Work Text:
"'Telepathy' literally means to feel at a distance, just as 'telephone' is to hear at a distance and 'television' is to see at a distance... It is your telepathic ability when a person crosses your mind at any point of the day. They came to mind for a reason." - Carl Sagan
~*~
“Can you talk without moving your mouth?”
Boromir paused in the middle of doing crunches and frowned at his brother, whose face was half-hidden behind a book. He was already upset because he lost count of how many crunches he had done, but Faramir’s question sounded like an insult. He uncrossed his arms and leaned back on his hands.
“Excuse me?”
“Can you talk without moving your mouth?” Faramir repeated.
Boromir’s eyes shifted side-to-side. He didn’t think he was being too loud, as he was only keeping count. And Faramir didn’t have to stay while he was exercising if he was being disruptive. There was no hint of annoyance in either Faramir’s tone or his expression.
“I am unsure of what you mean,” he said hesitantly.
“Mithrandir said it is called Ósanwë. It’s when the Firstborn and Secondborn talk to each other with their minds, and they don’t even have to open their mouths.”
“I see.” This was definitely the first he was hearing about this.
“Father can do it, too, so I wondered if you knew how.”
“No. As far as I am aware.” Boromir grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Have you ever tried?” He shook his head. “Why don’t you try right now?”
“How exactly is it done?” Faramir hummed and tapped at his chin, swinging his feet back and forth while balancing the open book on his lap.
“It is just a feeling.”
“A feeling?”
“I don’t know how to explain it. I sometimes don’t realize I’m doing it. Father gets angry whenever that happens.”
Boromir’s brow furrowed. He wished their father wouldn’t be so harsh with Faramir about harmless mistakes. He had done far worse things and barely got a slap on the wrist and a firm “be sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“I will try to do it, too.”
Boromir didn’t know if it was going to work, but he’d do anything to take away the frown on Faramir’s face. He hung the towel around the back of his neck and crossed his legs. Faramir closed his book and set it aside, sitting up straight and watching intently.
He rested his elbows on his knees and rolled his shoulders before closing his eyes. After a few seconds, his eyebrows furrowed and his facial muscles tensed. Faramir tilted his head and fidgeted with concern when Boromir’s face started turning red.
“Brother, are you holding your breath?” Boromir released a sharp breath of air.
“Anything?” Faramir shook his head.
“Well, maybe Father will have an idea.” Boromir got up from the ground and ruffled Faramir’s hair as he walked past him. “I should wash up before supper. I’ll see you soon.”
Boromir made his way through the halls of the Citadel, staying close to the walls to avoid colliding with servants or courtiers and getting sweat on them. As he neared his father’s study, he noticed that the door was slightly ajar. His father never had his door open, and on multiple occasions he would pass by and see several advisers and nobles in the corridor waiting to be allowed admittance to speak with the Steward. He quietly approached and hesitated a few seconds before knocking and pushing the door open a little wider.
“Father?”
Denethor was standing by the window with his back turned. He stiffened at the greeting, and Boromir saw a flash of a scowl as he began to turn around, but it was gone almost as quickly.
“Ah, Boromir. It is only you.” Denethor sat at his desk and beckoned Boromir over. Boromir approached the desk and watched as Denethor poured himself some wine. As he took a sip, Denethor’s gaze flickered over Boromir. “Working hard, I see. Good, good.”
“Father, how do you use Ówansë?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No, not that. Ó… uh… the thing where you speak with your mind.”
“Ah, you must mean Ósanwë. It is a Quenya word which means ‘interchange of thought.’”
“Faramir said you know how to use it, too. I tried to, but nothing happened.”
Denethor did not speak for a while. He shuffled his papers and grumbled something unintelligible under his breath. After dipping his quill in the inkwell, he began to write, the scratching of the feather the only sound in the room.
“Faramir needs to get his head out of books and get himself into the training ring posthaste. War is coming; I can feel it. We need every man to fight, and he is not serving his country by reading fantastical tales. Books do not win wars. Swords do.”
“But he loves reading, Father. And so do you. He is so smart, because he reads a lot like you.”
Denethor’s head snapped up and he pinned Boromir with a glare. Boromir flinched and took a step back. His father had never looked at him like that before, and for some reason, Boromir couldn’t look away. His breathing quickened, and he felt as if walls were pressing in all around him. Denethor wasn’t saying anything, but Boromir could feel his emotions in that look. Perhaps this was what Faramir had meant when he said it was a feeling. After a full minute passed, Denethor lowered his gaze to his papers and went back to writing as though nothing happened.
“Go and wash up for supper. I have a lot of work to do.”
“Yes, Father,” Boromir said quietly and moved somewhat unsteadily towards the door before closing it behind him.
~*~
Boromir told Faramir that he just wasn’t able to use Ósanwë, and they never spoke about it again. Denethor’s mood had improved almost instantly, and like Faramir did not bring up what happened in the study. Boromir would occasionally feel a shiver and on-edge over the next few days, as though he were being watched, but as time passed, the memory faded until it was forgotten completely. It was not until a few decades later that Boromir thought about Ósanwë again.
It was a mild evening for mid-January, and Boromir had come with the rest of surviving members of the Fellowship to the Elven realm of Lothlórien. It was ruled by Celeborn and Galadriel, a figure Boromir had heard stories about from childhood. He had argued against entering the Golden Wood, just as he had argued against going into Moria, but his voice was drowned out and his warnings ignored by Gandalf and now Aragorn, who took over as the leader of their Company when Gandalf fell in Khazad-dûm.
The fate of Gandalf had just been revealed, which left the Fellowship and the Lord and Lady of Lórien feeling disheartened. It was Galadriel who spoke the first words of hope after a pause, encouraging Gimli to not allow the events of Moria to fill his heart. Then she settled her otherworldly gaze upon him, and he felt like a teenager again, standing in his father’s study.
The Tower of Guard shall soon face greater peril, yet it is not an assault from the Enemy which shall bring about the downfall of the House of Húrin but rather from within.
Boromir began to tremble, and his breath quickened while his heart beat against his chest as though it were trying to break through his ribs. This was what Faramir was talking about all those years ago.
He tried to look away and even attempted to turn his head. Anything to not have to see her eyes.
Something that had ensnared him seemed to snap, and he ducked his head, trying to calm his breathing. She began to speak again, aloud, about how there was still hope. He stopped listening, because he had lost hope as soon as she told him that his beloved city was doomed. But as their hosts dismissed them and they were brought to a place to rest, Boromir thought to himself that he regretted not learning how to use Ósanwë. If he had, then he could have at least spoken to Faramir or his father and warned them of what was to come.