Immortalitui // Faramir 🥀

Chapter Twenty-Five - A Man

Word Count: 2,833 words. 

Warnings: None. 

Gondor...

Training had become a motif of her mornings. Arathiel gained little rest in the city of Gondor despite it being perhaps the most heavily guarded Kingdom of Man. It wasn't that she feared the darkness would attack the city walls, it was rather that in her sleep, she was vulnerable, easier to manipulate. The darkness could get in when she slept.

That particular morning, unlike those before, Boromir had joined Arathiel and Faramir in sparring. Faramir stood by the weapons, polishing a dagger while his brother and Arathiel swung at each other.

Boromir was an aggressive fighter. That was what the she-elf learned quickly enough. It made sense how he held up so well against orcs, as more often than not, battling those creatures could be described as a battle of physical strength. Although he was strong, he was no match for an elf.

She slid underneath his attack, blade missing her face and instead the weight of it causing the older brother to stumble forward. Arathiel took that opportunity to raise her sword so that when he turned around, it's tip rested against his neck.

He dropped his sword. "I forfeit," he muttered, breathless. Arathiel did not even let out a sigh. "You are a strong fighter, my lady."

She smiled. "I have much more experience than you, young prince."

He perked a brow playfully. "I am not young," he countered, pushing the sword away with his forefinger and moving to pick up his own.

"You are younger than I, and so I find the endearment fitting." She placed her sword back in her sheath.

"Endearment?" he questioned, and Arathiel could clearly see his jest. "If I did not know any better, I would think that you were complimenting me. That you find me... a pleasure to be around."

The elf scoffed. "I find you tolerable and that is about the extent of it."

He smirked, winking at the woman before moving towards his brother. While he turned his sword over, placing it on the weapons table, Arathiel moved away towards the dummy. She began practising drills.

"I thought you did not want to marry her," Faramir commented, sending a small glance the elf's way. He ensured that she would not hear.

"I do not brother," Boromir answered, taking up a dagger and turning it in his hand. "Why do you ask?"

"You seem quite taken by her, that is all." His tone was flat, impossible to read, but Boromir knew him better. He could see the harsh grip that Faramir had taken on the cloth he used to polish metal and how the weapon he held could not shine more than it already did.

"It is called being playful," Boromir told him.

Faramir turned his gaze to look at his older brother. "Your playful is something I do not like. It verges on inappropriate."

Boromir scoffed. "By all that is good and pure," he sighed, "this elf really has you wrapped around her finger."

Faramir shook his head, placing the dagger down and taking up the next one. It was odd for the Princes to be polishing their own metal, let alone the blades that belonged to the men of their armies, but both Faramir and Boromir did not trust a servant to do that work. The swords and daggers must be as sharp as they could, or else death would befall the holder.

"I do not know what you are talking about dear brother." He made to turn away but Boromir caught him by the arm.

"You never call me dear brother. You have put many an insult before that word, but never dear. You care for her."