Masks

Sorry it's a bit tardy...as usual. ;D Thank you for the kind words and the beer recipes...sounds awful tempting. ;D And yes...Eomer isn't exactly himself. His sudden change has a reason...a vague reason perhaps...more than I had wished...but it's there. ;)

*

“Why are we mobilizing?” The question was, he felt, valid. He saw little reason to mobilize. What his father was playing at, Boromir wasn’t sure. There were no more reports of Orc activity than usual. Granted, his father was known for his uncanny ability to foresee outcomes and plot sound strategy, but things here lately had the elder son uncomfortable. He sat alone with his father and brother in the throne room, watching them as they watched him closely. He didn’t like this friendship between the two of them, even though it was one thing he had wanted for years for them. In his mind he had thought it would be the three of them bonded close by the ties of love, but somehow he felt like the outsider now.

His father’s eyes bore into him unblinkingly. “Dark times are ahead of us.”

Boromir grinned despite himself. “If you take current events as evidence of that, then dark times have always been ahead of us. What has changed?”

Denethor exhaled. “You are correct in part, my son. Dark times have been ahead of us for millennia. But I have insights that you do not. Thus it is said in the whisperings of those in our service.”

That was true. Boromir was aware that it was said Denethor could see into the future, could perceive things happening in distant lands. And it was said also that he himself lacked this talent of his father’s, but Boromir had never put much stock into it. He had his own suppositions as to where his father got his information, but never did he believe the tales of the talents of old being borne into his father. Nor his brother, no matter what was said. He slid his eyes to where Faramir sat quietly, gazing at the floor as if he had no part in any of this. “Why not share these insights then?”

“Do not presume to tell your own father what counsel he should share,” Denethor said tiredly, but there was no weariness in his position. Boromir could see a certain tension in his father as if he were waiting for something, in fact. “Will you now take to questioning my orders? Have I lost the love of my eldest son?”

“You have not lost my love,” Boromir breathed, leaning back and rubbing his face in frustration. He shook his head. “But you have never before failed to share your counsel with me. Have I lost your love? Will there always be room in your heart for only one of your sons at a time?” Again he glanced at Faramir, noticing the younger watching him coolly.

Denethor shook his head and stood up from his throne, wandering to the chair his eldest son sat in. Standing behind, the Steward put his hands on his son’s shoulders. “You have not lost my love. I merely wish to wait for a time when you are not clouded with your future. You have a wedding to consider and a wife to understand.”

“And you think that takes away from my judgment?” he asked, not comforted by the older man’s touch, no matter how much he wished for it.

His father circled around and joined him at the small table. “Of course not,” he said smoothly, a soft smile playing across his mouth. “I merely wish for you to rest, for indeed when you are informed you will have a difficult path ahead of you. Marry and be content with what little time you have to rest.”

Boromir shook his head and gazed at the table surface, tracing his fingers along the wood absently. “Faramir should be the one resting and marrying. You know that, Father. I was made for war.”

“You were sired to be a dutiful son,” Denethor said sharply and his eldest son withheld the urge to roll his eyes. They had argued about this one other night, but his father would not change his mind and Boromir could not for the life of him understand why. “Will you disobey me now, Boromir, after all your years of faithfulness?”

He made a face and glared, “Father, you exaggerate. Have I not the right to understand what is going on if I am to serve?”

His father looked at him shrewdly. “You will have the right to those things when you are Steward. For now you are subject to my choices.”

Frowning at his father, Boromir snorted, then turned his attention on his silent brother. “What of the girl that came with Lady Éowyn?” he asked neutrally. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was asking other than the nagging need to hear Faramir speak of his innocence.

The younger moved his eyes down to his elder brother’s. “What of her?” he asked in an equally unreadable way. If his mind had not already been poisoned with the Lady Alura’s words he would have thought nothing of it, but now Boromir considered briefly what Faramir might be thinking.

“What are your intentions towards her?” Boromir continued.

Faramir shared a look with his father, then shrugged. “I have not decided. Why is it that you wish to know?”

Both his brother and father seemed poised with curiosity. He inhaled deeply, not wishing to pursue an argument. “No reason. I thought perhaps you were planning on a little wedded bliss and relaxation of your own.”

Pushing his chair back, Denethor began towards his throne. “Think no more of it. You have enough to consider without adding needless young females to it.” He sat down and turned his dark eyes upon his eldest, speaking with finality, “You are marrying Lady Éowyn.”

“Of course,” Boromir nearly hissed, but restrained his vexation. He knew argument would do no good, so he put the temptation out of mind and moved on. “When is this Elf Lord expecting me?”

That, of course, was another point of contention between them, but his father did not answer right away. Boromir had expected another verbal lashing about duty, but instead he was being scrutinized and weighed until the Steward saw fit to speak. “Perhaps I will send Faramir in your stead after all,” he said after a time.

They had argued the night Denethor had brought this before his son. The Lord Elrond of Rivendell had penned a letter to the Steward of Gondor, calling either he or a spokesperson to come to his valley to hear of an important matter that was not addressed in writing, but would be revealed at this council the Elf was proposing. Not that that hardly mattered. Boromir already guessed what it was the Elf might say. He did not have the talent Denethor was whispered to have, but dreams had visited upon him. He assumed the Elf knew something of Isildur’s Bane.

Despite his fervent wish that night that he not be made to go, Boromir now wanted this task, if only to leave his home and clear his thoughts of his troubles. He shook his head. “I will go, Father. It is my duty.”

“You have a new duty,” Denethor suggested coolly.

“That duty I had the night you laid this new task upon me. I’ll not lay it aside for Faramir, not after you spoke so harshly for my going,” Boromir retorted moodily. “I want this task and it is mine, not Faramir’s.”

The Steward raised his chin, but was not impressed by his son’s defiant will. “I will send whom I send. Be content with that.” His dark eyes darted towards the entrance to the throne room. “Leave me now. Both of you. I have things I must attend.”

Boromir had no trouble with that order. He stood up and made a bow, then began towards the exit, eager to be gone from his father’s presence. Faramir followed after him without a word to their sire, closing the door behind him as Boromir stalked on. He caught up quickly. “Why are you so moody?” he asked with a sigh.

The elder glanced at his brother. “I am moody because everyone is moody. There is not a room in the whole of Minas Tirith where one may go and not find tension. I am tired of this whole affair.”

“You brood too much. Do you not trust our father anymore?”

“Of course I do,” he replied listlessly.

“You do not behave as if you do.”

Stopping, Boromir drew his brother off to the side of the hall and frowned at him. “What is it that you would have me say, little brother? He is very hard with me lately and I cannot fathom why. You, you and he seem oddly quiet and yet communicative lately. Even our guests seem to be behaving strangely. And you wonder why it is that I behave strangely?”

Faramir chose one thing from that string of words to focus on and his response was cold. “You do not wish for me to take your place? You believe if he loves me, he cannot love you?”

The elder brother glared. “Don’t be an ass, Faramir,” he hissed. “Of course that is not how I feel.”

“Then why should it bother you that we speak civilly now?” His brother’s eyes were intense.

Boromir knit his brow, unimpressed. “By itself it doesn’t. You should know I want nothing more than for you both to share love. I have always protected you against his temper.”

“And perhaps that is it,” Faramir suggested without missing a beat. “You don’t have anyone to protect anymore?”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Irritation surged through Boromir. He could not understand why in all Middle-Earth they were having this argument. “Go to him and tell him your woes and your secrets! Be his golden son. See if I care!” He turned away to stalk off.

A hand around his arm stopped him and he wheeled around to face Faramir as he said, “Why do you care what I do with Lady Alura?”

More out of annoyance than anything else, Boromir shoved his brother’s hand off his arm, retorting, “Why? What secrets do you hold? What do you wish to bury?”

“Who says I have something to hide?” Faramir pressed lightly, but the elder recognized interest when he saw it in his little brother.

“Lady Alura does not seem to like you,” he responded matter-of-factly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “She seemed very…disgusted when I spoke to her of marriage to you.”

“Why would you speak to her about that?” the younger responded, ignoring the implications.

Boromir moved closer to his brother, nudging him back a little. “Because I was curious. I keep my own counsel, being the elder of us, since this family is so keen on pulling rank. Why would a woman that despises you want to sleep with you, Faramir? Or was that a lie? Trying to impress Father with your manliness?”

A smile spread along the younger one’s mouth. He laughed even, then shook his head. “Apparently she did not enjoy what I did. Nothing more.”

“I’m sure,” Boromir snorted with a nod.

Faramir’s eyes glittered in the firelight. “So you protect two investments from my interest. What of your poor intended?”

“I protect nothing, Faramir,” the elder said tiredly, running his hands through his hair. He did not like the uneasy feeling his brother gave him, did not like the weariness of quarreling for so long, nor the weight upon his shoulders. “Have our father to yourself. I care not. Do what you will to Lady Alura. Perhaps you can force her to love you given enough time.” His emphasis was intentional and probing. He was curious to see if his brother would react.

“Perhaps I can at that,” the other said softly, stepping away. “Perhaps you exaggerate her hatred towards me.”

Boromir moved beyond him, eager to get away, but he stopped and said one more thing, “I do not exaggerate. Do you?”

“Goodnight, Boromir,” Faramir replied sorrowfully, then turned away.

The elder watched his little brother go for a time before giving in to his desire to be alone. He did not like what was happening between he and his family. There were always minor arguments, but this felt alien beneath the surface.

*