault. He should’ve registered voluntarily. It would have taken him five minutes at Dr Hopper’s office, and given how timid the psychiatrist was, and how afraid of him too, he wouldn’t have had to deal with any attitude.

And, if he had, he wouldn’t have had to expose his weakness to Sheriff Swan. He could have suffered in peace, without anyone being the wiser about his condition. He reached out, taking the copy of the signed forms the sheriff had left with him, and studied it, his eyes unwillingly drawn to the spaces where the librarian had filled out her information. She had lovely penmanship, looping and elegant without being too overdone. A posh cursive if he ever saw one, the kind that spoke of an expensive education. Another stark difference between them, giving further ammunition to the idea that they weren’t compatible.

His eyes, unwillingly, scanned her date of birth, the math easy to do in his head. He was surprised to realise she was almost in her mid-thirties. He had thought her to be younger. It made him a bit relieved, made him feel less like an old creep, even though he had no real interest in her, not in any way that mattered.

He shoved the papers in his safe, with the idea that out of sight, out of mind, and went back to his work, the pounding in his head a constant reminder of what he was trying to push away.

He made it all the way to noon the next day before he caught himself wavering in his resolution to ignore what was happening altogether. He felt truly awful, muscle pains now accompanying the splitting pain in his skull, with a healthy dose of nausea that meant he had barely been able to keep food down since yesterday. It reminded him of the time he had tried to quit smoking, the same jittery sort of anxiety barely masked by the way his entire body had ached, demanding nicotine. He gritted his teeth, considering briefly going to the doctor before dismissing the idea altogether. There was nothing that Whale could do for him that would justify showing weakness in front of that quack. He had read the damn pamphlets the sheriff had shoved into his hands the other day, and had done more independent research, and it seemed that there was nothing out of the ordinary happening to him. He was experiencing all the textbook symptoms of what academically known as “early bond separation” but was known colloquially as “yearning pains” and the only cure for it was currently shelving books at the library. There was no way he would ever drag himself there to beg for touch like a fool. It would have to be enough the way his symptoms lessened, compared to what they were when he was at home.

Nevertheless, he had to admit a part of him, a big one, was staggeringly relieved when the door opened and Belle French stepped into his shop. It was cold out so she was wearing a coat, which meant he could not see the mark, even though his eyes sought it out automatically. He found himself annoyed by it, especially when he knew others had been able to see it. Miss Swan had commented on it specifically.

He took the rest of her in as he waited for her to speak, keeping his hands busy polishing an antique jewellery box when he found himself itching to reach out to her. She looked put together at first, certainly more so than he felt at the moment, fresh-faced and well-groomed. But a second look allowed him to see the tell-tale signs of a carefully-constructed mask, the well-concealed bags under her eyes, the slight powdery look around her cheeks and forehead that told him she had applied a rather generous amount of full-coverage foundation. Her movements were also the slightest bit stiff, telling him she was experiencing muscle pains as well.

Good , he thought rather uncharitably, and concentrated on trying to keep his voice from wavering as he greeted her.

“Miss French, what can I do for you?”

“I’ve tried to give you your space, Mr Gold, I hope that you’ve appreciated that, at least. I understand that what- what happened was completely unexpected and very unwelcome, but there’s no turning back the clock now. There’s no ignoring it. It is what it is and there’s no need for it to be uncomfortable, or for either one of us to suffer.”

She paused, clearly hoping he would, at least, acknowledge what was happening to them. He declined, sheer stubbornness keeping his hands from shaking and his face from showing just how much pain he was in. He was not going to lose, not to her. But he did want her to get to whatever point she was trying to make, especially if it would mean he’d feel better. He just needed her to be the one to suggest it, to cave in first.

“Just what are you suggesting, Miss French?”

She held up a book she had apparently brought with her.

“All we need is closeness. Routine, sporadic closeness. So I’ll just sit quietly and read next to you while you do whatever work you want. I’ve read extensively about it and it seems like close contact for around an hour would be enough to last us a week. We can arrange to do this weekly, at least until the bond settles.”

His pulse spiked when she mentioned the bond, and he hated himself and her for it. It was strange to suddenly have impulses and instinctual responses he had never had before and, therefore, had not had time to control and master. He reluctantly went to the back of the shop to pick up a stool similar to the one he used out front, so she could sit down, and didn’t make a comment when she placed it closer to his than he had. Then she took off her coat, leaving her in a sweater over a pleated skirt, tights and boots. The wide neck, baring part of a shoulder, allowed him to finally have a glimpse of her mark and, even though he tried to direct his eyes elsewhere, he couldn’t help staring. It looked pretty much like what he saw in the bathroom mirror after he showered every day and yet, for some reason, he found it infinitely more compelling.

“I’ve heard that it’s better if the marks are exposed while close, even if we don’t touch. I hope you don’t mind.”

He should have minded. He should’ve found the whole thing completely awkward, especially once she sat down and he pulled up his account books to work on them. He didn’t tend to like people in his space, and no one like him invading theirs, but it felt fucking natural to sit quietly beside the librarian, both of them engrossed in their own work while the bond hummed quietly between them, content, it seemed, with their proximity. His headache began to abate, his muscles relaxing for what felt like the first time ever. He breathed deeply, enjoying how his lungs didn’t tighten, how his chest didn’t spasm.

Such newfound health would’ve been worth awkwardly sitting close to a virtual stranger, but it wasn’t awkward at all. Though he had seldom found himself at ease in the company of strangers this felt different. It felt comfortable, even effortless. It was easy to concentrate with her nearby, easier even than alone, at least of late. It even was, dare he say it, nice.

It should have been excruciating, and he resented that it wasn’t. Why the fuck wasn’t it? To have the kind of intimacy it took years and hard work to build just happen because of a biological chemical reaction was disturbing, and he couldn’t imagine why people raved about it. He didn’t like it at all, especially the notion that he didn’t have his guard up the way he should. Mistrust had served him well throughout his life and he felt bare without it.

He hated everything all the more after she was gone and he found himself not enjoying his solitude as much as he should. Not as much as when she was there, quietly beside him, comfortably existing beside him, knowing instinctively that he would not appreciate a conversation being forced between them.

But as much as he disliked the whole ordeal, he felt infinitely better after she left. Even going back to his home, which stretched the bond tight, did not take away the looseness of his limbs or bring back the awful pounding headache, or the nausea. And though a part of him wanted to tell her to get out of his shop when she popped by again a few days later, he didn’t.

#read this!#rumbelle fic #soulmarks

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woodelf68 · 4 hours ago

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*･༓˚✧ ❝𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬❞ ‧͙⁺˚༓˚✧ « @boromir-week Day 2 & 3 »

I realise this is late, and I am very sorry. It was written only two days late but I completely forgot to upload it. Hopefully people can still enjoy!

Wordcount: 7.1k // Read on ao3

Prompts: Son of Finduilas | Grief and Loss | Son of Denethor

Relationships: Boromir & Faramir & Finduilas, Boromir & Denethor & Faramir & Finduilas, Boromir & Faramir

Additional tags: Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Young Boromir & Faramir, Angst and Feels

Finduilas has been having a bad week again, except this time it is no longer just a week. It is a bleakness that seems to have been growing - and one that Boromir cannot face or stop. The city of Minas Tirith seems to be on edge around it, his father will not talk to him, and the only person who is truly honest to Boromir is his younger brother. He cannot even be truly honest with Faramir, to spare him from the dark thoughts that worry him. Except what if everyone else is trying to shield that darkness from him as well?

Mother was having a bad week again.

It was something that Boromir could never fully understand, why his mother was gripped with such bad moods occasionally. He had asked her once, while sitting in her lap and watching Faramir sleep. She had smiled while placing a kiss on his forehead, and said she was very glad that he didn't understand. He'd been somewhat indignant - that if he couldn't understand he couldn't help - and mother had laughed softly.

Finduilas had explained it to him, a little. She said that it was as though her mind suddenly had a shadow cast upon it, and it was hard work to bring it back into the light so she could see the world properly. She'd called him one of her rays on sunshine, alongside his brother and father. He'd been very proud of that nickname.

Except, this 'bad week' was more than just a week. Those words fell thin when mother hadn't been able to walk with him and Faramir through the gardens for the third week in a row. When she'd missed their family meals and the dining table hadn't felt right without her presence. When the maids had looked very shocked at Boromir for asking about her condition and giving him angry hushes. Even Faramir (who was only half Boromir's age) was able to realise something was wrong.

Faramir hadn't been able to figure out the truth from the maids or from the lore masters who had a soft spot for him and his questions. He'd told Boromir that their faces had gone dark and then they'd tried to distract him from his own mother. Faramir had asked Boromir what was wrong next, because he was still young enough to think that his big brother would know all the correct answers to his problems and would help him. Boromir wanted to help him, but Boromir didn't know either. He'd tried the maids and the lore masters, and even his tutors - all of whom had looked away.

They'd given him a few more words, however. He was old enough to hear that his mother was 'struggling a little at the moment, and needed rest to make sure she could recover again'. Boromir wasn't sure why they hadn't told Faramir that, because he told his younger brother and Faramir seemed to understand perfectly well. But as he told Faramir of his tutors words, and the young boy had nodded before going back to a book, Boromir realised he hadn't been entirely honest with his younger brother either.

Although the words were all true, he hadn't told Faramir about the way their eyes seemed to darken as they said it - like mother's sometimes did - or how they'd avoided his gaze afterwards. Gone oddly quiet before saying he shouldn't worry so much at such a young age. He hadn't told Faramir how something in him was whispering that everything about their words and actions were wrong.

If he wasn't telling all of the truth to Faramir because he didn't want to upset him, what was not being told to him?

Eventually, Boromir resolved to ask his father. His father had never lied to him - and was the Lord and Steward of Gondor. If anyone would know it would be him. Mother had always told him that you shared special bonds with the people you loved - such as with him and his parents, with him and his brother, all of them as a family. Finduilas and Denethor shared a special bond as well, because they loved each other. Father should know what was wrong as their ruler and as a husband.

Boromir waited to ask until the evening, because it felt too heavy a topic for the daylight. He waited through their meal as well; Boromir wasn't sure if it was technically a family meal without their mother there. After his mother's worsening, Boromir had noticed the food getting slightly worse as well. In the first few days it was even nicer and more extravagant than it was normally (when Boromir had taken himself and his younger brother down to the kitchens they'd both been given sweet berry tarts). But now the food was more bland and tired.

Some of it was because his mother's warmth was missing from the table, that Boromir was sure of, but the food also didn't seem as nice. It was as if what was affecting his mother had begun to seep into the rest of Gondor as well. He could feel her absence especially hard at mealtimes, and when the three of them tried to make conversation.

Mother had always made every mundane detail about their day seem incredible - whether it was Faramir telling her about the beauty of an old tome he found (even if he still needed Boromir to read some of it to him), or Boromir imparting whatever his tutors had said to the rest of his family. Father still asks about their day, still remembers the small details and makes sure Boromir keeps to his studies while Faramir's love of Gondor's history blooms, but it is not the same. The easy praise of small details doesn't come as easily to him, and when he talks it is still as if he is trying to take mother's role.

Faramir still talks to the two of them, but even his enthusiasm has begun to wane. Sometimes, Boromir will see his little brother turn to address their mother before remembering the seat next to him is empty. It is something that all of them do.

Boromir is largely silent the day he wants to ask his father what is wrong, but he tries to talk. Tries not to let Faramir perceive that anything is wrong. Faramir finishes his food quickest (although he still tries to hide some of his potatoe under his fork, the same way Boromir used to do before he grew up) and remains for a little while. Then e yawns slightly, tiredness coming into his eyes, and asks if he may be dismissed.

Denethor asks if he should walk with Faramir to his room, and his younger brother hesitates. Then he looks at Boromir, and seems to know his feelings and how he wants to be with father right now, before shaking his head and saying that he can walk by himself. He is reminded to walk with a guard and Faramir nods, making it to the door before turning around. "May you come and wish me goodnight, once both of you have finished?"

"Of course." Boromir pledges, with their father dipping his head and assuring Faramir that he will as well.

They both wait for Faramir to leave, and Boromir tries briefly to go back to his potatoes. Suddenly, the words he'd been planning to say feel ashen and wrong on his tongue. As if by acknowledging mother's illness it will somehow get worse. The silence is far more uncomfortable than anything he has felt in a long while, and Boromir can feel his father's gaze on him.

"What do you want to ask me, Boromir?" His father's voice has no judgement in it, but for the first time it seems almost tired.

Boromir looks up from his plate and feels small, then swallows, "How do you know I have a question?"

That makes Denethor smile, tired but genuine, and he speaks again. "You look worried. And your fingers tap against the table to try and quell your mind, as your mother sometimes does."

"Does she?" The sincerity and joy in Boromir's voice lighten his father's mood slightly.

He nods, "She does, although it is rarer now. She is better at hiding her nerves, as one is prone to do when she becomes a Lady of Gondor."

Boromir's voice is small, and a little fear creeps back into it as he remembers what he wanted to talk about, "I don't think I've ever seen mother be nervous... except for when there was a spider in Faramir's room."

"It is not your job to sooth your mother's worries, Boromir." Denethor looks old again, older than he had been when Boromir made the comment about spiders. "Parents will always try to shield their children from harm, as is our jobs. We do not like to see you hurt."

Nodding, Boromir tries to absorb the words and think them over as would be wise. But his mind is still whirring. "Is mother hurt? Or ill?"

His father doesn't immediately answer and Boromir shrinks back into his chair for a second, before Denethor's hand gently rests on top of his. The gesture is comforting, and as he looks into his father's eyes he wishes he wasn't as nervous and could be braver. Could be calm like Denethor is being.

Denethor stays silent for a longer time than Boromir is used to, and Boromir thinks to when Faramir asked him specific questions on lore that Boromir did not know. The look of confusion, and light betrayal, that his older brother did not always know everything. Boromir realises that, perhaps, the question he has asked his father is not one that his father can answer.

"Finduilas is... she is ill." His father's voice is more hesitant than Boromir has ever heard it, "You know that she has periods of sadness, do you not? This is one of those periods, but it has been longer than most of the others. Longer and harder. When the mind hurts too much, the body begins to tire as well."

Boromir thinks back to how Finduilas had described it to him, "The shadow is darker this time?"

"The shadow is darker this time." Denethor looks strangely proud of Boromir after he says it, "But you are still her light."

Embarrassed, Boromir ducks his head slightly and protests, "We're all her lights. Faramir is a light, as well."

"Your brother is a bright light." His father begins to stand, and Boromir follows him (he doesn't like how Denethor has had to let go of his hand, and begins to close the distance between the two again). "Both of you are."

"And you're her light, as well."

That makes Denethor laugh lightly as he gets to the door, holding it open for his son. "Thank you, Boromir. I hope that I am."

"She told me that." Boromir declares as the two begin to walk together, and the smile stays on Denethor's face this time. Their conversation is slower as they continue to walk, but in the night the stone walls do not feel as cold as they have in the past few weeks. Walking together, they get to the quarters of the Steward and guards bid them goodnight. Boromir wants to fall into his bed, he feels strangely tired, but instead goes to Faramir's room and gently knocks on the door.

There's no noise for a few seconds except shuffling before Faramir calls out that they can open the door, and Boromir finds his brother in bed although fairly awake. "We came to say goodnight."

Even in the twilight Faramir's eyes gleam, "Thank you."

"And to remind you that you should be trying to fall asleep, not trying to read." Boromir isn't sure how father noticed the book, or even that he knew, before Faramir guilty pulls it from his pillow and places it on his bedside table while mumbling an apology.

"Goodnight, younger brother. Sleep soundly."

"Sleep soundly." His father echoes Boromir's words, and Faramir sleepily repeats them back as well. Denethor takes slightly longer to close the doors than he usually does, but eventually closes them. Probably to ensure Faramir doesn't immediately try to take the book back out.

Getting to his room, Boromir speaks just before his father opens the door, "May we and Faramir see mother again, soon? It has been almost four days."

Something deeper stirs in Denethor's eyes that Boromir does not have the words for, and his father opens Boromir's bedroom door before he answers, "I will ask for you."

"And Faramir."

"For you and Faramir." Denethor looks to his son fondly, "I had meant you in the pluralised term, on that occasion."

The details of grammar are fuzzy for Boromir this late at night, but he nods before hugging his father. "Thank you, I miss her."

"She misses you as well." Denethor looks at his son with love and gently hugs him back, before stepping away. "Sleep well, Boromir."

Boromir does sleep well that night. He dreams of the four of them, together in an orchard as he and Faramir run through the trees together. They are not scolded as they try to climb them, but instead rewarded when Boromir finds an apple that is perfect. Father finds other apples that are almost as red and they eat together, smiling together. Boromir wakes up in the morning with happiness from his dreams.

He waits in his room a little before coming to Faramir, knocking quietly before letting himself in. Faramir is awake but silent, only nodding at Boromir before looking away again. Moving into the room, Boromir sits at the end of Faramir's bed, "What is wrong?"

"Nothing."

He shuffles slightly further up, putting a hand on Faramir's shoulder. "You can tell me."

Faramir looks around as though he is scared someone might hear, before he goes completely into his older brother's arms. "I didn't sleep soundly."

Holding Faramir, Boromir reflects that his younger brother often doesn't sleep well when their mother is ill. "What did you dream off?"

"Mother." Faramir's voice is tight and he sniffs slightly, "She- she was ill. Very ill. Horribly ill."

He can tell Faramir needs only to be held for a moment, and so Boromir and Faramir stay in their position until Faramir has stopped sniffling quite as much (and Boromir feels ready to speak, his throat tight after the words). Then he sets about trying to make his younger brother feel better, "Mother has been ill like this before, Faramir. And the next few weeks or months she is back to laughing with us, as a family."

He lays a kiss on his brother's forehead, "Besides, we would be told if something horrible had befallen her. Father even said he would ask about us seeing her today."

"Truly?" Faramir's eyes light up at that, and Boromir lets himself laugh a little as he ruffles his younger brother's hair. Faramir smiles, before feeling it and scowling slightly, "You've made it messy."

"You hadn't brushed it after sleeping, it was already messy."

Faramir looks a though he might retort something else, before his eyes turn to Boromir's hair. "It's easier for you. Your hair is flat."

Boromir isn't entirely sure if he should be offended by that statement, and instead shakes his head. "Do you want me to comb it out for you?"

Mother's hair is slightly wavy, although not to the same extent as Faramir's is (she seems in-between the two brothers), but Faramir seems to take after his father in that regard, although with a different colouration. As a result, she'd taught Boromir how to care for hair like hers when he had seen her brushing it. Most of the same techniques still apply for Faramir's hair, although he has to be more gently, and so Boromir often volunteered to help with his younger brother's hair. The time they spend together as Faramir talks at him and Boromir hums in agreement.

Soon, the two of them make it down for breakfast - although slightly late. Their father is still at the table, and he looks up as the two arrive. He looks to Faramir as though he can perceive his child's night, before glancing to Boromir and appearing satisfied. They both give him their apologies, but he assures them it is a small matter and invites them to eat. The mood seems lighter than it often is, and while Boromir is eating Faramir dares to comment on it, "You seem happy today, father."

"Do I?" Denethor's tone seems amused for a second, "It is because I have good news to share; we are to visit your mother later today."

"Truly?" Both boys look up and speak at the same time, and Denethor smiles before confirming it. Breakfast does not seem to pass quickly enough for either of them, nor the hour they have to wait beyond that. Boromir and Faramir fill the time by deciding among themselves what has happened since the last saw Finduilas, and which of that news is interesting enough to tell her about.

Denethor eventually comes to collect them and both boys stand up, now dressed in their finer robes (Boromir having taken a comb to his own hair, as well). The excitement that has buzzed in them all day seems to strangely disappear as Denethor walks them to their mother; although Boromir continues to move and fidget with his hands it is more out of nervousness than anything else. The same nerves seem to be affecting his brother as well, as so Boromir gently takes his hand and walks in line with him. They are just getting to the door when Denethor pauses, causing both of them to as well, "Remember, your mother is still ill. Treat her kindly and with gentleness."

"We will." Faramir smiles at his father briefly, before looking to Boromir for confirmation.

At Boromir's nod, Denethor opens the door and they move in as quickly as can still be considered gentle. The windows in Finduilas's room are throw open, and she lays in a bed in the centre of the room pushed against the windowed wall. Upon seeing them, her countenance seems to light up as her smile grows. The healer at her side bows towards Denethor before slipping out of the room, allowing the family a moment of peace.

Instinctively, Boromir wants to go to the bed as well (as he did when he was younger) but restrains himself and hovers next to her, still as close as he can get. Faramir stands by his side, although his hand reaches for Finduilas and she gladly takes it. Looking at Boromir, she smiles, "Is my oldest now too old for his hand to be held?"

It is such a relief to hear his mother jesting, and Boromir quickly puts his hand over the one she uses to hold Faramir's, all three of them seemingly going together. She brings her thumb up and gently rubs it across his hand, almost as if reminding herself of his touch, before smiling to Denethor. "Have they been good?"

"Of course they have." There is a warmth in Denethor's tone that Boromir rarely hears, especially in the recent weeks, "They take after you."

Finduilas's gaze goes from her children to her husband, "They take after both of us. They have your strength, your wisdom."

At this she squeezes their hand again and Faramir smiles (Boromir does to, but a little bit of him notes how weak it is). Her gaze is still on the two of them, and Boromir and Faramir looks between themselves before they begin to talk and tell her about what they've done and the news that has changed in Gondor. She still responds perfectly, gasping and asking questions and laughing at all the right times. (Boromir tries not to think that her laughter seems shorter.) After the first twenty minutes, Denethor begins to talk as well - backing up their tale or giving context around it.

They are a family again, perfect for a few hours.

Eventually, Finduilas looks more tired and seems to wince at an invisible pain, so Denethor instructs the two boys to say goodbye. Neither one is willing to lose her again but perhaps they will be able to see her soon. She gives a kiss to the both their foreheads as they leave, and Boromir tries to shake a deep sadness that seems to have settled in him as he's taken the step away. Faramir clings to her for a little longer, before he looks up, "Will we see you again?"

Mother smiles at that, and she reaches out a hand to stroke some of Faramir's hair (he does not protest when their mother does it, Faramir notes). "Of course you will, little ones. Remember to obey your father."

"We will." The two brother's chorus it in sync.

"And be good to your tutors as well."

Boromir is slightly more begrudging of that fact, but he still dutifully promises his mother. Then, he reaches out and takes Faramir's again to guide him away carefully from their mother. There's a grown-up look on Finduilas' face, and she turns her gaze from them to their father for a second before there is a soft smile on her lips. "I love you."

The words are soft as they leave, but they still raise Boromir's spirits and he can feel a small squeeze from his brother's hand as they walk out together. They leave in silence, but once they are a few paces out Faramir talks again, "Should I already miss her?"

"You have only been parted by her side for a minute or so." Their father's voice is not cold as he speaks, but he keeps the pace away from their mother's chambers.

Faramir seems to shrink slightly, and so Boromir holds onto his brother's hand and walks to catch up. Leaning his head closer to his brother, he whispers, "I miss mother as well."

The bit of shadow Boromir had on him thanks to Finduilas' absence seems to have darkened again, or perhaps it was just simply very light when Boromir was with his mother. She can be one of his lights as he is one of hers - a steady candle... or perhaps a star (as stars always return to him at night). It aches on Boromir now that he is has seen her again - although he is not entirely sure why. If he has just seen his mother, why does he miss her so fiercely now?

That night, Boromir has rather the same dreams as Faramir had the night before.

He still wakes up and tries to blink away the negativity and sleepiness, before dressing and seeing if his brother is awake as well. Faramir seems to realise something is wrong, or perhaps has had a bad dream as well, for he immediately runs to Boromir and feels comfort in his arms. The two of them hug for a long time, before Boromir helps prepare Faramir for the day and they go to eat breakfast again. Their father isn't with them, only a servant with brief apologies and a reminder of Boromir's tutoring. He walks Faramir to the library first (to spend time with his brother, not to put off the arrangement further).

In his lessons, the history of Gondor does not seem to stick as it usually does. Boromir is scolded twice for not paying attention before his tutor stops and looks at him with new eyes, more sympathetic eyes. Then he asks if Boromir would prefer him to go more slowly, and the lessons are easier for the rest of the day (they do not feel too much easier, although he knows that they are).

Father is with them again at dinner, citing a meeting as the reason for his person being missing in the early morning, and they all feel Finduilas' absence around the table again. Boromir wants to ask if Denethor thinks they could see their mother again, but his heart does not quite have the courage to form the words and instead they eat mostly in silence. The next day passes like that as well, this time with Denethor being present for both meals (although when Boromir wakes he cannot remember what his mind imagined in the night, just feels a vague sense of sadness). The third day is largely the same.

On the fourth day their father is missing again, and when Boromir had come to collect his brother Faramir had obviously been crying. There is not even a servant this time, and the halls of Minas Tirith seems strangely empty. The few people Boromir passes shrink from the young heir, and greet him respectfully but more distant. As he walks Faramir to the library, he can spot the worried looks of the lore masters as they boy comes up to them again. He wants to press them for information and ask what everyone in Gondor seems to not be telling him, but the sun is high enough that Boromir knows he needs to attend his lessons instead.

Once he arrives to them, Boromir wonders if there was a point in sitting in this dull room again. He struggles to concentrate on history and literature even further, and his fingers tap nervously onto the book rather than turning its pages. His tutor does not even seem to scold him, but instead thanks Boromir for showing and taking his studies so diligently.

Boromir has to think about what diligence truly is - and he doesn't think that struggling to turn pages over for a few hours is worthy of the title. Boromir has been let out early than usual, and decides to try his luck to locate Faramir. He goes first to the library, but his little brother is not inside its walls. For a moment the thought occurs for him to ask an archivist why today feels so wrong, before one of the younger scribes informs him that his brother is most likely in the gardens.

Thanking them, Boromir makes his way over quickly and looks around. Lying up against one of the trees, Faramir instantly spots his younger brother and calls out to him while waving. A book is in his hand, a short story that Boromir recognises. The two brothers swap tales of their day for a while, trying to skirt around how neither feel at ease in the city today. When the conversation begins to lull, and Boromir realises he may have to ask Faramir if he feels a little of the same unease (or as much as a five year old can), Faramir asks if his older brother will read to him.

The book is simple, and Boromir tries his best to put on accents and different voices for each of the characters - and he does well enough to make Faramir laugh. Mother read to them, sometimes both of them although often they had separate stories. Boromir is not as good at voices as Finduilas is, and whenever he approaches a female character the only voice he can think to try is her's - but that feels wrong somehow. When they finish the book, the sky has darkened enough that their final meal will be soon.

Faramir may miss the solemn looks that the archivists give them as he hands them the book back, but Boromir does not. He stands as tall and proud as he can, as if challenging them to speak to him as they would a grown-up or his father, but none of them do. The dinner table is absent of their father again.

It is Boromir who has to whisper goodnight to his little brother alone, and pull the covers over himself with no one there. He stays up for a little while in the darkness with the closed door and tries to wait for his father to appear and wish him a good night (or at least a dreamless one). (Boromir wishes his mother could be at the door and wish him sweet dreams.) Instead, he stays awake longer than he normally does while turning under the covers.

Boromir awakens to his a hand on his shoulder, moving him awake with an urgent whisper under it. He opens his eyes and squints in the darkness before recognising his father stands in front of him. Blearily, Boromir whispers, "Have you come to wish me a goodnight?"

Some emotion flickers across Denethor's face before he shakes his head, "No, Boromir. I have come to take you to your mother, she is asking for you."

"Mother is?" That wakes Boromir far more, and he climbs out of his bed while looking around for appropriate clothes, "What does she want?"

"She wants to see you." His father supplies simply, as he moves towards the door, "Your nightclothes will do, now follow me."

Obediently, Boromir moves to Denethor and tries to keep up with the taller man's strides, "What about Faramir?"

At this, Denethor hesitates. His gaze instinctively goes towards the corridor, to where Finduilas will be resting, before it goes to his younger son's room. "Fetch Faramir quicky, give him the same instructions as I have given you."

Boromir probably opens the door at lot louder than Faramir his, for he only needs to but a gentle hand on Faramir's shoulder for his little brother to awaken. Faramir squints at his brother in the darkness, "Did you have a bad dream?"

"No," despite the situation Boromir smiles, "No, father is taking us to see mother. She has asked for us."

"This late?" Faramir sounds confused but he stills gets up, looking for clothes as his older brother had done before Boromir guides him out. "Mother is normally strict on when I need to sleep by."

"I'm sure she has good reason for the visit."

Boromir wants to say something else reassuring, wants to ask his father what is going on - but something in Denethor's pace keeps him quiet. They pass some people and guards on their way to the chamber, but none of them say anything (some of them try staunchly not to catch Boromir's gaze). The only place Minas Tirith seems alive in is the corridor leading to their mother's resting room, with people hurrying up and down it and guards standing at the door.

Their quick pace stills when they see the Steward and his sons approaching, and they seem to stay fixed in movement before blinking and continuing. Boromir and Faramir are still a little behind Denethor when he gets to the door, and they watch as many lore masters and healers leave their mother's room. It is more than Boromir has ever seen in one place save for the Houses of Healing. The two boys slip past them, quickly going to their mother's side again.

Moonlight probably makes Finduilas looks worse and... like this, Boromir reasons to himself. She seems far paler than the last time he had seen her, and she now reclines against the headboard rather than sitting up. But her smile is still radiant and her eyes shine as she looks upon her two boys. "Have you been good, like I have asked you to?"

"Yes," Faramir is quick to answer, "Boromir has still been going to his tutors, and we have both obeyed father."

She lets out a soft laugh, "That is good to hear, Faramir. Boromir, is there anything your brother has been doing after he is so quick to share your deeds?"

"He's finishing the books the lore masters give him even faster now." Boromir is happy when she smiles so brightly at the simple news, "Sometimes I think he would be ready for my lessons."

"Both of you are wise, my loves." Finduilas catches Denethor's eyes, standing behind them, "You take after your father."

"They are loving and kind, they take after you." Denethor's voice is quieter than Boromir has even heard before, almost as if he is ill as well.

"I am sure they will continue to take after you for years to come." Finduilas' gaze returns to her children, "You will be kind, won't you? And you will obey your father?"

For some reason, it doesn't seem appropriate to speak and so they both nod. Hesitantly, Boromir reaches out his hand to her - and she takes it quickly, both his and Faramir's. Her smile seems to become sadder, and she speaks again, "You are very good children, Boromir and Faramir. And I love you very deeply."

"We love you two."

Both of them say the words at the same time, and she laughs softly. Then she beckons them closer, "I am sorry to disrupt your sleep. Let me kiss you goodnight, and then your father will return you."

Boromir wants to protest, but instead comes closer to her and feels her lips gently touch his forehead. Then, she leans to whisper in his ear, "Take good care of your brother, my dear one."

"I will." His voice is quiet too, but it seems to reassure her as he steps away and she whispers in Faramir's ear. It is too quiet for him to catch, and he would not want to eavesdrop anyway. Faramir steps back from her and to his brother's side again. They stand there for a little longer, and something in Boromir never wants to leave this spot. Then his father's hand rests gently on his shoulder and Boromir lets himself be taken away, waving to his mother one last time before he has to go.

Finduilas looks almost asleep now, peaceful and serene. Except she is too pale.

Her skin has a become a shade of white that it never was when it was alive - except for when she had been suddenly frightened. Boromir hopes that she is not frightened now, wherever she is. Boromir still doesn't know if it feels more natural to refer to his mother with past or present - especially as she is still lying in front of him. He has tried to use past tense, and he slips far less frequently than when Ecthelion had died, but he isn't sure if that is better.

It is correct as his tutors have taught him, but it makes something deep inside of him hurt. It makes his father's eyes go even darker for a second, although they seem to have a permanent shroud over them since... and Boromir does not want to upset his father. Faramir gets far sadder too, although his fists clench and his eyes go more like a clear stream rippling before he blinks everything away. Faramir's tongue slips more than his does, still referring to mother as in the present, and that casts a deep shadow over their father's face although it is not the same. A small wound seems to ache in Boromir's heart at both times, but it is not the same for each one.

They have tried to make his mother look beautiful for the burial, whoever has handled her body to prepare it. She is in a different dress to the one she wore when Boromir had visited her, and this one is far richer. She is dressed in rich blues and pearly whites, some of the colours of Dol Amroth and some the colours of the Steward's house. The living stewards all dress in black and are not resplendent.

Her hands have been placed as if she is clasping them together, but they merely rest atop one another. Boromir watches them with a strange fascination, can almost still feel the ghost of her fingers on his palms. Watches them as if he's worried that they're going to fall somehow. As if she could still move.

Boromir knows that he is only looking upon his mother's corpse, but he cannot bring himself to look away.

He stares as long as he can, for this is the last time he will ever look upon her face even though he knows that it is not right. The blank tranquility is not truly who she is in any capacity. But whenever he thinks of looking away, he thinks of how he had walked out of that room for the final time. How she had waved with her eyes full of love, and he had only smiled back before turning towards the door. Steps that only took seconds but may have been a few more precious moments gazing upon her. Their father stands behind them as well, like a statue, and so Boromir continues to stand straight. An attempt to be strong for his father and brother (for his mother and her memory).

Time almost seems to stop save for the movement of people, citizens of Gondor moving closer to her before going back into a crowd that seems meaningless to him. Then, there is a gentle tug on his right arm which must be Faramir. His little brother, who is experiencing loss for the first time. Her body will not vanish but something in Boromir fears it has as he lowers his gaze and turns to see Faramir. Faramir's hand instantly wraps around his own, and Boromir is surprised to see his eyes are not glassy. There is a deeper sadness in them that reminds Boromir of their father - although there is a childlike confusion that reminds him of how young his brother is.

When they had told Faramir, he had cried horribly - but he had also seemed to understand it better than a child should for his age. He had clung to Boromir for a long while after that, even once Denethor had left (his sobs seemed to be even less quiet after that). Now he stands remarkably well, and Boromir hates how solemn his younger brother's face has become.

He tries to keep his eyes kind and not despairing as he smiles as Faramir, before he looks up again. Their father has moved passed them in the time - and Boromir sees him place a single rose gently next to his mother's body. Denethor lingers there for a long time, just as unable to move away from her body as Boromir is unwilling to change his gaze. Except now he is not entirely sure if he wants to see what is happening; Boromir does not want to watch his father mourn and... Boromir does not want to intrude on such a moment.

Yet Boromir also does not know what to do in this situation, and what is the correct way to move and mourn and be respectful and maintain one's dignity. Boromir looks for as long as he can before he turns back to Faramir and allows their father what little privacy he can give. Turning back to Faramir, he realises how tight his grip on the boy's hand had become and forces himself to relax it slightly. Faramir's hand gently squeezes back at that movement, and Boromir almost smiles slightly at the action. Before the movement of his muscles is interpreted as happy - and suddenly his brain becomes clouded and dark again.

Eventually, Denethor walks back to both of them. His face is unreadable save for sadness as he returns, before standing straight and behind his sons again. Boromir stands taller as well, waiting to see if he will feel his father's hand guide him - if they will go up to see their mother for a final time with Denethor beside them. Too many eyes seem to be on Boromir and waiting while none that are important.

He can feel his uncle's gaze, and a tension starting to build before Boromir wills himself to breath and remember what his father had done. Gently, he moves his grip on Faramir's hand so that he can walk more properly - and glances at Faramir to make sure he is ready to walk. There's an glimpse of fear when Faramir makes eye contact with him, before Faramir straightens as well and waits for Boromir's lead. Slowly, and without their father, Finduilas' sons make their way to her - to say a final goodbye.

Walking should not be as stressful as it is, and although it cannot be true Boromir feels as though all of Minas Tirith is watching him. He keeps his gaze straight and on his mother, stopping only a pace or two away. Faramir stills with him, although they are still connected. Now Boromir is truly at a loss for what to say and what to do.

How to properly say goodbye forever while proving without a doubt he loved his mother. Loves his mother.

Faramir holds the flowers that both of them have for her - his younger brother determined to give a bouquet with meaning. It is more colourful than most of the ones around it, more varied and with flowers that not many would think of, but it is a design they have chosen for her. Boromir remembers when he had first looked upon it and become anxious, before he listened to Faramir start to explain every detail and why it represented Finduilas well. His little brother looking up and asking if what he did was right.

"Do you want to place the flowers next to where father has?" Boromir's voice is barely a whisper, but Faramir nods at it. Carefully, he takes a step closer to his mother. He is not tall enough to look down on the body, only next to it, and so Boromir watches to make sure it is placed correctly. But Faramir places it correctly. Perhaps not perfectly, but with love.

Taking his place back at Boromir's side, Faramir stays quiet as they remain there. Still trying to put a life's worth of emotions into words, or just thoughts, Boromir realises why his father had stayed so long here. How there is so much to say and yet nothing can be said at all. Nothing that is meaningful or worthy of her. A wave of emotions comes through him, and Boromir knows he does not have the words for them. Will never have the words for them.

Now, Boromir steps closer to his mother and tries to sum up all that he feels. Only able to whisper out, "I love you."

Boromir knows that he should not cry, that it is not how their heir of the Steward should present himself. He had not planned on crying, either. Yet he can feel his eyes become glassier as his mother becomes blurry and he begins to blink. A single tear rolls down Boromir's cheek, and he tries to take a deep breath to steady himself. To put on a brave face for his brother.

Then another tear rolls down, falling in the same way and even more rapidly. Then another joins that. And tears begin to flow from both eyes, with Boromir soon sobbing as freely as he can. Faramir's tears are at first silent before he goes into Boromir's arms, and the two begin to weep in earnest together. They stay like that, and Boromir is not sure how long it is only the two of them staying together as brothers. Without a mother forever, or a father near them.

#Boromir Week #jfc just kill me and end the pain #tw: death #angst #i did like denethor still being a decent person at this point in time though

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