Living Proof

Chapter Seventeen

Boromir stood in the Tower Hall, his footsteps echoing through the stone chamber, across the marble floor. The chamber was empty, save for the two pages at the doors, and he strode by them with a quick nod. The doors closed behind him, the soft thunk echoing around him.

It wasn't often his father was not in his black stone chair at the foot of that dais. In fact, he wouldn't have been surprised to learn his father slept in that blasted chair. His mother, Finduilas had died when Boromir was but ten years old, but he had vivid memories of her and of those memories? Her complaining to Denethor about how he put his duty above all else, including his family.

"Your sons need you," she told him, her voice soft as she and Denethor stood in the kitchen. Boromir had come toward the kitchen to ask his mother something, heard the heat in her voice, and stopped, out of sight but not out of earshot. "Faramir is—"

"Faramir? I will not waste my time on him," Denethor replied with no little scorn. "He wishes only to sit at the wizard's knee and listen to his stories. He cares nothing of what is expected of him, of what his duty will be."

"He is but five years old, Denethor. Allow him to be a child. Do not do to him as you did to Boromir."

"What I did to him? How can you say that as if I've somehow failed with him. Boromir will be a fine soldier! That's what I did to him. And when my time ends, Gondor will be in the best of hands."

"You need to accept them both for who they are," her voice grew softer still, thready and tired, "for you will not change them. And they will feel they've disappointed you."

"Faramir has indeed disappointed me. Books and fairies' tales. These are not the makings of a leader."

"Denethor, you will regret this. I..." Her voice faded for a moment, then with a weary sigh, said, "I need to lie down."

"Let me help you, love."

"Of course."

Boromir shrank back into the sitting room, out of sight as his father helped his mother back to their chambers. She had been ill for weeks now and whatever illness she'd had, it lingered on, leaving her easily exhausted and she napped more than she was awake.

She'd died only a week or so later. And with her death, Denethor grew even more distant, even harder and colder, and made his pride in his firstborn as evident as his disdain for his youngest son.

From the time he was old enough to understand, Boromir knew his path, knew what was expected of him. And he had every intention of fulfilling those expectations. He would do what he could to help restore Gondor's glory, short of taking the Ring again. Aside from that, no matter what, he would do as his father asked.

The doors opened behind him and before he could turn, Denethor said, "Boromir, what are you doing here?"

Boromir turned toward his father, sweeping down the corridor toward him. "I wanted to speak with you before I left."

"Speak with me? About what? You should be down at the stables, making certain your brother does not foul this up. I depend on you, Boromir. You are the only one I trust to see this through."

His gut kinked as he shook his head. "Why do you do that? He's as competent a warrior as I am. You give him no credit and you never have. Why?"

"Because he is weak. And soft. And think you I don't know these things? Think you it escapes me?"

"I think you refuse to see him for who he is and you've been punishing him for not being like you." Boromir turned as Denethor shoved by him. "To try and take back Osgiliath is suicide, Father, and you know it. It was overrun—"