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Boromir opened his eyes and took in the crisp morning air. A layer of white descending on all of Gondor as far as the eye could see. Most in middle earth hated the wretched snow for it symboled the end of the harvesting seasons and the beginning of a harsh and cold winter. However, Gondor was always different from the other kingdoms. As a child, he overheard soldiers from Rohan whisper amongst themselves after peace talks. They spoke of their grandeur and of their famed King's battle stories. They laughed at the lowly steward of Gondor and the lack of progress they had to show for the world of man. They had no idea what it was like sitting at the border of Mordor. The very evil that passed through the winds from border to border was enough to drive men mad. It was for this reason that Gondor celebrated the snow. When the snow fell the world was blanketed in white an easy escape from the terrors that lay just over the border. The lava cooled and the orcs returned to the tunnels underground and for a season it was quiet and calm.
Face lit with a smile, he swung his legs out of bed and searched his trunk for his special sweater. This sweater was grey and silver, emblazoned with the symbol of the house of Gondor. It was said that the silver threads on the chest were woven from the hair of elves and the silver pillaged from the mines of dwarves long dead. Every member of the house of Gondor received one when they learned to walk as a babe and had it in their possession until they died when they were buried with it. His was a little too long for him, so he folded the sleeves and tucked it into his pants. This year would be Faramir's first year receiving his sweater and Boromir could not wait to celebrate with him.
Warm and ready to find his younger brother, he set off down the well-lit hallway towards the dining hall. He elbowed through all of the knights gathering for breakfast and to the small carpet next to the empty table of his father. Politely greeting his brother's nursemaid, he sat next to his younger brother on the carpet. He was never able to rough house with Faramir because he never wanted to fight back. While Boromir wanted to fight and be a warrior, his younger brother preferred books and sitting next to the harp player. Boromir tugged on his brother's jacket to get his attention when he noticed he was not wearing a holiday sweater. Temporarily abandoning his brother, he walked to his father at the grand table.
"Good morning father," his voice echoed in the cavernous hall. His father's stern face broke into a smile that made him look younger and vibrant.
"My son, Boromir. You look worthy of stewardship today. How goes your training?"
His back straight, he replied. "Well, father. I have mastered the bow this week. I hope to be allowed on the hunts in the Spring."
His father preened motioning to the many men in the room. "This is your future stewards, Gondor!" Cheers erupted and Boromir remembered to raise his chin. A lord never looks down. After several moments the noise died down and he addressed his father.
"Father, my brother Faramir does not have his sweater. Do you know where I can fetch it from?" Silence descended upon the hall as all eyes turned to his father. It was no secret that his father favored him over his little brother and it was no secret that Boromir did not stand for it. At only eight years of age, he challenged his father regularly and protected his brother viscously. His swords trainer often said it was these traits that made soldiers and his fellow sparring partners loyal to him. He was often told he would make a great leader for Gondor one day.
"There were not enough materials for your brother to get a sweater this year. Maybe next year." His father's brows rose angrily and Boromir matched them.
"Never has anyone in your line not received a sweater, your majesty," exclaimed one of his advisors. Whispers broke out in the room as pitying glances were sent to the small grey-eyed boy on the carpet building a tower of used bowls.
"I am more than happy to give my sweater to-"
His father stood so quickly, his chair knocked to the floor. "Under no circumstances are you divest yourself of your sweater. You are to rule this city one day, Boromir! As a steward of Gondor, I forbid you to rid yourself of your sweater!"
Tears of anger filled his eyes and he stomped his foot on the floor, ignoring his father's reddening face. There had been a surplus of wheat that season, he knew there was no shortage. His father was slighting Faramir again. "Father-"
"Go to your room!" He thundered. "Do not return until you can act as the future steward of Gondor!"
Knowing his father would have soldiers drag him if he did not comply, he turned and stomped out of the dining hall, slamming the doors behind him. Once the doors were closed he took off running to his room; hot angry tears running down his face. With the creation of each sweater, was the recording of the child's existence in the books and on tapestries. By denying his brother his sweater, his father was denying Faramir's existence. His mother had not been dead for two years yet, and she would have made sure both of her sons had sweaters.
In the safety of his room, he lashed out, kicking the dresser and pulling at the drapes until they fell in a heap of black and silver on the floor. His anger soon ran out of fuel and he collapsed in tears. What would happen to Faramir without his sweater? His little brother was the other half of him. He was his responsibility. His greatest love. The thing he cherished most. Without being a part of his family he would not be recorded in the history of their family.
He stumbled to stand as cold dread filled him. Faramir could disappear tomorrow all together and he would be nothing but one of Boromir’s memories. No one would say a thing if his little brother disappeared because his father made him not exist by not ordering the creation of a sweater for him. Gazing into the mirror, he picked at the frays of his sweater. He would not lose his brother. He would die first.
He began to pace.
As a steward of Gondor, I forbid you to rid yourself of your sweater
His father had been specific with his order but also a little general. Loopholes, that was Faramir called them. Running to his trunk he pulled a knife out and a needle. His brother needed a sweater by dinner celebrations of the first day of snowfall or he would not be added to the family tree. Boromir was determined as he was talented with a sword. He would not fail his brother.
Boromir gripped the small bundle in his hand as he hid behind the door. As expected a loud pounding signaled the guards fetching him for dinner. After the third knock, the door flew open and they marched in to expect the lumpy form on the bed. Boromir slipped out behind the guards and rushed to his brother’s room next to the servant’s quarters. The lights were out and the curtains were drawn. He shook Faramir awake, his hair tousled as he muttered to sleepily to himself.
“Bor-”
“Hurry up,” he tugged the sweater over his brother’s head and dragged him to the servant’s entrance. Faramir’s door always locked from the outside so he was unable to get out once he was inside. He tugged his brother down the stairs and through several winding stairs. He could smell the kitchens as he neared them.
Poking his head through, he tightened his grip on his little brother’s hand. He may have started walking late but he made up for it by running faster than his older brother.
“There you are!” A plump woman hurried over to him. “Quick quick, through the side entrance! Your father is mighty upset that you’re late. Hurry little boys!”
Boromir followed the cook to the side entrance and thanked her as he slipped into the dining hall. Over half of the city was crammed into the hall and Boromir thanked the Gods that he had been quick thinking.
His father spoke loudly of his various battle victories while Boromir snuck behind him and dragged Faramir into his chair at the table. Faramir was propped up against Boromir, his sweater proudly displayed despite his fatigue that he couldn’t seem to shake. Boromir pulled at his frayed hems smiling as the room stood to clap. All eyes were in their direction and his father cheered.
“Yes, yes! It was a great battle indeed-” he followed the gazes of his citizens and turned his face turning from red to white faster than Boromir had ever seen it. He walked over quickly, his tone quiet but deadly. “You will pay for this Boromir son of mine. Mark my words.”
Faramir sat his fingers rubbing a cleaved horn. The string attached to the horn was made of black and silver. It was said that the materials were woven from the hair of elves and the silver pillaged from the mines of dwarves. Tears rolled down his cheeks as the security and companionship he felt disappeared like ash into the wind.
“My lord, what news?” Startled, he turned to one of the soldiers under his command. He held out the horn letting his grief speak for him. The soldier paled. “No-”
“Ring the mourning bell, Harendial.”
Harendial bowed. “Yes, Faramir Future Steward of Gondor.”