Work Text:
Faramir's seventh birthday is a dark day, like all days, and Boromir is teaching him how to shoot an arrow with his eyes closed. The elder brother guides him, adjusting his arms, nudging him to the left, to the right, forward, lets him shoot a few with his slightly-larger hands still on the bow. Boromir adjusts him one last time, and then there are retreating footsteps.
"Now let it go!" Boromir's far-off voice says. Faramir does, then opens his eyes just in time to see the arrow pierce Boromir's leg. He drops everything and runs to him just as he falls to the ground, clutching his knee.
"Boromir!" he cries. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to--"
Boromir smiles up at him and pulls the arrow out of the piece of wood strapped to his leg. "No worries, little brother," he says, ruffling Faramir's hair with his free hand. "You just need a little more practice."
Shaken and a little pale, Faramir asks if they can start again tomorrow, and Boromir, of course, obliges.
*
(When he hears of Boromir's demise, through scouts and messengers, the image of his smiling face haunts him for days.)