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“Captain!” A voice shouts in the distance, quickly followed by the sounds of clattering armor and the annoyed murmurs of men. “Captain! Boromir!”
The distress in the man’s voice causes Boromir’s head to whip around from the map that he’d been looking over. Faramir had sent out one of his rangers hours ago, hoping to track down the pocket of Orc forces that had been seen in the forest outside of Osgiliath. Hopefully there is some news. “What is it? Have you found anything?”
“No. No, I-” The soldier wheezes, out of breath from his sprint while in heavy armor. “It- it’s our captain. It’s your brother. Something is wrong.”
Boromir’s heart drops immediately, brotherly concern kicking into overdrive. His feet are moving before he’s even aware that he is walking. What could have possibly happened? The dual camp between his soldiers and Faramir’s rangers is secure- it’s one of the safest places to be out here. “Explain. Now.”
“I am not sure, sir.” The young ranger replies nervously, quickly falling in line besides him. “He had retired early last night with a headache. Everything seemed fine enough this morning and this afternoon… but then he retreated to his tent earlier than normal. I was sent to check on him, but when I stepped inside… he was fearful. It was as if he did not recognize me.”
“He did not know you?”
“Not a bit.”
Boromir closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to center himself. “Did you speak of this to anyone else?”
“No, sir.”
“Right.” He stops just outside Faramir’s tent, turning to the ranger beside him. “I can take it from here. Thank you for coming to me.”
“Will he be alright?”
“I will make sure that you are updated when we know more of his condition. If it is not myself that tells you, I promise that I will send someone.” Boromir tries to smile reassuringly, despite the tide of worry rising within him. With a bit of hesitance, the young man nods and turns to walk towards the thicket of tents set aside for the rest of the rangers.
Once he was out of sight, Boromir moved the flap of Faramir’s tent out of the way, stepping into the small space as quietly as possible. He quickly found the form of his brother sitting on his cot, staring down at his hands. “Faramir? Are you alright?”
His brother does not respond, ragged breaths becoming the only sound that was filtering throughout the canvas.
“I was told that you are ill.” Boromir tries again, sitting on the cot. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
Again, Faramir does not respond, his breaths becoming even more shallow than they were before.
“I can take you back to Minas Tir-” Faramir moves suddenly, hands shoving at his shoulder. A distressed whine emanates from his mouth. “Brother, if it’s serious we must get you to a doctor. If orcs keep marching through here we cannot afford to lose you.”
The hands become more insistent now, coupled with another deep whine. “Faramir, please. Just let me help. I-”
And it is then that Boromir recognizes, maybe a little too late, what is happening.
The falling sickness.
When Faramir had been about four years old, he had become ill with an intense fever. Their mother and father were told by the doctors that it would be a miracle if he had made it through the night.
Boromir remembers that at just nine years old, he would not leave his brother’s bedside. Not even when it was advised to do so by the doctors. Not even when his father had tried to drag him away, afraid that he would catch whatever had afflicted his youngest son.
Eventually, to the relief of most everyone, the fever broke. But not without leaving its consequences behind.
The first time that the sickness made itself known was about a week or so after the fever broke. He and Faramir were playing in the fields just outside Minas Tirith under the supervision of their mother when the youngest of them collapsed. He remembers the way that his brother’s mouth foamed and how his small body seemed to move on its own accord.
Boromir can vividly recall his mother’s screaming.
He remembers sitting at Faramir’s bedside during those days, also. He heard the arguments between their mother and father about how to treat the sickness when it became more frequent. The hushed talk of hot irons being pressed to his brother’s pale skin.
Thankfully, it seemed that as Faramir had gotten older, the frequency of the sickness had lessened. There were still times that he was shuffled off to the healing halls, but it was so far and few in between that it was no longer on the forefront of their minds.
The last time that Faramir had been visited was about ten years ago, during an important state dinner. Boromir had seen what was happening from across the table and was able to escort him from the dining hall before it could be noticed by anyone.
Well, it went unnoticed by everyone except their father.
Denethor had stormed into Faramir’s designated room in the healing halls as soon as the dinner was over. There was no concern written on his face then- only anger. Anger that he was embarrassed by something that was out of anyone’s control.
It was the first time that Boromir truly remembers standing up to their father. He could not understand how something like this would be considered Faramir’s fault.
That behavior towards his brother’s condition never improved. Not even when it went years between visits.
Boromir breathes deeply, snapping back into himself and very quickly falling into familiar movements. He moves off of the cot, kneeling beside it as he guides Faramir to lay on his side.
His brother gurgles as he struggles to breathe against the twitching and trembling that has taken over his body.
“You will be alright. It’ll be over soon. I promise.” Boromir reassures as he cards his fingers through Faramir’s hair. He keeps the same pattern through his brother’s waves for what feels like hours.
Eventually, thankfully, the sickness recedes. Boromir quickly takes the blanket that was laid on the ground beside him and covers Faramir, knowing that the latter tends to catch a chill after something like this.
He finally allows himself to get up off of the ground, grabbing a chair that was on the other side of the tent and dragging it over to sit bedside.
The moon was just beginning to appear when Faramir regained consciousness.
A small groan startled Boromir out of a sleep-induced stupor. He reached forward, carding his fingers through his brother’s hair again. “Take it easy. Everything is alright.”
“B’mir…” Faramir whispers, voice trembling. His eyes search the interior of the tent as he looks for some kind of answer. “...wh’t?”
“The falling sickness has visited. Don’t worry yourself too much. I’ve got you.” He reassures, resting his hand on Faramir’s shoulder now. “Get some rest.”
“B’mir…” His brother attempts again, an uncoordinated hand swinging out to grasp his own.
“I’ll be here. I will not dare to leave your side, I promise you.”
Faramir’s eyes search his own for several moments before exhaustion forces them to close.
Boromir draws the blanket up once more, making sure that the cold settling in the forest outside cannot seep in. He shifts the chair, propping his feet up on the edge of the cot.
Nothing in all of the lands could get him to leave his brother’s side right now.
Not his father.
Not even the fabled evil spirit of Sauron.
