The Holly-Folk of Gondor by AdmirableMonster  

Faramir

“Let me come.”

His brother looked over at him, and the child tried to stand up and look tall.  He had braided back his too-long blond-brown hair and traded Níniel ten loaves of bread from the kitchens to buy her shirt and trousers properly.  He had his very first blade belted at his side—Noltar had given him an old sheathe for it—and though he did not have a bow or know how to draw it, he hoped against hope his brother would teach him.

Boromir cast him a concerned look.  “Are you certain, Míriel?” he asked slowly.

The child bit his lip.  “I want to go with you.  I want to learn the ways of the land.  Please.”

Pacing back and forth in front of the window, a frown wormed its way down Boromir’s forehead.  “Our mother told me to take care of you, little one.  Father…would say it is not the proper occupation of a young lady.”  The frown drew down more.  “But I am a Man grown, and Father says I can make my own decisions.”  He sighed.  “Will you take care to listen to me?”

“I promise,” the child told him solemnly.  

“All right.”  Boromir nodded, then reached out and ruffled the child’s hair.  “I’ll get you a bow and arrow.  Let’s go out for a hunt.”

The child already knew how to school his emotions, but he smiled broadly and put out a hand for his older brother to shake.  “Thank you.”

Boromir pulled him into a quick bear hug, then pushed him back, looking a little embarrassed.  “Just come on,” he said gruffly.

It was a thrilling day.  The Sun was high in the arched blue sky, and the plains outside of the city gleamed with gold.  Boromir found him a training bow and taught him how to use it, after muttering, “Well, if you’ve made your own sword already, I’m not going to be able to stop you, and you’d better learn from someone who knows what he’s doing.”

Boromir shot three rabbits.  The child shot none, but he did successfully discover the trail of the third.  He was not certain how he felt about the killing—the poor rabbits!—but butchering them was easier, and he had to admit he enjoyed eating them.  The two of them made a fire together and roasted them, with a few herbs that the child had thoughtfully brought from the kitchen, and they tasted delicious.

When they were mostly finished, Boromir looked at him thoughtfully and said, “You said you weren’t a girl once.”

The child hadn’t thought his brother would remember that.  He looked down at the rabbit and shrugged.

“If you’re not a girl, what are you?  A boy?”

Before he could feel too afraid to admit it, he nodded.

“How do you know that?”

He raised an eyebrow at his brother.  “Are you a girl?”

“Well, no.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just—well, huh.”  Boromir tipped his head back.  “But you like—” he waved his hand.  “Poetry and singing and old stories.”

The child gave him a half smile.  “And you don’t?  You copied out the whole of Túrin and Beleg by hand.  And my handwriting’s better than yours, I don’t know how you even read it.”

Boromir actually blushed and passed a hand over his face.  “Well, you like cooking.”

The child shrugged.  “There’re men who cook things.”

There was a long pause, then Boromir nodded slowly.  “Sorry.  You’re right.  You must know better than me.”

The child swallowed.  “Really?” he said softly.

Boromir frowned.  “Let me tell you a secret,” he said, after a long moment.  “You have to promise not to tell anyone, all right?”

The child nodded solemnly.  “No one at all.”

“I don’t—I don’t want a wife,” Boromir said haltingly.  “And I, well, I should.  I mean, I’m going to have to have one.”  He shook his head.  “But I wish I didn’t have to.”

“You don’t want a wife?  Do you not want to be marr—”  He thought of Túrin and Beleg.  “You want a husband?”

A strange look on Boromir’s face, but he nodded with a jerk.  “That’s right.  There’s not much to be done about that, though.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I’m Father’s heir.”  Boromir waved a hand.  “Don’t worry about it, Mír—” He paused thoughtfully again.  “Míriel is a girl’s name.”

The child hunched his shoulders.  “I know.”

Boromir shouted with laughter.  “For a moment, you looked just like Father when someone tries to serve him garlic!  Ah—what name would you like to have, then?  I’ll call you by it, anyway.  Might be harder to convince anyone else, but I don’t mind.”

“I don’t know!  You’re not supposed to name yourself, are you?  And Mother…” He swallowed.  “She never knew I wasn’t a girl, so she can’t.”

“They say the Elves didn’t name their children until they were your age, don’t they?” Boromir said.  “But it—it should have been Mother, I think.  Well, if she can’t, then I’ll do it.  A brother’s got to be nearly as good, right?”

The child’s lip trembled.  “Really?” he said, after a moment.

“Of course.  I might need some help, because you’re better with words.”  Boromir frowned.  “Give me a little while to think.”

“Thank you, Boromir,” the child whispered.

He got another hair ruffle, and he didn’t even mind that it meant Boromir had gotten rabbit grease all over his head.

They spent the rest of the afternoon wandering about the fields and hills and woods.  As the Sun began to dip towards the horizon, sending long shadows and fingers of orange light across the landscape, Boromir looked up and said, “We should be getting back.”  He groaned.  “You’ve been out all day.  Your ladies-in-waiting are going to kill me.”  Then he frowned, squinting at the Sun.  “We came out Southeast, I think…”

“It’s that way.”  The child pointed back.  With the tall trees rising all around he could not see the white spires of the city, but he did not need to.

Boromir paused, sighted along his hand, and checked the sides of the trees.  “Huh,” he said.  “You’re right.”

“I know where I am,” the child told him delightedly.  

“That’s true, you always do.”  Boromir thought again, for a long minute, then strode over to a tree by the trail, with clusters of dark red berries nestling amid fern-like leaves, and broke off a branch, pushing it over to him.  “What’s the name of this in Elvish?” he asked.

“Faran, I think.”  The child wrinkled his forehead.  Noltar knew a great deal of Elvish, and he had been helping the child with his studies.  His tengwar was shaky, nearly illegible, and whenever he had to write out a word, his lips got thin and frustrated, but he knew more than anyone else the child had ever known, certainly more than the child’s tutors, and he seemed to understand how much the child needed to learn.  “Yes,” he decided.  “Faran.”

“It’s the wayfarer’s tree, you see,” Boromir explained.  “And, well, I think that’s how my name works, isn’t it?  Two pieces of Elvish put together.  I thought you might like a name that sounds like mine, but I wasn’t sure of the first part.  But that works, I think.  Faran-mir.”

“Faramir,” the child corrected him absently.  “Like in yours.  Boron-mir becomes Boromir, so Faran-mir would be—” He paused.  “It would be my name.  Faramir.”  He turned it over on his tongue.  “Faramir.  Ash-tree-jewel.”  He didn’t know if Boromir had really created the word right, but it might his heart swell in his chest to think about it.  “I—I like it.”

“Good.”  Boromir clapped him on the shoulder.  “Then let’s go home, Faramir.”