Disclaimer: Tolkien’s story - not mine… apart from a hard-as-nails, soft-as-butter guardian.
He picked up a book, appearing to become immersed in it - it would not do for his son and heir to see how much he mistrusted his decision to ride north. Boromir’s footsteps faded from the hall.
Chasing a dream! he thought, Faramir is the dreamer, Boromir is my rock, but… Denethor shrugged.
It was Boromir’s insistence that had won the day; Denethor privately hoped that his son would get little further than Rohan. Where, if his informants were correct… as they undoubtedly were, Boromir’s secret ongoing attraction to young Prince Théodred would distract him from this fool’s quest.
He picked up a knife, feeling the familiar grip settle into his palm - once the small blade had seemed almost sword-like in its heft. Faramir smiled; the nursemaids were appalled when the Amah provided both the Steward’s heirs with sharpened weapons, the youngest barely beyond swaddling cloths… according to Nurse.
He remembered the day differently; Boromir was tutored with wooden swords. Amah had scoffed, saying… ‘if he couldn’t learn with a real blade then he might as well not learn at all’.
Faramir had watched, envious of the bright metal, then Amah pressed the knife into his small hand.
She picked up a cloak; she’d started work weeks ago, soon after Faramir first mentioned his disturbing dream. It wasn’t up to her to interpret it for him, but then Boromir insisted the errand be his… she knew he would never countenance being denied. Since then she’d worked at stitching a good winter cloak… it was cold up north.
Amah used the good sables she’d traded from Lune, saved for something, or someone, special. With every stitch she muttered charms for good luck, safety from harm, home-coming… everything she could think of well-wishing she put into that cloak. And love.
He picked up a stone… yes. Faramir had searched the Armouries diligently for a good whetstone to fit the small leather sheath. Boromir was leaving tomorrow… Faramir needed a private moment with him.
Boromir was in his room, clad in a sumptuous cloak lined with velvety black sables. He turned guiltily from the looking-glass when his brother knocked and entered.
“Amah insisted…” Boromir’s voice trailed. They both knew Amah’s ‘insistence’ wasn’t to be trifled with.
“I thought you could use this.” Faramir offered his small blade and whetstone. “She said it would keep me safe… so you’d better have it.”