Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings

Summary: Faramir feels the legacies of his brother and father are beyond his means to live up to.

Oft he had wished, secretly and with shame appropriate to such desire, that he had been the firstborn son of Denethor.

By the counsel of all, Boromir was not to be the inheritor of their fathers traits, and was more brash, vibrant and unfettered by petty uncertainties than could have been overlooked in an heir in spirit, and not mere flesh. Denethor did love him best, as was his right, as eldest. As did Faramir, yet on such intermittent occasion as the steward would permit company to sup at his table, and likeness and unlikeness ruled in favour of the younger son as the wiser of them, the more patient and compassionate of the two, he would scarce led credence to their judgements.

As though by the passage of time, his firstborn son should become his unchallenged heir.

Possessed of his legendary foresight Boromir was not, and lived one day, and then another. His joy was in the heat of the moment, in the chaos of battle, in the elusive euphoria that came after the fall of his foe's sword and before it was washed away in the tides the pain of injury bestowed in kind. He lived for the day ahead, and not the dawn that followed.

Denethor was ever watchful of the change of the winds and the whispers from distant lands they brought.

Boromir, so expectant for a moment, and the next of its ilk, disdained the time he took to get there.

Faramir truly lived for the present, and when all was said and done, when the new king had risen and the stewards of the house of his ancestors again had a purpose, the weight of their legacy was crushing to bear.

He was not his father, nor his brother. And from that day onward he was content to be merely Faramir, most loyal steward of Elessar, the rightful king of Gondor.