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anotherusedpageNo warnings on this one...
Boromir had always been famous for his dislike of the midwinter feast.
Well, perhaps not always. As a child, the lights and noise spilling from the hall on into the early hours of the morning had attracted his attention; and being barred from the celebrations irked him. He had chafed to be allowed in, to participate in whatever it was that seemed to cause so much mirth to his elders. Once, the Captain of the Tower Guard had had to remove him, in his night things and mostly asleep, from where he had sneaked down to peer in through the cracks in the door. He had received a stern but amused reprimand, the following morning.
But once he had been allowed in through that door, and the mystery of the event had been disclosed to him, it had not continued to hold his attention long. The festivities had bored him from the very first year he had been allowed to attend. Feasting did not interest for him, speeches even less so – he was not one for rich foods and dainty delicacies, had always preferred simple food swiped from the guard rooms, and while he had a way with spoken words himself, listening to others prate he had always thought a fools game. Dancing was not a pleasurably pastime, but a physical exercise, to be bourn, like sword-drill, but never enjoyed.
In his seventeenth year, with Faramir still deemed to young to attend the festivities, he had by all accounts gotten stinking drunk and made a complete fool of himself. No one had ever told Faramir exactly what had happened. It had been left to his imagination. The reprimand, when it came, had once again been both stern and amused.
The year after that, Boromir assured his brother, had been even worse. For in Boromir’s eighteenth year, someone – and Faramir could only assume it had been Denethor, even if it had not initially been his idea – had decided that the midwinter feast was the best night of all the year to make the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor play at courtship games.
In his eighteenth year, the girl had been the daughter of some noble or another. Denethor had wished to flatter the man, and so Boromir had had to flatter the daughter. But carefully, carefully, never leading her on. She was not yet intended as a prospective wife for him. Faramir could only imagine how his brother had blanched when that had been pointed out for him.
Boromir had made polite, appropriate conversation with her all evening. He had charmed the stockings off her, Faramir had no doubt. And had bored himself sick in the process, making answers to her pratings about the fashionable dress of this or that woman which were not just civilised and appropriate, but also attentive, thoughtful, gentlemanly and all the rest of it. That girl would probably worship him until the end of her days. He’d had a way with people, even back then, more so perhaps because most lads his age were self-conscious and clumsy with women. Boromir had the arrogance that comes of status, and he was never clumsy.
In Boromir’s nineteenth year, Faramir had been admitted to the party for the first time, and had instantly seen why his brother disliked this so.
Or… perhaps not. Their reasons for dislike were not the same, Faramir knew. Boromir felt stifled by the formal clothing, the formal speech, by remembering which knife and fork to use. Faramir had never had a problem with such things. Formal clothing, formal eating, he disliked, but not with the same strained, pained hatred that Boromir had for it. Formal words, he actually liked. The patter of the speech-making held his attention as it had never held Boromir’s. He cared for the minstrels, and the winter-night tales, which Boromir had always held to be a waste of time. Not that Boromir did not understand the value of stories and songs. It was just that, for him, story telling and music making were shared things, muddled together by everyone pitching in. Boys together in a group in the practice court, or round a fire, or brothers together under the sheets with all the candles blown out. The wordsmiths words were polished, but they did not hold immediacy for him as a story shared amongst friends would. Faramir liked the polish in its own right, and he listened, and he stored the words for later.
What Faramir disliked was the people. They suffocated just as surely as Boromir’s too-tight collars, only with people, there was no way to surreptitiously loosen the top button. Unlike his brother, Faramir was rarely bored at the midwinter feast. He was simply overwhelmed. There was too much to look at, too many people to listen too. He couldn’t keep track of it all at once.
The girl Boromir was forced to escort in his nineteenth year was the youngest sister of one of Denethor’s newest captains. At first, this had cheered Boromir greatly. He had hoped that a girl from one of Minas Tirith’s old military families might be more to his taste. He had been sadly wrong. From the snatches of their conversation that Faramir caught through the evening, she had hoped that Boromir would prove well acquainted with the contents of his father’s library. Things had gotten off to a bad start when Boromir had had to admit that he could not even read Sindarin.
This young lady had left considerably less enamoured of the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor than the first young lady had.
Denethor’s rebuke had been both stern and amused. ‘You did not even make an effort with her,’ he accused, but without vitriol. Boromir scowled.
‘You should have given her to Faramir,’ he muttered. ‘More his line.’ Denethor shook his head.
‘The boy’s too young. And it would have been a slight.’
‘A greater slight than my disinterest?’ Boromir had said with a smile. ‘Faramir could have handled her with great dignity. All I did was show off my own ignorance.’
‘Some things Faramir is more knowledgeable about than you,’ Denethor conceded. ‘But how to talk to women is not one of those things.’ Boromir laughed.
‘Give him time!’ he said.
‘I will,’ Denethor had said, thoughtfully.
Faramir didn’t know which of them to blame for the extra etiquette lessons which somehow had to be found room for in his timetable.
‘You didn’t have to put up with this until you were much older than I am now,’ he complained to his brother. ‘What care I for the correct way to address the daughter of a prince? The only princes around here are cousins of mine, and I call them by name.’
‘There’s the Rohirrim,’ Boromir pointed out affably.
‘That is not the point,’ Faramir said with a sulky frown. Boromir shook his head, and smiled.
‘It’s because you are better at politicking than me, but worse at people,’ he said. ‘You need to be able to do this, because I’m no damn good at it.’ Faramir’s scowl deepened, but he studied the lessons attentively, as usual.
The next midwinter feast was a trial for Boromir. By now, he had begun to take an interest in women that was far from political, and when he had to snub the girl of his choosing to escort a girl foisted upon him by his father, many angry words were spoken all round. Boromir had a cup of wine dashed at his shirt over the course of the evening, and later, in private, he exchanged furious words at high volume with Denethor. This time, the rebuke was far from amused. Boromir was disciplined as a soldier who had disobeyed, with extra duties.
‘But I did obey!’ he yelled at Faramir later. ‘I did as he asked, and look where it got me!’
‘Your best tunic is ruined,’ Faramir said, and then, ‘You know, there’s very little point in shouting at me.’
The anger went out of Boromir.
‘Did you care about her so much?’ Faramir asked. Boromir shrugged.
‘No. Not really,’ he said softly. ‘It was the principle of it.’ And then he said nothing more, but later that night Faramir saw him return to Denethor’s study, and this time the words that passed between them were inaudible. They must have suited Denethor though, for Boromir’s punishment was withdrawn.
Faramir sighed to himself, knowing that had he dragged himself back to make a shame-faced apology over such bad behaviour, his punishment would have been doubled. But then, he would not have yelled in the first place. The punishment would have come for dumb insolence.
Boromir always got his way, Faramir thought with a sudden rush of childish bitterness. And Boromir always got the girl - even when he didn't want her! And he could not even be angry at his brother. It was not in his heart.
And he knew, too, that it was the same thing that kept the anger from his heart that Denethor saw in him and punished when he stared at the floor and could not answer back to his criticisms. Denethor was afraid that the fire did not burn bright enough, that it would not last the winter's chill. Faramir knew. Faramir understood. But Faramir could not change.
He, too, grew to dread the midwinter feast.
Boromir was famous for his dislike of the midwinter feast. But those who thought of the younger brother at all assumed that Faramir was happy enough.
****
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Disclaimer: They belong to Tolkien. One day I will learn to spell his name right.
Boromir had always been famous for his dislike of the midwinter feast.
Well, perhaps not always. As a child, the lights and noise spilling from the hall on into the early hours of the morning had attracted his attention; and being barred from the celebrations irked him. He had chafed to be allowed in, to participate in whatever it was that seemed to cause so much mirth to his elders. Once, the Captain of the Tower Guard had had to remove him, in his night things and mostly asleep, from where he had sneaked down to peer in through the cracks in the door. He had received a stern but amused reprimand, the following morning.
But once he had been allowed in through that door, and the mystery of the event had been disclosed to him, it had not continued to hold his attention long. The festivities had bored him from the very first year he had been allowed to attend. Feasting did not interest for him, speeches even less so – he was not one for rich foods and dainty delicacies, had always preferred simple food swiped from the guard rooms, and while he had a way with spoken words himself, listening to others prate he had always thought a fools game. Dancing was not a pleasurably pastime, but a physical exercise, to be bourn, like sword-drill, but never enjoyed.
In his seventeenth year, with Faramir still deemed to young to attend the festivities, he had by all accounts gotten stinking drunk and made a complete fool of himself. No one had ever told Faramir exactly what had happened. It had been left to his imagination. The reprimand, when it came, had once again been both stern and amused.
The year after that, Boromir assured his brother, had been even worse. For in Boromir’s eighteenth year, someone – and Faramir could only assume it had been Denethor, even if it had not initially been his idea – had decided that the midwinter feast was the best night of all the year to make the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor play at courtship games.
In his eighteenth year, the girl had been the daughter of some noble or another. Denethor had wished to flatter the man, and so Boromir had had to flatter the daughter. But carefully, carefully, never leading her on. She was not yet intended as a prospective wife for him. Faramir could only imagine how his brother had blanched when that had been pointed out for him.
Boromir had made polite, appropriate conversation with her all evening. He had charmed the stockings off her, Faramir had no doubt. And had bored himself sick in the process, making answers to her pratings about the fashionable dress of this or that woman which were not just civilised and appropriate, but also attentive, thoughtful, gentlemanly and all the rest of it. That girl would probably worship him until the end of her days. He’d had a way with people, even back then, more so perhaps because most lads his age were self-conscious and clumsy with women. Boromir had the arrogance that comes of status, and he was never clumsy.
In Boromir’s nineteenth year, Faramir had been admitted to the party for the first time, and had instantly seen why his brother disliked this so.
Or… perhaps not. Their reasons for dislike were not the same, Faramir knew. Boromir felt stifled by the formal clothing, the formal speech, by remembering which knife and fork to use. Faramir had never had a problem with such things. Formal clothing, formal eating, he disliked, but not with the same strained, pained hatred that Boromir had for it. Formal words, he actually liked. The patter of the speech-making held his attention as it had never held Boromir’s. He cared for the minstrels, and the winter-night tales, which Boromir had always held to be a waste of time. Not that Boromir did not understand the value of stories and songs. It was just that, for him, story telling and music making were shared things, muddled together by everyone pitching in. Boys together in a group in the practice court, or round a fire, or brothers together under the sheets with all the candles blown out. The wordsmiths words were polished, but they did not hold immediacy for him as a story shared amongst friends would. Faramir liked the polish in its own right, and he listened, and he stored the words for later.
What Faramir disliked was the people. They suffocated just as surely as Boromir’s too-tight collars, only with people, there was no way to surreptitiously loosen the top button. Unlike his brother, Faramir was rarely bored at the midwinter feast. He was simply overwhelmed. There was too much to look at, too many people to listen too. He couldn’t keep track of it all at once.
The girl Boromir was forced to escort in his nineteenth year was the youngest sister of one of Denethor’s newest captains. At first, this had cheered Boromir greatly. He had hoped that a girl from one of Minas Tirith’s old military families might be more to his taste. He had been sadly wrong. From the snatches of their conversation that Faramir caught through the evening, she had hoped that Boromir would prove well acquainted with the contents of his father’s library. Things had gotten off to a bad start when Boromir had had to admit that he could not even read Sindarin.
This young lady had left considerably less enamoured of the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor than the first young lady had.
Denethor’s rebuke had been both stern and amused. ‘You did not even make an effort with her,’ he accused, but without vitriol. Boromir scowled.
‘You should have given her to Faramir,’ he muttered. ‘More his line.’ Denethor shook his head.
‘The boy’s too young. And it would have been a slight.’
‘A greater slight than my disinterest?’ Boromir had said with a smile. ‘Faramir could have handled her with great dignity. All I did was show off my own ignorance.’
‘Some things Faramir is more knowledgeable about than you,’ Denethor conceded. ‘But how to talk to women is not one of those things.’ Boromir laughed.
‘Give him time!’ he said.
‘I will,’ Denethor had said, thoughtfully.
Faramir didn’t know which of them to blame for the extra etiquette lessons which somehow had to be found room for in his timetable.
‘You didn’t have to put up with this until you were much older than I am now,’ he complained to his brother. ‘What care I for the correct way to address the daughter of a prince? The only princes around here are cousins of mine, and I call them by name.’
‘There’s the Rohirrim,’ Boromir pointed out affably.
‘That is not the point,’ Faramir said with a sulky frown. Boromir shook his head, and smiled.
‘It’s because you are better at politicking than me, but worse at people,’ he said. ‘You need to be able to do this, because I’m no damn good at it.’ Faramir’s scowl deepened, but he studied the lessons attentively, as usual.
The next midwinter feast was a trial for Boromir. By now, he had begun to take an interest in women that was far from political, and when he had to snub the girl of his choosing to escort a girl foisted upon him by his father, many angry words were spoken all round. Boromir had a cup of wine dashed at his shirt over the course of the evening, and later, in private, he exchanged furious words at high volume with Denethor. This time, the rebuke was far from amused. Boromir was disciplined as a soldier who had disobeyed, with extra duties.
‘But I did obey!’ he yelled at Faramir later. ‘I did as he asked, and look where it got me!’
‘Your best tunic is ruined,’ Faramir said, and then, ‘You know, there’s very little point in shouting at me.’
The anger went out of Boromir.
‘Did you care about her so much?’ Faramir asked. Boromir shrugged.
‘No. Not really,’ he said softly. ‘It was the principle of it.’ And then he said nothing more, but later that night Faramir saw him return to Denethor’s study, and this time the words that passed between them were inaudible. They must have suited Denethor though, for Boromir’s punishment was withdrawn.
Faramir sighed to himself, knowing that had he dragged himself back to make a shame-faced apology over such bad behaviour, his punishment would have been doubled. But then, he would not have yelled in the first place. The punishment would have come for dumb insolence.
Boromir always got his way, Faramir thought with a sudden rush of childish bitterness. And Boromir always got the girl - even when he didn't want her! And he could not even be angry at his brother. It was not in his heart.
And he knew, too, that it was the same thing that kept the anger from his heart that Denethor saw in him and punished when he stared at the floor and could not answer back to his criticisms. Denethor was afraid that the fire did not burn bright enough, that it would not last the winter's chill. Faramir knew. Faramir understood. But Faramir could not change.
He, too, grew to dread the midwinter feast.
Boromir was famous for his dislike of the midwinter feast. But those who thought of the younger brother at all assumed that Faramir was happy enough.
****
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Disclaimer: They belong to Tolkien. One day I will learn to spell his name right.