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He was ten, and he carried the casket at his mother’s funeral.
His father was to his left, his mother’s brother behind him, a triad of guards there too, and they carried the casket at his mother’s funeral. And not even five years old himself, his little brother tottered determined but exhausted at his heel. Their father shot him occasional glares, bitterness the only emotion he’d shown since she died, after a few hours of allowing himself the indulgence of open grief. The younger boy was supposed to walk between the two guards at the rear, but in a rare act of direct disobedience he had white-knuckled a handful of Boromir’s formal black tunic and refused to let go since they left the House of the Stewards.
Poor little scrap, the older boy thought, in the vague way he had thought everything since the healers had said there’s no more we can do for her two weeks past. Nothing felt quite real. He kept saying to himself Our mother is dead, as though he needed a reminder, and his mind felt separate from his body in a way that disconcerted him.
Little Faramir was too young to understand death. All he knew was that one moment he’d been snuggled up with his Mamán, listening to her labored, gasping breaths, and the next there was a hoarse exhale and then silence. When he shook her after his nightmares or scrapes or scares, she always woke to soothe him no matter how sick she was, but now he was scared, very scared, terrified even, and she would not wake up no matter how he pleaded.
Neither brother had slept much that night. The younger had stumbled into the elder’s room before sunrise, begging for his mother and near hysterics at having wet his bed for the first time in weeks, and Boromir had bathed and consoled him and let him huddle under the blankets close to his own body until his breathing changed from hitching sobs to soft, slow sleep.
There was a sharp tug on the tunic and the older boy spared a glance down to see that the boy was scrambling back to his feet after a fall, chin quivering, his face all dark shadows and puffy eyes. He had been forbidden to speak during the procession, but he reached instinctively to his brother to be picked up, before drawing suddenly back and lowering his eyes at the look their father gave him.
The older boy forced a tight smile past his own prickling eyes and set jaw, but said nothing. Given his way he’d have carried the child the whole time. He was just so little and trusting, and he was doing his best to be quiet and stoic and good—despite that he did not understand why they had to walk the many streets and stairs of the city, and that after two hours he must have been desperate for first some food and then a nap, and that even the older boy had to walk quickly to keep up with the other men’s longer strides, and that he was only four (and three-quarters, as he would insist) and his mother was in a casket. He tripped again, and this time, there were tears, and a soft squeak, though he pressed a hand to his mouth so as to muffle the sound. Boromir fought the painful heat in his own chest and throat and face, and looked at his father, then tilted his head towards the boy. The Steward gave a barely perceptible staccato shake of his head, and when his sons’ eyes met Boromir tried to convey to the little one an apology for his inability to comfort.
A hand brushed the back of Boromir’s shoulder and he glanced back. Imrahil tilted his head toward Faramir and nodded. Although Denethor outranked him, Boromir seized the chance his uncle’s permission gave and scooped the boy up. He went immediately boneless in his arms, exhausted deadweight, and he turned his face into the needed safety of his brother’s chest and wrapped his arms around his neck.
One hand returning to the casket—his strength was hardly more than ceremonial with five seasoned warriors supporting it too—he cradled the boy’s seat in his elbow, letting his short legs straddle one hip. He heard a soft sob and kissed the top of his head, breathing in the clean, sweet scent of his still toddler-soft hair. “You’re doing well, little one,” he murmured, and bit his tongue hard to keep his emotions as concealed as his father kept his. “It’s alright.”
If he met eyes with anyone in the crowd, he would crack, so he kept his gaze fixed ahead, feeling Faramir’s racing heart and shaky sobs through the silk of his clothes. He could not cry, not in front of the boy in his arms nor their father. Bad enough that the little one still wore his heart on his sleeve. If his older son did too, it would be... disappointing. Embarrassing. And Boromir didn’t embarrass his father, he didn’t, he couldn’t. No chance the first time would be now, not over this, not when the man had known their mother longest and had his own grief on top of the stress of his rule and his work and the war.
They finally lowered the coffin, and Boromir shifted his brother’s weight into both arms and bit down so hard on the inside of his cheek that he felt molar break skin and tasted blood. His vision was blurry and he blinked hard—no, he thought, no no no no no no—and managed to stem the tears.
“Say goodbye, Faramir,” he murmured, and heard his own voice hoarse and strained.
“Where is she?”
“Gone.”
“But she’s coming back, right?”
“No.” Stop asking about it, he wanted to scream, but it was normal, necessary, for the boy to wonder, and Boromir would not silence him.
“But...” He tightened his arms around his brother’s neck and uttered one short, piercing wail, not loud but loud enough that a muscle in their father’s jaw twitched and several of the mourners’ faces broke with pity.
“She still loves you, wherever she is,” he tried clumsily to explain, keeping his voice as soft and even as he could. “I know you miss her, I miss her too, but—you’re still safe. You’re still loved. Just—I’ll take care of you now.”
“But you’re not her.”
Valar be merciful, his eyes were burning and blurred again. “I know.” His voice broke and he hid his face in his brother’s hair until his expression was controlled again. “I know, sweet boy, but I—I’ll try. I’ll do whatever I can.”
Then, in a tiny, high-pitched voice, “What if you die?”
Boromir wanted to say not for a long time or I won’t or don’t worry or anything but the truth, but their mother had said that to the younger boy and here they were and he thought she’d abandoned him. It was war and Minas Tirith was close to the border; even without the possibilities of accident and illness, he’d be a soldier in not too many years. “Whatever happens,” he managed, “I love you.”
“What if Ada dies and we—“
“I will always love you, little one. I will always watch your back. That’s all I can promise, but—“ He swallowed hard. “Father’s going to speak. Shh.”
He admired how calm Denethor seemed, how steady. This was hardly the man who had locked himself in his study the previous night, had wanted to be private in his grief, but his oldest had heard him scream and smash things and lose control in a way he would never have thought his father capable. It had chilled him. Now, though, he spoke with his normal modulation and projection, ever the orator, impossible to tell whether the eulogy was scripted or improvised for how articulate yet natural it sounded.
Faramir cried himself asleep while their father spoke and his brother held him tightly, rubbing slow circles on his back and rocking him not quite enough to be noticed. Poor little scrap, he thought again, and with a surge of ferocious love and protectiveness held the boy tighter. The speech ended, the coffin was entombed, and the people began to dissipate. Their lives had been impacted by the loss of such an important figure, but they would return home, eat, perhaps even laugh. Boromir stood as though paralyzed. When he left, when the mausoleum door closed behind him—somehow, in his mind that would make her death real. He swallowed hard and remained rooted to the spot until all had gone but his father and uncle.
“I am truly sorry,” said Imrahil to their father, his voice low but even.
“As am I. Your sister was...” For once speechless, the man shook his head, looking suddenly weary, beaten-down—for once looking his position and his age.
“Go home, Denethor. Rest.”
He nodded, clapped his brother-in-law on the shoulder, and turned, then, almost as an afterthought, bent and kissed Boromir’s forehead, squeezing his shoulder. “Your mother would have been proud of you today. I am proud of you. Take what time here you need; you are no longer before our people.”
He left, shoulders sagging as he crossed the threshold out, and Boromir looked helplessly at the only adult left, unable any longer to control himself. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, and Imrahil knelt next to him and pulled him and his brother into the tightest embrace he had ever known.
Faramir woke, rubbing his swollen eyes. “Okay?” he asked in his soft, high voice, then, “Where Mamán?”
And for the last time until he lay dying before his king, Boromir wept like the child he was.