
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/97035.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Lord_of_the_Rings_-_Fandom, Lord_of_the_Rings_-_J._R._R._Tolkien, Lord_of
      the_Rings_(2001_2002_2003), TOLKIEN_J._R._R._-_Works
  Relationship:
      Faramir/Boromir, Faramir/Aragorn, and_many_others_-_Relationship
  Character:
      Faramir, Boromir, Aragorn, Legolas, Éowyn, Denethor, Arwen, Eldarion
  Additional Tags:
      Romance, Drama, Angst, Humiliation, Minor_het
  Series:
      Part 1 of After_a_Lifetime
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-06-26 Updated: 2012-01-07 Chapters: 8/22 Words: 47564
****** Book One: Brotherhood ******
by December
Summary
     When it all began, you simply took a blind dive into the unknown. But
     would have you offered your love to the one you worship, had you
     known the price he would have to pay for loving you back? Would you
     trust yourself to know between right and wrong? If you could see the
     hopeless end of your journey, would you still take the road? And when
     all was over, would you be blind to see a new road lying at your
     feet? Would you dare follow it? Would you, Faramir?
Notes
     This story is based on Book canon re character looks, events and
     dates.
     Thanks to LJ for beta on Chapter 1.
     "Falling Into You" by Celine Dion would be the song to listen to
     before reading this chapter.
***** A Little Less Conversation *****
                                              'There are two tragedies in life.
                                            One is to lose your heart’s desire.
                                                      The other is to gain it.’
                                                                               
                                                            George Bernard Shaw
                                                                               
                                        
“I am telling you, they were looking at you! I mean really looking,” Boromir
gave a throaty laugh and clapped his brother on the shoulder as they walked
down a shady palace corridor.
Faramir blushed but said nothing, for he too had noticed how the girls were
eyeing him earlier that day, and had heard their giggles and hushed whispers as
well. It had made him both excited and uncomfortable: only recently had he
started to develop an interest in such matters, and the whole business still
seemed to him somewhat awkward and embarrassing. Fresh out of childhood, he was
not at all used to this sort of attention.
Meanwhile Boromir winked at him and pressed on: “They are visiting for just a
week, you know. I wouldn’t miss the chance if I were you.”
“Miss the chance to do what, brother?” Faramir asked exasperatedly. He did not
appreciate the way the older brother made fun of him over this highly sensitive
subject. Secretly, he had hoped that feminine affection would make him look
more grown-up in Boromir’s eyes. Alas, he had naively overestimated his
brother’s capability for consideration, as usual.
“Do what?! Pray do not tell me you do not even know what you are supposed to
do!” Boromir was so obviously enjoying himself. His taunting was good-natured,
of course, but it was taunting all the same. “You doknow, right?”
“I… Well, certainly.”
“And…?” Beaming, Boromir raised his eyebrows, awaiting further explanation. He
had turned around, and was now walking almost backwards to see the better into
the boy’s face.
“Oh, let me be! For Valar’s sake, it is not as if you actually expect me to
talk of it!”
“Believe me, brother, once you get a taste of what they have to offer, it will
be the only thing for you to speak of day and night.” The young man laughed
again and shook his head amusedly. He still marveled at the recent changes in
his brother’s appearance and bearing.
Faramir could not see it, of course, but in the last couple of years he had
become very different. Always a charming child, he was now turning out to be an
exceptionally handsome youth. Although very alike to Boromir he appeared, there
was a special, gentle loveliness to his looks that the older brother did not
possess. The same grey eyes, same noble features, same shiny raven hair, same
tall and agile frames they sported; yet whereas Boromir had always had around
himself an air of power and sheer masculinity, Faramir’s fair face and grace of
movement produced a more sensual and delicate allure. And they were different
in conduct also: Boromir’s charm was in his strength, pride and confidence; but
Faramir won people over with his kindness and attention, with his genuine
desire to understand the heart of another. It showed in his bright intelligent
eyes, for he could look at you like you alone mattered to him.
Now, as nature began preparing him for manhood, there emerged the first hints
at how he would look when fully grown. Faramir had stretched taller and
broadened in shoulders, legs and chest no longer childishly skinny but sporting
lean and defined muscle, which made his protruding hip bones and clavicles look
endearingly boyish by contrast. He dearly wished to have a beard like Boromir,
but there was little hope for that, as his chin and upper lip were smooth as
ever. His eyes were still very pure, and his lips full and rosy like a child’s,
but his other features were changing: his jaw and cheekbones were becoming more
prominent, outlining the future shape of his face. He was in between two stages
of life, neither boy nor young man. But already his looks were attracting
glances at least as much as did his lineage. What more, he seemed disarmingly
unaware of his own beauty, as close to complete innocence of body and mind as a
boy approaching fifteen could possibly be.
That innocence had but a little while left to last, no doubt. In fact, Boromir
was surprised it had lasted so long. But he was certain that in no time his
little brother would find all the doors of the adult world open to him.
Actually, they were already open, only Faramir was hesitating to enter.
And really, Boromir could not help picking on his little brother over it, for,
although the young man did not admit it to himself, did not even realise it,
this recent change was unsettling him. He was used to being completely
comfortable with Faramir, but now there were some things – things which had
been perfectly enjoyable three, even two years ago – but which Boromir
instinctively felt to have somehow become inappropriate. Like when coming home
on a particularly cold day they would fight over who was going to take the hot
bath first, and in the end would just climb in together. Or that favourite
entertainment of Boromir’s, when he would unexpectedly pounce on Faramir, fell
him to the bed, pin him down and mercilessly tickle him half to death, making
Faramir shriek with laughter and squirm, letting go only when the boy was so
breathless and exhausted he could only moan and kick his legs faintly.
Not to mention that incident when Boromir came to their chamber early, only to
find Faramir there as well, sitting spread-legged on the bed’s edge, hand
working feverishly inside his trousers. This behaviour was perfectly natural
and only to be expected, of course, and such a situation was bound to have
happened sooner or later, yet for some reason it had rendered Boromir so
horribly, monstrously embarrassed that his first reaction had been to make fun
of his brother so viciously he had nearly reduced the poor boy to tears.
And now this thing… Not in a thousand years would he be able to explain why,
but he did not like it.
Deep down he knew he ought to leave Faramir alone already, but it only made him
itch to pester the boy all the more.
Luckily for Faramir, at that point in the conversation they left the palace
grounds and entered one of the narrower side streets leading to the busy main
avenue. Boromir was not malicious enough to humiliate his brother in public
with his teasing. So for the time being he let the matter rest.
                                      ***
Although there were plenty of spare rooms in the royal quarters, neither of the
brothers had ever expressed a desire to occupy a separate chamber. However, now
it was more and more seldom that Boromir spent the night in their old bedroom.
Sometimes he would be gone for days serving his duty as Captain; on other
occasions it was only for the night that he left. In the latter case he would
return by morning, tired but apparently pleased, his clothes rumpled and a
smell of mead and something sweet and unfamiliar around him. Strange as it may
seem, it was on such nights and not during long military expeditions that
Faramir missed him most. Both envy and jealousy the boy had to fight, awaiting
sleeplessly the older brother’s return. And always a great relief he felt when
before dawn Boromir finally strolled inside and gave him a conspiratorial wink.
For it meant that whoever’s company he had enjoyed in the darkness, he never
stayed with them but came back to Faramir.
The autumn had brought chills and a freshness, as well as early sunsets. Little
light was coming from the tall window, and Boromir went to set fire to the logs
in the hearth. He squatted in front of the fireplace, and Faramir, who was
sitting on his bed, braced himself. Boromir’s laughing eyes had been too
intimidating, and now, when the young man had turned away, was the moment.
The boy asked tentatively: “So, Boromir, you truly think I should do something
about… about Linnith and Tiriel?”
Boromir shrugged and answered absent-mindedly: “Well, if you want to…”
“I would… But…um…”
“But what?” Forsaking the logs, Boromir looked at Faramir over his shoulder,
and the boy blushed instantly. This time the older brother’s face was wholly
serious and he frowned in disapproval. “You are giving this matter too much
thought. Leave it to the ladies to construct elaborate strategies and brood
over the meaning of your behaviour. You are to be a man very soon, Faramir. So
learn to do it like a man. We are meant to live by action, to do things. You
see an opportunity, you take it. It’s that simple,” and at this he returned his
attention to the flame. It had already started a happy little dance on the dry
wood, and warm reflections were flickering on Boromir’s face and clothes.
“But I don’t know what to do!” Faramir half cried, half whispered in
desperation. It was humiliating to be saying this, to be lectured on manly
behaviour, yet far less humiliating than losing face with one of those bright-
eyed, dark haired girls.
“There is nothing to know, brother.” Although Boromir still sounded annoyed, he
spoke more softly now. “There is no theory I could teach you. Just as I could
not teach you through words alone how to ride a horse or wield a sword.”
“But I am good at learning through words, Boromir. Explain as you will… Or
just… just tell me how you do it.”
This time it was Boromir who blushed, for that side of his life had never
happened to be discussed between them. Slowly he walked to his own bed opposite
Faramir’s and sat down, his eyes on the hearth. Although there was a distance
of several feet between them, the young man almost physically sensed the boy’s
agitation and awkwardness.
“Learn well you may, but I am not a good teacher, Faramir. I do not know how to
speak of these things. I was only jesting earlier today, I’ve never really
talked of it. With girls there was never a need for words,” at this he grinned
and rubbed the back of his neck, as though remembering a pleasant moment.
At this point, unexpectedly even for himself, Faramir stood up and challenged
him: “Then be true to your words, brother! You say to live by action. So let us
not talk of it, just show me.” His voice had started loud and daring, but
finished in a barely audible whisper. Instantly he was abashed and filled with
regret, and a fierce red flooded his cheeks. He lowered his face in trepidation
of Boromir’s reaction.
In the meantime a look of uttermost amazement had come upon the young man’s
face, and his mouth dropped slightly open. He contemplated Faramir for several
long moments, at a loss for what to answer. Sometimes his little brother could
really astound him. Then Boromir threw his head back and laughed heartily.
Startled, the boy looked up at him in bewilderment.
“Well said, Faramir! As ever a master of words you are. Never again shall I
speak lightly in your presence.” Boromir spread his arms, acknowledging defeat,
a broad grin still upon his lips. “But I shall be true to what I preach. I’ll
show you.”
He paused, and as he accepted this new role his expression changed
unrecognisably; and Faramir was swayed by what he saw. Never had he witnessed
such a look on his brother’s face; and that look made him feel suddenly dizzy
and hot inside his clothes. Boromir appeared at ease with himself and relaxed,
but a bright, dark fire had lit up within his usually cool eyes. And he
regarded Faramir in such a pleased, contented manner, as though there could not
be a sight more comely under the stars – and Faramir became acutely aware of
the two of them being alone behind closed doors.
Slowly Boromir raised his hand and thoughtfully caressed his short smooth
beard, as meanwhile his gaze shamelessly moved up and down the boy’s body. This
must be how he is with women, Faramir thought vaguely, no wonder they swoon
when he is around.
Boromir spoke: “Come over then,” both an invitation and a command, the voice
giving it warm and playful.
At these simple words Faramir’s already pounding heart beat even faster. He did
as he was told, and a strange lightness was in his head. He stopped in front of
Boromir, not looking at the man, yet sharply sensing how close they were.
Boromir took him softly on the shoulders and motioned for the boy to kneel. He
was now slightly above Faramir, and he put his hand beneath his brother’s
smooth chin and beckoned him to lift his face. A pure and lovely face it was,
and to the young man it seemed only natural that he should be the one to take
its innocence. Boromir waited patiently until at last Faramir looked up and met
his eyes. There the boy saw emotions he knew no names for, yet they spoke to
him more clearly than any words could. And he felt the same forces waking up in
himself for the very first time, and it rendered him powerless and vaguely
afraid, and he held still, unable to do anything at all, just holding his
brother’s gaze, just looking into him…
The hand beneath Faramir’s chin traveled in a gentle caress along his
pronounced jaw line, brushing lightly on the neck and behind the ear, sending
shivers down his spine. Unaware of it, he leant into this warm touch and
pressed his cheek into his brother’s palm.
Boromir watched his brother as though mesmerised, and traced his thumb to the
corner of Faramir’s mouth and below his full, bright lips. The lips parted at
his touch, and he felt a hot and restrained breath on his skin.
Time seemed to pause in its passage…
And then Faramir knew it would happen. Boromir looked searchingly into his
eyes, and then his gaze slid to the boy’s lips. Letting go of his reservations,
the older brother exhaled through his mouth and lowered his eyelids. The last
thing the younger one felt before his senses left him, was that the warm hand
on his cheek trembled. And then Boromir leant forward and kissed him.
Instantly he drowned in the soft shyness of Faramir’s lips. He was tempted to
wrench them open and pry inside with his tongue, to devour this mouth, to claim
it completely. But his brother was so diffident in returning Boromir’s
advances… and the young man forced himself to progress slowly. First taking
Faramir’s upper lip in between his own and pressing on it gently, he then did
the same to the lower one. This he repeated again and again, each time gaining
a more enthusiastic response. The boy’s mouth grew warmer and warmer until it
seemed almost feverishly hot. Then Boromir tilted his head and kissed him
sideways, spreading Faramir’s lips wider apart.
The boy’s hands acted as though off their own accord and came to rest on the
man’s arm and heaving chest. When the tender, uncertain hand covered the very
spot beneath which his heart was beating, Boromir drew away for a second, as
though in a last vain attempt to escape the inevitable. He had a really bad
feeling about this. It was not what he had expected, not what he had signed up
for at all… And then all his resolves crumbled. Grabbing Faramir on both
shoulders, he pulled him forcefully forwards, and bit ravenously into his
mouth, and thrust his tongue in between the burning hot lips, and moaned aloud
when his actions were all too eagerly returned. And they opened their mouths as
far as nature allowed, pressing and rubbing lip against lip, tongue against
tongue, all surfaces becoming equally heated and moist, flesh colliding and
breaths mingling. Faramir’s arms snaked around Boromir’s neck, and the boy held
on as if for dear life.
The air around them had grown dense and charged as though before a storm,
filled with a heavy and hypnotising scent of desire. Faramir felt disoriented,
oblivious to the hard cool floor under his knees, to his brothers’ fingers
gripping him none too gently on the shoulders. He had entered an altogether new
state of being, where nothing but them was real. All consciousness was burned
to nothing by the flame of his brother’s body and touch. Only the heat, the
senseless need was left within him, and Faramir did not resist it, could not
think of resisting it. A primary want awoke inside him, sending a fiery ache
down his spine straight into his loins. His aroused manhood demanded attention,
and unconsciously he pressed it against the inner side of Boromir’s thigh.
Without thinking, Boromir reached down and cupped the bulge between Faramir’s
legs with his hand. Faramir’s mouth slid away from the kiss as the intensity of
the sensation shook him. This touch was almost too intimate, too erotic to
bear. Pressing his hardness into his brother’s probing hand, he searched for
Boromir’s mouth again, the wetness of the boy’s lips smearing across his
brother’s face.
But instead of helping him reseal the kiss, the young man drew sharply away and
leapt to his feet, in the process shoving his brother to the floor. Faramir
took the fall hard as it came unexpectedly, the sudden pain in his shoulder and
arm jolting him back to reality.
Boromir stared down at him, bewildered, guilty and almost disgusted at once,
his face contorted. The young man raised his hand and ran it across his mouth
and cheek, tracing Faramir’s touch. He shut his eyes as though to look at the
scene was more than he could bear, and a tremor ran through him.
“Boromir, please…” Faramir reached out to him, unable to think of anything else
to say.
But the sound of his voice seemed to have become the last straw for Boromir. He
groaned desperately and rushed past Faramir and out of the chamber.
That night the Steward’s younger son spent alone.
                                      ***
Boromir walked the streets mindlessly for some time. He did not watch where his
feet were taking him, and eventually he found himself in the lower city, where
the citizens dwelled. The sky was by then completely dark and littered with
stars, the streets illuminated by warm yellow lamps hung from house walls.
Passersby were scarce, and those who came his way and saw his face drew back
hastily.
In his hurry Boromir had not thought to take his outer clothes, and was
beginning to shiver as the night’s chill crept under his linen tunic. He swore
under his breath. Going back was out of the question, but neither did he fancy
the idea of staying out in the cold, one on one with his conscience. What else?
He could go to the soldiers’ quarters, there would always be a place for the
Captain. But coming there in the middle of the night in his house clothes would
look queer, and he hated to look queer, especially before his men. Anyway he
was in no state to join a company now, his feelings in turmoil, the shameful
longing still torturing him.
But then he thought of something. And the more he thought about it, the more he
liked it, and even grinned ironically to himself. It was a brilliant solution,
actually. It would deal with several problems at once: it would give him a warm
place to sleep, and distract his mind, and relieve his body.
Not far from where he had come in his wandering there was a small house. A
young woman lived there all by herself: a soldier’s widow, still young and
fresh. He visited her once in a while to accommodate his manly needs, nothing
more. She always obliged him and never asked anything of him. It was a most
convenient arrangement.
She was in her chamber preparing for bed, when she heard a knock on the door,
such that only Lord Boromir made. She did not bother to take a light with her
when she went to open, for she knew it was him. He terrified her, when he had
hardly let her close the door after him and grabbed her by the wrist, and
practically dragged her to the bedroom. For a moment she even thought it was
not him after all. But in her chamber a candle was burning, so she saw that it
was indeed Boromir; and his face was frightful to look at.
The young lord was none too gentle with her. He pinned her to the bed with his
weight and wrought her mouth open with a rough and painful kiss, groping her
breasts at the same time. He wanted it over quickly, and not bothering to
undress her or himself, he merely hiked up her skirt. But just as he was about
to lower his trousers, he suddenly realised that he was not ready yet. This was
most extraordinarily strange – he had never been slow to arouse.
Boromir sat up and exhaled heavily. At once he felt very tired, and it seemed
absurd that he should be there, doing what he was trying to do. But he did not
give up, it was not like him to abandon a venture midway.
“All right,” he said, “a bit slower now. Take off your dress and we shall do it
properly.” As she complied, he also pulled his tunic off over his head. But
when his eyes fell on her naked body, his already dwindling desire died
altogether. The ripe roundness of her breasts, the feminine breadth of her
hips, the full curves of her thighs – all the things which used to excite him
so, now caused only aversion, repulsion almost. And then he became aware of her
scent, the specific womanly scent that had once made his instincts flare up at
once. It seemed now sour and pungent, and he could not get rid of it.
Boromir did not say anything this time. Absently he stood up, took his shirt
and left.
It would be a long cold night after all.
                                      ***
When morning came, Faramir felt little better. Pale and weary, his eyes
underlined with dark bluish circles, he left the chamber and descended to the
Tower Hall for breakfast. Denethor was already there. Deep in thought and
looking rather pleased with himself, he paid little attention to Faramir
appearing.
Only two plates were set, and the boy wondered why no meal was served for
Boromir.  Yet he was afraid to ask, suspecting his brother’s absence had to do
with the events of the previous night. Faramir had prayed all would be
forgotten with the coming of the new day, and hoped Boromir would already be
there, devouring the food and speaking animatedly with Father. Now the empty
chair opposite him made it more than clear that his prayers had gone
unanswered.
Having barely eaten, he excused himself and headed for the gardens at the
Houses of Healing, one city circle below. It was the only green place in Minas
Tirith, and Faramir hoped its serenity and seclusion would aid him in
collecting his senses and deciding how to act next. Perhaps he ought to act as
though nothing had happened?Actually, nothinghashappened, he was only helping
me practice, the boy told himself. We got a bit carried away… But it means
nothing!
Faramir slumped onto a marble bench and bowed his head, clasping fistfuls of
dark hair in his hands. Inexperienced as he was, something told him that what
had happened meant more than nothing. Far more… Moreover, in his heart of
hearts he yearned for it to recur, and wished in shame that Boromir had not
stopped. Would he not lose his mind if Boromir kissed him on the neck as he had
on the mouth, if he tore apart his shirt and sucked on his nipples, if he undid
his trousers and…?
It was impossible to see beyond the clouds of emotion swirling in his head. He
groaned just as Boromir had done the night before. The situation was too
complicated, too complex for him to untangle, to even understand. Yet one thing
was clear: the blame lay on him. I have started it all, I made my brother do it
by challenging him to keep true to his words. I have caused him great distress,
I am responsible. It would be despicable to pretend it had never taken place!
With a fresh resolve to seek Boromir and clear the matter, Faramir hurried out
of the garden. He hastened to find his brother lest his determination crumble
before fear and uncertainty.
Not knowing where to start the search, he headed impulsively for their chamber.
To his surprise, Boromir was actually there. The young man was standing with
his back to the door, his soldier’s possessions spread on the bed and floor
before him, a large saddle-bag in his hand, another one lying at his feet. He
did not turn as Faramir walked in, yet the boy saw him grow stiff with tension.
“Boromir…” he began and was dismayed to have his voice catch in his throat.
“Father has sent me on a mission with the troops,” the older brother
interrupted in an expressionless tone. “I must be gone very soon. Please do not
bother me, I need to pack my things.”
These words were like a blow on the solar plexus, and rendered Faramir
breathless. Never had Boromir spoken to him thus, never had he dismissed him as
a nuisance, as a nosy child. Tears suddenly welled in the boy’s eyes, and he
forgot everything he had been meaning to say to his brother.
He ran out and let the door slam behind him, no longer caring what Boromir
would think.
                                      ***
In the evening the Steward and his younger son ate alone again, as Boromir had
departed at noon. Faramir could not taste the broth he was absently spooning
into his mouth. His life had been split at the very core, and little mattered
to him now.
“I wish to speak with you, child,” Father said pushing his empty plate away.
“For you worry me.”
Faramir froze with the spoon midway to his mouth. He knows. Oh, Valar, he
knows!
But Denethor looked concerned rather than wrathful, scrutinising the boy with
his heavy eyes. “You know well enough a father’s heart is large enough to love
all his children at once. Yet it will grant its love to those only who are
worthy of it. You are strong of body and sharp of mind, my son, but where is
your spirit? We live in a dark time, a time of war, but you do not wish to
fight. You brother this morning came to me begging to let him leave the
confines of safety. He yearned to be gone with the men, to protect Gondor with
his sword. Boromir cannot stand inaction, but what of you, Faramir? Does it not
shame you that others die to grant you peaceful living? Would you not take
pleasure in slaying our enemies? Do you not strive to make me proud? All your
reading, all these songs and tales – all that would have been very nice in a
different time, but –”
“He begged you to let him leave…?” Faramir’s spoon fell heavily into his bowl
and sent a fountain of soup in all directions.
“Aye, that he did. And I see you are surprised, for Boromir has acted in valour
but did not boast to you. Take heed of my word, son, make his action an example
for yourself. Do not force me to be disappointed in you.”
Faramir was speechless with outrage. ‘Father sent me on a mission with the
troops’, you said, dear brother. Father sent, my arse! You coward, you fled
from me, you would not even look me in the eye! How little do I mean to you if
you could forsake me like this?!
“I am sorry, Father,” he turned to the Steward at last, his voice for once
defiant, his glare ablaze with hurt and offence. But Denethor mistook the
emotions in Faramir’s eyes for pride and ambition, and was glad.
“I must have forgotten my place and duty,” the boy went on, and the words he
was saying seemed to him not his own. Now his father was the only person whose
opinion of him mattered. And Denethor had made it perfectly clear how his
favour was to be won.
“Pray forgive me and grant me a chance to prove my worth to you. I shall do
whatever deed you see fit for a Steward’s son. Send me wherever I am needed.”
“Truly, you give me a reply I had hoped for yet did not expect to hear.”
Faramir winced slightly at the diminishing words but held his father’s gaze
steadily. “On the morrow a group of Rangers are setting out to join the patrols
on the Eastern borders. You are good with the bow, you may go with them.”
The Eastern borders.
Any Gondorian knows what those words stand for.
Mordor.
 
***** On the Contradictory Nature of Love *****
Chapter Notes
     Thanks:
     To balrog and Alcardilmë for beta on this chapter.
     To iris for her patient help with this story and general artistic
     encouragement.
     To my dear Anastasiya for never forgetting to prod me on with 'well,
     and where is the next chapter?'
     To everyone who is making comments and otherwise supporting me in
     writing this tale. My inspiration nourishes on every kind word from
     you.
     Note:
     For those of the readers who like listening to music while or before
     reading, the following would make a nice soundtrack: "Don't Forget"
     by Era.
      
     Previously_in_'After_a_Lifetime'
     Faramir turns to his brother for practical advice on girls, but
     things get out of hand. Bewildered by the suddenly kindled passion,
     Boromir flees their chamber. He then visits his mistress and tries to
     work it off on her, but his body refuses to cooperate. The following
     day, when guilt-ridden Faramir seeks him out for an explanation,
     Boromir pushes him away on account of being in a hurry preparing for
     an errand the Steward had sent him on. However, later that day
     Faramir learns from his father that Boromir had in fact begged to be
     allowed to leave the City – which Faramir takes as proof that his
     older brother despises him. Faramir is hurt and outraged, and – when
     Denethor starts praising Boromir for his self-effacing desire to
     protect Gondor – asks for a similar task. Pleasantly surprised, the
     Steward assigns him to join a group of Rangers to patrol the eastern
     borders.
                                                    ‘They wrote in the old days
                                                   that it is sweet and fitting
                                                     to die for one’s country.’
                                                              Ernest Hemmingway
                                                                               
A month had passed since Faramir and the group of soldiers left the high walls
of Minas Tirith. Grave and serious men as they were, they took to him warmly
and listened with earnest respect whenever he spoke – which he tried to avoid
doing unless necessary. Not an eyebrow had been lifted when he came to ride out
with their company: apparently, this was the Steward’s decision, and the
Steward’s decisions were not questioned. Faramir suspected that in truth he was
a burden to them, young and of precious lineage, no more than a hindrance on
the road – and then his ambiguous status. He could, had he so wished, turn the
next few months to living hell for them, for no matter how young, he was a
lord, and had he started making foolish orders, they would not have been able
to just wave him aside. Yes, although as of yet he had no men directly under
his command, technically he was already an officer: no man of noble blood was
ever a soldier, just as no soldier ever made it higher than a corporal.
The men’s genuine acceptance should have gladdened him, but it in his present
state it brought little comfort.
What did bring him comfort was the purpose of his being there. Faramir was
meant to help the Rangers, and so he did. Knowing that his work was productive
and meaningful was his only consolation. One day he would become a proper
officer, and then pretty much everything would be done for him by others,
including putting food on his plate and washing his clothes in a stream – he
would only be overseeing it and giving lordly nods of approving satisfaction.
But for the time being he was still a beardless youth, one new to the company,
and, what with his unassuming conduct, no one saw anything unbefitting in that
he should perform all the small tasks and chores on a par with the other
soldiers.
Much as he was a lover of things fine and exquisite, things often hardly
tangible, such as song and legend, Faramir found profound pleasure in how
material his life was out here. There was no leisure, only work – and all the
work was of the most physical sort. He liked the corporality of this lifestyle:
how his muscles wore themselves to soreness, how his feet got tired by
nighttime, how intense were the smells, how hard and uncomfortable the ground
he slept on, how jaw-wrenchingly cold the water he drank from the creeks, how
belly-twistingly delicious the aroma of fresh game roasting over a fire,
dripping fat onto the coals. 
None of this was truly novel to him though, for his training had of course
included numerous practice expeditions into the wilderness: he had learnt how
to get about in the woods as well as in the mountains, both in summer and in
winter, how to survive on his own with minimum equipment if need be. Yet all
such previous travels had had a faint air of child’s play about them, for they
always took place within the confines of Gondor’s safety, away from any area
where a real foe could be found.
Now it was different. Even gathering wood for a campfire seemed important and
full of meaning, for it was a campfire which would warm up the warriors who
were on duty, keeping the lands and people of Gondor protected. Yes, it was
different: even when resting in the evening, talking freely and smiling, the
men were ever on guard, he could feel it. And the same state of constant semi-
vigilance, of having his body braced, his ears fine-tuned to the smallest
sounds, eyes ever ready to notice something out of place – this state was
becoming so habitual to him that soon he could hardly imagine existing in any
other mode.
Faramir awaited impatiently their first encounter with Orcs or whatever other
enemy. He hoped there would be one – one could never know these days. Months
and months could go by without any sign of activity from over the dark ridges
of Ephel Duath, making it tempting to believe no evil would ever walk in this
beautiful place. Yet ever a sensation of dark threatening presence remained,
and inevitably there would come a day when a marauding party would spill forth
from the mountains, seeking to cause whatever harm they could, to take away
people, cattle and horses, to murder as many as possible. Faramir hoped the day
would arrive before his assignment ended. He hoped, too, it would be Orcs, for
it seemed easier to take such a creature’s life than a Man’s. Perhaps, like
Boromir, he would find pleasure in fighting, in killing. Perhaps, the void
inside him would be filled.
Yet when a sizeable group of Orcs was finally espied heading towards the River,
obviously confident in their number, and the Rangers ambushed them, pleasure
was absent from his heart. Nor did he feel panic, or anger – his blood went
hot, but his mind was cold and clear, not a nerve in him had trembled. Only
great revulsion filled him as he threw aside his bow, swiftly parried one blow
of a charging enemy, then another, then drove his sword into the Orc’s abdomen.
Oblivious to the fetid blood splattering all over his front, he shoved the
sagging body aside and took on the next opponent.
Once all was finished, the men collected their arrows, and, as no one was
heavily wounded, quickly retreated further into the woods and sought a robust
creek in which to wash off the blood and dirt of the combat. It was done not
out of daintiness or fastidiousness, but to prevent marking their trail for
unwelcome company to follow.
They took turns, only two entering the water at a time, the others standing by
ready for a new assault – just in case, one could never be too vigilant.
The ground was freezing to step onto with bare feet, and the icy water bit
harshly at naked skin. The soldiers joked they were lucky winter had not come
yet. By right of birth Faramir was among the first to bathe, and he did so
eagerly, burning to cleanse himself of the sticky Orkish blood that had seeped
through his garments to his very skin. Then he stood aside watching the other
men from the corner of his eye.
The boy had not yet had chance to see any of them unclothed – had not seen any
man unclothed after that thing had happened. He had wondered whether the look
of their strong muscular bodies would summon in him the incongruous toxic
desire of that unfortunate night. But nothing happened. They were but naked
people to him, not particularly handsome or graceful, with numerous scars and
plenty of hair on their bodies.
Yet whenever he recalled, albeit involuntarily, the feel of his brother’s lips
on his own, and the way that warm hand had groped in his most intimate places,
instantly he grew hot all over, and a briefest bliss enveloped him before shame
and bitterness took over.
But after his first real combat, this was not the only matter to trouble him.
He was thoughtfully quiet throughout the rest of that day. Late in the evening
gloom, when a damp mist had gathered in the gullies, he sat huddled in his
cloak by the dying campfire: looking deep into himself, evaluating his
emotions, his impressions.
He knew something in him had been changed by the experience with the Orcs, and
he strained to understand what exactly. Too much seemed to be changing in him
lately…
On the surface he felt only a dry grim satisfaction, as one does after
performing an unpleasant but necessary task. Deeper down, however, there was
something else: what lay at the bottom of the satisfaction, what caused it –
something most akin to a strong passion, steady and certain. This was strange.
He had thought love was a soft and tender thing. He had thought love for one’s
land was best expressed through patient and persistent gentle care, through
hard diligent labour: tending the woods, growing crops, building neat comely
villages and so forth. Yet now he felt that this brutal, violent thing he had
done, the thing that had made his heart beat faster and sweat break on his brow
from the sheer physical exertion, this thing that had filled his chest with
defiant fire – this thing was the ultimate proof of his love, of the bone-deep
bond between him and the country he belonged to.
And it felt so very right, so very fitting, to be pledging allegiance with his
very blood and flesh.
He had never fully understood this before that day. He had seen what this
service might eventually lead to: slain men were brought to the City far too
often, and also those heavily injured, groaning quietly, some deathly pale,
others flushed with fever. His father was always very particular about coming
to the Wards to personally thank each such soldier for his service – and never
failed to take his sons along, inuring them to this side of a lord’s duty, to
the reality of life, to the price of their very existence. Faramir had seen
many a ghastly torn wound, quite a few of them obviously incompatible with
life. He had always been twisted by an excruciating mixture of pity, horror and
inexplicable guilt as he looked in the faces of the men bearing such marks of
loyalty. It had seemed nothing but a tragedy to him that they should suffer so,
that they should die. The stern acceptance in his father’s face, one with a
faint trace of approval, had always bewildered him – how could the Steward be
so calm, how could he earnestly honour their fate? Faramir could only weep at
it.
But now… He moved his shoulders against the chill and stared ahead of himself
into the murky grey darkness between the disheveled trees, their moist bark
appearing almost black. His young face was grave and unreadable, only a deep
crease between his brows betraying his intense inner work. This was apparently
how life worked. Had he been the one creating this world, he would have made it
differently – but no one had taken care to ask for his opinion. And in the life
he had been dealt, the supreme expression of a highest and cleanest love
apparently had to be rather beastly in nature. The beastliness, by some twisted
logic, seemed to make it real, powerful, piercing to the marrow.
Of course, he would have loved Gondor in peace, in glorious majesty. He was
born with devotion to her in his veins, he would have loved her regardless. And
he wished her peace, with all his heart he did. And yet… There would have been
pride for her power in his love, and tenderness for her beauty – yes, only that
love would not have been… He sighed uneasily, for it felt akin to treason to be
even admitting this to himself. No, it would not have been as guttingly
complete as it was now. He would have loved her from a distance, unable to
fully feel her with his very bones, unable to feel the kinship between her soil
and his flesh. Whereas when there was this deep simmering passion he had just
found, this visceral need to protect her, to serve her and claim her as his own
through the service, this desire to risk everything for her – his love became
fierce, and left him no doubt, no fear.
This love had little in common with the exalted, soaring, almost romantic
sentiment that he felt when looking in admiration at the white Tower of Guard
in the pink glory of sunrise, when walking through the grand albeit cheerless
ancient halls of the palace, when listening to melodious ballads about Gondor’s
royal splendour in the ages past.
There was no place for romance in this love, it was too tragic for that. He
knew well enough that at some point he would have to hold a slain friend dying
in his arms. He knew well enough that not all those who were with him that
evening would be around in a year’s time. He knew well enough that one day he
might have to fight against not only the beastly progeny of darkness like Orcs
and Trolls, but also Men not entirely unlike himself – men whose blood ran red,
not black. He had read of the kin-slaying wars of the past, and the very idea
of it had shaken his heart. Admittedly, these men would be not his kin, but the
enemy’s servants from some distant realm – but he reckoned not all who served
the Dark Lord did so out of the unconditionally evil nature of their heart.
Some must be driven simply by force or fear…
To murder a man who, just like him, loved the blazing white of the sun in the
blue of the sky, and the sound of wind in the trees, who could smile and laugh,
who thought of someone dear when lying in camp at night… Something like this he
could never rejoice in, no matter the cause. Yet he knew, with frightening
certainty, that he would carry it through without wincing, if the fate of his
people depended on it.
Yes, this was, for better or worse, how life worked.
Not that it made a particularly pleasant world to live in, though.
He wondered suddenly where Boromir was. Was he also somewhere out in the
wilderness, sitting at a campfire, gloomy and lonely, thinking? Was it possible
he was thinking of Faramir…?
Faramir frowned sternly. Not likely.
What did he care anyway?
It was time to grow up. How could he count on his father’s love when it was so
hard to earn? How could he even wish for his brother’s love when it had been so
easy to lose?  He would have to learn to live with his own strength and not
rely on what others thought of him. He would harden, and become a man, and be
his own support and solace.
                                      ***
With the passage of days he gained further respect from his comrades, who
complimented him openly on his courage and level-headedness in combat, and
amongst themselves spoke of the strangely heartening effect this boy’s calm
presence had on them. They would no longer restrain him or try to keep him
behind when they fought. Although he had only just turned fifteen, his lack of
a grown man’s strength was made up for by agility and swift judgement.
But as chilly winds tore the last leaves off the trees and a thin shroud of
snow fell upon the higher foothills, there came a time when his skills did not
help him. It was an inhospitable bitter time of the year, and the Orcs seemed
to be getting hungry. Too many were the Rangers’ foes and too suddenly they
struck. Faramir answered the attack fearless and steady as ever and came out of
it alive, but several wounds were set in his body. On their own neither one of
them was severe enough to claim his life, but together the cuts drained him of
much blood and strength.
His men would hear no objection and at once arranged a small convoy to deliver
him safely to the City, where his injuries could be properly tended and healed.
Along the journey he grew feverish and reached Minas Tirith in a half-
unconscious state.
That night he slept fitfully, though the healers’ potions and clever hands had
set him on the course for recovery.
As he awoke not long before noon, he found the Steward by his bedside. Had
Faramir opened his eyes a minute earlier, he might have noticed a vague sadness
in his father’s eyes, a softness almost akin to tenderness. But Denethor had
noticed his son stirring to wake and had had time to arrange his features
according to his reasons. And, with just a right measure of disappointment
showing on his pale face, the lord nodded to Faramir with dry approval.
“You have endeavoured to serve Gondor properly, son, even though you had to be
carried back in the arms of our men. But nevertheless I give heed to your
efforts. You may show some worth after all.”
This was not the way Father usually greeted his wounded warriors. Yet such was
the nature of Faramir’s heart, that he took no offence at this cynical
judgement of his achievements. In fact, his father’s words seemed almost like
praise to him, and he smiled.
                                      ***
“But my lord, the young prince is sleeping, he needs rest!” a healer’s
indignant voice carried past the closed doors of the ward.
Faramir half sat up and strained his ears to hear clearer. But there was no
need to listen in as another voice bellowed: “Out of my way, you dimwit! I wish
to see my brother!”
There was a sound as of someone being shoved hard, and the heavy wooden doors
flung open. Boromir burst in, his face flushed and agitated. In an instant he
was by Faramir’s bed, clutching the boy’s hand, his gaze jumping between
Faramir’s clear grey eyes.
“Please, little one, tell me all is well with you! I would not bear it if any
real harm had come to you!” He was short of breath, having apparently sprinted
to the hospital all the way from the city gates. Still dressed in his traveling
gear, he looked worn and disheveled, his hair a mess, the beard unkempt and
over-grown. A strong smell of horse sweat and long road hung around him. “I
came as soon as I heard of what befell you, but I could not come fast enough…”
Faramir was pierced by the desperate worry and penitence in his brother’s eyes,
and what a joy it was to see Boromir again… But doubt gnawed painfully at the
boy. His features set, he jerked his chin up and snatched his hand away.
“Nothing befell me that should concern you.”
Boromir stared at him aghast, hurt clearly readable in his face.
“But how could it not concern me, dear Faramir? We are brothers, you are more
precious to me than anyone!”
“Yet little precious to you I was when you were leaving on that so-called
mission, Boromir.”
The young man groaned tiredly and slumped heavily on a chair by the bed.
“I was harsh to you, little brother, but I had to go. How could I oppose
Father’s will?”
“Father’s will had nothing to do with it. He told me… he told me you came to
him and begged to send you away! That’s what he said, that you begged, you were
desperate to go!” All the pain, all the confusion, all the anger Faramir had
been harbouring for these past months were bursting forth. He could see his
words were stinging Boromir, but could not contain the accusations.
Boromir suddenly looked small, all colour drained from his face except for two
bright spots on his cheeks. He lowered his face and uttered quietly: “Aye, that
I did, I begged.”
“And I reasoned –” Faramir felt a lump in his throat, but went on nonetheless,
for he knew that otherwise he would never say it. “I reasoned it was because of
me, because you did not wish to see me any longer.”
A long burdened moment, no sound except the beating of his own heart in each
brother’s ears, then:
“Aye, you speak the truth once more.”
“Then why…?” the boy’s voice broke, and he was silent, having unconsciously
gathered fistfuls of his blanket in his hands.
Boromir covered his eyes with his hand, his head bending ever lower. After what
seemed like an hour, he spoke, his voice filled with all the weariness of the
world: “You had scared me, little brother. What… what you did to me… and what I
had nearly done to you… I had never known such madness to hide within me. Aye,
I fled – but only to protect you, protect you from myself. Such a torment your
presence would’ve become! Within reach day and night. Not myself, I was not
myself, Faramir! I would have… I would have either succumbed to it or gone mad,
I... You came to me in my sleep!”
Boromir clenched his fist, as though the mere memory of those nighttime visions
caused him physical suffering. “I did things to you in my dreams, you wouldn’t
believe… And who could withstand such temptation?! It is beyond my… There’s no
torture more cruel than temptation… And then the other side of it: the guilt…
You, my little one, are so pure, you don’t know shit about things. I am
supposed to take care of you… protect… And to think I have nearly ruined you,
nay – everything, ruined everything – with my very own hands…! But do you not
see?! Faramir, I could not…” and at last he peered up at Faramir: desperately,
pleadingly, as though making Faramir understand the depth of his torment would
somehow set everything right.
The boy was sitting very upright and very still, his face pale, lips slightly
parted and eyes wide and shining as he stared at Boromir. Faramir had never
seen his brother look so miserable, so… endearingly pitiful; had never heard
him speak with such pain. And although the realisation that Boromir had never
scorned or hated him had seared his heart with joy, the light and warmth of
that knowledge were almost immediately extinguished by the cool waters of
numbing ache for the young warrior before him, stripped of all pride and
dignity. Yes, Boromir’s confession hurt Faramir more than all the Orkish blades
possibly could. And then the pain was in turn overtaken by a sensation far more
crushing – bitter, twisting shame. Shame that in his indignation he had judged
Boromir, and judged him so unfairly, so unkindly. Not only that – because of
his arrogance and blindness his best friend, who had apparently already been
beside himself with worry and distress, had just been forced to relive probably
the most wretched time in his life. 
Thus Faramir decided to keep it to himself that he had also had all sorts of
thoughts and dreams – dreams whose illusive bliss disappeared as soon as he
woke, taunting him with an only too material muggy stickiness between his legs…
Not to mention that those dreams had not been wholly unwelcome… No, that
knowledge would have only added to Boromir’s affliction.
“I am sorry,” Faramir whispered quietly. Then he shook his head and, making an
effort to get a hold of himself, tried to softly soothe his brother. “None of
what you say had been known to me. I am sorry I was bitter with you just now,
and I am sorry I had doubted you. I thought you merely despised me, Boromir,
for what I had done... You were as though lost to me forever.”
It had not taken Boromir long to regain his self-control – and with it his
usual slightly condescending derisiveness. He snorted. “And I would have been
lost to you indeed, had the lads not got you to the City in time. What’s all
this heroic shit about? Going to Ithilien and all, when everyone knows it’s
crawling with Orc and what not, especially at this time of year.”
Faramir sighed uneasily. “Like I said, I thought I would never get to be your
friend again. ’Tis… You don’t know what that means to me, brother.” He had
quite forgotten his earlier resolve to harden and not care about anyone’s love
for him. “I wished at least to make Father happy, to prove my worth. But no
harm was done, and –”
“No harm?! Just look at yourself… Ah, and these wounds are my fault, too! Had I
been here, none of this would have happened… And Father… stupidly risking your
life at his bidding he sees as a proof of loyalty! Damn it, how can this be?!
You were only fourteen when you were given that assignment, you were not ready
to do such things!” Boromir did not overlook the fact that he himself had been
fourteen also when he started going on forays – it merely did not occur to him
to apply the same standards to his brother. “We have enough grown blokes, you
should not have had to –”
“But brother, you risk your life rather foolishly all the time, too – and do
not speak harshly of our father,” Faramir interrupted tiredly, leaning back
onto his pillows. The conversation had exhausted him, and he closed his eyes.
There were footsteps behind the door and then the healer’s head popped in. He
spoke in a hushed voice: “Lord Boromir, His Lordship has heard of your arrival
and wishes to speak with you. Besides…” he looked pointedly at Faramir.
Boromir sighed wearily and stood up. He made to leave, but then returned and
pressed his lips hastily to Faramir’s brow. Only the boy was already asleep.
                                      ***
Boromir came to visit every day, but they spoke no more of what had passed
between them. Neither of the two wanted nor could work up the courage to bring
it up again, and thus the most important questions remained unasked – and
unanswered.
Instead Faramir told Boromir of his first military experiences, while the older
brother shared his own tidings. And they were more on a par in this than ever
before, for now it was not an inexperienced boy adoringly drinking in every
word of a dashing young captain, believing even the most outrageous cock and
bull stories, but a young warrior who had his own tales to tell – one who
nodded with serious understanding as he listened to his brother, now quite able
to imagine some of the situations Boromir described.
And Faramir often saw pride for him light up his brother’s face, and knew that
without him ever having spoken of it directly, Boromir had, perhaps
unconsciously, sensed the transformation that had taken place in him after his
first battle.
At first, however, the boy had been reluctant to even mention that encounter,
deeming it a highly sensitive subject. Boromir had always assumed he would be
there when that day came, and Faramir knew that well enough. Before any rift
had come between them, the older brother had often talked of how Faramir’s
first time would be with him, how they would be fighting side by side when
Faramir’s virginal blade was baptised in real blood, when his first Orc was
slain. Boromir had so looked forward to witnessing and sharing the strain and
glory of that moment, to seeing his little brother step over the threshold to
manhood – to Boromir it was one of the most, if not the one most important
milestone in a warrior’s life. It had seemed only self-evident to him that it
should take place only with his direct involvement and under his guidance and
protection.
And now he had missed it.
It had happened – without him, and Faramir knew his brother must be bitter. Not
only that: he probably felt guilty as well, for not having been there to save
his little brother should something go awry.
But if that was so, Boromir never let on as much, even if only because to do so
would have reminded them both of what each had come to address in his thought
as ‘the incident’. And the man even appeared quite thrilled about Faramir’s
initiation as a warrior, and questioned the boy endlessly about his first
battle, hungry for the smallest detail.
To Faramir, after the intensity of the foray, it felt strange and unnatural to
be idling his days away in the quiet airy rooms with nothing to do, with hardly
anyone to talk to except when Boromir came over. In fact, as the healers had
pled with him not to go outside to the garden lest he catch a cold in his
weakened state, and all other visitors were turned away on the grounds of him
needing rest, his brother was his only entertainment in those days. And
Boromir, as Faramir suspected, was stealing time away from his duties,
lingering for hours at the boy’s bedside, never running out of things to talk
of and joke about.
Boromir, now that his face was cleared of the outmost anxiety of their reunion,
beard neatly trimmed and dark hair put in order, once more presented a comely
sight. He had grown slightly thinner during the long absence, but it was even
befitting him in a way: his features had become sharper, steel-grey eyes larger
and more prominent.
Against his better judgement, Faramir would wonder now and again whether his
brother was still subject to the temptation he had spoken of with such feeling.
It even discomposed the boy somewhat to see Boromir so nonchalant and relaxed
in his presence after that desperate confession. Faramir was only forced to
assume Boromir had been exaggerating. Or maybe the power of his repentance had
broken the spell. Or it had simply worn off, like the boy had heard these
things sometimes do. 
He did not dare ask himself whether he truly wished any of this to be the case.
 
***** Lavender *****
Chapter Notes
     Thanks to Alcardilmë and balrog for the beta.
      
     Previously_in_'After_a_Lifetime'
     Faramir is assigned to a group of Rangers in Ithilien. After a couple
     of months passing in the usual warrior routine, he is wounded in an
     Orc attack and taken to the City for healing. Several days later,
     Boromir, having learnt of his brother's trouble, hurriedly returns
     from his own mission. He finds Faramir in the hospital ward and tries
     to act as though nothing is wrong between them – but Faramir,
     remembering Boromir's earlier conduct, is cold and sarcastic with
     him, deeming Boromir's present concern and affection hypocritical and
     short-lived. Boromir is so staggered by Faramir's rejection and
     overwhelmed by his own long-nursed guilt, that he cannot withhold
     himself. He poignantly confesses that the only reason he had been
     unkind to Faramir and effectively ran away from him is that he was
     afraid that otherwise he would have succumbed to the wicked passion
     that had then taken him, and would have done something horrible to
     his brother (it is, however, not clear from his words whether he is
     still suffering from said desire).
     At this, Faramir not only immediately forgives him, but actually
     feels at fault himself, for having misjudged and offended Boromir.
     Thus they make peace – but do not dare raise the subject throughout
     the following days, while Faramir stays in the Houses of Healing.
     Boromir acts as before and is impossible to read, so Faramir grows to
     wonder if his brother had chased away or outgrown his yearning.
On the fourteenth evening after Boromir's return, when Faramir was beginning to
fear in earnest that he would go mad in the confines of his private ward, the
healers finally released Denethor's younger son. Faramir was certain it would
have been done much earlier, had he been an ordinary soldier and not the
Steward's offspring – but said Steward had not made another visit since his
son's awakening, so the head of the Houses, uncertain of the lord's viewpoint
on the matter, had obviously chosen to play it safe.
Faramir would not have been horribly surprised if in a couple more days he had
actually started looking forward to the visits of the warden who brought him
meals, the talkative elderly lady Ioreth, and her endless monologues about this
and that. After serving him, she would always hover around, sighing about how
he was too skinny and persistently protesting a young man like him, especially
one recovering from battle wounds, should eat thrice as much – which was not
unfair, for he was indeed having some serious trouble with his appetite as of
late.
It was not that he had not thought of some productive way to divert himself –
he had had one of the pages fetch him a whole stack of reading material from
the Library. Faramir understood that if he wanted to indulge his passion for
reading, he would have to learn how to find time for it from then on. The day a
young man began his military service, his formal education was considered
finished, all the book-learning hours in his schedule replaced with tasks that
were 'actually important'. Boromir had hardly managed to sound appropriately
regretful when saying his final thanks and goodbye to their tutors, and had
even entertained himself voicing half-joking plans about setting a little pyre
in the main courtyard for his torturously numerous, rightfully loathed and
thankfully no longer needed text-books and scrolls – just imagine, ash would
fly everywhere, it would be so grand – until Father had given him the look.
But, much as Faramir did not share his brother's views on this subject, he
found he could not concentrate on his reading – his thought was like a
dragonfly, pausing for a few moments in one place, but just as he thought he
had it cornered, it would whizz off in some seemingly random direction. He had
soon abandoned the history volume he had been begun studying shortly before
setting off on his first mission – he could hardly get through half a paragraph
before finding himself staring out of the window absent-mindedly. The same fate
had befallen all the other serious works awaiting his attention.
With a sigh, he gave up, leaving them alone to try something else: the page had
also brought a thin book Faramir had not requested. Since the lad could hardly
be all that involved in literature, Faramir concluded it had been added by the
librarian as an extra little something, apparently in an attempt to balance out
all the intellectually demanding texts the young lord had asked for. It turned
out to be a fictional novel, and one with a strong romantic line at that.
Faramir had been somewhat skeptical at first, but before long had to admit it
sported both wit and eloquence and, on the whole, was quite a pleasure to read.
However, just as he came to the part where the main character was left alone
with the object of his infatuation, and a confession – or something – was about
to take place – Faramir's hands, acting seemingly off their own accord, firmly
shut the book and put it aside.
The speed and relentlessness of his sudden reaction had startled him: he would
have never expected such a harmless topic to cause him this degree of unease
and annoyance, not to mention embarrassment so strong it made his face tingle.
At first he had laughed at himself, deeming it nothing but childishness to be
shy to even read of such things, yet when he picked the book up to continue, he
very clearly realised that, inexplicable as it seemed, he simply did not want
to.
Thus he had neatly stacked the various volumes on the bedside table and did not
return to them, therefore effectively leaving himself with nothing to do. Given
how rare it was that he should have too much free time on his hands, it had
seemed strange to him that his thought refused to make use of it and dwell on
anything remotely important, instead jumping and skipping nonchalantly all over
the place.
Before, he would sometimes lie in bed at night, physically exhausted, yet
nevertheless fighting sleep: his packed schedule left him no private time to
think his own personal thoughts, driving him to derive this time from his rest
hours. But during his recovery, the dark part of the day had been even more
tedious than the light, and felt veritably endless, for, much as Faramir would
have liked to sleep, he simply could not. He would try all the usual techniques
over and over again, but – his heart beating agitatedly – his awareness seemed
maliciously obstinate to remain sharp and clear, refusing to leave him in spite
of all his efforts.
Only Boromir's visits had been a splash of vivid colour in the dull greyness of
the boy's days – and long after his brother would depart, Faramir would feel
astir with excitement and optimism, and his blood would keep on running just a
little faster.
But now that he was finally set free, instead of being relieved, Faramir felt
strangely uncertain and wary, like he did back in childhood when playing one of
those games where he had to get through a room blindfolded, constantly
expecting to painfully bump into something or trip and sprawl on his front. He
told himself to be a man and get a hold of himself. Boromir always disapproved
of people who worried overmuch – and to worry about one's unmotivated anxiety,
was this not outright ridiculous?
Really, he had no actual cause for alarm, everything in his life was well and
safe – which he knew to appreciate and not take for granted, given it was for
the first time in months he had nothing to fear or obsess about.
Ah, perhaps this was the reason: his nervousness was simply long-suppressed
stress finally coming out. Much as he had lost no dignity in any of his
military encounters, it was an undeniable fact that these things did leave at
least a temporary mark on the heart – the resulting anxiety was only natural.
Why did soldiers drink like they did, after all? Or dice, or women… People had
to let it out somehow. And he had not cried once, had not had as much as an
itsy-bitsy little nightmare, had not yelled at or smacked anyone (not that he
ever did, but still, this was a sadly common method for men to unwind…), so all
of his tension was obviously still inside.
Yet, paradoxically, the idea of returning to the borders in the nearest future
to face yet more peril caused him no aversion at all. In fact, he wished to do
it, to be back in the open where he did not have to dwell on things overmuch.
Not merely because that sort of life was addictively uncomplicated in its own
way, but, he realised with a sinking feeling, because he earnestly, with his
very heart wanted to do what he had previously done: watch and fight. Not that
he enjoyed it in any way – he merely wanted to be of some practical, real use.
What good did it do anybody that he could read and write in Elvish and recite a
good several dozen poems by heart? What good would all Gondorian lore be if
Gondor were to come to ruin, overrun by a throng of illiterate Orcs, Trolls and
what not?
He held still for a while, struck and unnerved by this strange notion. He had
always known what path lay ahead for him, had known it with such uncompromising
certainty that he had never even stopped to ponder on it. Things operated
according to the natural laws established by the Valar themselves, everyone
knew that. An apple-seed could only grow into an apple-tree. Autumn would
always follow summer. The first son always fared as the father had fared – the
second son got what he managed to deserve for himself. And in the case of a
noble man's second son, there was really only one way to deserve anything.
Now that his misgivings had brought him to analyse the workings of the society,
Faramir saw that the aristocracy had, in fact, as little freedom as only the
very lowest class.
A peasant's children would be peasants. Period. They would all live in the
patriarchal house, bringing in their wives in due time, adding new annexes as
the family extended. The craftsmen actually had much more liberty: a miller's
first-born inherited the mill and became a miller, while all others could
choose a trade that beckoned to them, and go enroll as apprentices wherever
they liked, even as soldiers – and of course they could stay as helping hands
at the mill, too. The sons of a wealthy tradesman – now, they had a whole
variety of options, including the finer ones like arts, medicine and even minor
administrative positions. But a noble man's sons could not work as cobblers,
apothecaries or minstrels: a lord's firstborn became the landlord over the
father's estate, all others were to seek fortune becoming warlords one day.
That was the end of it. And had Boromir not been so insatiably eager about all
things military, and had the circumstances of their time not called for all
capable hands to hold a sword, Faramir's brother would have been spending far
more hours of his day helping the Steward with all the governmental tasks –
whereas Faramir, regardless of any circumstances or his own preferences, would
have been trained for a warrior.
Faramir had always taken this as self-evident and thus had never even asked
himself what he would have actually liked to dedicate his days to, had he been
given the choice. He was not going to be given the choice, so what was the
point of dwelling on it?
But now he realised that, yes, he would have gone to be a warrior.
He grinned to himself sadly. So much for culture and education – what mattered
above all, apparently, was the ability to be a good fighter, a good leader.
There was a reason it was what people respected – because it was what people
needed, and he deemed it only just. Boromir for one, despite his annoyingly
frequent usage of obscene physiological terminology and a rather brutal sense
of humour, did much more for the preservation of Gondor's cultural heritage
than all her artists and scholars put together and multiplied by three.
Well, there was at least one invention of civilisation Faramir would miss when
out on a mission – or, more accurately, two: hot water and a bath tub.
Before he departed, the boy used the Houses' spacious bathing facilities one
last time. Done in creamy marble and brass, they outmatched even the ones
accessible from the brothers' own quarters – and, what was especially sweet, he
could enjoy them better, taking all the time he liked. Boromir never left it
uncommented when Faramir took 'too long' putting himself in order – and in
Boromir's opinion, a sequence of hygienic procedures surpassing five minutes in
total was already too long. Not that Boromir never lay soaking himself in
steaming water for a good hour or so, shouting to Faramir not to open the door
lest he let in a vicious draft – but in Boromir's case it was classified as
badly needed rest, not washing: he only did it because it helped his
'overworked muscles relax'. Faramir was never granted such leeway… Getting
ready for a date, are we? Valar blast me, what are you doing in there – curling
your hair or something?!
Leaving behind the hospital linen robes and pulling his own things on, Faramir
rubbed a dab of pleasantly fragrant lavender oil onto his temples, behind the
ears and in between the collar bones. Cool and a little bitter, it was a skin-
tingling scent – a scent of both tranquility and freshness, bringing to his
mind images of wide open fields under cool skies. He looked at the small phial
for a while and decided to apply some more and take the whole thing along.
These perfumes were intended for all the patients, but, judging by the way the
bottles stood covered in dust, nobody would miss just one in any case. Someone
else in his place would not have even thought twice about it: the Wards with
everything in them were state property, which effectively meant his family's
property…
Ere long Faramir discovered it had been a decision of highly questionable
prudence.
To start with, he had noticed Boromir giving him curious sidelong glances at
supper – but when he caught the young man's eye and raised his brows in
question, Boromir had only stifled his budding grin and made a 'what, I didn't
say anything' sort of face. That expression never bode anything pleasant for
Faramir…
Faramir had sighed inwardly. Especially as of late, he had grown extremely wary
of Boromir's jests, to the point of coming to marvel at how sensitive he had
become to everything Boromir said to him. He knew he ought to be philosophical
about the matter, and not take any of it to heart – if anything, his brother
meant the ridiculing comments as an expression of affection, and there never
was any malicious intent behind them, even though Boromir often underestimated
the stinging power his words could have. This was the communication style the
man had been used to from very early on: the soldiers he so adored and always
tried to imitate never expressed their fondness of each other directly, but
rather through good-natured teasing remarks. And so did their father, by the
way – Faramir strongly suspected that Denethor's habit of wrapping his rare
endearments in the form of reproach or criticism also had something to do with
Boromir's manner.
Ah, the boy understood they all wished him well, namely for him to grow up into
a proper, manly man, the ideal embodied to perfection by his older brother –
and they all were earnestly trying to assist him. Father – through being stern
and demanding, and sending him on perilous assignments, Boromir – through
picking on him for being shy with girls and over-dainty. Yet Faramir, being a
rather observant boy, was also self-observant, and well knew that he would
never quite hit the mark, for his looks and bearing, no matter what he may
achieve, would always render him softer and gentler in people's eyes. He could
go and slay a thousand Orcs with his right arm tied behind his back – yet still
it would be interpreted and judged according to some other logic, than had one
of the older 'manlier' warriors done it.
Take, for instance, that librarian: he had not sent Faramir one of the numerous
anthologies of ancient warlords' recklessly perilous adventures (often
resulting in pointless albeit heroic deaths), nor a blood-curdling suspense
story full of treason and murders – not even a traveller's humorous essay about
foreign peoples' funny customs.
No, what did Faramir receive from him? Right, a romantic novel…
This was exactly how people saw him.
And thus, of course, his family's efforts to 'make him into a man' were double
those had he been an appropriately gruff and laddish kind of youth – bonus
points would have been accrued for being sulky and smelly at times. Yet,
despite all his renowned intelligence, Faramir lacked the cynical everyday
pragmatism necessary to play along with such expectations and, well, once in a
while forgetfully wipe his mouth on the back of his sleeve, or make a rude
knowing joke about things he had never even tried. For all that he would have
been reprimanded just as much, of course, yet it would have been an entirely
different matter – Father's remarks oftentimes implied he found Boromir's
conduct too raw, unrefined and imposing for a man of gentle descent, yet in a
way it was almost like a compliment. Better by far to be too much of a man,
than not enough.
No, Faramir did not try to put up any act: for his part, he was rather
comfortable with himself – relatively comfortable, of course, only as much as a
person of his age and status could actually be. Comfortable at least to the
point of not suffering from a burning need to prove everyone wrong in their
opinion of him – besides, much as he generally admired his older brother, he
suspected that Boromir's 'I absolutely have to be better than everybody'
attitude did not make for a particularly pleasant life, either. And the boy
sensed, too, although he did not like to acknowledge the notion consciously,
that for their friendship it was better that he would never be able to rival
Boromir's utter perfection in the eyes of others…
No, seriously, Boromir merely cared for him – and if the man could never simply
say as much, unless something horrible happened and robbed him of his usual
irony – well, that was just the way Boromir was. But, all his rationalising
notwithstanding, Faramir had never learnt to enjoy Boromir treating him thus,
even though he had well learnt to respond in kind. Boromir could always
appreciate a good jest, even one aimed at his impeccable self, and laughed
heartily, even if putting on a show of being scandalised – and he clearly
assumed Faramir felt the same, which, of course, Faramir did not. Worst of all,
while the boy was in the Houses, Boromir had become noticeably gentler with
him, whether it be because of Faramir's 'convalescent soldier' status, or
because of some residual guilt the older brother still carried – and Faramir
preferred him gentler by far, even though he knew it was soon bound to end.
So that night at supper he braced himself, expecting to receive a full measure
of his brother's raillery once they were out of earshot.
Indeed, no sooner had the two entered their fire-lit bedchamber, than Boromir
took to picking on him mercilessly. Faramir may have become a fellow warrior
and gained the elder's esteem in that respect, yet he remained, above all, the
little brother – with everything usually implied by the notion.
"Is there a woman hiding in this room? I am sure I smell flowers! Come out,
lassie, we won't hurt you!" Boromir strode to the window and jerked aside the
heavy curtains to peer behind, as though truly expecting to discover a maiden.
"Very funny, brother," grumbled Faramir, stopping by his bed, the one closest
to the door, and kicking off his soft indoor shoes. Inexplicably, he felt
extremely nervous, all his previous anxiety having grown like on yeast, his
whole face burning, the blush almost painful in its intensity – and he was
intent on getting under the blankets at once. He had left his cloak and warm
overcoat on the hanger in the antechamber, and had come to the bedroom wearing
only his house clothes.
"Just because you are too rough and tough for a bath, and never smell of
anything but your own sweat…" Divesting himself even quicker than usual,
Faramir had already dragged his tunic together with the undershirt off over his
head, and now stepped out of his breeches and paused only to neatly fold his
things on a chair by the bed. He decided to forgo donning his nightshirt – as
soon as he put his things down, he would slip under the warm blankets.
Boromir laughed incredulously and exclaimed in mock outrage, "That is most
utterly not true! I washed only today and –" He turned around – and nearly
choked on his own words. Even though he had never consciously ruled out the
possibility of Faramir getting undressed at some point in the evening, the
young man had preferred not to dwell on it, not to mention he had by no means
expected it to have happened in the first minute upon their entering the room.
Thus the sight of his little brother in complete and splendid nakedness had
struck Boromir all the more overpoweringly for having caught him stupidly,
inexcusably unawares.
Only it was hardly his little brother he saw as he gaped at the youth before
him. The lines of that body were the same he had always known, the taut slender
curves of one who, since early childhood, had been spending hours each day
practicing, practicing, practicing, wearing tens of pounds of weighty gear
meant to ensure his muscles would be moulded to perfection when he reached
manhood. He may not have reached it yet, but there was already unconcealable
strength in him, and sure signs of yet more strength to come – strength agile
and graceful, manly but verily beautiful…
Yes, Boromir knew him well – only now Faramir was different. Every part of his
body seemed to have acquired some special meaning, some special power. He was
as though filled with sex, enthused with sex, and everything about him spoke of
sex.
The flawless creaminess of his neck, momentarily revealed at the nape when the
shiny anthracite tresses parted and hung down as Faramir bowed to lay his
clothes down. The shape of his shoulders, his back, his waist… Valar, his
buttocks… So firm and pert, yet so ripely, roundly fleshed, made as though for
the sole purpose of being cradled by a strong pair of masculine hands, the mere
sight of them making Boromir's fingers twitch with yearning… These buttocks –
so pale, a coy intimate shadow in between – what a promise they held…
Boromir felt his whole entity filling up and clouding over with a heavy
darkness, with blackness, with scorching heat, the muscles in his jaws going
stiff. Yes, this was what Faramir was truly like, when all the divineness of
his body was not concealed by layers of misleading garments, when his innocent
kind eyes were turned away – this was what he was like: lust-inducing, mind-
obscuring, body-melting, mesmerising, staggering… The force of his appeal had
slammed into Boromir like a heat wave, parching the man's lips, drying up his
throat, veritably singeing his skin – all in one heartbeat, all in a single
glance.
Boromir knew he was cornered, trapped. He had managed to avoid admitting the
obvious for a very long time, but now that he had it shoved in his face, there
was no way he could keep on denying it. His voluntary blindness had only led
him to being utterly, unforgivably unprepared for the inevitable when the
inevitable came, vanquishing him with the ease of a Dragon falling from the
cloudless sky upon a fatuous unsuspecting prey.
I want him.
My little brother, who had nearly got himself killed because of me, because of
my reckless stupidity and utter lack of self-control – let me be damned, but
oh, how I want him.
Boromir stood struck speechless, motionless. That he should see such unabashed
feral sexuality in a body that actually belonged to such a pure and gentle
person – how monstrous was that? That he should see it in another male, in a
boy of fifteen, in a brother… That he should hear its call and feel that call
resonate with a boom in his very loins… Oh, but had it not been for the upsurge
of guttural horror at his own reaction, he would have likely spent his seed
there and then.
What more, he saw now, saw with invincible clarity that, had this been another
young lad before him, even if equally handsome (although was that possible,
could anyone match Faramir's beauty…?), it would not have worked like this. No,
it was not just the body – it was, twistedly, precisely the unspoilt pureness
of Faramir's starry eyes, his trusting benevolent openness that made the carnal
side of him so bewitchingly fascinating.
And only then did it occur to Boromir that maybe they should have finally moved
to separate bedrooms.
He had not come to spend a night here since the 'incident', not wishing to
sleep in this room on his own while Faramir was still at the Wards, and thus
had kept to the barracks instead. Or perhaps, as he understood now, it was not
the solitude as such that he had wished to avoid, but rather the thoughts bound
to have come to his mind as he would lie alone under his blankets, looking at
his brother's neat empty bed. He would have, no doubt, at some point come to
imagine Faramir there – curled up on his side, relaxed and breathing slowly,
wearing nothing but a short nightgown – if wearing anything at all…
How could have he so completely failed to think of this, of all the
implications…? Had he truly, honestly believed that he would remain unmoved,
unenthralled?
What a short-sighted, arrogant fool he was. Had he not seen the lightning, the
first lightning of the storm, when his lips had touched his brother's chaste
but unresisting mouth? Yes, such lightnings are often followed by an unending
moment of deafening silence, when nothing, inexplicably, seems to be happening,
not even a breath of wind to brush against one's cheek – but does that mean the
storm is not going to unfold? He had stood like a dolt in the middle of a
field, gaping at the basalt sky above, dumbly waiting for the thunder to follow
the flash. Well, there you go, the thunder had rolled forth at last, and now
that the tempest was about to begin, he had nowhere to seek cover…
I should have left, should have left that very day. When I blurted out all
those things to him – and he had forgiven me so easily, had not even winced,
had not been a bit revolted. He had, most likely, simply not understood any of
it, he is so pure – but I, how could have I not understood…?!
In his whirlwind of emotions and revelations, Boromir had not registered that
Faramir had hung his tunic and breeches on the chair – but, instead of
proceeding to don his nightgown and lie down, now stood straight and still, not
moving, as though in suspicious apprehension or uncertain anticipation.
Indeed, the catch in Boromir's voice had not escaped the boy's attention.
"Yes? You washed only today – and…? What is it?" Faramir asked a tad bit
playfully, and threw Boromir a curious glance over the shoulder. The younger
brother kept a cool demeanour, as if being unclothed before the older did not
unsettle him in the least, as if everything was as before. He sensed that to
acknowledge otherwise would be… Would be what? His intuition was whispering
they were both hovering on the brink… Of what? Disaster…?
Yet even if it was indeed disaster, and even if he dreaded it, like he knew he
ought to, the dread was of a strangely spellbinding variety…
"Um, you… you have such a terrible scar on your leg!" Boromir uttered with
great feeling, and breathed out in reprieve at having managed, or so he
thought, to mask the real reason of his undoing.
All right, get a hold of yourself. Panicking never helps. Your bad, yes,
admittedly – but surely you can still set everything right. You've been through
worse than this – you just have to hold for an hour or so. Get in bed, and when
he falls asleep, just get up quietly and leave. Spend the night at the
barracks, and first thing in the morning go and get yourself a permanent
placement as far away from here as only you can. You'll never see him again,
and it shall be all right. Just an hour, not that much, certainly you can
endure.
Now, following that plan, walk to your bed, change your attire and lie down.
It's not hard, just take a step. The right leg, then the left, nothing
difficult.
But he could not. Could not make the slightest move. Could not unlock his gaze
from Faramir's. Could not break the spell.
He just stood there, staring.
Faramir knew he ought to get in bed this very instant, pull the covers up to
his chin and turn to face the wall. The bedspreads had been taken away for
cleaning, it would take him only a second to lift the blanket and slip
underneath. But he remained standing as he was, and felt the faintest of grins
coming to curve his lips.
He was acutely, painfully aware of his nakedness, and a novel shame was
striving to get him to cover himself, or at least to abstain from turning
around – but he shrugged it away. This was his brother, he had every right to
stand before him in the buff.
So Boromir was worried about his scar – very well…
"Aye, I gained it in battle," self-conscious to the extreme, but not taking his
gaze from Boromir's face, Faramir ran his fingers along the pale pink mark on
the back of his thigh. Boromir his brother would have made some clever remark
about only cowardly soldiers getting a wound on the back of their leg – Boromir
who was watching him said nothing.
The man's lips only parted soundlessly as his eyes followed the gesture of
Faramir's hand, and Boromir felt something in himself tangibly unhinge. He knew
he ought to make some sort of civilised reaction, say something – but
thankfully, Faramir forestalled any of his pathetic attempts.
"But do not change the topic so, brother!" the boy exclaimed, his eyes shining.
"For it is rude and unbecoming of a Steward's son!" Faramir laughed merrily, a
great gaiety overcoming him all of a sudden, even as something in the pit of
his stomach was fluttering, making him feel lightheaded and weightless. "It is
not scars we were talking of. Speaking of washing – here," he took the glass
bottle out of his folded clothes and walked up to his brother. "It smells nice
and keeps you fresh."
Boromir stared at him uncomprehendingly, for it was as though a mischievous
spirit had taken the form of his younger sibling and came now to torment him,
displaying all his beauty before Boromir's deprived eyes. Look him in the eye,
keep looking him in the eye, let not your gaze slide down – but, oh, was not
the peril in his eye by far the deadliest…?
Seeing the young man so powerlessly stunned, Faramir threw his head back and
laughed again, but his cheeks flushed and his pulse quickened. I shouldn't be
doing this, he thought vaguely.
"Don't fret, Boromir, there is nothing difficult to it. I can show," at this he
undid the cap and took a little of the slick fragrant liquid onto his fingers,
before neatly closing the bottle again, as though he actually cared not to
spill the substance. As though he actually cared about anything in that moment.
His hand trembled, but he paid no attention. He felt strangely detached, as if
he had no control over his actions and was only watching.
"Just a little here, and here…" he marked Boromir's temples with the lavender
oil, not looking the man in the face, but keeping his gaze on his own hand
instead. Had Faramir looked, he would have seen helpless resignation and weary
surrender coming to extinguish all light of reason in his brother's darkening
eyes: for in that moment Boromir's wandering thought had come to a terrifying
conclusion.
He had known for a while now where I stand on this whole thing… And yet he had
not shunned me, had not tried to avoid me – has even let me stay alone with
him.
He actually wants this…
Faramir's mouth opened slightly as he applied the perfume to the base of the
man's neck, then behind his ear. The boy's hand lingered on the hot skin of
Boromir's throat, unable to withdraw from the touch. He knew he ought to draw
it away, yet still it lingered.
A strange sound escaped Boromir's lips, like a quiet sob of helpless
desperation – and the next instant Faramir was slammed full force against
Boromir's chest, the warrior's powerful arms crushing him in a steely embrace
so tight the boy could hardly breathe, broad warm hands clutching at his bare
back. Immediately Faramir clung to him and curled up against his body, going
perfectly still and shutting his eyes, all his agitation and merriment
dissolving without a trace.
He felt Boromir trembling against him, shaking almost convulsively – felt his
brother's parted hot lips pressed firmly against his temple, his nose buried in
Faramir's hair. Boromir's breathing was so strained and ragged, as though he
was pierced by a dozen arrows and each inhalation pained him and was a feat of
great labour.
Yet the turmoil his older brother was obviously in did not pass over to
Faramir, who was in a state of complete, unperturbed peace.
Boromir may have washed earlier that day, and Faramir had been generous with
the perfume on him – yet nothing could suppress or outshine the man's own
distinct personal scent, strong and masculine – so familiar and reassuring, so
warm and pleasant. And Faramir breathed on it alone, and it enveloped him, and
he basked in it like one basks in heady sunshine after a month-long
imprisonment in a gloomy cell.
There was, however, a new note to the fragrance now – a note the boy had caught
only once before, on the night Boromir had last held him… It worked on him with
unimaginable speed and efficacy, poisoning him sweetly, enchanting and
entrancing him, and soon he grew dumb and mellow, and would not have been able
to understand anything had he tried to strain his thought.
He felt neither happy nor afraid. There was no distinct emotion in him at all –
all his entity was overtaken by a state of enormous, immeasurable need. This
need was so overbearing that he did not even fear it, for along with reason it
had robbed him of the ability to fear. Nor could he break it down into
components to comprehend its nature and origin: whether it came of affection,
or kinship, or lust, or even simple loneliness. His need had but one name:
Boromir.
And it was because of this need that he held still and could not even think of
making some move, for it had immersed him in a state so primeval, so devoid of
human consciousness, that he forgot what it was to think of what would happen
next, what would happen afterwards. The concept of 'future' no longer made any
sense – he was suspended in the now, there was only this one magnificent
instant, containing all his existence in itself. He needed Boromir. It was as
simple as that. He did not think what it was he needed of Boromir – just him.
But the need had been growing on Faramir, and reached a certain point of
irreversibility – and then something changed, and his body awoke. It awoke to
the sensation of the heat of Boromir's desire for him, strapped across the
older brother's lower abdomen and hip by the tight constraints of the man's
leggings, separated from Faramir's naked skin only by two thin layers of finely
made fabric.
In that moment Faramir's need acquired a direction – and a purpose. All of him,
all of his entity, all of his body, much as it was already squashed against his
brother's, now strained and arched upwards and forth, reaching for Boromir as
though, no matter how close, they could never be close enough. Very slowly, as
if he was drugged and had hardly any rule over himself, Faramir lifted his face
– then his gaze was drawn up, seeking Boromir's.
***** Of Sea Pearls and Almond Blossoms *****
Chapter Notes
     Notes:
     Thanks to Alcardilmë and balrog for the beta.
     Previously_in_After_a_Lifetime
     Following their unspoken agreement to act as though nothing had
     happened, the brothers come to their old bedchamber for the night. In
     his usual manner, Boromir starts picking on Faramir, this time for
     smelling like a girl, since Faramir had applied lavender oil to his
     skin while washing. But Boromir’s mirth dies when Faramir undresses
     for bed – still behaving as if nothing is off. Annoyed by Boromir’s
     jests, and generally strangely unsettled, Faramir comes over to do
     some teasing of his own, namely to give Boromir a lesson in hygiene.
     But Boromir, overcome with desire, cannot control himself, and pulls
     Faramir to him. They stand thus, overwhelmed by emotion and not
     daring to move.
Their eyes met – and, like a crust of brittle ice vainly aiming to contain a
mountain torrent, the stupefaction shattered.
At once they were kissing like mad, in violent desperation.
How was it possible to simultaneously experience such blissful, unearthly
relief and such unquenchable, torturous ache?
The taste and feel of the boy’s mouth were no novelty to Boromir, but no less
tantalising for it – oh, quite on the contrary... Grinding his lips against
Faramir’s with such force it hurt, Boromir strove to fit his tongue all the way
in, thrusting with a savage brutality more fit for a military conquest rather
than a romantic one. But Faramir, far from being intimidated, fought him back
just as vehemently, eager himself to win entrance to Boromir’s mouth. In turn,
this passionate defiance served only to confirm to Boromir that his onslaught
was fully welcome, and that even more was necessary.
No, this war was of a very special variety, and the older brother’s code of
honour did not apply here (although, it must be admitted, in that moment his
honour was generally far from the top of his mind), and Boromir wasted little
time making an outflanking maneuver, namely to assault Faramir from the rear as
well. Gripping him forcefully on the uncovered buttocks, the man’s fingers
avidly spreading over the taut roundness and digging into it without any notion
of measure or mercy, Boromir jerked his brother forth – and the boy gasped,
shaken by the new bout of arousal this ungentle touch had brought down onto
him. This momentary pause was all Boromir required. Before Faramir knew it, he
had irreversibly lost the sweet battle, Boromir irrefutably claiming his mouth.
But again, this was not real war, and being conquered hardly felt any less
glorious than gaining victory. Surrender was sweet, intoxicating bliss, and,
once overpowered, Faramir was rapturous to give himself over, to push his
backside into Boromir’s palms with shameless neediness, to softly moan against
the older brother’s insatiable lips and suck on his hot aggressive tongue.
Faramir’s omnipotent need… Much as it had a final destination, there were many
ways to reach it, and he was past the point of caring which particular road
they took. In fact, he was well past even registering the course, his body
blindly willing to play whichever way, to provide whatever Boromir asked of it.
But Boromir was made otherwise, to him victory was essential. And Faramir’s
sudden pliancy poured like hot oil on the man’s already raging fire, making him
crave even more, making him burn for ultimate dominance, even though he hardly
comprehended what the notion implied, his exigency as vague in shape as it was
powerful in intensity. He only knew he had to get Faramir under himself, had to
have him and never release him…
Boromir half pushed, half carried the boy the short distance to the wide
uncovered bed. They tumbled heavily down, limbs intertwining, hands groping –
all in a frenzy, in such senseless hurry. In the process Faramir dropped the
lavender oil bottle onto the sheets, and it rolled under him to prod coolly
against his thigh, but he would not have noticed had he lain on a pin cushion.
There was something magical about acquiring a horisontal position together,
rendering everything besides the alignment of their bodies entirely irrelevant.
Boromir’s weight was crushing on him – and Faramir rejoiced in it. It was
right, it had to be substantial, real, pressing him breathless into the
mattress, trapping him sweetly, leaving no space for movement, no space for
loneliness. He wrapped his bare legs tightly around Boromir’s waist, as though
afraid his brother would change his mind and draw back. Predictably, such
concerns proved unfounded: the young man only ground himself harder against
Faramir’s naked body, while his hand went straight for what was openly offered
between the younger brother’s spread thighs, Faramir’s cock already engorged
beyond belief, blushed and brimming with tension.
Involuntarily Faramir bit him hard on the lip as Boromir’s hand firmly clasped
the boy’s manhood – clasped it with such undoubting, unhesitating confidence as
though it was and had always been Boromir’s personal property, as though he had
an innate non-sequestrable right to handle it whichever way he chose to.
And Faramir let him, half-alive with strain and pleasure beneath him. Just as
before, all had become a wildly dancing blur for the boy, a whirlwind of
sensations and colours, heart pounding painfully against ribs, the air
impossibly condensed to inhale. The thick metallic tanginess of his brother’s
blood, fleetingly mixed into their kiss, skidded through his mind like a flash
of glowing scarlet, like a stray spark from the hearth, and he was so unraveled
he could not recognise it for what it was, nor fathom where it had come from
all of a sudden.
Everything seemed to be happening all of a sudden and all at once, time and
space having gone mad around him. His own flesh was going mad…
All thinking ability had long since deserted him, as though he had never had
any – and now that his senses were melting away also, coming loose and escaping
him, scattering all over his burning skin – he could no longer understand where
he was or what was happening, except that it was something painfully wonderful
that should never stop. Never.
Although, if their fierce kissing did not halt for a second, he would literally
suffocate… Faramir was having severe trouble coordinating his breathing to
inhale through the nose, and every time he tried to do it through the mouth
Boromir prevented it by immediately resealing their lips together and shoving
his tongue inside. Faramir’s most basic function, the self-preservation
instinct, appealed to him – and, moaning, the boy broke the kiss off to gasp
for air, arching beneath Boromir and throwing his head back.
So Boromir set his mouth to his brother’s throat instead, smothering it with
burning demanding kisses, licking it wet with lewd hungry drags of his tongue,
while his hand worked in its own frantic rhythm. His passion carried him
through it, he did not need to think what to do, how to touch. He had never
held anyone but himself in this way, yet there was no awkwardness to it – if
anything, it made more sense to be doing this to Faramir’s sex than his own. It
seemed to Boromir he had never taken in his hand something so finely, smoothly
textured, so silky and delicate, so alive – so hot and hard… That his little
brother, the gentle Faramir, should have such a powerful manly thing between
his legs…
Manly, yes…
Boromir had never allowed there could be more than one sort of masculinity, the
sort he had always striven towards and honed in himself. But now in his brother
he encountered indeed a very different kind: in Faramir, somehow, masculinity
and gentleness did not clash, but rather highlighted and complemented one
another to a piercingly captivating degree.
Faramir’s hips beat forcefully into Boromir’s brash strokes, attesting the boy
would know how to exercise the power nature had blessed him with. His hands
roamed over his older brother’s broad shoulders and chest with frenetic
esuriency, famished from ever handling only cold steel and hard wood. Now
greedy for the feel of the fully sculpted curves of Boromir’s muscular shape,
Faramir gripped untenderly, feeding on the living heat of the man’s skin.
Likewise, the hold of Faramir’s arms and legs on Boromir’s body was close and
strong – stronger by far than any lass could have ever embraced him, and all
the more arousing for it. And yet… Faramir’s skin was no rougher than a
maiden’s – his mouth, if anything, only sweeter; the blush of passion on his
cheeks so endearingly rosy… And the boy’s surrender to Boromir’s supremacy over
him was absolute, his response to the man’s passion fiery, yet not challenging.
The uninterrupting moans and sighs leaving Faramir’s soft red lips were so… so
helpless, so mellifluous, so devoid of any vulgarity whatsoever…
Pleasuring him was not obscene – pleasuring him was beautiful, a blessing, a
divine gift…
Breathing in heavy gasps, ecstatic and disoriented, Boromir traced his lips up
Faramir’s neck and to his ear. The smell of desire was hot and sharp on
Faramir’s skin, and Boromir was inhaling it so greedily, his head was beginning
to spin. The man’s whole body seemed to be getting dizzy and slipping out of
his grasp, yet that mattered little, for nothing he was doing required any
conscious effort on his behalf. As his hand continued its rapid exertion, as
his hips grated against his brother’s naked body – with great gentleness his
tongue licked behind and along the edge of Faramir’s earlobe, a delectable
tease amid all his masterful ungentleness, showing Boromir was not technically
incapable of physical tenderness.
Uttering yet another heavy moan, the boy turned his head to the side, thus
allowing his brother better access. For a moment, Boromir let his hot breath
tickle the ear’s sensitive skin, naught more, and he felt Faramir shudder
convulsively beneath him.
Then, as the young man plunged his tongue inside, Faramir cried out in shock,
for it seemed to him that he had been touched on an open nerve. His lithe body
gave a violent jerk below Boromir’s heavier form, and it felt to the boy as
though a thousand arrows were released from a thousand taught bows, a thousand
strings ringing triumphantly in unison, striking a clear note of finesse and
glory.
This note rang so deafening he was entirely unaware of his own exclamation
joining the chorus, nor of Boromir’s hoarse gasp as Faramir’s hot seed spilt
abundantly onto the man’s fingers.
A thick oppressive wave of delirious languor suddenly toppled over Boromir, and
he closed his eyes, for a moment feeling so spent he thought he might faint.
Several ragged breaths after, he let go of his brother’s manliest part, its
hardness not yet abating, and rolled off the boy heavily.
Faramir hardly noticed, so stunned he was. Drained of all strength, his body
had slackened, slender legs releasing their grip on his brother’s waist, and
the boy lay limp, motionless, his lustrous lashes low upon his cheeks, his
effortfully heaving chest the only sign he was at least partly conscious.
Boromir glanced at him uncomprehendingly, then closed his eyes again, deep
radiant red coming to pulse and swirl behind his lids. He did not feel sorry
for what his hand had just done, for what his mouth had just done. He hardly
felt any human emotions at all. He was hardly aware of himself.
And whereas for Faramir this had been the first experience with another, and he
did not know that it could be otherwise, Boromir was no virgin, and for him it
had always been otherwise. He had even used to derive a certain sort of pride
from being unfazed by sex, from being able, had he so wished, to get up, pull
his things back on and depart a mere minute after finishing.
Not tonight.
He swallowed hard. Time had become dense and sticky like treacle, stretching
and stretching without moving, and he could not come to his senses. Blood
pounded painfully in his head, in his face, in his throat. Between the legs,
too – between the legs worst of all. He still burnt.
Boromir frowned. He could feel wetness at the front of his leggings, a sizeable
stain of it, and he knew that when Faramir had cried out and thrashed under
him, when Faramir’s warmth squirted into his hand, he too had found his
pleasure. It had been short and nearly painful, like a curt stab in the groin –
but it was unmistakable, he had come.
Yet still he burnt. His loins were as though in a fever, his erection harder
than he had ever known it, as though it was made of some material other than
living flesh.
No, it would not be this easily appeased, by merely rubbing against a warm body
through an insinuation of fabric. It wanted more, and would not unchain him
until it got more.
Licking his lips, Boromir turned his head to gaze at his younger brother.
Faramir’s breathing had evened out, but he was still completely dazed, as
though his own pleasure had all but knocked him out.
And seeing him so utterly undone, splayed on the bed with eyes closed, a bright
glow on his cheeks, Boromir knew he would have to hold his own desire at bay.
He simply could not assault Faramir when he was… defenseless like this. It
almost made the young man smirk, this notion – to merely hold at bay what he
had earnestly tried to defy and deny only… well, it could not have been more
than ten minutes ago.
Ten minutes – but an entirely different world. And he did not smirk, for much
as his very desire had seemed monstrous to him only a while back, now he could
see nothing strange or unnatural in that he should have witnessed Faramir’s
moment of ecstasy, in that he had actually brought it about. Boromir’s arousal,
cruelly stifled by his trousers, was burning – burning for Faramir, and that
commanded all his thoughts, determined his very mode of thinking. It was as
though he had somehow slipped through a wall of thin glass, through some
ethereal veil into a different reality – one where there is no shame, no
morality and no tomorrow. There was no going back, and nothing besides the two
of them would ever matter from now on.
Within reach day and night. Indeed, he had spared himself the torment. When
left one on one with what he craved so desperately, how long had he lasted? How
long had his denial endured against the undeniable? Same ten minutes.
And having kissed Faramir once, having touched him like he had, Boromir had as
though given himself permission to treat him thus from now on, to find pleasure
with him however many countless times he wished to and in whatever fashion he
chose to. And this permission ensured he could no longer see anything deviant
in his need. Take, for example, Faramir’s seed on his palm and fingers – while
he had never liked to soil his hand with the release of his own tension,
Faramir’s cream he would never wish to wipe off himself. What more, he would
fain like to get himself covered in it from head to toe…
So he took off his tunic, its dark fabric bearing the proud mark of Faramir’s
pleasure on the front – and after it the rest of his raiment, casting it all
carelessly on the floor. Stretching then alongside Faramir, Boromir kissed the
boy’s reddened lips with a slow passion, delighting in their sated lazy
response, in the heat slowly emanating from their moist delicate skin, and only
marvelling at how little embarrassment he felt at letting his naked arousal
come in such proximity to his little brother’s body.
Some scrumptious minutes later, when his resolve to rein himself was beginning
to wear dangerously thin, Boromir called on what remained of his will to lean
out of the kiss. He did so out of hope that Faramir would protest, would pull
him back in, at the very least would look at him questioningly – despite the
stiff hunger between his legs, Boromir could not, simply could not continue all
on his own, without a little more help from Faramir. But Faramir did not
provide any such help. The boy merely sighed, a dreamy smile spreading his
lips. He looked perfectly content and happy just as he was, definitely not
ready to be assailed anew… And, strangely, this was not something the older
brother could step over, not even in his current state.
Yes, Boromir may have always had the leading role in their relationship, which
to both of them had ever seemed proper to the extent of being the only possible
way of things – and yet, now… He would still lead, yes, but… In order for it to
work, it was vital that Faramir actively accept his lead – or at least that was
the way the man saw it. He did not yet perceive – and, being who he was, he
would hardly ever be able to perceive it – that in truth it was Faramir who
would guide him, that only when Faramir’s mood fully reflected his own, could
he act on his desire, that only when Faramir’s fire scorched him, could he give
way to his own flame. No, the man that Boromir was, he would not only never
accept – he would never even entertain the notion that the inexorable want
ruling him was in fact born as though outside of him, was so much beyond his
control that he was not even master enough over himself to give in to it when
he would. Much as he ached to surrender to it immediately, he could do so only
when called on – yes, even the time would be chosen for him…
But, of course, he told himself it was his own choice to bide his time and not
rush for the sake of his little brother’s comfort. And in that case, Boromir
decided, he would be better off to refrain from touching the boy at all –
instead he would indulge himself by taking a long and proper look, and bask in
the knowledge that so very soon it would all be his…
And naturally, the man had not foreseen that what he envisioned as indulgence
would turn into a fresh portion of torture.
He had never seen the boy like this, had never thought Faramir could possibly
look any more ravishing than when standing naked with that perfume before him,
so seductive in his untouched ripeness. It had not occurred to Boromir that it
was precisely through being touched that his brother would become even more
breath-taking. No, Faramir was no delicate butterfly, whose weightless
kaleidoscopic splendour would be forever ruined if a man’s fingers gripped its
wings but once. No, the contact with his brother’s hands had not robbed the boy
of the essence of his beauty, had not defiled his wholesomeness, or spoilt his
charm. It had merely awoken his body to its full potential of life and joy, and
now the carnal energy flowing in him was no longer merely implied by his shapes
and bearing, but plainly exposed to anyone who would have the fortune of
beholding him in that moment.
Even in the golden-orange light of the fire, even in spite of the bright
afterglow on his lips and cheeks, it was impossible not to observe how
exceptionally fair Faramir’s skin was. Now, to elucidate why this trait had the
effect that it did on Boromir, it ought to be noted that generally pallor was
not something recognised as a hallmark of attractiveness. Among the Lesser men,
who were now numerous in Gondor, it came forth in many shades, but only ever as
a companion of some unhealthy condition, be it the chalky wanness of fatigue
and malnutrition, the livid marbly bleachedness of cold, or the sallow
etiolation of not having seen the sun for too long. Thus little else was deemed
better testimony of a man’s salubrity and prosperity than a seasoned tan or a
hearty well-fed ruddiness. Even the nobler ladies went to great lengths to
achieve a skin-tone with a youthfully rosy undertone, and a hale radiant blush,
fresh and appetising as a ripe raspberry.
Indeed, few now remained who looked the lovelier for their paleness, who bore
it as a token of the highest pedigree, of the true blood of the West running
high in their veins. It did not wane in the sun, did not wane with age, did not
wane from toil – even as the keen astute clarity of their grey eyes never
faded.
And Faramir’s complexion was of this rare kind, for he was not so much pale as
rather fair, in no way deficient of colour, but rather gifted with a colour
light and pure, perfectly wholesome and sound in itself. There was a pleasant
luminous quality to it, the quality that made one think of sea-pearls and
ivory, of moon-shine and morning clouds, of fresh milk and almond blossoms. And
it so aptly corresponded to the time-honoured palette of Gondor’s ensigns, that
one look at him could provide an exhaustive explanation as to why some flashier
combination had not been chosen to represent the state. Indeed, what could
better set off the air of natural yet unassuming dignity characteristic of the
Númenorean race than the reticent silver-and-black? A man of such make had no
need of opulent jewelry or sumptuous vestures to demonstrate his heritage, and
the subdued elegance of Gondor’s customary patterns would suit him the way no
other style ever could.
No other, that is, except for that of having no attire at all…
In their father’s halls there remained a few statues of the Eldar make from
times long gone, and as a child Boromir used to snigger at them, asking whether
the Elven sculptors had run out of rock or if they simply could not have been
bothered to carve some clothing for their models. Denethor would reply that,
having apparently been better connoisseurs of beauty than his son, they had
known that oftentimes no match could be found for the glory of the nude body –
Boromir would understand when he grew older. Boromir had never liked being told
he would understand when he grew older… So sometimes, when no one was around,
he would come and spend up to a quarter of an hour in front of a particular
figure, scrutinising it this way and that, striving to fathom what such amazing
glory was being lost on him – ever to arrive at the same conclusion that adding
a set of alwhite armour, a flowing cape and a battle helmet would do no harm.
In fact, the only detail out of the ordinary he had been able to detect was
that two of the statues, a pair alcoved at the opposite ends of a corridor,
gave the impression that the original design had meant for them to stand
together as a single composition. Their poses being complementary to one
another, they would fit seamlessly, and then the tall royal-looking Man – a
fine warrior, judging by his build – would be about to pull to himself the
lithe long-haired Elf with ageless features, who in turn would be reaching out
to caress him on the face. Odd as the idea of two divested males embracing had
seemed to him back then, Boromir had had to admit they would have actually
looked much better that way, more… complete.
Yet when the boy had proudly shared this little observation with Father,
Denethor, far from praising Boromir’s flair for harmony in sculpture, had –
without a single word – dealt him such a sharp blow on the back of the head
that Boromir had nearly keeled over. It was on that day that the young lord had
lost all hope of ever coming to understand art – as well as all of his already
mild interest for it.
This episode may not have surfaced in Boromir’s memory as he lay studying his
little brother all these years later, and he did not think back on their
father’s words about the glory of nudity, nor was it ever likely to occur to
him to compare Faramir’s seductive loveliness to the undying perfection of a
marmoreal statue. His admiration of Faramir’s grace was not in any way rational
or even fully conscious at that, especially in this moment when he could think
of little else besides how much he wanted the boy. And yet…
Here it was: along with the lust the view of his brother stoked in him, the
young man was filled with the sensation of astounded wonder he had so tried –
and failed – to achieve when perusing an Elven marble. Elusive when chased
after, it now came unbidden, descending on him with such silent, weightless
grace he did not even recognise it for the same notion. It did not register
with him that to witness such transcendence, and even more so to see it
embodied in a living person, made him feel special, and proud, and even faintly
overpowered. He did not realise that he was now one of the privileged few to
whom true beauty was revealed, and who were blessed to be able to fully
appreciate it.
But appreciate it he did, without trying to understand why it touched him so
deeply, why it stirred in him both joy and ache – nor did he try to chain it
down with words, to ascribe some specific term to it and come up with fancy
metaphors for it. In fact, were the man asked to give it a name, he would have
likely been baffled. What he now saw, and the sentiments it aroused in him, did
not conform to the understanding of beauty he had in his head. Boromir had
always rather defined the concept in terms of richness and expensiveness than
consonance and clarity. He had never viewed it as the underlying, inherent
property of things, but rather a superficial, decorative and therefore
facultative aspect, by far less worthy of attention than the practical
characteristics.
Most importantly, Boromir had never perceived that the supreme, divine degree
of perfection could be reached only in simple things, when all the unnecessary,
distracting details were left out. And, having never encountered it before, he
did not know that the resplendence obtained in spite of a complete lack of
embellishment, based solely on the faultless simplicity of form and undiluted
pureness of the content, could have a literally spell-binding power over the
beholder –that merely being in the presence of this calibre of excellence could
in itself prove a venture perilous for a man’s sanity. He had not anticipated
it could convey a meaningfulness so bottomless as to border on sacral, and brim
with the promise that to partake of it would render him extraordinary by
association and lift him beyond the heights accessible to common men. He did
not fathom that the longing, the lust for possession thus engendered would be
by nature obsessive, insatiable, and nothing else would as much as give hope of
relief but the unparagonable original.
Boromir had not known this before, and even now he did not take it in, for he
trusted only what he himself had seen in the past and what his beliefs led him
to expect to see – definitely not something like this, and definitely not in
such settings.
Ironically, he would not have described his brother as beautiful, for to do so
would have defied the logic of the world as Boromir saw it.
 
Boromir’s world was a familiar, comprehensible place that functioned according
to straightforward unchanging laws, a place where everything was organised in
order and consistence. When it came to men, for instance, all that was of
relevance was strictly divided into what one was born with, and therefore could
be envied for – and what one acquired by the sweat of his own brow, and
therefore could be respected for. In the first category, above all, fell what
one received with the blood his father had passed him, namely the place one
ought to occupy in society and the traits of character through which he could
become worthy of that place: the flame of his valour and the sharpness of his
wit. All else the man built himself: he trained his will, perseverance and
hardihood, he cultivated his pride, confidence and patience, and he tirelessly
shaped his body with whichever was his trade.
Yes, as a man gifted with covetable health, a powerful physique and a flair for
all athletic activities, Boromir believed that all that was good about his body
– with the possible exception of his height and the size of his manhood – was a
merit resulting exclusively from his own back-breaking work, and no thanks to
nature. He deemed it likewise for everyone else, and so reckoned that aside
from the strength and endurance visible in a man’s frame, there was little
about it to inspire awe. It must be said in support of his cause that until
most recently he had had every reason to think thus, for all the specimens of
mankind he had previously chanced to see in various states of undress had led
him to a firm certitude that if a man, whatever his lineage, wanted to look
venerable, and illustrious, and generally impressive, he would be prudent to
start by covering himself up.
It was fabled that in the ages past every high lord bore his eminence upon his
very brow, and was made such that his features and poise alone would bespeak
majesty sufficient to have people bow before him, even were he to walk about
dressed in tattered rags. But Boromir had little regard for legends, and in
Gondor as he knew it the better part of the image a man projected by day could
be easily taken off before bed and hung on the back of a chair, for a man, when
one came down to it, was just a man.
Without their official attire, would not the hoary venerable elders from the
Steward’s Counsel appear little more than stooping old people with sagging
muscles? Likewise, when showering together at the barracks, did not the
esteemed high-ranking officers look little different from the undistinguished
soldiers?
Following this line of thought, what intrinsic singularity, what striking
exquisiteness could possibly show in the vision of a divested lad of fifteen?
And if anything, when spread out supine amid crumpled sheets, ruffled, flushed
and reeling from a recent climax, such a boy was definitely not meant to fall
in the domain of beautiful. Not even to the eyes of someone whose consciousness
was admittedly expanded by sexual fever to a rather worrisome extent.
And yet, much as Boromir preferred to stand by whatever convictions he happened
to entertain, he could not now fail to sense a major discrepancy in his picture
of the universe.
Faramir may have looked defenseless for his peaceful, relaxed unawareness, for
his undoubting trust in his brother’s fortitude and consideration – but he did
not look defenseless for his nakedness. He did not look bare, stripped,
exposed. There was an inborn harmony, a dignity in the very make of his body, a
timelessness and continuity such that his loveliness would have been praised by
the first of the First-born as much as by those who were to come thousands of
years after Faramir had lived his term. His perfection was unconditional,
absolute, true. In fact, how could have it ever been expected that simply for
being the same gender as him, Boromir would be numb to its sway? This was not
the kind of allure women had once had over the young captain, appearing fine
and pretty while he was in need, then suddenly turning plain and unremarkable
once his fire had had its due and burnt over. No, this charm would last
unfading, no matter how sated he got on worshipping it with his body.
And starker than by anything else, this outstanding exceptional fineness was
embodied by the flawless whiteness of Faramir’s skin, by its limpid
youthfulness, its unadulterated freshness – the whiteness that on many others
and to many other eyes might have seemed a flaw, but to Boromir was the
clearest proof conceivable that when it came to Faramir, no rules applied. For
even this very quality itself refused to rely on its own predicates: shining in
the boy’s face it had ever implied naught but the virtues of purity, innocence,
and modesty – yet when his garments were cast away and the lucency clothed him
from head to toe, making it appear as though he were actually made of it, it
turned upon itself and came to bespeak inexhaustible, ever-blazing sensuality
and a capacity for unearthly, scorching passion.
The delicate shade of his skin in itself became an averment of wonders
unimaginable that touching him would unfold.
But of course that was not all in him that pleased the eye, for in delectable
contrast to the whiteness, those parts of him that were brightly coloured drew
the gaze all the more inexorably. And as Boromir moved his eyes down the boy’s
body, he stopped at the first such point of colour.
As a warrior and older brother, Boromir had always liked the look of Faramir’s
chest, his pectorals prominent and well-sculpted, perfectly befitting the good
fighter and strong man he would one day grow into. Yes, Boromir had always
liked it, yet it had not come to his mind that this part of his brother’s body
could be prized in some other way, too. It was common knowledge that only the
female bosom had a sexual quality to it, both its aesthetic comeliness and the
apparent reproductive application immediately turning a man’s thoughts in one
particular direction. Even when chastely covered in clothes, it would intrigue
with its shape and weight, making one wonder about what exactly was under the
fabric… What form would the breasts assume when rid of the bodice’s support?
Would the hue of the delicate tips match that of her lips? Would the teats be
girlishly bashful and undeveloped, or maternally large and salient? There were
so many titillating questions…
But men’s chests were flat save for a mild muscular curve, their nipples small
and purposeless, naught more than a rudiment – what could there be to look at,
to speculate about?
Yet now that Boromir was viewing the matter in a new light, he clearly saw that
there was one great wondrous pretext why a man, too, had been granted this part
of the body, although no babe would ever suckle on it.
Pleasure. The only reason it was there was pleasure.
Faramir’s nipples were very pert and flushed with blood, so sexually rubescent
in comparison to their usual subdued brownish shade. And how they stood so
upright and full… It had nothing to do with the way Boromir had previously seen
them harden, when cold made them tighten and shrivel up – this time it was
Faramir’s inner heat directing the change. And Boromir saw now that the purpose
they were made to serve lent them the power to arouse that no girl’s bust could
ever match.
How he wished to plant just one fleeting caress, to brush his palm over one of
them, to make Faramir inhale deeply and arch up towards his hand… Perhaps then
Boromir would allow himself to take it between his thumb and index finger, and
tweak it slowly, and rub it, and then Faramir would…
But the man knew he ought not touch, not just yet.
So he tore his eyes away and looked a little lower, where across Faramir’s
flank ran a thin stripe of a recent scar, too recent to have had time to become
pale and silvery.
A mark of a man. A mark of a warrior.
It reminded Boromir that this seemingly docile boy before him could be fierce,
and valiant, and dangerous – that Boromir had a just cause not only to want
him, but to respect him, to be proud to have him. But it also made the man once
more become painfully aware of the dreadful thing he had first realised upon
receiving the tidings of his brother being wounded in battle.
Faramir could be lost – he could lose Faramir.
For the past decade and a half, pretty much all of Boromir’s conscious life,
his little brother had been there, a reassuring ever-present constant, changing
and growing even as Boromir himself grew, but always there.
It did not make sense that one day he could be gone – yet he could. Much as
Boromir could tell himself he would never allow it, it was not in his power to
exterminate this possibility.
And if there was one thing that could have by any means made Faramir any more
precious to him, it was precisely this possibility, this incessant lurking
threat. It put Boromir in a state similar to the one always overcoming him
before combat, one he considered among the foundations of masculinity, that of
experiencing an ardent, undauntable necessity to safe-keep his property.
Yes, there would always be reason to yearn for him, if only to protect him…
And what could be a better instance of protection than making him happy?
Slowly Boromir trailed his eyes yet further down, to where the chief source of
Faramir’s pleasure was.
It was soft now, yet not as the man had seen it all the previous times, not the
modestly pale and asleep kind of soft, but rather the satisfied for the time-
being sort of soft – noticeably swollen, still moist where its cream had been
spread over it, and a deep, heady pink in colour.
It too beckoned to be touched, to be reawakened from its – hopefully – brief
respite…
Faramir’s balls, too, seemed tauter and fuller than usual, no doubt preparing a
fresh portion of his priceless essence…
The whole package was richly offset by the lustrous inky blackness of the boy’s
intimate hair, sufficiently abundant to betoken potency and fertility, yet
staying well within the borders of good taste and not taking that abundance
into the realms of vulgarity.
Boromir’s hand twitched for a feel of it all. How cheekily springy and coarse
those curls would appear after he had first gently squeezed and rolled in his
fingers the laden roundness tangible through the delicate velvety skin of
Faramir’s sack…
At these musings a tear of seed seeped from Boromir’s straining manhood – and
so sensitised was its tip that the otherwise barely noticeable sensation of the
droplet crawling down from the slit made his breath catch and a shiver run
through his thighs. Or was it not a shiver, was it in fact cramps beginning to
twist his muscles, the ever-growing tension finally starting to take its toll
on him?
It had been a bad, bad idea to look.
Boromir suppressed a groan of misery and forced himself to return his gaze to
Faramir’s face, the sight of which, alas, proved no more calming than that of
the rest of him.
Merciful Valar, he could not endure this…
And then, at last – a movement.
Faramir sighed and shifted, and although his eyes remained closed, there came a
far more telling sign. His member stirred and stretched in its superficial
sleep – a sure foretoken it was soon to once again come to full wakefulness.
This was permission enough to Boromir.
The man brought the hand with which he had pleasured Faramir up to the boy’s
mouth and brushed his fingertips against his lips. Faramir licked at them
leisurely, unabashed at the note of his own taste lingering on Boromir’s skin.
Faramir then wrapped his lips around his brother’s index finger and pulled it
inside his mouth. He sucked on it hard, then let it almost slide out, and then
took it back in, his eyes not opening once throughout the process. An obvious
analogy such play brought to Boromir’s mind, and, having to allow some
expression for his neglected ever-increasing need, he moaned softly and rocked
his hips forth in a short futile thrust.
Yet the prospect Faramir’s torrid lips offered did not appear to Boromir an
adequate solution for alleviating his suffering: it was too elaborate a road to
completion, too much of a game, whereas the man craved a simple and
straightforward course, one that would leave no ambiguity as to whether they
had ‘done it’ or not. Not to mention that such a service, disrespectful to be
asked for even when with a woman, was quite out of the question when it came to
an unspoilt youth. So Boromir sought in his mind for another way to have his
heat quenched – and to make certain Faramir was his, would ever be his.
He took his hand away and proceeded to reassume his earlier position atop his
brother, and Faramir spread his legs and bent his knees a little to give him a
snug welcome. It made Boromir gasp and reel, to have his body come into such
full contact with Faramir’s, now that they were both unclothed and fully
aligned against each other, touching skin to skin from shoulder to foot.
His manhood was so overwrought it felt intense and good even to simply touch
its head to Faramir’s belly and cock. For a moment Boromir allowed a daring
hope that a light taction like that would miraculously tip him over – after
all, he had had such precedents, albeit several years ago. When he had been an
adolescent boy, sometimes he would get so sharply, tremblingly excited that a
single brushing caress over the edge of his cock would be enough to make it
burst.
But of course it did not work that way tonight. After all, did not Boromir like
for his victories to be glorious and spectacular…?
“I want more of you,” Boromir whispered against the side of Faramir’s face.
These words, the first verbal acknowledgement of what was passing between them,
a sign of conscious acceptance, stirred Faramir to awareness, and the boy
peered up at his brother. Faramir’s gaze was hazy, his eyes dilated and dark,
yet there was a profound reflective gentleness in them. The boy smiled, and the
smile was warm and almost calm, attesting the inner certainty and consummate
happiness he had strangely managed to derive from what had just passed between
him and his older brother.
The stupefaction of when Boromir had pulled him into that compulsive desperate
embrace had passed, as had the ruthless frenzy of their ravenous kissing and
groping. His passion was presenting him with yet another version of itself. His
need had been acknowledged and appeased, and was now running even and deep, no
longer a violent and turbulent mountain torrent, but a full-flowing river, just
as self-willed and ungovernable as before, yet majestic and peaceful in its
matchless potence.
He felt again that overwhelming sensation of Boromir’s power over him that he
had experienced months ago when Boromir had looked at him seductively and told
him to come over and have a kiss bestowed upon his lips. Only now he was not
standing before Boromir, he was lying on his back under him, naked and with
parted legs, the rigid proclamation of Boromir’s desire resting against his
lower abdomen… This last notion made him dizzy – dizzy but neither frightened
nor unsettled: he had undoubting faith in his brother, would always have faith
in him, there was nothing for him to fear, nothing to withhold.
The boy looked at him in thoughtful affection, and raised his hand to caress
Boromir’s shoulder and upper arm, his fingers curious for the powerful tautness
of Boromir’s muscles, for the dependable breadth of his frame.
Nevertheless, Faramir shook his head. “I would gladly, only… I don’t know what
more to give. But I shall not halt you… to take whatever it be that you wish of
me,” he said with a vague shrug. In the nighttime dreams Faramir had had about
his brother, there had been only an undefined and undetailed sensation of
innermost, guttural pleasure, of overall physical happiness – and upon waking
he had never much dwelt on it anyway, for what had mattered most was that
Boromir held him and everything was well. And in his conscious fantasies he had
never treaded past Boromir stroking his erection, for even that much had seemed
ludicrous in its unfeasibility and shameful in its lustiness.
No, he did not know what more he could give. He only knew something infinitely
important was bound to happen between them now, something that would forever
materialise and seal what they felt for each other, what they were to each
other.
And it never occurred to him Boromir might not know the way himself.
***** Fatality *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
When a triumphant warrior returns home, he does not make an idiot out of
himself. He rides through the cheering streets, calls a mighty note on his horn
and dismounts to embrace his proud family without his cape catching on the
buckle of his belt and swaddling him, without the horn slipping out of his
fingers, without his foot getting stuck in the stirrup and making him jump on
one leg trying to free it. Things go smoothly – because there are moments when
everything should be perfect.
Boromir averted his eyes and frowned, for something felt vaguely off – and as a
man of the military he had well learnt to not brush away what his animal sense
might try to spell out on the outskirts of his mind. When the eye does not see,
sometimes the marrow feels.
But no, this must have been a false alert: now of all times there definitely
could be no plausible reason for disconcertion. He was in bed naked – with an
eager lover lying willingly trapped beneath him, so full of life, and desire,
and expectation, so ready to embrace Boromir’s leadership, so effortlessly
evoking such staggering lust in all of Boromir’s being…
Truly, one thing only could be done in such circumstances.
Indeed, what could be more natural than to take one little step and pass into
him, blend into him, slip into him and become lost in him, lost in the burning
radiant bliss that he was…?
Yes, it was natural, and logical, and self-evident – wherefore it had to be
easy and simple.
Only it was anything but.
Had this been a maiden before Boromir, there would have been no grounds for
hesitation. But Boromir wished for no maiden – and Faramir, apparently, was not
one; which was supposed to be good, only… As a pesky little side-effect, his
body lacked that special place so conveniently matching manly necessities, so
befitting for claiming ownership and avowing what no words can suffice to
evince.
Yet the state – and position – Boromir was in did not predispose him towards
prolonged musings; his need called to be fulfilled immediately and cared little
for particularities. Things would work themselves out. For him, things always
did.
He closed his eyes and relaxed, and let the molten fire that ran in his veins
take him where it would. Once again his and Faramir’s mouths came together –
and, as their tongues entwined, Boromir began to move on top of the boy. His
lust rejoiced in the very fact, and fed on his motion – and on the way Faramir
at once picked up his rhythm. And whereas the young man had begun by only
rubbing lightly along Faramir’s front, before long Boromir grew insistent and
demanding, as though trying to plough through the boy with his hips. He had no
clear idea what exactly he was trying to achieve thus, yet at the moment he had
little rational understanding of anything, and he liked it that way. Besides,
Faramir was evidently with him, lifting his hips as he did to welcome Boromir,
to adjust to him, to receive his brother deeper into the privacy between his
legs. Not to mention the taut evidence of Faramir’s fully rekindled fire
trapped snugly between their abdomens – what better encouragement could Boromir
get?
The man shifted, changing their position some more, and was able to press into
the place just below his brother’s sex, where it was cosy and so invitingly
hot. Yes, this was the angle he was used to, the angle all his tissues
remembered, and already he began to bask in the foreshadow of the upcoming
satisfaction; his breath grew heavy and effortful, and his mind filled with a
thick warm fog, giving way to sensations, to nothing but sensations…
Faramir, too, was drowning anew. And this time, inconceivably, it was even
better than before… This seamless arrangement of bodies, this strangely
exhilarating pressure on the secluded underside of his body not only brought
him pleasure but also curiously deepened and complexified his arousal in the
way he had not yet known.
How could Boromir be so many things at once…? His dark stubble raspy on
Faramir’s skin – but his lips so soft, hungry and masterful, but soft… His
tongue soft too, but in an entirely different way, supple but volatile and
headstrong all at once. His thick unruly hair tickling Faramir’s neck so
lightly, the grip of his calloused hands on the boy’s shoulders so firm, and
warm, and constant. His whole body so hard, so taut, only muscle and bone – yet
still in some places so much harder than in others, in one particular place
especially… How could Faramir’s perception process all the sensations
separately, how could it keep all the colours of the rainbow neatly laid out in
a row and not blending into one blinding beam…? How could he be unraveling and
still stay aware…? He wanted to let his brother know how fascinating and
wondrous it all was, how blessed – and so he pressed up at Boromir,
simultaneously inviting his brother deeper still into his mouth, wishing to
invite him as deep into himself as only he could.
Boromir’s blood positively pounded in his ears – already, even though nothing
was actually happening yet. It was madly thrilling, to feel Faramir accept him
thus, beckoning Boromir further and further on. Boromir’s hips, his thighs, his
buttocks and back strained to accept the invitation and exercise themselves
out, to push, to shove, to rock and swing – and the constricted pressure inside
his body ached to finally be relieved. The young man drove at the boy harder
still, ceaselessly poking and prodding, everything short of actually stabbing
him between the legs. Not that Boromir meant to be rough, which he did not: he
only followed the all too familiar course of action: several searching pushes,
and then inevitably he would find the right place and easily slide inside – and
from that point on…
But with Faramir it was not going to work that way, although at first the
discord was gentle enough to overlook. The gasps through clenched teeth, the
brittle tension in Faramir’s body, the way he arched up at Boromir – it all
could be, just could be excused on the account that Faramir still moved with
him, together. Only when the boy actually started squirming and jerking away,
in an attempt to evade his brother’s ungentle jabs, did Boromir have to
recognise they were desperately falling out of tune. And all at once their
whole disposition seemed to him clumsy and awkward, more akin to a silent
drunken struggle than anything else. As though to top it off, Boromir hit him
on a particularly unlucky spot, and Faramir could not catch back a startled
yelp.
Then at last Boromir went still and raised himself up to stare hard into the
boy’s face, a strict frown on the man’s brow.
Faramir gazed up at him guiltily. “I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice, lying
back and visibly willing himself to relax and be still, “go ahead…”
But Boromir sighed as though poked on an old wound and, averting his gaze,
shook his head. “Nay, ’tis not…” he shut his eyes, as if a sudden headache
needled his temples. “This is not right. This is not what I want…”
Faramir creased his brow, puzzled as to why Boromir spoke with such pain. If
this peculiar something they had just been trying to do was not right, why not
simply move on to something that was…?
“Boromir…”
He touched the other on the face, and made to hug him with his legs, to pull
him in again – but the man did not budge. Loath as Boromir was to have to
return to consciousness and make a mental effort, he knew that otherwise they
would not get anywhere. And while he was at it, he could forget the perfect
picturesque triumph, that much was already clear – to get this through at all
was promising to be quite a feat.
With another sigh Boromir shifted back and forced himself to sit up. At once he
felt groggy, disoriented, his body screaming in protest, his skin empty, bare
without Faramir’s heat. His thoughts were blunt, unable to penetrate, to make
sense… He scowled irritably – and with his hands decisively spread Faramir’s
thighs wider apart. The boy opened up to him at once, eager to demonstrate his
trust and compliance. Yet what Boromir saw only solidified his misgivings. In
that place between the legs where he was used to seeing an open door, he was
now met with the sight of a blank solid wall.
What else had he expected, though?
Entrances was not what a boy’s body was about. Pressing his lips tightly
together, Boromir reached to trace his fingertips up the underside of his
brother’s darkened manhood. Faramir sucked his teeth and shuddered, acutely
titillated by the exquisite lightness of the touch, the contrast all the more
sweet after all the previous discomfort. He arched up in silent supplication,
but Boromir did no more, and only gazed on grimly. Indeed, what had he
expected…? This was Faramir’s sex, this and nothing else: all strength and
hardness, all on the outside, all before the eyes – but not at all what Boromir
needed now.
That left only one other way, really…
Boromir kneaded the boy’s thigh thoughtfully. If he were to tilt Faramir’s hips
up a little more, he knew he would see it. But surely that was not… He had, of
course, many a time heard his men cautiously refer to this matter in their
crude jokes – but then again, soldiers used many an anatomically unrealistic
word construction in their speech, and Boromir had never taken this particular
phrase seriously. At the time the notion had seemed nothing but unnatural and
bizarre. Hence Boromir had taken his men’s interest in it to be of the same
sort that young boys display towards garishly-coloured hairy caterpillars and
fat slimy toads, whose fascination derives from their sheer hideousness – and
whom, therefore, it can be so amusing to inspect while holding up by a leg, and
then even more amusing to poke with a sharpened stick or squish with a boot.
Besides, Boromir knew better than to apply the warriors’ tales as direct
instructions, for the barracks talk of sex had, of course, nothing in common
with what actually happened in bed. And for once Boromir regretted having never
sought beyond the simple fail-proof path to pleasure provided by every woman,
regretted having never learnt how to do what he was now going to have to do if
he wanted to have anything done at all.
Indeed, how could it possibly fit…?
But now that he had thought of this, had imagined it, he knew he wanted it –to
the point of dying, of literally having his arteries burst if he could not have
it. He recalled the look of Faramir’s naked buttocks, and now knew what the
shadow between them promised… A promise that was in truth more like a cruel
taunt. Was nature only toying with them, implanting this yearning in them and
yet denying the means to consummate it? Things could be like that, he knew, for
was it not so that there was on Arda a realm of unending glory and bliss, yet
not everyone was made such as to be granted admission, and even to aspire
transgression had been proven a severely punishable vice…?
But at the same time he knew he could never fool himself into believing it
could not be done – because it could, and because he had wanted it from the
very start, had meant to do it from the very start, whatever he had tried to
tell himself.
Boromir knew better than to look, knew he would not be answerable for his
actions if he did. He would do it without looking.
Except that he could not.
It had seemed he had already stepped well over all conceivable boundaries, had
come so far, had relinquished all rights to be called a decent man – and yet…
Boromir shut his eyes, trembling, bending over himself, sick and aguish, both
feverish and freezing. His erection was overcooked, brittle, threatening to
snap off at an unhandy touch. His face hurt. This was taking too long, far too
long. But he needed it again – Faramir’s guidance. He could not simply go ahead
and indulge himself at the expense of his unsuspecting brother, could not even
ask for permission: permission given upon request was not good enough – Faramir
had to offer it unprompted, freely.
Faramir, however… All the boy could tell was that he had in some way proven
severely inadequate for the function his brother expected – and needed – him to
perform. As if that was not bad enough, Boromir’s mood had quite swiftly
communicated to him like it usually did, and now he too felt utterly miserable
and uprooted.
He did not know what was his expected role, whether he was supposed to ask some
question, or wait tactfully, or what – yet at the same time he knew exactly
what he was going to do. This undoubting knowledge within the lack of thereof
did not even surprise him, for such it was between them that Boromir always
gave him certitude, somehow – and, strangely, all the more so when Boromir
himself stumbled.
Faramir pulled himself up and moved to sit as close before him as the man’s
pose allowed. A shiver ran through Boromir when Faramir’s knee prodded his
thigh, when the boy’s warmth washed over him, yet he did not even raise his
face.
“Boromir…” Faramir leant in – but judged it best not to embrace him just yet,
and only caressed Boromir on the shoulder with an open palm, an affectionate
and comforting touch. “Boromir,” he repeated in his most soothing, reassuring,
loving voice. “Please, it’s all right. I’m sorry, I’ll do anything. Boromir,
here, it’s all right…”
The hard, burning, strangely desperate look Boromir shot him in reply, the way
the young man did not respond to his touch, sitting still and as though
suddenly enervate, all the more sharpened Faramir’s need to solace him somehow,
to bring him comfort – to make it up to him. The boy moved closer still,
straddling his unresisting brother’s hips and lowering himself unto Boromir’s
lap. He stroked Boromir on the face, then cupped him on the back of the head
and kissed him on the hair.
At last Boromir met his gaze square on, and it seemed the man would say
something. He did not, however – but he did slowly embrace Faramir on the waist
and pull him closer, so that they pressed hotly together, front to front.
Faramir sighed and smiled, then leant in to kiss him again – this time on the
mouth, an earnest supplication to forget all doubts. The ardour of Boromir’s
instant response caught him a little off guard, but only for a moment, and were
Faramir’s mouth not busy, the boy might have laughed for the joy of it.
Boromir wanted him so urgently, so ravenously – and Faramir would not stand to
make him wait. He would reassure Boromir, oh yes, he would. Leaning lower
still, he kissed the young man hard on the throat, making him gasp and arch his
back – or maybe Boromir arched rather for Faramir’s hands decisively sliding
all the way down his front.
But as in a feat of boldness Faramir took a decisive hold of his brother’s
manhood, the boy gasped in awed shock and drew his hand away, as though he had
touched candent metal and not living flesh.
To the fingers it felt so different… When prodding Faramir in his intimate
regions, when touching against his belly it had felt hot, and hard, and
powerful – but to the fingers… The sensation was so much less obvious than
that. With his fingers Faramir felt how truly special, personal this moment
was, felt the breathtaking delicacy of his brother’s strength, the intricacy of
its shape, the taut veins protruding from the velvet of his skin, felt exactly
how –
“How big you are, Boromir! Oh, Valar…” he whispered in wonder as he traced
along the full length of it and tentatively curled his hand around. And finally
he looked at it. Faramir had seen the manhood in question countless times in
its peaceful mode, and had observed even then that it was… well, quite an
outstanding one. When away on his first foray, lying in the shame-obliviating
darkness amid sleeping warriors, he had also dared imagine what it would have
looked like when… when they were naked, touching each other. Faramir had
thought himself bold in his fantasies, but the truth was they came nowhere near
the glory and ferocity of the reality.
It made him blush with pride and pleasure to know it burned like so for him,
because of him. And he knew he wanted to yield to it, to offer himself to it –
even if he did not dare as much as properly hold it just yet. He knew, only
half-consciously and without knowing how he knew, that eventually he would be
taken something from by this power, that he would give, and lose something, and
likely it would harm him – but he wished to be harmed, to revel in it, to prove
thus how much he wanted to please Boromir, that to him, Boromir was more
important than his own self.
The sight made his own erection hurt for attention, but he did not wish that
Boromir touch him in turn – no, he wanted nothing to distract him now.
Faramir met his brother’s eyes as he made a careful probing stroke, and Boromir
held his gaze unfaltering, the man’s eyes dark, smouldering and unreadable. The
boy bit himself on the lip as a larger hand covered his own and made him grip
firmer than he would have dared – made him clench. He felt faint from the
comprehension of the full magnitude of Boromir’s desire for him – desire that
was not just an emotion, a thought – but solid flesh, something he could
literally take in hand and cherish with his passion.
When Boromir went on to set a pace for him – thorough and measured, all
masterful milking strokes and no rush – Faramir could endure it no longer and
shut his eyes. This was better than anything they had done so far, he could
easily spend the whole night doing nothing but this…
Boromir’s hands moved to hold him on the hips, letting him carry on as he
would. Faramir smiled to himself, wondering whether Boromir would like the
things he himself enjoyed, like that one with the thumb going over –
Boromir thrust into his hand with a startled cry – but before Faramir could
repeat the maneuver, the man cried out again.
“Stop!”
Faramir let go at once. Heat rushed to his face, and he blinked, dumbstruck.
Had he done something wrong again…?
He made to apologise, but Boromir held him even tighter than before, and kissed
his neck slowly, breath ragged against Faramir’s skin.
Tentatively, Faramir reached down again.
“Don’t…” Boromir half pleaded, half ordered against the side of his face.
“Have I hurt you?” Faramir asked gently. “I’ll be more careful, I…”
Boromir heaved a sigh. “You… you don’t understand,” he muttered despondently.
“Just… Hold still, all right?”
“Of course,” Faramir nodded, trying to quieten his nervous heartbeat. He could
not make sense of things, could not comprehend why what had started as such a
natural, self-evident pursuit had lost its flow, why they had strayed off what
had seemed a simple and straightforward path into some hybrid of a labyrinth
and an obstacle course.
He did as was asked of him, resting against his older brother’s body, his arms
around Boromir’s back, his face in the crook of the man’s neck. Faramir thought
Boromir would calm down now that he had stopped touching him – but it was not
so. Boromir’s hands trembled with impatience as they moved across his back, and
the man’s chest worked so as if unable to accommodate all the air he needed to
inhale.
Faramir gasped softly when Boromir’s palms firmly cupped the roundness of his
spread backside. The gesture, its eroticism notwithstanding, felt to him
pleasantly playful, and he hummed under his breath, arching into Boromir’s
touch. Then the boy’s eyes widened and his breath caught, for the hands quite
without halting moved to explore between his cheeks. It felt very arousing,
though – and although he wondered if he ought to be embarrassed to be touched
in such a place, he most certainly was not. Suddenly it became hot and very
difficult to think, and Faramir closed his eyes, sighing as Boromir’s fingers
stroked and rubbed him in there.
At first he did not notice the searching insistence of Boromir’s ministrations.
And then –
Faramir bucked against the man’s front – away from his hand, and a strained
alarmed sound escaped the boy’s lips. He held still, however, pressed against
his brother’s body so tight as though searching for shelter, yet not trying to
interfere with what Boromir was doing to his behind. That is, until Boromir
endeavoured to breach him once more, at which point Faramir jolted again.
Panting shallowly, he hid his face against his brother’s neck, and much as he
willed himself to keep in place and yield, the part of him which did was not
subject to the authority of his mind stubbornly resisted.
“Faramir,” Boromir muttered into his hair, “relax.”
“Uh-huh,” Faramir responded in barely more than a whisper. It was stuffy inside
his head, and he could not quite understand what was happening… It filled his
lower body with stiff, leaden dread, rendering him at once stupefied and jumpy.
This sensation had no place in the list of impressions he had expected from
intimacy. He was prepared for it being toilsome, possibly unclean, awkward,
even uncomfortable or clumsy – but certainly not painful or… invasive.
Faramir shut his eyes tight and clenched his jaws to keep from making a sound
when at last Boromir pinned him in place and overcame the defiance of his body.
The boy did his best do fight down the little noise rising in the back of his
throat, but Boromir must have heard it regardless. Or else his strain was
telling enough.
Boromir grasped him firmly on the shoulders and pulled him away – to stare
seriously into his face.
“Faramir,” he said with emphasis, and curved his brow a little.
For a moment Faramir gazed at him blankly, then the boy’s eyes, as though drawn
by a force, moved to his brother’s arousal – and in a flash he understood
everything.
He could actually feel himself go pale.
Again, he wondered whether he should be embarrassed by the notion – or
frightened, for that matter. But aside from being utterly overwhelmed, his
instinctive reaction was only desire – and, curiously, relief. Now, he knew,
there would be no more purposeless wandering in the dark.
And he pursed his lips and nodded, and even tried to utter something coherent,
although this last bit did not quite work out.
“It’d be better if you lie down,” Boromir told him, obviously trying not to
sound awkward.
Again Faramir nodded, and shifted to move off Boromir. But the man shook his
head, holding the boy in place by the backside, and so Faramir lay back between
Boromir’s thighs, his hips resting on Boromir’s. Once more he felt the fingers
in there, probing carefully but assertively – perhaps rather assertively than
carefully; and as soon as Boromir established contact he pushed as far as it
would go, for the heat of that place was a wonder and he could not help
reaching for the source of it.
Gritting his teeth, Faramir tried to exhale. Lying like this was in itself
enough to make him reel: such a submissive, defenseless position, his body bent
and curled up, hips raised up and fully open, blood pounding in his temples,
his erection lying on his belly, reaching past his solar plexus, closer to his
own face than he had ever seen it. And now this sensation… Somehow, it changed
the very angle of his world. He stared up at Boromir with confusion and pain in
his hazy eyes – and Boromir held him and soothed him with a gentle word. The
man would not suffer his little brother to see that he was, in fact, despaired,
for the very make of those tissues, delicate as they were, arrested any
attempts at progress, making him force his way through. If just one finger was
this taxing to fit in, how would they be able to…?
But Boromir could not give up on the tempting surmise that maybe the problem
lay in Faramir’s tenseness, that if only he could ease him up, could inure him
to it...
At first the boy winced and cambered at every movement inside him, his muscles
protesting indignantly, making a searing appeal that he interfere and stop this
assault. But he endured it patiently, entranced by the expression of hopeful
concentration on his brother’s beloved face – and gradually Faramir’s body
resigned itself to the unfamiliar presence. The spasm of caution within him
abated somewhat, and he was able to breathe again. It still felt peculiar, and
disturbing, and alarmingly intense – but he could definitely bear it.
And then he grew aware of another discomfort. Something hard and smooth was
pressing hard against his shoulder. So Faramir reached under himself and
produced the long-forgotten oil bottle. As he studied the small phial in
bemusement, wondering how it had managed to roll under him, Boromir snatched it
out of his hand.
“Oh, brother! Why haven’t you told me?! This would just…” The man did not even
heed Faramir’s startled cry at how abruptly Boromir withdrew from him. In an
urgent haste, Boromir undid the cork with his teeth and poured the liquid
generously onto his hand. The cool crispy scent filled the room at once, the
bitterness gently prickling their noses – but neither minded or even truly
noticed.
With the oil, it was an altogether different story for both of them. Boromir
nearly laughed in relief. At once he saw his actions caused no more pain, for
Faramir’s body did not try to fight him out like the previous time. What more,
before long the boy began to gently rock his hips in rhythm with the motion of
Boromir’s hand.
“Do you like it?” Boromir whispered incredulously. He had not even hoped… – but
Faramir gave him a vague nod and even attempted a grin, so Boromir proceeded
with doubled enthusiasm. Yet one finger seemed infinitely small, laughably
insignificant in comparison to what he was ultimately going to give Faramir to
deal with. Thus Boromir went on to try and insert another one along with the
first, at which the boy groaned and stiffened up all over again. Indeed, to
Boromir himself the undertaking seemed quite ridiculous: for all it felt, he
might as well try to put his hand up Faramir’s nostril.
He withdrew, frantically put more oil on and tried again. But this time it
proved of little use against the unpleasant sensation, for this time it was not
merely unpleasant, it was painful – and the pain came not so much from the very
fact of the intrusion, of the alien presence inside. It came from the girth
Faramir’s body was forced to accommodate, and there was nothing they could do
to make it any less taxing. The boy could feel his own tightness, how it
stretched taut over Boromir’s fingers, ringing with tension and burning
sharply, threatening to rip. Panting rapidly, he raised himself up a little, as
though he could actually succeed at seeing anything.
Boromir was careful now, as careful as his want only allowed him. But even
though Faramir had at last stopped straining, still he was not remotely ready
to take in all of Boromir – could never be ready... The efforts were pointless.
He pulled out and planted his hands on Faramir’s thighs to show he would do no
more. Faramir let out a long weary exhalation and went almost boneless in
Boromir’s lap. This only confirmed Boromir’s conviction. The least he could do
was be man enough and acknowledge the defeat.
But before he could, Faramir murmured without opening his eyes, “Don’t stop, I
am fine.”
Boromir grinned. “No, you are not. And I will not forgive myself if I do this
to you. We cannot. I would tear you up…”
“Nay, you would not. I know you want it, Boromir – and so do I. I am sure I’ll
manage,” Faramir was looking up at him with a strangely sober gaze. Boromir was
holding him on the thigh and the boy covered his brother’s hand with his own,
the palm cool and moist. “I am aware it will hurt, but that is not your fault.
Please, Boromir.”
Faramir shifted against him a little, settling more comfortably, and closed his
eyes again. His heaving chest and uneven breathing betrayed how petrified he
truly was – but he had made his resolve clear, and Boromir had to respect that.
And so he hastily applied all the remaining oil to his member, his fingers
unsteady as they moved up and down the heated twitching shaft. For once he
wished his source of masculine pride was smaller. Or that Faramir was older.
Or…
He did not know what he wished for; he did not know anything in that moment and
he could not believe it was actually going to happen. He was shaking, veritably
shaking with lust, with need.
Bending over his brother’s body a little, he aligned them correctly – but still
hesitated, and Faramir squeezed his hand silently, this unspoken permission
stronger than any words. And Boromir obliged. He shut his eyes and with one
mighty thrust entered him – then, unable to stop himself, thrust again and went
all the way in to the very hilt.
This moment… It was like death, like rebirth, pain and glory alloying together
to create an unprecedented new colour. And Faramir screamed – a feral, raw,
panicked cry. But this cry was stifled by his brother’s second thrust, and
Faramir only gaped silently. His upper body curved into a perfect arch, yet not
once did he try to pull his hips away.
He had thought he had learnt how to get along with pain.
But this…
The depth of his throe was rivaled in intensity only by Boromir’s ecstasy. He
too had cried out, for at once he was submerged into a tempest of pleasure, a
boundless ocean of rapture. Every inch of the most sensitive part of his body
was subjected to such impossible, intolerable, infinitely euphoric pressure.
And the heat… the heat of that place melted all his senses.
At first it seemed to Boromir his loins would burst from simply having his
manhood where it was. He held still for half a heartbeat, terrified. He did not
want it to end, could not bear it if it ended just now.
He had to keep on having Faramir…
He did not know how, but he would endure…
He pulled back a little and then drove in again. And again. And again…
To dominate one who was himself born for dominance, for power… Somehow, it gave
him a feeling of much stronger maleness than he had ever known with the
opposite gender. Compliant submissiveness in a young man, in a warrior – it
dazzled him, drove him insane. He wanted to slow down and be gentler, but it
was outside his power. Even if his very life were put at stake, he would not
have halted, for this delight was beyond life, beyond death.
This form of lovemaking turned out to provide far more resistance than the
traditional way: he could not just slide in, he had to really push – and that
felt wonderful. There was no soft slippery flesh to muffle the sensations, to
drown his thrusts in: he found himself right at the core of Faramir’s body, the
sensations so acute and defined, the contact with Faramir’s entity so
staggeringly direct, completely unmediated – no, this could not even be
compared to being with a woman.
Faramir, too, was quite dazzled. Delirious with pain, he sobbed quietly,
chocking on his tears as his whole body was harrowed senseless. He did not know
whether it was Boromir’s manhood that was scorchingly hot – or if it was his
own flesh burning. At that point he was held from trying to break it up only by
the fulfillment his brother apparently found in this. Boromir was breathing
hard through his mouth, with every thrust baring his teeth and gasping as
though in surprise. The combination of lust and ecstasy was making him high and
clouding his vision, and his gaze had become unfocused, disoriented. Now and
again, when it was almost too much, a shudder ran through him, and the young
man would roll his eyes and hold still for a second. Oh, Faramir wanted to make
Boromir happy, he wanted it so much… how could he ever ask him to stop?
And, strangely enough, he himself did not altogether want it to stop…
The boy’s throat had gone sore, the lower part of his body nearly numb, until…
Until at last Boromir’s persistent, pertinacious onslaught exhausted his inner
defenses, and with a warm elevating sensation his body relaxed and finally
opened, relinquishing all claim over itself. The all-obscuring tension lifted,
and as Boromir once again buried himself in his depths, far within him some
unseen cord was pulled, and a rain of stars fell on him. And suddenly the
hardness slicing through his flesh seemed no longer brutal, but a true
blessing, one filling him up to wholesomeness.
But the stars went out like stray sparks from a fire – and Faramir strove to
strike them again. Trying as it was in his position with legs up in the air, he
pushed back at Boromir, striving to angle his hips downwards. And yes! There it
was again, that explosion of light behind his eyelids, that elation of blood in
his veins, that realisation that he was profoundly, utterly loved.
Ere long they fell into a joint rhythm, meeting each other midway, crashing
together with a moan and a growl. It escalated madly, each driving the other
forth – and, much as Boromir was stunned by his own pleasure, he could not tear
his eyes off Faramir’s manhood. Somehow the notion of having his own cock
polished raw by the tight firm grip of a yielding body – while at once having
another one, just as lustful, on full display before his eyes… Somehow this
notion fused something in his brain, and such frantic desire overcame him that
he moaned helplessly, as though it were his body being claimed. He knew he was
enslaved by it and, once he saw it spill its pleasure, he would follow at once.
Indeed, Faramir could sense something enormous hovering over him – hovering
over him but from inside him, spreading through him and gathering him up, as
though preparing him for some unimaginable effort… He acutely sensed it build
up inside him, imminent and splendidly all-powerful, a veritable tidal wave –
and already it felt so good…
And then suddenly it was not enough.
He had to be closer to Boromir, had to hold him, pull his brother to himself,
kiss his mouth, inhale his scent. Absolutely had to be absolutely certain this
was real.
Grasping Boromir on the arms, he buckled, muttering, “Kiss me! Please…! Oh, oh,
Boromir, kiss me…!”
But just as the young man made to fulfill his request, trying to lean in
without losing the pace, Faramir frenziedly struggled up, reaching for Boromir,
trying to gather him into an embrace. For several long moments they bore down
on one another, Faramir trying to sit up, Boromir trying not to fall over, each
desperate to get closer to the other, to find the position fully apt for
properly expressing all each felt for the other – yet unable to coordinate
their movements, not quite aware what exactly they were striving towards. And
thus they toppled over, landing on their sides in a tangle of limbs, not
interrupting their thrusts for a second, groaning and gasping in bewilderment,
clinging to each other madly – and still trying to settle into some remotely
comfortable arrangement.
Then suddenly – an awkward movement, and Boromir slipped out of him.
For a moment Faramir could not take in what had just happened. Then he screamed
shrilly, a wordless cry of animal anguish – for the sensation of loss instantly
crushing on him was so fierce and searing as though his guts had actually been
torn out. Like a candle blown out, his world had just ended.
Unable to be reasonable, he fought to reestablish the contact, violently
battling for his only life-line. And with a muttered curse Boromir pinned him
down, sandwiching him against the mattress – and with a grunt and a merciless
thrust, was all inside of him again.
Their kiss was a frenzy, a mess, smearing all over lips, chin and cheeks until
at last their mouths found each other and sealed together. Faramir’s heel
digging into Boromir’s buttock, Boromir’s abdomen grinding his cock, fingers
leaving bruises on shoulders and arms, this rampage was the only acceptable
solution.
The river of their passion, flowing ever swifter, had now brought them to the
very edge, the very tip at which its bottom bent and dropped into the dizzying
below, all its overflowing might crushing down in an immensity of roaring foam.
For one, perfect moment they balanced. Then Boromir threw his head back and
roared, “Ooah…! Faaaaramir…!!” and the world keeled and fell away from under
them as the waters bore them down, toppled over and engulfed both of them.
Existence ceased as they became one for an instant: an instant that contained
infinity in itself.
Peace.
Peace right amid a tempest, amid the crushing force of the tumbling waters,
amid the deafening thunder of the falls.
Absolute peace and bliss. Only the whiteness, only the fair whiteness of the
foam.
An eternity later the airy foam washed them ashore, gently; and in a tangled
disorderly knot they lay breathless on the damp twisted linens – speechless and
carefree.
Chapter End Notes
     To be continued.
***** Wise Wives *****
Chapter Notes
     Many thanks to Alcardilme for the beta.
                                    Love is no respecter of age or practicality
                                                    Neither morality: unabashed
                                                      She enters where she will
                                              Unheeding that her immortal fires
                                                       Burn up human hearts...’
                                                                Phillip Pulfrey
When they finally fell asleep the night was already nearly over.
***
A pale November dawn was breaking when Faramir awoke. He could not have slept
for more than a couple of hours, yet he felt surprisingly rested and peaceful.
Everything seemed to have finally fallen into place.
There was no shame in him regarding his desire for Boromir, nor for the
somewhat peculiar way this desire had to be quenched – and never had been, for
now he knew that what he had once taken for shame had only been fear. Fear of
Boromir rejecting him, fear of the space this force would take up in their
lives if they let it loose, and simply fear of something so unexpected,
unprecedented, something so entirely not fitting into his simple familiar model
of the world. But no shame, for what was there to be ashamed of? For, long
after the frenzied compulsive avidity of their young hale bodies had been
appeased, they had kept going, driven by a deeper and far more complex need
than that bred of mere lust.
Faramir smiled to himself sleepily: he need not have feared. Everything fit in,
and, if anything, this turn of events was only to be expected. This flame may
have burned scorchingly in his loins, but in truth it was first born in his
heart, for this desire was fruit not of lust, but of love – and it was but one
facet of love. And it now seemed only logical to Faramir that once he was old
enough to want and be wanted, their love should expand and transform to
integrate this yearning.
He himself had as though extended, as though there was physically more of him
now. And so it was, for his life did not include only just himself anymore.
Faramir had always viewed the two of them as more or less a part of one
another, yet now the connection was of some organic, anatomical sort. As two
glasses of water, once poured into a single bowl cannot be separated to their
previous entities, so Boromir could not be taken out of him after the night
that had passed.
And he knew the fear such unity had first engendered in him was indeed
ungrounded, for now that they were so much one of the other, he needed not fear
losing Boromir, for Boromir could never be lost to him, much as he could never
lose the ability to breathe and still go on living. Boromir was the very basis
of his existence, and without him Faramir would not be Faramir, he would simply
fall apart and cease to be, and what would anything matter then?
It all made perfect sense. Everything made perfect sense.
But then he awoke enough to realise he was alone in the bed and, feeling
faintly alarmed, looked over his shoulder and saw his brother standing
motionless at the window, leaning heavily on the sill, gazing out. The man was
wearing only the simple white nightgown which he never got to put on the night
before. Even from the back he looked tense and burdened. Faramir’s high spirits
evaporated.
The boy sat up – and flinched, for the movement caused him a sharp pang in his
backside that resonated dully through all his nether regions. He had not been
aware of it while he was lying still, but it turned out he was extremely sore
and sensitive, almost as though he had been recently skinned to the raw flesh
on the inside. And no wonder. He could not tell with certainty how many times
they had made love last night. He had lost count somewhere after number four or
five: he could not have counted the fingers on his own hand by then.
Admittedly, it had not been so painful after the first time, and their passion
had acquired some tenderness and grown almost languid towards the end of the
night, and Boromir had started kissing him the way he had first kissed him:
slowly and artfully… But still…
Goodness, I must be like a newlywed lady on the morning after. Or more like
someone who has just given birth… Faramir thought grimly and winced again. He
would not be much surprised if it turned out his buttocks and upper thighs were
bruised, what with all the countless times Boromir’s hips had slammed against
them… This reaction of his flesh came as a reminder they had done something
unnatural after all, using their bodies not the way they had been intended, and
he did not want anything to make him entertain such notions.
And yet… He thought about it again and blessed the pain, for otherwise he would
not have believed the night had been real. Not even the fact he had woken up
naked in his brother’s bed, said bed being in complete and utter disarray, the
whole room filled with the already staling smell of sex, his very skin feeling
far from clean in a rather peculiar way, his memory filled with such
unbelievable impressions – none of it would have convinced him. But this pain,
this echo of that divine-like presence inside him, of the love his brother had
pushed into him again and again… Even if it were to never happen again, even if
Boromir were to look at him now, shake his head and say ‘look, let’s just
forget about it’ – he would still have the knowledge, forever. And if indeed it
were never to be again, then Faramir would have chosen to keep the pain, if
only he could will his body to never heal this sweetest of wounds.
He heaved a silent sigh and studied the motionless figure by the window for a
little longer, trying to read him. Then, moving gingerly, he fetched his tunic
and pulled it on.
At last he came apprehensively to Boromir’s side.
Slowly the older brother drew himself up and turned his gaze to Faramir. And
the boy was reassured by what he saw in Boromir’s drawn face. There was no
angst or regret, only sadness and such weariness that Boromir almost seemed old
– but also things more pleasant and hopeful.
Boromir was indeed filled with an unfamiliar sensation of all-encompassing
tenderness as he looked into Faramir’s large clear eyes, radiant, wary and
grave all at once – and far too experienced for his fifteen years. It pierced
the young man to see his little brother’s face lit with that special afterglow,
lips slightly swollen from hours of kissing, the outline of his mouth as though
smudged. Boys should not look like this.
Last night, it had never occurred to him to apologise for all the pain he had
caused Faramir in those dark hours full of lawless pleasure. Had not Faramir’s
own body ultimately rewarded the boy for each session of ache he endured? Had
Faramir not wanted it, had he not asked for it, with words, with his eyes, with
his hips? But now Boromir would have apologised – not for the pain, but for the
experience he had given him, for the experience that no doubt had changed all
of him
No, boys should not look like this.
But Faramir was not really a boy anymore, not the innocent child he had been
mere two months ago. He had come to manhood since: had tasted both deathly
peril and love. And love it was that filled all his face as he gazed seriously
at Boromir: not blind infantile adoration, but a feeling true and clear –
unabashed, unconcealed, undaunted love.
And the older brother knew then that indeed things had changed irreversibly.
Boromir smiled at him sadly and, reaching his arm around Faramir’s shoulders,
pulled him closer. So Faramir leant against his side and rested his head on his
brother’s chest. They stood thua for a while, and Faramir was lulled by the
steady rhythm of Boromir’s heartbeat. His brother’s reassuring sturdiness, his
warmth, his scent enveloped Faramir, and it seemed that everything could
somehow be all right. It was not a child’s naive habitual belief that things
would somehow turn out for the best – no, for being held like this did not make
him feel or think like a child. Although his brother was taller and broader
than him, and both those qualities were profoundly comforting, Faramir did not
seem to himself small and vulnerable by comparison. On the contrary, Boromir’s
masculinity served only to bring out the boy’s own confidence and strength,
making him feel mature and capable, making him feel more of a man himself. And
thus he knew that indeed it was right that they should be like this with each
other, that their love was of a healthy and beneficial nature, for it did not
change or bend either of them, but only made each more of himself, better and
truer.
But eventually Boromir sighed and spoke heavily, “So it has come to this after
all, huh,” and there was if only a hint of bitter, rueful wonder in his voice.
Faramir said nothing but only pressed himself harder into his brother’s
embrace.
After a pause even heavier than his previous words, Boromir went on, “I
remember I’ve told you once not to brood over things overmuch. And look at me
now! I can’t stop thinking… How are we going to live with all this…?”
Faramir dreaded to ask it, but he saw no way around. “So you think what we did
is wrong?”
Boromir snorted softly. “Wrong? Of course it is!” But his voice lacked
conviction somehow, and he paused and licked his lips. “And yet… well… I mean…”
he frowned and took a deep breath, squinting at some unseen point in the
distance. “A man of worth does not share his bed with kin or other men,” he
pronounced, “ isn’t this what we’ve been taught? And now I’ve done both at
once,” he grinned ironically. “Isn’t it doubly wrong then? Yet it does not seem
so – and this is what baffles me so. Had it been a girl from the family, there
would’ve been no question, of course... And likewise for sleeping with one of
my men. But you are neither – miraculously, you slip through the rules. And I
don’t feel bad about what we’ve done. Can something I desire so awfully much
truly be so wrong? Or has desire blinded me so that I’ve lost all sense of
direction? In my mind I know it was… it was not right, not normal, and yet I do
not feel it… In fact, I believe I have never felt it.”
“That is because you love me,” Faramir said quietly.
Boromir looked at him in wonder. To him the logical link Faramir-love was a
well familiar one. But like this?
“That makes sense all right,” he replied at length. “But can… can this feeling
justify it all?”
“It will have to.”
***
And next came the task of making it work in practice, daily, as of today,
without rehearsal, without a single misstep, for there would be no second
chance.
The brothers did not yet dare show up in public together, lest they should
prove unable to maintain the semblance of a proper fraternal relationship, if
only through holding each other’s gazes a second too long; and thus they
arranged to spend the day apart. This particular time it was no difficulty,
since Faramir had only just recovered from his wounds and was by no means
expected to return to the full warrior’s routine at once.
And Faramir, much as he did miss the exercise, was glad for the excuse. In
general he very much enjoyed his practice – far more so than the actual
fighting, in fact. He liked the sensation of strength and precision of his own
movement, liked to feel his body working against resistance, liked the safe
snug weight of the mail, the rhythmic game of swordplay, the residual vibration
after the arrow had been shot, the long weight of the lance in his hand, liked
how all of it cleared his mind and as though put more breath into his body,
giving him the satisfaction of well-done work. His gear had been brought back
to the their rooms, and was all cleaned and neatly stored in the antechamber,
his sword polished and sheathed, his bow unstrung and laid down to rest, all
waiting for their master’s hands.
Yet the state of his lower body was bound to turn any activity from fencing to
riding into sheer torture. Besides, on a day like this, if he could not spend
it with Boromir, he craved no other company but only solitude. He wanted all to
be quiet and unhurried, so that nothing would disturb him and divert his
thought from the one thing he wanted to dwell on and bask in, so that no
impressions would crowd on his new secret happiness.
Admittedly, he could not help thinking that soon time would come when they
would have to be together before their men, before the people in court, before
Father… Yet for the moment they could be at ease, and he wanted the day to pass
to his best liking.
Yes, and as he was not required to attend breakfast that morning, Faramir took
his meal in the palace kitchens, as he sometimes liked to do.
He felt strange walking down the cool shady corridors. To the eyes of those
passing him by he knew he was the same as ever: same face, same hair, same
clothes, same gait – although a couple of times he thought that eyes had
lingered on him longer than usual. But he was completely different now, utterly
and absolutely changed! The boy from yesterday had been but a blueprint for the
one who lived today. In the course of some several hours he had acquired such
knowledge… Knowledge that had changed the picture of the world he had long
carried in his mind, had changed the feel of the world, its texture and inner
logic. It was as though he had walked out into the street one ordinary day,
raised his face and thought: but what is that blazing thing up high in the blue
yonder? How is it I have never noticed it before?
Faramir’s gaze fell on a servant carrying a tray of freshly baked buns, a man
in his twenties, dressed all in brown and beige – then on a plump maid
chattering with a stately middle-aged wife, both laughing. Did they each in
their own way know this passion too, a passion that with its intensity rendered
everything else so bland and irrelevant? All those around him, did they carry
this secret knowledge in themselves as well? Was there a side of them only one
other person got to see, the side without which life was nothing but a mockery
of life, but a bleak shallow parody?
The boy felt his lips curving into a smile, as though he were playing pretend
and struggling not to ruin the act. He had been let on to a secret that
everyone knew full well and that everyone pretended they were not aware even
existed. It seemed to him any minute now one of the people around would
momentarily lift the mask and wink at him: I know that now you know too.
Congratulations and welcome to life.
He was ravenous, and the cook, a vivacious aged matron who always smelled of
butter and sugar, after putting before him yet another plate of steaming
nutritious food, patted him on the head affectionately. Returning to the
stoves, she gave the other women, her assistants, a meaningful look and said
teasingly, “Dear me, isn’t our young warrior hungry today! If I didn’t know
Lord Faramir was just out of the infirmary, I’d’ve thought he’d been up all
night, wielding his sword left and right.”
“Or back and forth, perhaps,” said one of the others unassumingly. They all
giggled merrily, and Faramir felt his ears burn. His sword? Of course. That was
exactly what they meant.
It was only a gentle tease, and a perfectly good-natured one at that, and
nobody asked him any embarrassing questions, yet still he grew wary and
uncomfortable, for even such jokes were not without a grain of truth.
So after finishing his meal, Faramir did not go to the library as he had
initially planned to, his usual interest in literature having inexplicably
returned all of a sudden, but headed back to their chambers before the
servants’ daily visit.
Young men in general are hardly over-disposed to domestic orderliness, and
young men of high nobility, for whom it is a fundamental law of nature that
everything will be picked up and cleaned after them, are not disposed to it at
all. One thing to do one’s round of duty washing the plates when on a military
mission – another to make one’s own bed when at home… Ah, he would have to
learn.
Crossing his arms, the boy drummed the fingers of one hand on the opposite arm
as he surveyed the battlefield. A ballade of great eloquence could be wrought
to relate the heroic deeds of outstanding prowess achieved here just hours ago.
He grinned. Nobody ever put the practicalities into the ballads.
After opening the window to get the heavy tell-tale air out of the chamber,
Faramir rumpled up his unslept bed and straightened Boromir’s up a bit, for it,
on the contrary, had been in too much of a disarray.
It was then he saw the blood. Right there on the crisp white of the sheets. Not
too much, not like someone had been murdered and dismembered, but exactly like
someone had entered a new stage of life on this bed. He knew well enough what
it was supposed to look like, thanks to the rather ghastly custom of Gondorian
families to publicly air their linens on the morning after a wedding – so that
everyone could see just how pure the bride had been.
Faramir nearly groaned aloud. Great. Just great – splendid.
No use trying to make the room look like nothing had taken place at all.
Then he snorted softly, wondering what explanation the maids were going to come
up with. Both brothers had been seen going to their chambers in the evening,
and then leaving early in the morning, so, most probably, they had both been
there when the sheets were marked crimson. What – had Boromir invited over a
curious gullible lass and entertained himself for the benefit of his little
brother’s education? Or had they both had a go? Or, perhaps, there had been two
girls, and the bed had been creaking to two different rhythms at once?
Faramir pursed his lips. All right, let them suspect whatever strikes their
fancy – so long as they do not suspect correctly.
Then he was visited by an unpleasant guess. If there was blood on the linens,
his blood on the linens… Not even bothering to unlace, Faramir yanked his
breeches down.
Sucking his teeth, the boy rolled his eyes – this was really too much, it was
not even cute anymore. And he had been walking around like this for at least an
hour already… Thank heavens above, he had a long dark tunic on top.
Now he would have to change, and wash his clothes and… well, think of a method
to prevent his leggings from staining anew. How horribly romantic… Maybe some
other people’s first experience of love was all about scarlet roses, moonlight
and holding hands – his experience, apparently, was about things of an entirely
different sort. But really, he had nobody to be angry with but himself. No one
had forced him into this, to say the least…
But no, of course he was not angry or regretful, not even particularly bitter.
It was merely fear causing him annoyance, fear that managing this affair was
turning out far more complicated than either of them would have ever fathomed,
fear that they could give themselves away so easily, so foolishly… Careful,
they would have to learn to be careful. Unfair as it might feel, this was the
way it was, the way it had to be, and resenting it would only make things
worse.
Once before, Faramir had already told himself to grow up and be mature and
sensible about things. Now the time to do so had come in earnest.
He nodded to himself grimly and returned to the task at hand with renewed
resolve.
His brother’s shirt, the one on which Faramir had spilt his pleasure, had been
treacherously concealed by the folds of the dislodged blanket, and was still on
the floor. The boy picked it up and, after studying the dried-up mark, sighed
wearily: this won’t do at all. There was nothing wrong with having such spots
on the linens: this was a men’s bedroom, after all – but on the chest of one’s
tunic…? Perhaps he was getting paranoid – but better that than the opposite.
Faramir took the garment to the bathroom and carefully rubbed the blot off
without getting the whole thing too wet.
He found the empty little bottle of dark glass, its lavender perfume still
lingering on the sheets and his own skin – and all the other bottles as well.
The small vessel from the Wards had lasted only the first time, and they had
ransacked the bath quarters afterwards, using up whatever salves and lotions
that seemed remotely suitable for the task. He brought it all back to the
bathroom where such objects would look much less out of place than under
Boromir’s pillows and bed.
When he was satisfied with the state of the room, Faramir smiled to himself
softly and headed for the library at last.
However, as he stepped out into the main corridor and closed their chambers’
door behind himself, another idea visited him, and, as his gaze fell on the
second door to his right, he knew he would delay his date with the books for a
little longer still.
The place he entered now seemed to be filled with such sad, tangible silence
that Faramir caught himself taking care to walk quietly, even holding his
breath.
Her quarters had many rooms, and as he walked through, Faramir saw that not one
of them looked abandoned or unkempt. The air was clean and fresh, showing the
rooms were regularly aired, and everything looked in perfect order, washed,
dusted and polished. If anything, the order was a little too perfect for a
place where a real person lived. But, of course, it had been quite a while
since anyone actually had.
Everything seemed much smaller and plainer than he remembered it, and no
wonder, for he had been so much smaller when last coming here, and still in
that age when the grown-up world seems mysterious and wondrous. It was almost
ten years now, and in these ten years he had not come here once. He had often
thought of her, yet had not come.
Slowly Faramir entered the drawing room.
A large rectangle of light from the tall window fell on a round table of black-
wood, encrusted with ivory and mother-of-pearl. Two chairs opposite each other
stood at the table where everything was arranged for tea for two. As Faramir
came closer, he saw the cups were empty and gleaming clean, yet he felt certain
they were used on a regular basis.
There was also a porcelain vase full of the last flowers of autumn, the petals
white with a gentle greenish tinge. They were slightly limp, but only just
slightly, and Faramir knew they could not have been brought here more than
three days ago. They had a melancholy look about them, one of loneliness
without hope.
Over the back of one of the chairs was neatly draped an elegant shawl of dark-
blue, hemmed with stars embroidered in silver-thread and set with river-pearls.
Her shawl.
It was one of those things that rise up from the depths of one’s memory only
when one sees them. In his thoughts about his mother, this shawl had never come
forth, but now that his eyes fell upon it, Faramir knew she had worn it all the
time, and in his mind it became forever connected to her image.
Very carefully he picked it up and brought it to his face. The fabric was soft
and cool, and smelled of dust and also, very faintly, of dried rose-petals. It
smelled of the past, of the past long gone but not forgotten.
The boy smiled sadly and put it back the way it had been, arranging it over the
chair as though covering a woman’s shoulders with it.
He then walked around the table to the other chair and sat down. He cradled the
empty teacup in his palms, and gazed into it thoughtfully. Then he sighed and
raised his eyes, looking at the seat opposite him.
So he comes here to talk to you.
The boy could not remember Father ever coming here to drink tea while she had
been around. Perhaps he did, only not in the children’s presence, yet still
Faramir felt certain it was a habit that had formed only after her departure.
And the private tenderness with which everything was arranged to her liking…
This tenderness was piercing. The flowers – Father did not like flowers,
especially ones like these, with many fleshy petals; the cushions on the
chairs, making the seat too soft and cosy; the tea-set – the cups too small and
fragile to be comfortably held by a man’s hands. Faramir studied the one he was
cradling, so delicately made. On the porcelain so thin it appeared bluish to
the light there was painted a pond, and in it a lone silver swan, its neck bent
in an elegant arch, the beak a tiny dot of black, wings folded back, all a
picture of grace and serenity. This was her set, one she must have brought over
from home when she came to Minas Tirith, one she must have liked above all.
Faramir nodded to himself, as though what he saw explained something to him.
And in a way it did, although what he had understood evoked consequent
questions, ones his knowledge was insufficient to answer. He could sense not
only the desolation and sorrow, but also guilt and burdened, uneasy weariness…
The boy grinned to himself and looked up again.
Father takes his secrets to you, and it is you he tells of what plagues him,
not us.
Well, and now I too have secrets that I come to share with you.
He had just turned five, and it was a cold dark night in late autumn. He had
awoken close to midnight, when the fire in the hearth had already died down and
the room was entirely black. Boromir was away at the Wards, again – with a
broken collarbone, or a forearm, or some other part of himself. Boromir had
always had plenty of spirit – often too much of it, in fact, especially when
coupled with lack of skill, which of course never stopped him from climbing
trees too slender or trying to tame horses too proud.
Quietly the boy exited their chambers, heading for her quarters nearby. His
small bare feet were hardly making a sound. The door was open, and just as
quietly he treaded in.
She never reprimanded him for coming over like this – no, this was not his
first visit.
But as he stepped over the threshold to her bedroom, he stopped, abruptly
forgetting his earlier fears, for he heard that she herself was in distress.
She was in bed, sobbing – with strange whimpering sobs, shallow and frequent.
He had never heard anyone weep like this, and the sound of it instantly filled
him with uncomprehending dread.
“Mother?” he called in a small voice, but dared not walk on, grasping the
doorframe for reassurance instead. “Mother, why are you crying?”
She fell silent at once, yet it was not she who answered him.
“Faramir, get back to your room this very instant,” his father’s voice, faintly
breathless, ordered flatly.
Faramir’s breath caught in his throat. Suddenly he was not only frightened, but
strangely ashamed. And worst of all, his father’s voice had come from the same
place as hers, and Faramir knew it was he who was the cause of Mother’s tears.
But the boy did as he was told and returned to his bed, where he lay curled up
till the morning came, not a drop of sleep in his eyes. Something was wrong, he
knew something was terribly wrong between them.
Later the following day, when Mother had taken him to her chambers to play
after his training and lessons, he had finally worked up the courage to ask
her.
“Mother, why was Father hurting you?”
He could not now recall her face, nor the sound of her voice, yet her words his
memory had preserved.
“He was not, dear. Father loves me.”
“But… but I heard you crying!”
“I was crying because I was happy.”
“You did not sound happy…”
“Perhaps not – to you. But you are too young to understand this. Simply trust
me that it is perfectly all right, and all men express their love in this way.”
He had gone pale. “I shall never!” he assured her with passion. “I shall never
make a lady cry like this.”
She had laughed softly. “You are not meant to want to just yet. But in due time
you shall. My little one, please don’t dwell on this, you do not know what you
are talking about. And one more thing, love,” she added after a pause, “Father
said to tell you he does not want you coming to my bedroom anymore.”
Faramir had obeyed. At that age it had not yet occurred to him he actually
could disobey.
And soon enough, had he even chosen to go against his father’s will, there
would have been no one for him to come to.
Until he had left childhood firmly behind, and his irrational fears with it, it
had been a veritable trial for him. When his brother slept in the same room,
there was never a problem, yet Faramir had never learnt to deal with the
darkness when on his own, to talk himself out of fearing it, or to grow used to
it and stop noticing it – but he had trained himself to put up with it, to
endure its exhaustive weight, its sinister visions and sounds. And he prided
himself that each and every time he had to spend a night without his brother he
resisted the temptation to make it easy for himself, to light just one tiny
flame. The candle was ever on his bedside table, within arm’s reach. It would
be so easy, so quick, no one would know, no one would scorn him. And yet he
knew that what comfort he would find in chasing out the mischievous shadows
would be completely ruined by his own conscience, for he would stop respecting
himself for such a weakness of character.
He suspected that such unreasonable stubbornness on his behalf was in truth
Boromir’s fault. It had been, and in part still was one of Boromir’s favourite
entertainments to build his little brother’s character.
Faramir loved sweets, always had. And Boromir knew it.
Often when they were given dessert, one big portion for them to share, Boromir
would beam at him and say, “I dare you not to have any.”
Faramir would sigh hopelessly and always ask the same pointless question,
“Why?”
The older boy would beam even broader and shrug, “Just because.” It was not
that he wanted to have all the dessert, which he in fact did not. No, it was
precisely ‘just because.’ And he would eat it slowly, piece by piece, pointedly
savouring each bite, and Faramir would watch, his mouth watering. At some
point, when Boromir had had his full and it was no longer fun for him, he would
shrug again and push the dish towards his little brother, “Here, you can have
it, I don’t want any more.”
But Faramir would avert his face and say quietly, “No.”
Boromir would raise his brows, “But you want it.”
Faramir would look at him sulkily and repeat, “No.” And in a way, it was true.
His first ‘no’ was always said mostly out of sheer stubbornness, but once it
had been voiced, the second ‘no’ came in earnest. He knew he would not enjoy
the prize if it was to be had in such circumstances.
Boromir would puff his cheeks in exasperation. “Look, this is stupid. I don’t
want it either.” But he would not get up, for how could he, the heir of Gondor,
go back on his own prank?
And thus they would sit opposite each other in gloomy silence, Boromir
laboriously stuffing the rest of the generous serving into his mouth, glaring
at his brother, Faramir louring back.
When the plate was empty, Boromir would shake his head incredulously. “You
know, I just marvel at you.”
But Faramir knew that, in truth, Boromir respected him for acting like this,
and would have been gravely disappointed had Faramir accepted his offering. The
same way he would have been disappointed if he came to know that Faramir lit a
candle to ward off the darkness. Giving in to fear was weakness, and giving in
to a fear childish and ungrounded was weakness doubled.
Faramir had never told him about it at all.
He had told Father, though. It had slipped out during a talk on some entirely
unrelated topic, the subject coming to the tip of Faramir’s tongue by a play of
association.
Denethor had looked at him keenly, tilting his head to the side a little.
“Why?” he had asked softly, although not gently. “What is there to frighten you
in the absence of light in your own bedroom? A soldier out on a foray fears his
enemy may be using the night as disguise, but do you not know you are safe
within the city walls, that your body is out of reach of any vile beast or
Man?”
Faramir had lowered his eyes, blushing, and replied quietly, “Yes, of course. I
do not know, Father. This is silly, but… I start imagining I see faces watching
me from the darkness, only I cannot see properly, for it obscures the features
from my eyes, and that is the worst, that I do not know exactly how they look.
It makes me feel… defenceless. And because I cannot see, I start imagining, and
it only gets worse…”
His father’s strange response had brought him little comfort. “Ah, so you think
it would comfort you if you knew the appearance of that which lurks in the
shadows?”
Faramir had frowned in uneasy puzzlement. “Well, I suppose so.”
Denethor’s thin lips had curved into an ironic grin. “It would not,” he said
flatly. “For the reality, my son, oft comes to be a dozen times more horrendous
than what horrors your own mind could ever paint for you. It is best these
things are left undescribed. And if ever your thought succeeds to penetrate the
mitigating veils, the true image would brand itself right here,” at this he
reached over and tapped Faramir on the middle of his forehead, making the boy
stare at him wide-eyed. “You would never rid of it. You would walk by day, and
still it would be with you. So stop being foolish, and do not worry about what
it is not your place to worry about. ‘Faces in the darkness’, oh Valar…”
Faramir blinked, frowning at the small cup in his hands. He had started off
thinking of Mother, yet his thought had taken its own trail and come to Boromir
and Father. His thought was bound to come to them regardless...
Faramir heaved a long thoughtful sigh and nodded to himself. “I understand now,
Mother,” he whispered. And I would like to hope you would have understood me in
turn.
And suddenly his throat constricted, and for a moment he thought he might cry.
Speaking aloud of their situation, even if to ears that could not hear, made
him realise with deafening starkness that in truth never and to no one could he
mention it or anything remotely pertaining to it. He could never allow the hope
that they might be understood. This was simply one of those things that people
to whom it had not happened could not comprehend. He may open his heart in his
imagination, convincing himself of solidarity and compassion on the behalf of
his unseen listener – but never could such fantasy be embodied in reality.
And at this he suddenly felt settled and collected, as though having arrived at
some inner consensus. He smiled and stood up swiftly, pushing the chair back
with a scrape. He had not come here to be gloomy and mournful, to dwell on
losses and enigmatic behaviours. He had come here because he was burgeoning
with happiness, with joy, because he was full of life, full of love, and he
wanted so badly to share his joy with someone, to let someone know how happy,
how lucky he was.
And he came up to her chair once again, and pulled up her shawl, and threw it
over his own shoulders, and brought it to his chest, and spinned around, as
though in a dance, the energy of his happiness demanding to express itself.
But you were wrong, after all – about me. I would not be the one who makes
anyone cry: you know what Boromir is like.
At this he threw his head back and laughed merrily. No, of course you don’t
know that! And you don’t know what I’m like in this sense. Had you ever
imagined what men we would grow up into? Certainly not ones like this! He
laughed again. But you would understand. I know you would not stop loving us
for this.
He sighed.
You would have been happy for us.
***
He liked to come here once in a while, even though his studies had called for
it less and less often, pushed out of his schedule by his military practice.
Today of all days he wanted to be here the most, the serene airy halls, so
quiet and unperturbed, presenting a delicious contrast to the visions and
sensations of the night before, visions that would now and again whirl at him
all of a sudden, overpowering him completely, making him stop in his tracks and
lean against a pillar or bookshelf, his gaze turning inwards, a faint
incredulous smile spreading on his swollen lips.
As he ran his fingers absently over the bindings, some of leather, some of
cloth, Faramir told himself that mere hours ago these very fingers had touched
the skin of Boromir’s chest, twirled in his long black hair, gripped at the
straining muscles of his powerful back, caressed his cheek when he lay slipping
into exhausted forgetfulness. The boy thought these old volumes were lucky to
be now touched by the same hand that had touched Boromir. He doubted he would
ever be able to stop thinking about it.
He browsed the aisles idly, wondering what sort of reading he was up to. The
poetry section was soon left behind: too slow and elegiac for his current mood.
The works on Gondorian war history all seemed surprisingly dull and
overwhelmingly long, too...
Eventually Faramir wandered into the further part of the Library which he
seldom visited. He came upon a shelf with some old diaries and lingered there.
The boy leafed through a journal of a steward’s court man from long ago and put
it back. Boring.
Then his eye was caught by a rather thick notebook bound in purple leather
decorated with little gems. He picked it up curiously. “A Wise Wife’s Notes.
How I Preserve Happiness in My Home,” read the title. Faramir snorted and
frowned. What a strange topic for a book! Women learnt these things from their
mothers and aunts, not library manuscripts. And what could a ‘wise wife’
actually have to put on so many pages? How to…? How to do – what? he wondered,
and opened the journal.
At first it was mostly on domestic maintenance and beauty tips, but when he was
almost disappointed enough to put it down – he turned one more page and came
upon a chapter of a completely different sort.
***
As for Boromir, his day began in a much less pleasant manner.
***** Boys *****
Chapter Notes
     Flowers to Alcardilmё for beta on this chapter.
     Previously_in_‘After_a_Lifetime’
     Faramir spends his morning in quiet reflexion, observation and
     discovery – but the beginning of Boromir’s day is far less enjoyable
     in nature.
It was still very early when Boromir left their room, so he headed straight for
the army quarters. The men would now be in the middle of breakfast, and he
would gladly join, being quite famished after the night’s exertions. The young
man still felt the cosy warmth in his veins and his body was filled with such
physical happiness that he could be nothing but optimistic about the day ahead,
about everything. What could possibly go wrong in a world so full of wonder?
And as he walked briskly in the clear cool air of November, he could not help
but inwardly laugh in incredulity at his earlier grim hopelessness, considering
it now of no more substance than a nonsensical inconsequential nightmare.
When he had awoken after what must have been not more than an hour’s rest,
instantly and quite without thinking Boromir pulled out of their sticky
intimate embrace, disentangling his leg from between Faramir’s warm thighs, and
rolled out of bed. He had not noticed the cold floor under his feet, nor the
way his body protested against being robbed of Faramir’s sleepy mellowing
comfort. None of it mattered – nothing mattered, really.
He did not stop for a second to ponder on all the changes in himself, changes
in the way his heart worked, in the way his mind worked – changes that had
crept over him unnoticed, all brought about by what had been done.
At once he had gone to where he kept his gear by the door. There was, of
course, no real need to bring his armour and weapons to the bedroom, he could
well leave them in the antechamber of their quarters – but he was a warrior and
liked to have his things at hand, to always have an eye on them. And he took
his sheathed blade from where it stood leaning against the wall and smoothly
drew it out, the familiar metallic hiss sounding grotesque and farcical in the
confines of this peaceful room.
His muscles, fit as he was, were a bit sensitive after all the unplanned
nightly exercise, some of it done in rather uncomfortable positions, and the
weight of the sword felt reassuringly heavy and substantial in his habitual
grasp. Yes, his sword always gave him ground and balance, and made everything
so blissfully uncomplicated.
There was no need to think at all, for the simplest, most obvious and
apparently the only appropriate solution was, of course, death.
He felt no bitterness, no fear, not even regret. What was done was done – and
what had to be done had to be done.
He had utterly unmanned and dishonoured a boy, his own younger brother – and
Faramir, too, had wanted it, had wanted it each and every time. This somehow
seemed the worst part: not only had he satisfied himself with his nearest kin –
he had actually pleasured Faramir in the process, introducing him to the joy of
lying with another, of having his body touched – of having his body mastered…
He had made his little brother consciously ask for what the boy had previously
been too innocent to even conceive – and Faramir had asked, oh, he had asked…
It had been so raw, so sharp, impossible, unimaginable, like being skinned,
like having the vocal cords torn out – this was, certainly, what complete moral
downfall feels like. No, they both were far beyond absolution.
Such crimes had no atonement, but that did not cancel out the fact that
morality required payment. Was this not what a man who slept with his sister
would have had to do? So simple: take his brother’s life, then his own. The
logic was indestructible: they had, ultimately, betrayed the very foundation of
their society: gone against the law of honour – it was only natural to pay for
that with the universal currency of blood.
Natural, yes. The Gondorian code of honour Boromir had long since had engraved
into the very flesh of his heart – and he had long since had himself accustomed
to the idea of death. He was young and otherwise would not have believed it
possible that his life would ever end – only he had seen so many others end
that he knew his was no exception. It did not take much to die. Like in one of
those strategic games Father amused himself with: make a single wrong move –
your opponent won’t miss the opportunity. No fault goes unpunished. Life can be
too easily lost to be valued too highly in the first place.
A true death is worth more than a false life.
He had heard this saying countless times, and its logic seemed to him not only
unquestionable but brutally beautiful.
Yet a new force, one far stronger than logic, had already taken residence in
him. Still running his fingers along the cool uncaring steel, he turned to
throw a glance at Faramir’s sleeping form – and knew at once that much as he
may entertain the notion of at least partially salvaging their good names with
his blade, he would never come to do it, never come to even try.
It was then that he truly understood what it was to be torn, to be lost. He had
never felt such complexity of life, such incomprehensibility of his own heart,
such weight of his own freedom. The sensation enveloping him… So powerful, so
absolute, so unquestionable, so full of meaning – but so strange, he had
nowhere to accommodate it on his scale of values, had nothing to anchor it to.
Of course he was lost: he had never slept with someone he should have on no
account even wanted to touch – had never slept with someone who actually
mattered to him.
Was this just the final stage of succumbing to temptation – actually embracing
the fall? Or what was it…?
All he knew was that he felt something inside himself shift, change, and settle
with a calming finality, like the surface of a pond smoothing out into cut-
glass after a thrown rock has sunk to the very bottom and become part of the
pond – and Boromir lowered his sword, then quietly went and put it back in its
scabbard.
Stupid, he now thought with a smile, tilting his face up and looking into the
open mountain sky above, clear and endless, already blue with the arrival of
the sun. Everyone else was stupid. Everyone who sneered at such passion, who
scorned and feared it. They simply did not know. Fools. Narrow-minded fools. He
had feared, too, he had deemed it wicked – now he knew better. Now it was
precious to him, and he would like to see someone try and make him part with
it.
He felt happy now. He did not like avoiding himself, lying to himself. It wore
him out, gnawed at his self-respect, made life seem dull and burdensome. Now at
last he could be straight with himself, for there was no longer anything in him
that he did not wish to recognise and live out. Faramir was wonderful, and
being with Faramir was wonderful. Unusual, yes, but they would get used to it.
There were few things a man could not get used to.
Yes, he felt happy – and also very fortunate, although not the humble, grateful
sort of fortunate a man of a more modest heart would have felt. No, as the high
proud lord that he was, Boromir was accustomed to feeling rightfully special,
and he deemed his fortune pretty much his due, something that he not only
doubtlessly deserved through personal merit, but what he was entitled to simply
as his birthright. One day he would be lord over all of Gondor – certainly fate
would not have put an unworthy man in this place? And certainly, seeing as he
had been put in this place, he deserved to have the best of the best along the
way? Again, it was a little unconventional – but, after all, who could suit him
better than Faramir?
He took a deep joyous breath of the frisk autumn air, revelling in the strength
of his lungs, in the life coursing through his body. He was young, full of
strength and spirit, full of fire, full of the desire to live – and life kept
throwing riches at his feet. He had been dealt the most enviable place in
society, had been given health, valour and the talent of a warrior, he had good
looks and an effortless charismatic authority. Now, to top it all, he had
Faramir.
Life could hardly get any better than this.
Only now that it had lifted did he become aware of the merciless pressure he
had been carrying in his groin all this time: but now he felt pleasantly light
and empty in the balls – unburdened. The sensation spoke a promise of renewal,
of new life-force to soon come in the place of that which had been spent, as
new sunshine is ever ready to spill on the land after a brief velvety respite
of night – and he thought of the evening to come and the night to follow, when
they would do it again, just a few hours away. Last night he had set a personal
record, reaching that number which he had always considered a hallmark of a man
who does not know how to brag credibly – too bad his achievements would have to
pass unbeknownst to anyone. Boromir was too content to mind, however – instead
he idly wondered if he could perhaps top himself and reach an even more
impressive score when darkness fell again.
He did not linger on the thought though, not wishing for the yearning to become
uncomfortable, which it surely would if he were only to recall how... He
grinned and tossed his head. He no longer had need of fantasies, nay, for the
glorious reality was his for the taking, for the prize was not going anywhere
and would wait for him always, so long as he lived.
And he wanted to live in the moment, without hurry or tarry, for now that his
life was perfect, each moment was, too.
He felt the vibe of his city like never before. He sensed the energy flowing in
it with a heightened, sharpened sensitivity, so many things happening at once,
so many lives following their course, each little occurrence and action echoing
through him, like the fabled seeing-stones of the past channelling countless
visions to his mind in uncontradicting simultaneousness. He knew exactly what
each circle would be like at this hour – and in two hours’ time, and at noon,
and afterwards. He knew by heart, with the very tissues of his body, how his
city lived, what unbreakable routine it followed, day after day, century after
century.
Right now it was awakening, getting ready and heading to the place of its daily
labours, the bottom circles already busy with merchants setting up their stalls
and servants hurrying on errands, whereas the wealthier and idler inhabitants
of the higher terraces were stealing the last dream from the departing night.
Soon the lower streets would be filled with the deep lingering scent of
roasting chestnuts, and the hum of all the people going about their business
would carry up even to the administrative and military levels of the city.
Towards nightfall the smells of food and work would come to be rivalled by
those of leisure and entertainment: the heady aroma of hot spiced wine, the
faintly bitter tang of the street torches illuminating the way for those on
their way to the home hearth – or elsewhere... The sounds would be different,
too: no more of the robust, energetic shouting of traders bantering with stingy
customers, no more of the shrill piercing cries and giggles of children, no
more of the high-pitched female chatter – all the respectable women were out of
the streets by this hour, and those few who came to take their place would
speak in low sugary murmurs and promising whispers.
He, too, would fit into this ever-repeating pattern, would live out the life
befitting a Steward’s heir – only his life would be special, for he was blessed
beyond the reckoning of men.
With this thought Boromir turned a corner and came into the vast practice
courtyard between the barracks and the dining hall – and saw a dense gathering
of soldiers in the middle, with still more coming to join the already
threatening crowd. The air was tense and brittle, and people were talking in
lowered, agitated voices.
What now?! Can’t anything go as it is expected to – just for a change? he
thought in exasperation and headed for the crowd.
He approached, and as the soldiers let him pass to the centre, he heard their
gravely excited murmurs and concluded they had actually been expecting him. At
twenty he was far from the most experienced or high-ranked officer in the force
(by sheer right of birth he could, of course, outweigh the word of any of his
superiors save his father, yet he knew that to use this right would only
diminish his weight in his men’s eyes), yet no important decision would be made
without him. He was usually very proud of that, and reckoned he deserved it
anyway, what with his unprecedented rising to a captain at nineteen – but
today, when he did not want to have any problems to solve, it only aggravated
his annoyance.
“All right! What’s all the commotion?!” Boromir barked with authority and
louder than was actually necessary, for he wanted it clear that he was fully in
charge and no indiscipline would be tolerated. Coming to the front row he
stopped short, for he saw at once that they were preparing to birch someone,
the long bench and the barrel for soaking the willow-rods already there. And by
the bench, apart from everyone else, stood two young lads, not much older than
his own brother. He remembered them well, earnest and jolly lads they were,
joined in only the year before. Both were already shirtless in the biting chill
of the morning, but neither seemed to notice; and such desolation was in their
faces as if they were going to be beheaded, not whipped.
A sturdy balding man in his late fifties, Danrad the Stables Master, rushed to
Boromir.
“Oy, Lord Boromir, the’e ye are!” He was a trustworthy fellow, if not
particularly coherent or concise. He enjoyed, however, a great weight among the
men – he used to be a warrior himself, before an injury to his knee had set him
to overseeing more peaceful matters. Having lost his only son to childhood
illness long ago, he had since come to take out his unspent paternal sentiments
on the horses whom he affectionately addressed as ‘you cheeky ruffians’ – and
the soldiers, who to him were all either ‘lads’ or ‘boys’.
A few feet away Boromir noticed a figure rather standing out from the rest of
the warriors. It was Gelendor, one of his father’s bailiffs – a man of
exceptionally upright posture, lean of body and face, his slick dark hair
always neatly tucked behind his ears, light-blue eyes emotionless yet
unpleasantly penetrating. As usual, he was wearing his knee-long official robes
of black wool, austere and adorned only by a fine belt. Despite the weather, he
had no cloak or hood, as though being the mouth of law made him immune to the
elements. Boromir remembered that in the scorching sun of summer he would not
even break a sweat on his brow. And once again Boromir was reminded of how
Faramir had once jokingly referred to the man as ‘the viper’.
The bailiff acknowledged Boromir’s arrival with a curt nod, but did not try to
intercept Danrad, who was practically jumping with impatience. It was obvious
the two had been engaged in a passionate dispute up to the point of the heir’s
arrival, and the idea of it made Boromir grin in spite of his growing unease.
Oh, it must have been a scene worth watching…
Much as he usually enjoyed Danrad’s company, what with his good-natured gruff
manner and fatherly ways, Boromir raised his brows at Gelendor, knowing his
explanation would make much more sense than Danrad’s – but the official made a
polite gesture, indicating he relinquished the privilege to his opponent.
Gelendor had never made it much of a secret he considered the military men a
rather amusing object to observe, what with their arrogant stubbornness and hot
foolish tempers. Boromir had never liked him much.
Boromir sighed and turned his eyes to the Stables master. “Well?”
Danrad took a deep breath, as though preparing air for a speech long enough to
house all his apparent outrage.
But before he could embark on the monologue, another voice called from behind
Boromir, uncertain and humble.
“I am so sorry, your lordship.”
Boromir did not appreciate it when the men spoke without confidence, and so he
did not grace the speaker with a full turn and only looked back over his
shoulder. His name was Meneldir and he was the one in charge of the two boys,
as well as of another ten cadets. With a pang of annoyance, Boromir read in his
face the look after seeing which he could never quite respect an officer again
– the ‘please, let someone else decide for me’ and the ‘I don’t understand how
this could’ve happened’ look. Pity though, Meneldir had seemed like a promising
one to him.
“What are you sorry for? What have you done?” Boromir asked not quite kindly.
He did not like the degree of distress present in the situation, and least of
all did he like it when people began their speech with pleas for forgiveness.
Why are you not even trying to get a word in with the other two? he wanted to
demand. Why are you standing shamefaced in the corner when these areyour boys?
Whatever they’ve done, of all the people you ought to be the last one to
withdraw your protection from them. If such is your conduct, what can be
expected of the others? But if Meneldir did not understand this already, it was
quite pointless to waste breath on trying to enlighten him.
Boromir sighed inwardly. Fine, he would deal with it himself. But, he decided
after all, when it was over and done with, he would have a talk with Meneldir,
tell him to learn and solve the problems with his cadets without it becoming a
national-scale event.
“Well?” the Captain inquired, turning back to Danrad.
“Ye see, yer lo’dship, we bin arguin’ what to do with ’em goblins ove’ he’e,”
at this Danrad pointed at the two young men by the bench, as though this much
was not yet obvious beyond doubt. Boromir suppressed another sigh. “’Tis
outrage, me lord!” Danrad exclaimed, suddenly doubling in volume. “Ooh, them
rascals! Now, Meneldir here has sent for Master Gelend’r, and now he say do it
by the book, but the boys,” with a wide gesture he indicated all the other
soldiers, including Meneldir who did not quite look like he wanted to be
included. “Yer lo’dship, we don’ want none of this among us, if ye please! What
a disguhrace!” The last word he pronounced with something a sort of twisted
gusto. “They dese’ves an ’olesome beating fo’ starte’s, and—”
Boromir raised his hand and the man fell silent. The young captain felt that
everyone, even Gelendor who obviously could not care less, had their eyes on
him: a new and promising character had just walked on stage and everybody was
holding their breath waiting for some spectacular move on his behalf. Much as
being the centre of attention was pretty much the default state for a man of
his birth, this time Boromir felt unpleasantly aware of all the gazes and the
ears. To tell the truth, he had not liked the look of it from the start, what
with the hubbub and a bewildered officer and a bailiff present – and now he
liked it even less. Yet he fought down the bad feeling rising in his stomach,
for worry ought not to show in his face.
“Now, tell me – and to the point – what happened?” he looked at Danrad sternly,
already regretting he had chosen to listen to the man in the first place. He
could tell Gelendor was going to be popular at the afternoon meal, recounting
the show to his colleagues.
“Well, you see, me lord, ’tis like this,” the stables master began. “Not two
hours ’go, the’e I am goin’ to look o’er them ’orses befo’ the day. No one’s
suppos’d to be the’e at this hour, but then I ’ear queer noises in the back.
An’ when I come ove’,” the man spread his arms theatrically, “the’e them are
those two cocksuckers on the floor – writhing like worms!! That one on the
top,” he pointed, “with his trousers aroun’ the knees, an’ already workin’ it
like stuffing a maiden! And the othe’ one, well, he still dressed, but, you’ve
got ter hear this, he—” the man trailed off, for Boromir had suddenly gone very
grey in the face. The young man reeled, and a nauseous wave rose up in his
stomach.
But naturally his reaction was completely misinterpreted, and Danrad launched
into apology. “Oy, me old doorknob, sayin’ such foul things to yer lo’dship!
Too foul fo’ yer noble ears, I daresay! Nea’ly made yer lo’dship sick all ove’
yer shiny boots!”
Gelendor averted his face, but Boromir noticed an ‘oh, please, when is this
comedy going to end?’ expression pass across his features. He had likely just
put Boromir in the same category with the flabbergasted Meneldir.
Boromir clenched his teeth and swallowed… Must not lose face. He forced a harsh
laugh. “Nay, worry not, it takes more than that to unsettle my stomach. But you
paint vivid images with your words, Master Danrad – more vivid than I care to
imagine. Pray spare me the delicious details!”
And suddenly, as by a word of magic, the tension was gone. The men behind and
around him chuckled with approval, someone actually clapped his hands, even the
bailiff grinned to himself drily. Boromir had done just what they all needed:
he took the apprehension and uncertainty away and let them laugh, practically
as though they had all come here for an entertainment.
But Boromir was genuinely astonished to hear such scorn in his own voice. He
had not intended to be cruel, especially not after the previous night, not when
he could still see Faramir looking up at him with such adoration and trust in
his eyes… And then he was suddenly aware of Faramir’s scent still lingering on
his skin. The man had not wanted to wash it off when he woke, and now it was
all over him. For a dreadful moment it felt as though instead of the traces of
his brother’s sweat, semen and spit (not to mention the dratted lavender oil)
he was covered in red paint – and the men would see it any minute now.
His private treasure, his newfound happiness brought along such insufferable
vulnerability…
Funny, when he had stood on the cold floor of their bedroom earlier that
morning, contemplating – in earnest, as it had seemed to him – taking his own
and his brother’s lives, it had never occurred to him to spare a thought for
others.
What would people think? What would people think if the two of them were found
slain in their own bedchamber, naked and with the proof of what had been done
red and raw between Faramir’s legs? What would Father think? How would Father
live with it? Would Father live with it?
And how would Father live with it if he actually ever caught them doing it
again…?
Involuntarily Boromir looked at the miserable couple in the centre, and now he
knew why they looked like they did. Absolutely, completely exposed and at mercy
of these hateful men – men who could not possibly understand… ‘I didn’t writhe
with him like a worm!’ he wanted to shout. ‘Is that all you can see?! But it is
not like that at all…! We’re not mindless randy beasts shagging for fun… You
have no idea what it feels like! He alone is worth to me more than this whole
city with everything in it! I feel for him like none of you would ever know!!’
But he never said any of it, of course.
“So wha’ d’we do with ’em, me lord?”
He stared down at Danrad. The man was looking at him in hopeful eagerness,
obviously counting on Boromir’s solidarity with the soldiers’ position. After
all, to everyone in the military, Boromir was first and above all a warrior and
a captain, and only then the Steward’s son.
Boromir took a deep breath and announced flatly: “We do what we are supposed to
do. The Law was made for a reason. Just do what it says on the point, and no
debates. What is this? Why are we wasting so much time on this matter?! These
things have happened before, I am sure, and this here is no uncommon case –
just do the usual.”
He had no idea what ‘the usual’ was. He had never stopped to wonder. Well, at
least as it apparently involved birching, it was not likely anyone would be
executed…
“Thank you, your lordship,” Gelendor gave an appreciative little bow, having
more class than to show glee at his triumph.
But Danrad, although clearly struggling to stay humble, burst out, “Beggin’ yer
gracious pard’n, yer lordship, but this here is uncommon! We all’ve surely
heard of the thing – but not once in my living memory, and I’m no boy he’e,
have it actually happened! And right ’ere, among the lads, too!”
“Could this little misintelligence, perhaps, be a tribute to the fact of the
esteemed Master Danrad being a blissfully unobservant man?” Gelendor suggested
conversationally, who now that Boromir had pronounced him the winner seemed
more lenient towards an exchange of pleasantries. “Pray kindly tell me I am
badly mistaken and you do not actually deem it necessary to see the act in
order to know that a man has—?”
“Now look here!” Danrad cut him off, clenching his broad hands into fists, “If
you are suggesting any of the boys here – then the Law or no Law...”
“Goodness, why would I want to go to so much trouble?” Gelendor parried in a
tone of amused condescension. “Those whom the matter may concern already know
who they are, there is no need of finger-pointing on my or anyone else’s
behalf. And let us not pretend the situation is not meant to serve not so much
as a lesson taught to the party at fault, but rather as a broadly preventative
measure – is this not why, my good Master Danrad, you so yearn to have these
two demonstratively beaten to pulp?”
Danrad, by then positively purple in the face, opened his mouth to object – and
gulped for breath, obviously failing to nail a counter-argument.
“Enough!” Boromir barked furiously, making both men turn to him at once and the
rest of the crowd catch their breath. He did not like the look Gelendor cast
him, but he cared little, unable to decide which of the two he would have
preferred to murder if given the choice. “Unless,” he muttered sternly, “my
judgement is to be contested, I would advise you sirs to be done with your
bickering and you, Master Gelendor, to kindly do your job and read out the
specific measure of punishment. We have plenty of our own work to do and I want
this nonsense to be done with!”
Again Gelendor bowed to him respectfully – then turned to the lad whom Danrad
had compared to a maiden.
“Did you give voluntary unforced consent for the treatment you were receiving?”
he inquired matter-of-factly.
Danrad snorted exasperatedly at this, but the lad, startled to be spoken to,
stared back at the bailiff with haunted, uncomprehending eyes. Gelendor sighed
and, rephrasing, spoke slowly, as to a dullard, “Were you being forced?”
A visible shiver ran through the cadet’s body and it was clear he understood –
both the question and its implications. He could still get out of the worst it,
or at least try to – although then the boy he had been caught with would be
tried for attempted rape.
A chill crept down Boromir’s spine when the man realised he already knew what
the lad was going to say. Boromir had never noticed much of a friendship
between the two, let alone anything else – but now, by some strange sense of
solidarity, he suddenly knew. It horrified him that he could really see it, how
it was between them, what drew one to the other. The boy had always had about
him this niceness, this wide-eyed well-meaning eagerness that, although often
preventing others from taking him seriously, encouraged many of the older
warriors to like him with a warm paternal-like fondness. And Boromir could
tell, could really tell, in what way exactly the other lad complemented these
qualities in him, how they fitted and matched, how the pull worked.
At this notion another wave of sickness threatened to rise in him, but Boromir
fought it down.
Meanwhile the boy closed his eyes, as though pulling himself together, then
parted his lips to answer – but his voice cracked and nothing came out. He
frowned, swallowed – and on the next try uttered quietly, “No.” The corners of
his mouth twitched, but he repeated, “No. I was fully willing.”
A simmering murmur passed through the crowd, and Gelendor raised his brows, as
though not quite convinced that something so abhorrent could indeed be true –
but the young man said nothing more.
“Very well,” Gelendor then said with emphasis. He inhaled deeply and, clasping
his hands behind his back and standing even straighter than usual, he looked
before himself and recited in a clear expressionless voice, as though a
diligent schoolboy delivering his assignment before a classroom, “For those not
having yet taken a full oath of service and below age of manhood, the first-
time offense of displaying unambiguous unquestionable carnal interest in a
fellow soldier,” he ignored Danrad’s contemptuous snort at the euphemistic
phrasing, “the statutory measure of penalty is as follows. Ten-score lashes
with willow-rods on the back and thighs – face-down on a bench, undressed and
in public. Unless stated specifically otherwise, an adequate period for a
reasonable degree of recovery should be allowed at the Wards – followed by a
single-cell incarceration for a period of five days, water but no meals –
followed in turn by a six-week period of suspension from all official duties
with the purpose of providing time to thoroughly ponder on – and hopefully
reconsider – one’s conduct.”
Boromir blinked, taken aback. He had never expected the Law to have such a
precise point of view on the matter. Valar, someone had actually thought it all
through…
Gelendor let his words sink in, then turned to Boromir, waiting for
confirmation.
“Yes, carry on,” Boromir said without emotion, only making a little impatient
gesture with his hand.
“The Book does not specify whether the flogging should be fully public or
limited to the circle of those performing the same service. If your lordship
wishes, it can be taken down to the market square,” Gelendor added casually.
“We are not wasting another hour on making a show out of this,” Boromir said
drily, too drained to even be angry anymore. “It shall be done right here where
everything is already prepared. Now, thank you, Master Gelendor, your service
is done.”
Without a word the black-clad bailiff inclined his head and left, and Boromir’s
gaze fell on Danrad. The older man’s face was burning with barely contained
emotion, yet, meeting the heir’s eyes, he lowered his head respectfully.
“As yer lo’dship says, of course,” he muttered, then could not resist adding,
“though I’ope ye do see me point now, Cap’n Boromir. In two months’ time,
they’ll be back like it nev’r ’appened.” He shook his head ruefully and spat at
his feet. “Right, boys. Could’ve had it ove’ by now… Oh well. Now then, whe’e
did that Ned’mir go? ’Tis his duty fo’ them floggins.” And he added in a low
grumble, “And he’d bette’ do a good job of it.”
They were going to manage without his first-hand involvement, and Boromir was
grateful for that much. But all the same, he could not just up and leave the
scene. So he stood and watched, and could not help flinching when the men began
to jeer as the first blow was struck.
It was quite an enlightening experience, in fact, letting him learn the full
list of nouns, adjectives, verbs and elaborate word constructions possibly
applicable to one man who even embarked on bedding another. And Boromir knew
that in his particular case the list would be twice as long, for it would have
to include all the words for seducing someone as scandalously young and
piercingly innocent as Faramir, not to mention the obvious additions for their
status and kinship.
The only good thing he could think of was that Faramir was currently elsewhere.
***** Leprosy *****
Chapter Notes
     Many thanks to dear Alcardilmë for help with this chapter.
     Previously_in_‘After_a_Lifetime’
     While young Faramir spends the better part of his day studying
     enlightening materials in the reading rooms, on the morning following
     their unplanned night of love it falls to Boromir to publicly
     allocate penalty to two young cadets caught engaging in disgraceful
     practices in the stables.
The evening, grey and quiet, had come at last. That blessed period, so brief in
the cold season, when the after-feel of the sun lingers, hanging weightlessly
in the air – a soft halo without any specific source; when there is yet no need
of torches but the natural light is ever so soft, ethereal. That blessed period
of repose when the upper streets are empty, peaceful, free. That short period
in his day when he can walk with a face that actually corresponds to the way he
feels on the inside.
The rest of Minas Tirith would remember this day as typical for the time of
year, crisp with a sobering, refreshing coolness, clear and mild. But he, had
he not known otherwise in his mind, could have sworn in had been a scorcher,
the sort that parches the skin and the throat, a merciless yellow eye nailed
immobile to the dome of the sky, staring down with a million leaden beams. One
of those days that are filled with nothing but dust and bitter sweat, hours of
joyless toil and muscle pain, with dead, crippling heat.
He felt no relief for meeting no one on his path, no relief for being spared
the chore of exuding confidence, vigour and his usual charm, somewhat lazy and
derisive as it may be. All day, the sweat and the dust notwithstanding, he had
diligently displayed an unquestionable contentment with the way of things, the
sort of contentment akin to a stocky oak, too firmly rooted to be swayed by the
flimsy winds. But now he was too drained to be comforted that for the next
several hours this particular burden at least was gone.
However, he soon saw that either way his reprieve was not fated to last.
For no sooner than Boromir opened the door to their chambers, he could tell –
feel – that Faramir had returned ahead of him, was expecting him, that the
break was finished. And he knew he could not pull the mask back on, for his
bright face had cracked and would not fit.
Worse still, when Boromir saw the all-trusting, radiant delight his arrival
brought to his brother, to his young and still so perfectly innocent brother –
the cutting, desperate tenderness of the morning overcame the man all over
again. If anyone could only know how he ached to protect this boy, to shield
him with his own body, to come stand between him and all the evils of the world
– and by far the worst of all, he knew that nothing he could do would ever be
remotely enough, for much as he would one day rule over all of Gondor, he had
no power against the very way of their life.
Then Faramir, who had rushed to meet the older brother, stopped short and
frowned.
“What is the matter?” he asked instead of a hello.
“No, ’tis nothing,” muttered Boromir as a return greeting, “I am tired, ’tis
all.”
He tried to walk around Faramir, but the boy stood in his way.
“Is it because of the flogging?”
“Huh...” the man wrinkled his forehead, aware he ought to come up with some
swift and clever way to steer away from this topic, but his exhausted wit
refused to make the effort. “I see you know about that,” he only noted, and his
own voice sounded to him dull as last-year’s dust.
Faramir shrugged as though there was nothing out of the ordinary about his
knowing – about the situation on the whole. “Rumour spreads fast, and such
rumour twice so,” he merely said.
“Yes. Well,” Boromir replied vaguely, and moved his shoulders like he would to
ward off a chill. He had no energy to discuss this, to discuss anything, and
would rather be flogged himself than let on as to what part he had played in
the procedure, what things he had said. Lest his face somehow betray him, he
pushed past Faramir.
But before he could make it to the bed and slump down as was his only desire in
that moment, Faramir spoke to his back.
“Boromir, please, they are doing better already.”
And Boromir stopped dead in his tracks.
Slowly he turned around, his features dark.
“What?” he asked very quietly.
“I said—”
“I heard what you said.”
For a moment more, the brothers stood motionless, holding each other’s hard
gazes.
“Are you insane?!” shouted Boromir. “You’d better not be telling me you’d
bloody gone to see those two!”
“So I did, just before heading home – and mind you, in the whole day I was the
only one,” answered Faramir with defiance. Yet Boromir looked hardly impressed
and would not even grace him with a reply, and Faramir implored, “Oh, hear me
out. Think of it: I am ‘soft’, ask anyone. My checking on a whipped man
couldn’t possibly raise suspicion; if anything, it would be deemed the stranger
if I hadn’t – you well know I always visit them after corporal punishments.”
“There’s no ‘always’ here,” Boromir gritted out, and poked the boy on the chest
with his finger, “don’t you understand this is different?!”
“Oh, I understand well enough!” Faramir shouted back. “But do you understand?
Do you know what’s it like? Do you know that in the ten hours they’d been there
no one’s offered them food, nor even a drink of water? That no one’s attended
to their wounds, not even wiped the blood off? And when I confronted the healer
in charge, do you know that he looked away and told me everyone’s so awfully
busy and must’ve somehow overlooked? As though I was blind – or else altogether
daft – and couldn’t see all the hands idling around with nothing to do… This...
this...” he panted for breath, blinking angrily, then cried out in a trembling
voice, “This isolation is cruel! And unwarranted! To treat them as though
they’re filthy lepers, and I doubt they’d receive any more attention until I
return tomorrow—”
Before the boy could utter another word, Boromir gripped him by the wrist and
yanked him forth. “There isn’t going to be any tomorrow, Faramir. I don’t want
you checking on them again – do you understand?”
Faramir’s nostrils flared and he squared his shoulders. “I am the Steward’s
son,” he declared with such unstudied lordliness that in other context it would
have surely gained his brother’s approval, and made to pull his arm free. “I
shan’t be daunted – and I shall give them protection.”
“Well, I have news for you,” Boromir announced, leaning in to him. “I am the
Steward’s son as well – and ’tis my word that’s been the one and only time
you’ll visit those fools.”
“You don’t get to tell me around!”
“That’s exactly what I bloody well get to! Valar know I wish I hadn’t to – but
you apparently know no better.”
“Oh, I do know better! I remember my lessons – have we not been taught that at
times the best cover is to go against expectation, that moving towards the
danger can be safer than running and hiding?”
“No one’s running and hiding!” Boromir bellowed into his face. “I’m only being
sensible about this – because it looks like I’m the only one here who’s got any
sense left. Do you not bloody understand what will happen—” he cut himself off
and only exhaled through his teeth. “Honestly, you truly think being the
Steward’s son works in your best interest here? Faramir, wake up! For fuck’s
sake! I’m tired as... as fuck – and pissed twice as much, and here I have to
walk you through the obvious truths! This isn’t warfare, risking your hide is
no deed of courage, and losing your hide shan’t be remembered in song. We need
all the protection we can get, we have none to spare for the other poor idiots!
No, we don’t! Don’t take issue with me, Faramir – I know you can fence well
with a blade and words alike, and I shall have none of it. And do yourself a
favour and knock out of your head all this elaborate nonsense the theories of
strategy teach. They’re all thought up by men who sit too far away from any
real peril to know shit about anything.”
“But—” Faramir protested, still trying to wrench his hand away.
“You ought not to be so upset,” Boromir said coldly. “It cannot be helped – and
it is not the end of the world. You have wasted too much breath on this
already.”
“How can you say that?! You don’t even listen to me!”
Suddenly Boromir’s exasperation drained away, as drink from a punctured wine-
skin, and he pulled the boy to himself to hug him tightly. Gently and with
emphasis, the man whispered into his brother’s hair, “Faramir, let it go.”
He held firm while Faramir struggled wordlessly against him.
“Please, little one, listen to me,” Boromir spoke slowly and very calmly, as
one trying to get an urgent message through to an unreasonable child. “We
aren’t going to make friends with these boys. For they, indeed, are as lepers.
They are done for, Faramir, and you cannot help it. It doesn’t matter how soon
their welts heal or if not at all, for there’s naught ahead for them. Everyone
else understands this, and so should you. They can only pray to the Valar for a
chance to perish with dignity, ’tis all.”
Faramir made a sound of disagreement, but Boromir shook his head. “No, Faramir,
I know what I’m saying – I know how these things work. You want to be kind, I
know, but I saw the faces of that crowd. Don’t you let yourself be fooled
thinking that after they’ve done their term, they’ll come back and everyone
will just forget about what’s been. In word they may be cleared – but that’s no
more than pretty talk... This is a brand, Faramir – it is unwashable. Time
doesn’t erase anything, punishment doesn’t erase anything. Quickly enough some
excuse will be found why they are unfit for the military service – and there
isn’t a single door that’ll welcome them then.”
For a long while Faramir stood still and quiet, his face pressed into his
brother’s shoulder.
“I am sorry,” the boy said at last. “I should’ve preserved my composure. A row
with you is the last thing I wan—”
“I know. It’s fine,” Boromir interrupted flatly. “But promise you’ll do as I
say. Promise you won’t go there again.”
Faramir kept his eyes low. He stood so pale and forlorn as though he might
faint. But slowly, he pursed his lips – and nodded his acquiescence.
“Say you promise,” Boromir persisted. “Swear.”
“I swear,” the boy whispered.
“Good. Now – I don’t want to talk of it anymore. I don’t want to talk of any of
this ever again,” and Boromir let go of him, showing the debate was once and
for all over.
Faramir nodded again, blankly, as though the meaning of the man’s words no
longer registered with him. He stood withdrawn and so listless that it could
seem that together with his brother’s restraining hold all will left his body.
His face was at once stern and indifferent, and Boromir could not fail to
recall the look of undefiled open-hearted gladness his own arrival had brought
to this same face mere minutes ago.
The man sighed, rubbed himself on the forehead, and swallowed against the
stubbly feeling in his throat. The agitation of the argument had refreshed him,
but he hardly felt the better for it.
“Ah, fuck,” he observed with a sour grin, in way of an offer of reconciliation,
combining eloquence, expressiveness and succinctness to the best of his current
ability.
“You don’t say,” Faramir agreed grimly. He raised his hand, folded his fingers
into the palm and studied his nails. “Do you,” he cleared his throat, “do you
maybe want me to go to the kitchens, get us some tea?”
Boromir heaved yet another sigh. He wished he were tired enough to become numb
to guilt. But being as he was not, everything was progressively becoming a
source of irritation to him.
“No, I don’t want tea,” he replied testily – caught himself mocking his
brother’s intonation – and grew even more irritated. “Fuck this,” he added,
just for the sake of the trace of reassurance it gave him to defy at least
something, no matter how vague or obscure.
He managed to withhold himself from making any unpleasant remarks when he heard
Faramir follow him to the bed, hoping Faramir would know better than to try and
cheer him up.
However, “Boromir,” Faramir called very gently as he lowered himself on the
mattress’s edge by the man’s side.
Sitting down evened their height, and Faramir felt strong and confident as he
reached out to put his arm around his brother’s shoulder. But Boromir shrugged
him off, and a stern frown settled on his brow.
“Boromir,” Faramir said a little reproachfully, “please, don’t.”
“What do you want of me?” Boromir cried. “What?!”
There was an ill crack in his voice, and Faramir stared at him, wide-eyed.
Boromir stared back, speechless. The boy may not have shrunk back, but the
strange new look in his eyes instilled a gripping fear in Boromir’s heart.
“Do you know,” he said very, very slowly, “on second thought, tea doesn’t sound
half-bad.”
“All... alright,” Faramir conceded cautiously, his eyes holding his brother’s
as he stood up, as though the boy half-expected Boromir to pounce or pull some
other unhinged move. Faramir chewed on his lip, then made an attempt at a smile
before turning to go. “I won’t be long.”
“Nay, take your time,” Boromir called after him. “Get something to eat, too! I
haven’t supped much.”
At the sound of the main door closing behind the boy, Boromir sunk at the
shoulders, puffed his cheeks, stared ahead of himself. With Faramir out of
sight, a grey cloud was swift to cover his sky, and then, in one flashing
instant, it crashed onto him, the collective hatred he had witnessed early that
morning – a hatred the sheer force of which was enough to make anyone doubt
anything.
And yet, he could not go back. Even had he truly wished to, which he did not.
Could not go back to seeing Faramir as he had seen him all his life. Whether
they carried on sharing a bed did not matter that much: going back was not
optionable the way there is no refolding a blossomed flower into the tightly
wound bud. A day and a night ago – then, perhaps, something could have still
been done to veer them off this course, but not thereafter.
Not that Boromir could entirely understand where they stood now, for in the
language that he knew he could not find one proper term for two people like
them. Loads of insults, certainly, a good plenty, but not a word that would
explain to him what they were, or what he was. He only knew that Faramir was
not simply his little brother with whom he chanced to sleep, a friend turned
lover.
This was something else, something more – something worse.
And he was stuck in it – stuck no less than the miniature figurine of a
seafarer on the battle-galley model uncle Imrahil had had built inside an empty
bottle, glued for good to its unsailable vessel.
Intuitively he sensed that the lying together, being as all their trouble
seemed to revolve exclusively around this part of their new routine, was not
the point, although without argument it had been a turning point. Much as what
he had experienced in Faramir’s arms the previous night was in itself worth
dying for, ending their affair would rob him of something far more paramount
than the physical pleasure. The preservation of his very entity, of his
integrity of self seemed to have come to depend on being with Faramir – being
with him in some larger, broader sense than just sleeping with him. Although
without the ‘sleeping with him’ part it would not work either, would not do the
trick at all, for the merging had to be complete, had to realise all the means
for togetherness that nature had so helpfully supplied them with.
Boromir lowered his head and pressed his palms to his face. His heart ached so
badly as if it were literally weeping blood, and he, too, wanted to weep, to
choke on the burning bitterness of his own tears.
Boromir squeezed his eyes tight, twisted his features, even pushed out a cough,
seeking to trigger the sequence, to get himself going. He let out a pained sigh
of misery and even began to rock back and forth.
They were there somewhere, his tears, tormenting him, robbing him of all
ability to think, like a spiked tip of a poisoned dart broken off and stuck
deep in the tissues of the body. Boromir growled, pressed his fingertips into
his eyelids and rocked harder.
Nothing. His head was surely about to burst with the pressure of the pain.
Then abruptly, or at least as abruptly as he could in his current state, he
stood up, swaying as a man drunk. With disobeying hands he rid himself of his
boots and trousers. His tunic reached well past his hips but his legs were left
uncovered, and so he put one foot on the bed, spreading open, exposing the most
sensitive inner side of his thigh. Holding his belt by the buckle, he swung
back and struck as hard as his warrior’s strength would only allow.
The shock dashed through him like a heated razor.
At once his perception clouded over. It felt so incredibly good he almost
reeled.
He hit again, aiming at the same spot. A convulsive shiver shook him, instantly
followed by a warm relaxing wave.
He hardly paused to take a breath...
The pale skin of his thigh was beginning to burn in earnest – and to witness
this blush of shame, this blush of atonement blossom through his flesh
heightened his satisfaction tenfold.
This was, in fact, a far better approach.
Tears, filled with ire as they might be, yet always were brethren of misery,
defeat, surrender.
Tears were the last resort of the weak, of the beaten – whereas this here, this
was a spectacle of brilliant flashes of scarlet, this was aggression, violence,
this was joy amid wrath.
Doing this, with every strike he proved to himself he had retained some power
over his life.
“Boromir!!”
And before Boromir could blink, Faramir was before him, hardly able to inhale
for the blazing anger written sharply across his fair young features.
“You give me that!” he spat, tore the belt out of Boromir’s hold – and flung it
far across the room, to stand glaring at Boromir in burning incredulity.
“Do I not get to have ten minutes of privacy in my whole day?” inquired Boromir
gloomily.
Faramir shook his head, “Not if you choose to spend them like so. What’s that
word you have, brother: what the fuck?! Boromir! I thought you told me to be
done with it. And fair enough! But what’s this?!”
“Faramir…” Boromir began in a tone of warning, for he did not appreciate being
spoken to in such manner, not even when his conduct might have warranted it,
but Faramir was not to be stopped.
“You want comeuppance?” the boy demanded, advancing on him so that Boromir had
to take a step back. “Well, what can be swifter to arrange?” Faramir spread his
arms. “Go! Go, and tell Father you’ve taken me for a lover – that’s bound to
bring upon us all the justice you could ever wish for in your wildest dreams.”
Boromir darkened in the face. “Do not taunt me so,” he muttered threateningly.
“For there’s little that humiliates me more than huddling like a rabbit in a
hole, fearful to declare my purposes for all to hear,” he made a wide angry
gesture with his arm. “Yet of this I can speak to no one, and least of all to
Father.”
“That’s just as well!” Faramir retorted. “For Father’s life, I am sure, is
difficult enough as is. And if your judgement has not been reversed and such is
still your choice, however forced by the lack of alternatives, to love me in
secret, then so be it – follow it proudly and without shame, like everything
else that you do. For you, brother, are the best man in all our land, the
bravest, the toughest, truest of heart! If such is your line, then what is left
to the rest of us? I try to ease you with gentleness, and you bite at me, but
for a second I turn away – and look what you do to yourself!”
“Aye, look what I do to myself!” Boromir cried sarcastically, throwing his arms
up. “Foolish Boromir! Tell me, dear brother, how would you have me be proud?
Should I maybe go soak my feet in rosewater and congratulate myself on what a
clever chap I am, how I’ve got everything figured out? If the cat eats the
cream, but no one finds out, it’s all right, right? Are you out of your mind?!
How could I be proud?!”
“Is that it then – are you ashamed of me, Boromir?”
Boromir tilted his head to the side. “Come again…?”
“Ashamed. Of me. Of being this way with me. Of loving me. Because I think
that’s what this all boils down to.”
Boromir looked away. “Don’t put it like that,” he muttered. “Where’s that
accursed tea, anyway?”
“You are wrong!” Faramir exclaimed with sudden force. “There is naught to be
ashamed of! What we have done – ’tis sacred. They may not understand, the
others, and so we won’t try to explain, but that changes not the nature of
things. ’Tis one and the same that each and every man in our noble line –
dating back to the very creation of Man – has done unto his beloved. ’Tis what
has kept the continuity of our life through time, what made our existence,
yours and mine, possible.”
“Great. You’ve just made me feel so much better,” groaned Boromir and sank onto
the bed, bowing his head and dragging his hands through his hair. “Thank you
for opening up my eyes, o wise one.”
Faramir crossed his arms. “Fine, mock me,” he said. Then his eyes narrowed and
he leant in a bit. “Is it how you’d prefer it then?” he asked quietly, in that
dangerous kind of quiet their father had so perfectly mastered. “Is it,
Boromir? To excuse yourself of the guilt? To have both the indulgence and a
clean conscience? Maybe next time you’ll ask me to take the belt to you? You
know, to help you with the places you can’t reach? You call on me to scrub your
back in the bath, why shouldn’t I take up this duty as well? ’Tis said some men
enjoy that, can’t accept the pleasure unless it hurts. Is that what you want to
come to? Because at this rate, it’s certainly where it looks to me that you’re
heading.” He took a breath, then finished with firm conviction, “I would love
you always, Boromir, always, and I would never turn from you – but if you bear
on treating yourself thus, in all honesty I don’t think I could continue to
admire you.”
For the longest time he let his words stay in the air, and when at last Boromir
looked up, hunched and dishevelled as he was, and his grey eyes searched the
boy’s face, still Faramir said nothing.
Boromir’s mouth curved into a parody of a grin. “Do you know, this actually
hurts worse than I could manage with the belt.”
“I am so sorry,” Faramir said quietly, lowering his face. “But you needed to
hear it, and someone had to say it.”
“But it is true. I ought to be a man about this.” Boromir closed his eyes for a
moment, then said with more firmness, “I ought – and I will. I shall take it in
stride. If anything, I owe you this much – this and so much more...”
Faramir frowned. “And when have I ever asked for anything of you?” he countered
with disapproval. “All I need is that you let me love you, even in hardship –
especially in hardship. This wish you are at full liberty to grant me.”
Boromir rubbed his hand upwards over his face. “That doesn’t sound like much,”
he pointed out, and a smile begged entrance upon his lips. He could not
understand how it happened, but before he knew it all darkness had left him,
and vitality had filled his body anew, and all he could see was the warmth in
his brother’s eyes.
Faramir stepped up to him, reached out to touch him on the face, and smiled in
return. “But to me it is everything,” he said softly.
“But it is not that simple,” Boromir argued gently, for now he wanted to be
gentle with Faramir, for now that the storm had passed it brought him pleasure
to be gentle. “I am responsible for you.”
“Then so am I – for you. I am not a child, Boromir, and you are not answerable
for the choices that I make.”
“Not a child,” Boromir repeated with a snort. “Now where’s all your renowned
humbleness, young lord?”
And he caught Faramir by the arm and felled him down onto the bed, and Faramir,
laughing, fell into his arms. But the sensation of his little brother’s lithe
strength against his body was so profound, so full of life and heat that by
some warped logic it made a wave of languid melancholy wash over Boromir. His
grip on the boy’s shoulders slackened and he gazed up at the ceiling – and now
that he was unprompted, the words came of their own volition.
“What kind of man am I becoming, Faramir?” he mused slowly, in idle wonder. “I
sleep with my own brother, and persuade myself that needing it this bad somehow
excuses me. I know that even if it is not wrong, it’s stupid given the danger,
but I can’t find strength to put a stop to it… I can no longer even make myself
believe I should try and put a stop to it. How easy it was to accept it in the
morning, when I was high from making love to you. It has that effect, you know,
your wits cloud over and you become all placid. But it wears off… and what do
you see then? You say do it with pride, but where would I find so much pride,
Faramir, if it is the very currency in which the payments for this bargain are
taken? Each day I must give tribute. Pretend, lie, watch my back among my own
men, say one thing and do another. How can I respect myself after that…? And
how can I care so little?”
He turned his head to look at Faramir, and Faramir was looking back at him,
seriously, his thoughtful eyes mere inches away from Boromir’s.
“Why?” Boromir asked of Faramir’s eyes. “Why, Faramir, does it have to be like
this? Why me? I had never wanted such complicated shit in my life. I’m a
straightforward man, you know that, a little on the rough side perhaps – I like
things brutally simple. I like pure colours. Aye, I know, Father says that
being the high lord is ultimately about choosing between bad and worse, and
that everything is always very-very intricate, and that pure colours are
garish… I used to think that was merely the sort of talk that comes with the
territory and age, but... Why?”
Faramir raised his hand and ran a caress over the stray lock of Boromir’s black
hair.
“I don’t know,” he said sincerely, and that was all he said, but such love
shone in his voice that Boromir took his words as an answer, and was comforted.
They lay for a while more, and when Boromir’s fingers began to play with
Faramir’s hair in that absentminded manner that Boromir had, the boy knew the
hard part was over.
“I almost forgot,” Faramir murmured raising himself up on his elbow. “The
servants have set up a bath for you. Why not go check on it? ’Tmust have
cooled, but there’s a full cauldron hanging in the hearth.”
The offer was nothing if not tempting, and Boromir felt he could do with a hot
bath indeed, to melt away the day’s distress, weariness, and all other
unpleasant things. But as he sat up he remembered something and looked at
Faramir with suspicion.
“Wait. I’d already wiped myself down at the quarters, as you know I always do
after a day with the men. And I’ve never asked the servants to set a…”
Pursing his lips, Faramir quickly looked away.
An expression of delighted amazement came upon Boromir’s face, “You knew! You
had known all along I was going to come here all wretched and acrid, and you’ve
arranged it with the bath!”
The boy stood up and pulled him by the hand. “So I have – and I’m going with
you, to help you wash.” He sounded both playful and decisive, a promise
twinkling in his smiling eyes.
Boromir knew he perhaps ought to marvel at how quickly his little brother had
found a sound footing in a world that was changing with nauseating speed,
whereas he, Boromir, the older and the hardier of the two, was struggling so
helplessly. But he decided he would marvel some other time, maybe tomorrow,
maybe next week, because for the time being he had had more food for thought
than even an aspiring scholar, which Boromir was definitely not, could fit on
his plate.
And in the spacious bathroom adjoining the bedchamber Faramir waited on his
brother, and Boromir enjoyed it like he could not remember himself enjoying a
bathing before. When with a little gasp the man lowered himself into the
steaming fragrant water, Faramir hiked up his sleeves and soaped his brother’s
hair, and rinsed it with cool herbal infusions, and dried it with a towel, and
brushed it gently with a wooden comb.
Boromir sighed deeply and sank a little deeper still. Faramir sat down by his
side on a low wooden stool and closed his eyes, leaning his head against
Boromir’s forearm that rested on the tub’s rim, and for a long time neither
brother as much as stirred. The water smoothed out like a pane of looking-
glass, only swaying subtly in the slow rhythm of Boromir’s breathing,
reflections of candle-light sliding across it like faerie-lights. The outer
world was far away, safely shut out by many a closed door; in that moment all
was well, and it were such moments that would have to make it worthwhile –
moments that were to be treasured like the most precious of precious gemstones,
Faramir thought dreamily.
When wisps of vapour were no longer rising from the surface, the boy took a
rough washcloth and scrubbed Boromir’s neck, shoulders, and back, careful to
avoid the scratch-marks of his own making from the previous night. Then the
young man stood up, water streaming down his body and dripping back into the
tub, and Faramir washed the rest of him. Massaging the lather over the plains
of Boromir’s body, Faramir kept his eyes low, assuming a mien as no-nonsense
and business-like as he could, sensing quite strongly that if he were to as
much as glance up at Boromir, both of them would swiftly end up in the tub or
on the cold wet floor, either of which would be far less comfortable than the
vast mattress beckoning in the next room.
He had waited all day, patiently, it had seemed to him, he had even thought he
had inured himself to the possibility that his brother might not be in the mood
for anything at all tonight – how could these last few minutes be so trying?
The anticipation so sweet and sharp it threatened to suffocate him, Faramir
could barely walk in a straight line as he followed the content, unwary and
seemingly unsuspecting Boromir to the bed.
Stepping up to him from behind, the boy enringed the young man’s waist with his
arms. He pressed himself hard against Boromir, inhaling the clean humid scent
of his damp hair, snuggling to the broad cozy strength of his back. He felt as
a weary battered boat coming at last into its home harbour, and he could have
stood in this unreflecting peace forever but for his love being young, and
restless, and hungry. He smiled – and set to undo the knot of Boromir’s
bathrobe girdle. At this the young man tilted his head back and exhaled deeply,
and Faramir took it as a welcome to his unambiguous advances.
“Why did you even do it up? You knew it would have to go right away,” the boy
murmured with a chuckle as his fingers untied the sash. But Boromir heard his
voice catch and falter, and knew his brother’s nonchalance was but a pretence.
The man turned around – and his darkened, hazy gaze made Faramir’s pulse race
and heat rush to his face.
Boromir leant to him with decisive swiftness and squeezed his mouth with a
close hard kiss, ungentle a prickly, a man’s kiss. In a moment he drew away –
and as they looked at each other, both knew that it was right, that it could
not be otherwise.
As Faramir gazed into his brother’s eyes, his chest swelled with violent,
uncontainable happiness. They loved each other, and tonight they were safe. And
they would not be in a hurry, for much as they were both men and ignited
easily, this love was too dearly bought to rush it. The night lay before them –
a whole night to be together, to be happy, to love, a night that was theirs,
only theirs, each and every heartbeat of it.
The boy smiled at Boromir and pushed the robe open, off his lover’s shoulders,
and it slid to the floor with a soft rustle – and Faramir’s hands slid down the
man’s body, very lightly and very slowly. And when his fingers came to below
his brother’s navel, he saw that Boromir was ready to love him.
 

                              To be continued...
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