The Strength and Truth of Men by Raiyana

The Pyre Burned

The door was open wide, a swift stream of children running to and fro, fetching and carrying, though the Halls themselves had the hush of a sickroom magnified until it was oppressing. 

“Boromir!”

“...Pippin?” Disbelief warred with the evidence of his own eyes, but no. Boromir blinked. There was Pippin, a grin on his face, dressed in the black and silver of the Citadel. “Pippin!”

“You must come,” Pippin urged, grabbing him by the hand, “Faramir is over here. This way.” 

“Not so fast, Pippin,” Boromir begged though he longed to lope across the flagstones. The horse he had ridden to battle had spooked at the sight of the giant mumakil and thrown him wide. The gash across his brow had clotted at last, but the knee he had wrenched in the forest had twisted once again. Taking Pippin’s hand, Boromir limped slowly into the Halls. 

“Boromir!”

“Mithrandir.” Boromir nodded to the wizard - he had never quite trusted the Grey Wanderer, and turning his garb white did not alter the mind beneath the grey hair; Denethor had never trusted Mithrandir, and less so for the tales he told Faramir over the years, and Boromir’s opinion had been coloured long before the Council of Rivendell. “I am told my brother is here - have you news of my father?” 

“Lord Denethor…” Mithrandir paused, and somehow Boromir knew the words that would follow were death. 

He moved past the wizard, taking the seat beside Faramir’s bed, and picked up his cold hand, hoping somehow to shelter himself from more ill tidings by the small comfort of a beloved hand in his own. “Tell me.” He closed his eyes. “Tell me my father’s end.”

It was more horrible than he could have imagined, and Boromir found himself distantly amazed that Faramir did not complain about the strength of his grip even once in the telling. 

“My grief with yours,” Pippin offered quietly beside him, once Mithrandir had fallen blessedly silent. “Hiro hîdh neñ gurth Denethor.”

“Thank you, Pippin,” Boromir said, feeling numb. He squeezed Faramir’s hand. 

“My Lord Steward, we need the bed,” Ioreth said quietly, and the world kept going even though Denethor was dead, and Boromir wanted nothing more than to sleep for a thousand years. She put her hand on his arm in silent comfort, grief writ large across her face as she looked at Faramir. “Perhaps he could still hear you.”

Boromir nodded woodenly, moving aside to let them put another poor soul into the bed behind him, wincing as he put too much weight on his bad knee and submitting to Ioreth’s brand of kindness without much complaint when she noticed. 

And then he found his chair again, and Faramir’s hand, and told him the very long story of all that had come to pass since they had last parted.