eyeus: (White Tree - Bloom)
Title: Hope Prevails
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 5250 (76900 total)
Summary: “You are a warrior,” says Aragorn. “Of Gondor.” His hand closes tight over Boromir’s shoulder, as if lending Boromir his strength, tethering him to life. “Is there one for whom you fight? A lady-love?”

In his agony from the Uruk’s wounds, Boromir’s answer is entirely too honest. “A brother,” he gasps. “I have a brother.” In arms, in blood, and in bond.

“Then think of him, and live,” Aragorn commands. “He will look for your coming from the White Tower, and you will return home to him.”

A/N: Boromir Lives AU. Boromir survives the events at Amon Hen and reunites with Faramir, but together, they face an even greater peril still.

Incorporates a mixture of both movie and book canon, for a gentler version of what could have been. OST notes will be included at the end, for a sample of the official LOTR tracks and other independent pieces that inspired certain scenes or that scenes were written to.


There are scant hours until dawn, during which Boromir directs efforts for the cleanup of the city, helping open paths and move rubble that has blocked access between the city’s circles. Works with the townsfolk to organize the pitching of tents and makeshift shelters throughout the city, until there is time to rebuild what parts of Minas Tirith have been destroyed.

When shelter and food for Minas Tirith’s people have been seen to, Boromir helps the remaining soldiers move the broken, battered bodies stippling the city streets and the fields of Pelennor. They give the soldiers who fell in battle what memorial they can, while burning bodies of Orcs, trolls and the dead of the enemy in crude bonfires.

Boromir is moving a body battered beyond recognition when his hand catches in the leather cord of a medallion, iron, stained with blood. He knows this medallion, knows the wolf carved into the metal—and there, another talisman, fallen to the ground, a stone with runes etched into its surface—

“Oh,” he says, useless, as something knots tight in his chest, burns like vitriol in his throat. His foot grazes the edge of a small carving knife, and he knows instantly from the worn handle just whose it is.

These items belonged to comrades, men who had served under his command before—men he had counted as friends. Each with dreams, hopes, and people who loved them.

Boromir nearly weeps; no longer will he know the taste of Garaven’s boiled rabbit stew on cold nights, while on the lookout for Orcs in the wild heaths of Gondor’s borders; never again will he suffer Lim’s bawdy jokes about barmaids as he flicks his stone talisman between weathered knuckles, nor hear Aegon’s tales of battles and the feats of warriors past, told to pass the time during patrols in Osgiliath, as he whittled wooden toys for the children of Minas Tirith.

They ought to know something besides the heft of a sword in their hands, or the burdens of a household, Aegon had always said. Let them be children while they can.

And now, there is neither time to honor them nor the countless bodies of Gondor’s bravest properly. Their remains, each of which should receive a warrior’s funeral, have been relegated to smaller, careful bonfires, for quick and quiet disposal.

That they had fallen together, fighting to the last breath to defend what was most precious to them, is a small but cold comfort.

“Boromir,” says a voice, sympathetic and soft.

An arm circles his shoulders, snug, and Boromir relaxes into the touch, knowing who it is even without turning. Faramir nods at the soldiers Boromir has been working with before they take their leave, and guides him to a sheltered alcove, yet unbroken from the battle. His hand never once leaves the small of Boromir’s back, where he has let it come to rest, his fingers splayed out warm against Boromir’s spine.

“Faramir,” Boromir tries, his voice caught between a heaving breath and a sob. “I—those were—we knew them. We knew them.” He clutches at Faramir’s shoulders, helpless. The sight of his friends’ bodies was a crippling blow in itself, but only now does Boromir remember how it emphasizes the absence of their father’s, a death Boromir has refused to think about until now.

Faramir steadies Boromir with firm hands of his own, and when he is sure Boromir has stopped shaking, cups Boromir’s cheek with a roughened palm. “I know your heart is heavy with the loss of our comrades,” he says. “Our friends.” Faramir pauses, the words And our father going unspoken. “But there will be time to remember them, before the end.” His thumbs brush against the crow’s feet of Boromir’s eyes as he touches his forehead to Boromir’s. “Do not carry the weight of the dead—not when there is life yet to be fought for. To be celebrated.”

Boromir hearkens back to his advice to Frodo, in the leg of their journey before Caras Galadhon, when they thought Gandalf lost to them: You carry a heavy burden, Frodo; do not carry the weight of the dead. “You are right,” Boromir whispers, pressing into the warmth and softness of his brother’s neck as Faramir folds him into his arms. “But it makes their passing no easier to bear.”

“I know,” says Faramir solemnly. He cards fingers through Boromir’s hair, gentle, the motion warmly reminiscent of their mother. “I know.”

He says volumes with the simple motion, the simple words: I know of your sorrows, your fears of what is to come. I know we only have each other now. Kisses Boromir’s brow, a soft press of lips that is kind and caring, as he soothes circles into Boromir’s back. I know everything.

And for Faramir’s quiet and continual understanding, Boromir could weep. So he does, softly, secretly, with no other to see him than the one who knows and loves him best.


In the hours that follow, he and Faramir steal desperate kisses and dare furtive touches, sheltered by darkened corners and seldom-used hallways—at least until Faramir, in a fit of impatience, drags Boromir to his room. Presses him bodily to the bed to have his way with him.

His brother has always known best how to distract him, and this dark hour is no exception.

They end up whiling away precious moments in bed, simply breathing each other’s air and rediscovering familiar skin. Revel in comforting warmth between soft sheets and each other’s arms, both too exhausted and sore to do anything more. But they have little more than a day’s respite before a message is brought to Boromir, a summons from Gandalf to attend a council at the Citadel.

Boromir sighs, before kissing Faramir’s shoulder in apology and rising to gather his clothing, sorting and separating it from Faramir’s, from the mess they had thrown over a chair.

“Must you leave me so soon?” Faramir asks, propping himself up on an elbow and watching through half-lidded eyes.

There is the beginning of a pout on his kiss-reddened lips and it takes all of Boromir’s not inconsiderable willpower to keep from crawling back into bed with Faramir and winding his arms around his brother’s waist. Burying his face into the sleep-rumpled curls at the nape of Faramir’s neck and breathing in the sweetness of his fig-scented soap—a small luxury Boromir had secreted away for him from the chandler’s shop long ago.

“I must find out what it is that Gandalf needs of me. And you,” Boromir admonishes, as Faramir yawns and tugs at his tunic from the chair in an attempt to follow suit, “should stay abed and rest.”

“Let me know what comes of the council, then,” Faramir murmurs sleepily. He reels Boromir in for a soft, clumsy kiss, before stretching out languidly along the bed. “And bring me back a bite to eat,” he adds, eyeing Boromir hopefully.

“You…” Boromir begins, about to add greedy little imp, fond, but Faramir has already turned away, curling into the sheets and cuddling into the remnants of their warmth. Makes the soft, snuffling sounds of sleep.

So Boromir simply kisses Faramir on the forehead, pulls the embroidered duvet over Faramir’s shoulders, and sets out for the Citadel.


The cold, white walls and the impersonal guards of the Citadel where their father traditionally held his councils are not something Boromir looks forward to. Regardless, he makes his way to the hall, only too glad that he has not dragged his feet, for Éomer of Rohan is there, as well as his comrades from the Fellowship, and his king

“Aragorn!” Boromir exclaims. “Legolas! And Gimli! You have all—you are all—”

Aragorn smiles then, the edges of it soft but bright, like the first rose-hued light of dawn. “I am glad to see you well, Boromir,” he says, throwing his arms open wide to embrace Boromir, tight.

“And I, you,” says Boromir, swallowing hard as he reciprocates the motion. “Thank you,” he manages, “for all you have done.” For Aragorn had come in Gondor’s darkest hour, had restored hope in Boromir and their people. He nods towards the others. “All of you. Thank you. Thank you. For—” He cannot find the words to show how grateful he is, that they did not leave him where he lay, on that fateful day at Amon Hen. That they had scrambled to save his life, before taking up the search for Merry and Pippin.

That they had cared; a Man, an Elf and a Dwarf, none of whom owed Boromir or Gondor their allegiance, except that forged through their journey together, such that it was.

Legolas’ eyes are suspiciously bright as he embraces Boromir with a slight half-smile, and he shakes his head when Boromir makes to thank him again, as if to say no words are needed.

Gimli, for his part, tips a gruff nod in Boromir’s direction. Boromir is nearly convinced that the Dwarf will declare Dwarves do not embrace, before Gimli somehow thinks better of it and flings his arms up around Boromir’s waist, hitching him forward, tight. Throws himself into the embrace in true Dwarf fashion: fiercely and with all his heart.

“I thought you might have—I thought you had di—” Gimli tries, when he finally draws away. He coughs wetly. “You are well now. That is all that matters.”

Behind Gimli, Éomer nods, sharing in the sentiment. Boromir clasps his forearm in an old gesture of camaraderie, before Éomer, too, envelopes Boromir in a sudden and heartfelt embrace. “Word traveled from the East that Boromir of Gondor had fallen,” he whispers, “but I could not—I would not believe it.” Éomer blinks, his eyes suspiciously wet, and Boromir knows he, too, has known his share of loss, to say the least of potentially losing an ally. A friend.

“Thank you, old friend,” he says sincerely. “For coming to Gondor’s aid.” He knows how dearly it had cost Rohan to do so, to hold to their old allegiances.

Éomer inclines his head, with the bearing of the king he must become in Théoden’s stead. “You know Rohan will always answer.”

Gandalf clears his throat, though amusement tugs at his lips still, and a smile threatens to break across his face, like sun through a gathering of storm clouds. “There is another matter at hand,” he says. His expression darkens. “Frodo has passed beyond my sight.”

“Then it is as you hoped!” Boromir exclaims. “That he and Sam should make their way into the very heart of Mordor!”

“You forget, Boromir,” Gandalf says dryly, “that Sauron will now be amassing his armies anew from behind the walls of Mordor. Especially after suffering this defeat. Ten thousand Orcs now stand between Frodo and Mount Doom.” He shakes his head and sighs. “No, I have sent Frodo to his death, and delivered the weapon of the enemy straight into his hands.”

A nearly palpable veil of gloom settles over the council, but Aragorn, as always, is quick to outline another plan, one to draw out Sauron’s armies, to keep the Great Eye away from Frodo and Sam. Everyone listens raptly until Aragorn details that they must gather their collective armies to march on the Black Gate at Barad-dûr.

Éomer raises a brow, settling a palm over the pommel of his sword. “We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms,” he says, tracing the ridge of the pommel, doubtful.

“Not for ourselves,” Aragorn agrees. “But we can give Frodo his chance by keeping Sauron’s eye fixed upon us. The combined forces of Gondor and Rohan are threat enough to keep him blind to all else that moves.”

Even as Gandalf and Aragorn share a quick and quiet council, Gimli chuckles from the Steward’s chair where he has casually taken up residence. “Certainty of death,” he says, “small chance of success. What are we waiting for?” He puffs at his pipe, huffing out a cloud of smoke as emphasis, as his feet dangle above the dais.

Boromir has noticed several of the guards looking on at this with displeasure, and thinks to reprimand Gimli for it, but after a moment he stills his tongue and merely laughs; nearly all of the Fellowship has been reunited in Minas Tirith now, for however short a time, and there is both joy and dread enough in this chamber, a few pitiful smoke rings be damned.

He clasps Aragorn’s shoulder after Gandalf has spoken his piece. “I shall ride out with you,” Boromir says firmly. He does not expect to ride as Aragorn’s right hand, but to ride with him at all would be the greatest honor, regardless.

“Boromir,” Aragorn says, quiet, his hand coming to clasp Boromir’s on his own shoulder. “You need not push yourself, so soon after the last battle. We have enough able-bodied men to—”

“Let me do this, Aragorn,” Boromir insists. “I would make right what I have done wrong. Make amendments to those whom I have wronged.”

Aragorn shakes his head, his hand tightening around Boromir’s, safe. “There has been no wrongdoing on your part, my friend. Nor on the part of any in the Fellowship.” He huffs a laugh, then. “You may ride with us, if only you feel well enough. But what would your brother say, if he knew you were courting battle like this?”

Ah. At the thought of Faramir, waiting to hear the result of the council and waiting for Boromir’s return to their bed, Boromir stills, a knot of guilt coiling tight in his belly. “I…I shall speak with him.”

Aragorn nods, smiling. “See that you do.” He claps Boromir on the back. “After all, it would hardly do for him to think that I had whisked the Steward-to-be into war against his will!”


Before returning to his room, Boromir remembers to stop by the kitchens. Procures a small loaf of bread, carving out and buttering slices of it, drizzling honey over them for Faramir’s horrid sweet tooth.

“Faramir?” he tries, when he returns, careful to keep his footsteps light.

The room is empty, however, and Boromir’s hopes of finding his brother still curled in his sheets, warm and rumpled with sleep, are dashed. He had hoped to kiss Faramir awake with tiny, feathery kisses, tracing a path from the lobe of his ear to the base of his neck. Another from the apple of his throat to his lips, hopefully still kiss-swollen and red from their last ministrations.

“Have you seen my brother?” Boromir asks, as one of the maidservants passes him in the hall.

“Ah! Lord Faramir has returned to the Houses of Healing,” she says, chuckling. “One of the healers found him skulking around the kitchens, and requested that he return to the healing halls at once to resume treatment.”

Boromir nods his thanks and hurries to the Houses of Healing to find Faramir. Enters the wide, roomy halls, only to find that two others have beaten him to his brother for company.

“Merry!” Boromir exclaims. “Pippin!”

“Boromir!” they cry, scrambling from where they have nestled at Faramir’s side to tackle Boromir in the most affectionate of embraces.

Boromir kneels to throw his arms around their shoulders, and both Merry and Pippin’s arms squeeze around Boromir all the tighter.

“Boromir! I saw you were well, but there wasn’t time to—there were so many Orcs—and Faramir,” Pippin tries, too many things vying to be said at once. “Oh, oh, and Merry and I—the Ents, you’d never believe it!”

Eventually, when Pippin has calmed sufficiently to organize his narrative, Boromir hears their story: of how Pippin and Merry had escaped from the Uruks in the night—thanks in no small part to the Riders of Rohan—and encountered the Ents, ancient beings of the forest. Had convinced them to join the fight against Saruman, before joining up with those from the Fellowship who had gone on to look for them.

They regale him with the tale of how Pippin had first come to Minas Tirith with Gandalf, and pledged his fealty to Boromir’s father—in honor of Boromir, whom he thought had fallen, though Gandalf had kept him from revealing so with a sharp jab to the calves—while Denethor had simply looked on, amused at the thought of a little Hobbit offering his service to the Steward of Gondor. How Merry had stayed in Edoras and pledged the same for Théoden, becoming an esquire of Rohan.

“And then?” Faramir says, his eyes wide, goading Pippin onward. “Tell us again, of how you lit the beacon!”

Boromir nearly laughs; he knows that look, the sweetly doe-eyed expression that could always persuade Boromir to read one more page from the story they were immersed in, one more story from the books that occupied their nights as children. “I would hear this tale as well,” he nods. Had it not been for this one, small action, to call forth their allies from Rohan, Minas Tirith might still have fallen.

Pippin acknowledges his own accomplishment of lighting Minas Tirith’s beacon with the humblest of explanations and an impatient wave of his hand, as if the entire thing was of little consequence. And though Boromir is about to tell him this was no mean feat, Pippin rushes ahead to their deeds on the Pelennor fields, much to Merry’s amusement.

Merry here,” Pippin says, his curls bouncing with how emphatically he nods, “took on the leader of the Nazgûl!”

Merry only shrugs modestly at this, but his grin is too wide to be anything but just a bit proud, and Boromir laughs, throwing his arms around their small frames again, fond.

“Well done, little ones!” he says, ruffling their hair. It is a joy to finally see the Halflings for himself, despite hearing from the others that they were well, and reuniting with Pippin in a moment when his brother was not in mortal danger is a pleasure in itself.

Boromir catches Faramir’s eye then, and he swallows hard, past the lump building in his throat. “Thank you,” he says to Pippin. “For your help in saving my brother. I thought him lost to me, but you…”

Faramir’s expression speaks volumes then, in the minute furrow of his brow, the soft downturn of his mouth. Oh, Boromir. He had known the same crushing defeat when he thought Boromir had fallen, and Boromir can tell from his expression just how much he empathizes at this moment. Had the Halflings not been present, he would have laced his fingers through Faramir’s immediately, to touch, to reaffirm, to know his brother’s life was safe and indulge in his presence. And by the way Faramir’s fingers twitch toward his, it seems Faramir would do the same.

How like Faramir, to know what is in Boromir’s mind, and the very depths of his heart! At this realization, it pains Boromir anew to know how close he had come to losing his brother. Clearing his throat, Boromir continues. “At any rate, I…I could not have done it without you.”

Pippin beams at him, his smile broad and warm, brighter than the sun’s light on the White Tower.

Faramir hums. “On that note, perhaps you would not mind if Boromir and I had a moment to ourselves?” He winks at Pippin. “I promise that after, his company shall be all yours.”

“Not at all!” nods Pippin, and he settles back into his cot with Merry. It is obvious that he means to keep an eye on Merry at all times, careful not let his friend out of his sight, lest he be parted from him again. The gesture warms Boromir’s heart, until the insistent tug of Faramir’s fingers reminds him of just who it is he came here to see.

“Envious of them, little brother?” Boromir teases, when Faramir has led him away by the elbow to his own cot.

“What have I to be envious of?” Faramir snorts, as Boromir takes a seat beside him, on the side of the cot. “That they found shelter in your drawers for weeks during the journey, as they tell me? During my stay in these halls, they have regaled me with stories enough of how they weathered much of their journey hidden in your cloak, your shield, or your—”

Boromir laughs, even as he advances toward Faramir, careful, but still predatory. “That they might embrace me so openly. Without fear of retribution.”

“Oh,” says Faramir faintly. “In that case, yes.” He grins, wicked. “But that shall be remedied soon enough.”

He is laboring under the false belief that they have time now, that there is a chance for respite, now that the battle for Minas Tirith is over.

“Faramir,” Boromir begins, hesitant, “there is something else I must speak with you about.” He would not see the mirth fade from Faramir’s eyes so soon, but he has little choice, and even less time.

“Yes?” Faramir asks, too innocent by half. The sweetened bread Boromir had brought for him is all but gone, half of it stolen by their industrious little Hobbits during their storytelling, and Faramir picks at the remaining morsels now, amused. Swipes a finger around the edge of the plate, gathering what dregs of honey he can before bringing his finger to his mouth. Licks it clean slowly, deliberately, each teasing stroke of his tongue and his lips wrapped around the tip the very picture of temptation. “What do you wish to speak of?”

Boromir clears his throat, after a hard swallow fails to will away the desire that has begun to stir in the pit of his belly. “The council I attended…” The way Faramir flicks his tongue over his lower lip to catch a stray drop of honey is all kinds of distracting, and Boromir finds himself floundering to gather his thoughts. “The council, that is—”

Faramir hums, curling discreet fingers around Boromir’s. Strokes his thumb lazily over Boromir’s pulse point, indulgent. “Yes, what of it?”

Faramir,” Boromir says, exasperated, trapping Faramir’s hand beneath his to still it. “Aragorn plans to lead a host of Men, the combined armies of Gondor and Rohan to the Black Gate. To draw Sauron’s eye away from Frodo and Sam, who, as we speak, are making their way into the very heart of Mordor.”

“And you plan to go with them,” Faramir says dryly, his brazen seduction ceasing at once. There is no question in his voice, for he knows Boromir’s heart like his own. He remains silent for a moment, thoughtful. “Very well,” Faramir decides finally, his fingers tightening around Boromir’s again. “We will ride out with Aragorn together.”

“Faramir, no,” Boromir admonishes. “You cannot come with us. You must remain abed and recover.” That Faramir would be the last in the line of Stewards, their final safeguard against the enemy should neither Boromir nor their king return, is a thought that does not bear dwelling on.

“So must you,” says Faramir, chin tilted upward, defiant. “If I cannot ride out with you, then you are not going.”

“Faramir, if you would but see reason—”

No,” says Faramir. “It is you who must see reason.” There is a new hollowness to his voice that makes Boromir’s heart ache, and he clasps fingers around Faramir’s wrist, apologetic. “You are barely healed yourself, your body wrung so recently through another battle. Stay,” Faramir says, quiet but fierce. “You have more than made up for any misdeeds under the Ring’s influence. Why not remain as part of the garrison to defend the city?” He narrows his eyes. “Unless you do this out of some misguided sense of obligation or guilt.”

Faramir’s words strike at the very heart of him, but Boromir shakes his head, his resolve unfaltering. “I would ride with our king into battle. He came to Gondor’s aid in our time of utmost need, and I would stand with him in the hour of his.”

“And what of me?” Faramir demands, in the way that he means What of my need? “Us?”

“If we do not do this, there will be no future for us. For Men. For anyone,” says Boromir, patient.

“No!” Faramir’s hands wrap tight around Boromir’s forearms. “You stubborn mule, I would not see you fall in battle, so soon after this hard-won victory. Not when we are so close to vanquishing Sauron’s forces, so close to the end!”

Boromir grins. “Is that the fondness of a brother I hear speaking?”

“No,” says Faramir. He stares, unseeing, at a point just past Boromir’s shoulder. “It is the selfishness of a lover.”

Oh, thinks Boromir, his heart twisting in his chest. Faramir must be truly worried, to be so candid. He presses his palm, warm, against the inside of Faramir’s arm. “Then you would know it is because we are so close that I must go. Sauron’s army amasses behind his gates now; we must draw them off, so that Frodo and Sam can make their way to the volcano at the heart of Mordor. Only there can the ring be unmade.”

“Always you tempt fate,” Faramir whispers. He shakes his head and turns away. “Each time I think you have evaded Death’s grasp, each time I believe you have come home to stay, you leave again.”

One more battle, Boromir thinks to promise. One more, and then we can have this. There will be peace enough for us to be together, in the way we wish. But he is not in the practice of making promises he cannot keep.

“What can I do to ease your stay here?” Boromir asks instead. “To ease your heart?” He sets his fingers on Faramir’s knee, stroking lightly and affectionately. Lets them skim along Faramir’s thigh, daring, bold.

Since that fright with Gandalf, they allow themselves only the barest of touches in public now, to shoulders and elbows and knees. The occasional curl of fingers, or the clasp of forearms in camaraderie. But he can see Faramir needs this, needs the soothing reassurance that for now, they still live, that they are together, despite all that might sunder them in short hours.

Faramir shrinks his leg back, curling into a resolute lump beneath the blanket to ignore him. It only makes what Boromir wishes to say next inordinately difficult.

“Faramir,” he says softly, plaintive. Strokes the blanketed lump where he thinks Faramir’s shoulder should be.

After a moment’s pause, a hand snakes out of the covers and curls back around his. “What is it?” Faramir asks, if a little gruffly, as he emerges from beneath the blanket.

Boromir allows himself a small smile. “It would mean the world to me if…if I could wear something of yours into battle.”

A hint of Faramir’s old enthusiasm brightens his face. “A favor, you mean.” When Boromir nods, Faramir allows himself the smallest smile in return, touching the vambraces Boromir has worn all this time. “This pair of vambraces I lent you before, to act in the stead of your gauntlets—they are favor enough, are they not?”

“Oh,” Boromir blinks. He looks down to where Faramir’s fingers press into his arms, sheepish, before beaming brightly. “I had nearly forgotten their presence. They have been with me for so long that they have become part of me, as vital and needed as air itself.”

A flush rises to Faramir’s cheeks at that, but his smile only grows wider, leaving no doubt as to how pleased he is, that something of his should become so unnoticed yet so necessary to Boromir. “As well they should!” he laughs. “But I would have something of yours in return, if you allow it.”

Boromir nods. “Ask, and it shall be yours.” If it is my heart, you already have it, Boromir thinks. And if it is my love, I have and shall gladly give it—more of it—as much as is in me to give.

“Lend me your cloak,” Faramir says, unexpectedly. “That I may pass the nights here without you easier.”

“Oh, is that it?” Boromir chuckles. He obliges the request easily enough, unhooking the clasp of his cloak and shrugging it from his frame. Swirls it over Faramir’s shoulders, pulling Faramir to him.

For a moment, he is tempted to give in and stay, if only to kiss the sorrow from Faramir’s face. To lean in for one last taste of his lips, to inhale and memorize the scent of his hair. Instead, he pulls the cowl over Faramir’s head, fond, with a stilted laugh.

“This is farewell then, little brother,” Boromir nods, as he turns to leave the healing chambers. “Remember today—”

Faramir hisses violently at that, marching out after him. “No,” Faramir snarls, dragging Boromir back and crowding him into a dark corner, his hands fisted tight in the collar of Boromir’s tunic. “Do you not remember the day you left for Rivendell, the last time you said those words to me?” Faramir shakes his head, his teeth gritted, and Boromir nearly trembles at this anger, boiling so close to the surface. “Had I actually lost you at Amon Hen, you would have had me remember that day as the last I ever saw you.”

“Oh, Faramir,” Boromir manages, the start of an apology on his lips before Faramir growls and crushes their mouths together, kissing him, wordless, wild, and desperate, as if this kiss might be their last. His arms wind tight around Boromir’s waist, as if he is something precious, something Faramir cannot live without. Hitch him in close, as if he fears that Boromir might be taken from him again. “Faramir,” Boromir breathes, trying to push him away, gentle. If Faramir does not stop kissing him, Boromir will not want to leave, will want to stay here, and he cannot afford to disappoint his king, not again—

“Let me have this, brother,” Faramir begs. “Please.”

Boromir concedes, letting Faramir’s hands wander under his tunic, lets his fevered touch slide down his trousers to cup his buttocks, before he grips Faramir’s shoulders and reverses their places. He pushes Faramir into the wall, pinning his wrists beside his head, finds himself pressing against Faramir’s trousers, and oh, there is an answering hardness against his thigh, that Boromir very much wants, to slide against, to taste, to—

“No,” Boromir says, his breath heaving as he tears himself away. “We cannot, we have not the time.”

Faramir, equally wild-eyed and breathless, blinks before gripping Boromir’s shoulders, hard. Touches his lips to Boromir’s, once, gentler this time, unlike their kisses prior. “Good!” he says fiercely. “Then you shall have something to look forward to upon your return.” He chuckles at Boromir’s dazed expression. “Now go. Before I keep you prisoner here myself.”

“If it means anything now,” says Boromir, “my heart has ever been your prisoner.” He would have Faramir know this before he goes; if this is to be the end, he would bare his soul and speak plain.

“And you, have ever been my heart,” Faramir replies. He lays his hand on the pommel of Boromir’s sword, reverent, as if it were a talisman, with the power to bring Boromir home.

At that, something in Boromir’s chest aches fit to burst, and he takes his leave, praying all the while for his safe return and for Faramir’s swift recovery, because he is Faramir’s heart, and Faramir is his, and if either should perish, the other would wither into ash—into nothing.

(tbc - Chapter 8)

End Notes:
- Last Moments, Before Departing For Mordor: Evenstar – Various or: Opening Minutes of The Steward of Gondor

This entire fic is a labor of love, so if you’ve enjoyed it, or it moved you in some way, I’d love to hear from you!
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