You in Your Small Corner

You in Your Small Corner




“Boromir, stop it,” said Adrahil, without getting up from his chair.

Boromir’s features crumpled into a frown of affront at this injustice and he flung out his arm to point across the fountain at the real culprit. “But it was…”

“Boromir.”

Faramir sat with his arm draped over the edge of the fountain, his chin down against his elbow and an impish grin spread over his face. Boromir drooped and stared imploringly at his grandfather but Adrahil showed no mercy. The old man looked like the statues in the courtyards, like he was carved out of something cold and hard. His face was furrowed with deep lines but his skin was smooth, and his long grey hair was sculpted around his head, not a single strand out of place.

Boromir, knowing that Adrahil was still watching him keenly, reached out to rescue the wooden ship that was drifting across the fountain and looked over at his grandfather as if to say ‘see, I am behaving’. Opposite him, Faramir bounced his small toy horse along the edge of the fountain and made appropriate sounds. Within the space of a few seconds he had completely forgotten that he had caused any trouble.

Boromir pushed the boat around idly, leaning his head down against the cool marble. He planned out a battle in his mind’s eye and let the tiny wooden vessel lead an invisible fleet across the fountain. Faramir watched him for a long time then picked up the horse and plunged it into the fountain with a loud plop. He copied his brother and made the horse swim like a ship. He was only five, thought Boromir, and proceeded to explain to his younger sibling that a horse couldn’t more like that. Faramir stared at him, completely enrapt, then pushed the horse through the water and crashed it into Boromir’s boat.

The boat floated off drifted towards the central part of the fountain, where the water sprayed down on it and filled the deck. It sank and Faramir giggled. Boromir splashed him lightly. He was bored with the boat anyway.

“Can we go back inside?” he called over to Adrahil, then looked up at the Citadel. The collection of gleaming white buildings loomed over them, dizzily high and bathed in the warm afternoon sunlight. Boromir liked being outside on the courtyard but they had been there for hours. He was bored.

“Not just now,” Adrahil told him.

“I want mother,” said Faramir suddenly. He put the horse back on the fountain edge and then pulled its sodden tail through his fingers. Boromir looked over to his grandfather and saw the old man shuffle uncomfortably.

“When can we go back inside?” he asked.

“In a little while.”

“Is mother going to stay here now?” Faramir went on.

“Can we go see her?” added Boromir.

A painful grimace flashed across Adrahil’s grey eyes. “Not just now, boys.”

“But we didn’t get to see her at the Houses of Healing,” Boromir protested.

“What d’you want to go back inside for?” Adrahil asked. “Is there something you want from your room?”

“I want to see mother,” Faramir answered, playing with his thumbs. Boromir used a stare to say the same thing.

“Your mother needs some peace and quiet,” Adrahil told them. “You know she’s not very well.”

“I can be quiet,” said Faramir.

“We won’t make a noise,” added Boromir. He continued to gaze at his grandfather, unable to comprehend why the old man was resisting so much. Surely if their mother was ill, then she would want to see them? Boromir never wanted to be alone when he was sick.

Adrahil sighed deeply and rubbed his forehead for a moment. He threw a glance towards the Citadel and then rose from the bench. Boromir smiled, recognising the signs of doubt that normally meant he would get his own way.

“Please, grandfather.”

“Please,” echoed Faramir.

Adrahil’s eyes blinked towards the ground and then after a few more seconds’ deliberation he nodded. “All right. But only for a moment.”

Boromir grinned and trotted over to his grandfather’s side. Faramir rolled off the ground onto his feet and then followed, biting his nails as he walked. Adrahil let the boys stand on either side of him and then led them into the Citadel.

It was only as they reached the corridor outside Denethor and Finduilas’ rooms that Boromir began to feel slightly apprehensive. As they reached the door to their mother’s room, Boromir no longer wanted to go in, although he didn’t know why.

Faramir ducked behind Adrahil with a few mincing little steps and grabbed hold of his brother’s hand. Adrahil gave them both a gentle push on the back and let them totter through the archway into the room, while he held the curtain to one side to clear the way for them. The fresh, green smell of basil mingled with the dusky scent of cinnamon on the air. Although it was a warm day beyond the Citadel walls, a large fire had been lit, so that the room was stiflingly dry and hot.

Boromir blinked as he came in and looked at the bed, where he saw his mother lying with her arms straight by her sides and her hair splayed across the pillow. She was sleeping. Denethor sat beside her, stroking her forehead with the backs of his fingers, his shoulders hunched and his face drawn and pale. Boromir thought, as he came a little closer, that his father looked almost as ill as his mother. He wanted to run over to them both. If he could hug them and cheer them up, maybe he could make them both better.

Adrahil picked Faramir up and carried him over to the bedside, then tapped Boromir on the shoulder as he passed so that he would wander over with them. Denethor did not look at them. His eyes were unfocused and his head hung low. Boromir stared at him for a moment, then came up to the side of the bed and looked down at his mother. Her face glistened, like she had been running all day. Denethor continued to touch her lightly, just reminding her of his presence. Boromir studied him, wondering what he should do. Then finally he copied his father’s gesture and reached out his hand towards his mother’s cheek.

He recoiled at first. Her skin felt cold and clammy. He could tell from the touch that something was gravely wrong. Finduilas lay still, showing no reaction to either of them, but Boromir saw his father’s hand caress her hair and face and so he ignored the alienness of the touch and put his fingers to her cheek again. A dry silence dropped over the room, punctuated only by the crackles from the fire and the slow, hollow rasps as Finduilas breathed.

Adrahil’s hand came to rest on Boromir’s shoulder.

“They wanted to come,” he told Denethor in a dark whisper. “I didn’t think it too much to ask. That they see their mother before…”

Boromir listened to them without showing it. He brushed his hand against his mother’s hair they way she used to when he was very small. He glanced at his father and saw Denethor’s tears sparkling in the firelight as they welled against his eyelashes. Boromir frowned and pulled himself up a little straighter. Whenever things went wrong, Denethor always stood tall and fixed his gaze into a stern frown so that he seemed powerful enough to do anything. But now he was sick too and Boromir reasoned that it was his time to be the strong one.

Finduilas inhaled sharply and a scowl of pain flickered across her face for an instant. Boromir looked excitedly to his father. Surely if she was waking up, that meant she was better? Denethor, however, steeled himself even more and closed his eyes. One tear finally spilled onto his cheek.

Finduilas moved her lips slowly until she found the strength to whisper. Adrahil left Boromir’s side and, setting Faramir down on the floor, fetched a glass of water from the dressing table. Faramir nuzzled into Boromir’s side. His eyes were wide and fixed on Finduilas. After a moment Adrahil returned and pressed the glass to Finduilas’ mouth. Some of the water spilled down her chin and onto the sheets. It must have helped, thought Boromir, since she opened her eyes as soon as he took the glass away. Boromir smiled and again threw his father an encouraging grin.

“Mother?” said Faramir quietly. He shuffled nearer to the bed and put his hands on Finduilas’ arm. She remained still, her eyes staring with an unfocused gaze at the ceiling.

“Father?” she called out weakly. Adrahil stood beside Faramir and reached over to take her hand.

“I’m here, child.”

A smile twitched across her lips. “Are we going home?”

Denethor flinched. Boromir put his hand against his mother’s forehead again. “You are home, mother,” he told her, smiling.

“To the sea,” she whispered, then closed her eyes again.

“It’s only the fever,” Adrahil said to Denethor. A stagnant minute passed and the silence returned. Denethor did not reply or react. He simply continued to run his fingers over Finduilas’ skin, weeping soundlessly. Finally Adrahil took both the boys by the shoulder and led them towards the door.

“I think we should leave your mother to rest now,” he told them softly. “Why don’t we head off to your room and find those toys you wanted earlier.”

Boromir didn’t want to leave, but he wondered if leaving was the proper thing to do. Adults always seemed to have rituals and set ways of tackling problems. They knew when to move and what to say. Boromir just wished they would tell him what these rituals were, so that he could do the right thing too, and wouldn’t have to spend his time trying to fathom their reactions and expressions. After all, he was ten. Nearly eleven. He was almost a man and would soon have to lead his own life according to those rules.

Adrahil took them to their playroom and Faramir raced on ahead, throwing himself onto the floor amongst a pile of tin elven soldiers. Boromir had been teaching him how to be a general. Before Boromir could join him, however, Adrahil caught him by the shoulder and shepherded him over to the window seat. Adrahil sat facing him. The light streaming in through the panels of stained glass painted colourfully but his expression remained grimly serious. Boromir waited, his heart beating fast as he tried to think of something he might have done recently to warrant punishment.

“Now,” said Adrahil, keeping his voice very low, “I’m going to talk to you like a grown-up. Because I think you’re old enough and responsible enough for me to do that. Am I right?”

Boromir nodded. “Yes sir.”

“Good. Now you know that I’ve come here to be with your mother, because she’s very ill? Well, you saw for yourself that your father is not so good either. Things are going to be very hard here for a time and although I want to stay as long as I can to help, I have duties of my own that will have to be attended to. So eventually I will have to go back to Dol Amroth. Now I know that you’re only young, Boromir, but everyone here will have to do their part for a while. I need you to be good and to stay out of trouble, so that your father can…well so that he can have some time of his own without having to cope with anything… I’m sure you will be very well behaved. But you might find things getting difficult for a while and your father will need to know that he has you by his side. You’ll have to give him your support and that means being good, doing as you’re told, and making sure he has no more troubles added to him. Do you understand that, Boromir?”

Boromir understood what he was being asked to do, if bot the reason for it, so he nodded again.

“Good boy. Look after Faramir too. He won’t understand things as well as you do.”

Adrahil smiled and reached over to tousle Boromir’s hair. He gave him one last, slightly distant look, then left the playroom.

Boromir stood up and held himself very straight. He felt a little better as he went over to Faramir to resume their game. He thought about Adrahil’s words and felt a little flush of pride at being trusted. Things still mystified him and he knew that, in the other lofty chambers of the Citadel, there was something going on that he could only vaguely sense, but at least he had an idea now of what he was supposed to do to help.

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Boromir woke up reluctantly. Someone was touching his shoulder. He felt their weight beside him, pressing down on the mattress. He rubbed his eyes and crawled out from beneath the blanket to find his grandfather sitting on the edge of the bed, gazing down at him with reddened eyes. A cold sensation spread from the top of his head right down to the base of his spine. His grandfather never came to wake him up. He glanced over to the window and he saw stars shining through.

“Now you can go back to sleep if you like,” Adrahil whispered, “once I’ve said what I have to say.” He took a deep breath and caressed Boromir’s hair. “Your mother passed away tonight. Do you know what that means?”

Boromir bit his lip and hugged the pillow. The whole room felt cold. “Yes sir,” he replied.

Adrahil stared at the floor for a moment. “Now, everyone at court knows what has happened and you won’t have to go to your lessons today.”

Boromir waited but his grandfather did not go on. They sat together quietly for a while, Adrahil with his head lowered. His hair hung down in straight, silver curtains by his cheeks. Shuddering, he rose from the bed and wiped a stray tear from his eye before it had a chance to break out. He lost his rehearsed speech. “You can go back to sleep if you wish,” he said again, then he turned sharply away and left, closing the door behind him.

Boromir lay for a while in the dark. He couldn’t think. The cold lingered, gripping him all over and his mind was numb. He heard Faramir crying in the next room and wanted to cry too. He felt the tears just waiting to spill out, but something held them back. He curled up on the bed and gathered his knees to his chest. Everything was cold and dark.

Finally he sprang to his feet and opened the door carefully. He slipped out into the corridor, into the unfeeling torchlight, and went to Faramir’s room. He found his way to his brother’s bed, where Faramir was hunched in a foetal pose, shaking as he sobbed. Boromir hurried over and sat on the bed without speaking. Faramir threw his arms around his brother’s waist. They stayed that way for hours, until at last they fell asleep.

__


Boromir stayed for the most part in his room or the playroom until the day of the funeral. He was told that was what he should do. ‘Stay out of the way while things were arranged’. He remembered his promise to Adrahil. It was up to him to be strong. He had to do what he was told. But he still had not cried. He sat worrying about that fact, hearing Faramir still breaking intermittently into fits of sobs and wails. He wondered if there was something wrong with him. Wasn’t crying the proper thing to do when someone died?

He caught a few brief glimpses of his father. Most of the time he was being led along by Adrahil or by one of the healers or advisors. He looked grey and tired. Once Boromir tried to rush over to him and give him a hug to raise his spirits but Adrahil blocked his path and ushered him swiftly back to his room. Boromir went without protest but sat shivering in the middle of the floor for a long time.

His heart ached with the thought that his father might be sick. He couldn’t grasp yet that his mother was gone, even though he had sat and thought about it repeatedly. How would he cope if his father died too? He had to do something, but yet again none of the adults told him what he should do. They went about their secret rituals, keeping him and Faramir safely out of sight and earshot. But each whispered conversation or small snatch of emotion Boromir witnessed made him increasingly nervous.

Then finally on the day of the funeral, one of the councillors came to fetch the brothers to accompany the procession. Boromir refused to let go of Faramir as they walked through the Citadel. Faramir was his responsibility. He had promised to look after him. He could not remember his grandfather Ecthelion’s funeral but knowing that he had been through this before, even if he had forgotten, soothed his spirit a little.

The councillor brought them to Denethor just as the funerary procession was about to start. Denethor took his sons’ hands without speaking and breathed deeply. Boromir frowned when he saw the glistening tear-trails on his father’s cheek and squeezed his hand tighter. Denethor started slightly and glanced down at him. Boromir held his gaze, letting his father know that he was there, and tried to look as strong as he could. Denethor stared, anger, shock, pain and confusion all mingled together in his eyes. But just before they set off he looked down at each of the boys in turn and for the first time since Finduilas had fallen ill, he smiled.

__


Afterwards everyone gathered on the courtyard outside, by the fountain and the White Tree. Boromir kept a tight hold of Faramir’s hand, making sure that his brother didn’t get lost amongst the groups of mourners, courtiers and guards milling around. Hosts of tall bodies surrounded them like an impenetrable forest and garbled voices formed a constant fog of noise. Someone mentioned a feast in the hall, but Boromir noticed his father breaking away from the crowd and heading instead towards the King’s House.

Dragging Faramir by the hand, Boromir rushed across the courtyard, weaving through the people. He followed the sound of his father’s footsteps through the empty corridors until at last he caught sight of Denethor again. They found him sitting in what had been their mother’s room. He perched on the edge of the bed, pawing one of Finduilas’ scarves. Faramir instantly broke away from his brother and scurried into the room, bouncing up onto the bed and into Denethor’s arms. He wailed loudly as the tears came back and Denethor, although he seemed surprised by his son’s sudden appearance, held him tightly.

Boromir approached them tentatively, wishing that he could just let all the gnawing grief and worry inside him burst out in a veil of tears like Faramir. Finally Denethor glanced over at him. His eyes were red and sore, his tears dried up. Boromir went to his side and stood staring at him, imploring him to say what should be done.

“I want mother,” sobbed Faramir.

Boromir said, ‘so do I’ with a longing gaze.

Denethor, composing himself, reached out his arm to draw Boromir closer.

“Well,” he sighed hoarsely. “It is just the three of us now. And we must be strong for her sake.”

“I’ll take care of you, father,” Boromir told him suddenly. Denethor seemed to lose his flow and stared down at his son. He let out a mirthless laugh and placed his arm around Boromir’s shoulders, nodding sagely.

“I will not go to the feast,” he went on. “What’s say we stay away from the crowd, pack our things, and then tomorrow we will head to the coast?”

Faramir blinked and almost smiled.

“Your mother wanted so much to see the shores again,” Denethor told them as he led them from the room. “So now we must see it for her.”