Well, Faramir got a little drunk... and depressed... because he was a little drunk... and... then he decided he didn't much care about being alive. Heck, he might even be more respected when he die...
I claim nothing. No rights, no cash, only the boredom. While I detest Farawangst, evryone has to write one, yes? and so I post this. Not really my favorite, but, ah, well... I've not much else on this computer at the moment.
Faramir glared at the bottle in his hand. It was empty. So were the other three bottles lying in bits at his feet. He tugged the cork from the bottle of rum and gulped it down hastily. How many fights had he been in with his father in the past weeks?
The answer was far too obvious.
He'd been docile, he'd been angry. By the tower, he'd been anything and everything... everything... except Boromir. Why did his brother have to be so damned perfect? Perfect with the sword, perfect with the bow, perfect in speech. Perfect-and he was a failure.
He leaned his head back, knocking it against the stone wall of the alley. Did that hurt? It should, he thought, yet it didn't. So much the better. He finished off the alcohol and dropped the empty bottle, giddily laughing at the crash it produced.
Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all... just to go. All at once. Maybe Father'd even feign sorrow in his honor. He look at the knife he carried around with him-he didn't know why; no one would have reason to attack him, being the invisible second son-and wondered. Or, perhaps, he could at least make an attempt to go with valor. Yes, that was the way. Then his father would have to put up a false front. He'd leave tomorrow. He'd go back-and he wouldn't likely return.