eyeus: (White Tree - Bloom)
Title: Hope Prevails
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1830 (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.


The restoration of Minas Tirith continues, stone by stone, with the rebuilding of homes and halls, inns and stables. The reestablishment of the mercantile district, with its garment shops and bakeries, produce stands and restaurants.

So too does life return to the Pelennor Fields, in the green that slowly colors the grass again. The waterways that farmers cultivate to irrigate their crops, and the livestock that pepper the fields, grazing in their designated areas, doe-eyed and gentle.

The city and its surrounding plains flourish, its people rallying under Aragorn’s leadership. And while Aragorn has taken on the title of the king of Gondor, in both name—as King Elessar—and function, both Boromir and Faramir support him from behind the scenes as his Stewards, directing occasional patrols of the borders and drawing up treaties and trade agreements with neighboring realms, helping make the decisions that will prove best for Minas Tirith.

By now, Boromir’s days are filled with numerous meetings, less the war councils his father had held and more the diplomatic negotiations of trade and transport—between Gondor, Rohan, Dale, and its Elven neighbor, Eryn Lasgalen, once known as Mirkwood—that he and Faramir now host. These meetings are but one of the many tasks that have fallen to the two of them, as chief counselors in the Council of Gondor.

Boromir still takes care to keep his and Faramir’s relationship discreet, in the presence of all; as accepting of his Stewards’ work together as Aragorn is, Boromir doubts the courtesy would extend to his and Faramir’s relationship. And whether Aragorn knows of their bond or not, it would not do for them to cause trouble for their new king or draw suspicion to themselves.

In the months following Aragorn and Arwen’s wedding, however, the general populace had been high on a post-wedding bliss; attention had turned quickly to his Stewards, gossip abounding of whether Boromir or Faramir would marry first, that the city might celebrate another union. The scrutiny has been uncomfortable of late, but worse still are those who whisper suspiciously about the absence of marriage in both their lives, at their age. Those who suspect the truer nature of the relationship between him and Faramir.

These bolder whispers say that what he and Faramir have is unnatural. That it is wrong.

Boromir has long since learned to ignore the whispers, for they have remained simply that—the mumblings of a bored populace—and it is better that the citizens have time to idly gossip than their kingdom fall into peril, but still.

It is this exasperation that brings him to the recently rebuilt ramparts tonight, a bid to escape both rumor and responsibility for a while and gaze upon the night sky. The stars offer neither counsel nor solace but they are beautiful to behold, and Boromir takes a moment to wonder if the legends are true: if indeed the kings of old watch over them from the skies. Lets himself ponder, in the presence of the cold and lovely beauty of the stars, impartial ornaments of the skies, how it can be wrong, what he and Faramir have. That they love quietly, secretly, causing harm to no one.

“I thought I might find you here,” says a familiar voice, from behind him on the rampart. There is a grin in the voice, an easy warmth that makes Boromir turn, immediate; he would know the cadence of that voice anywhere. Could pick it out from a crowd a hundred deep.

Faramir,” Boromir whispers, nearly a sob. How he has missed him, suffered for want of him! Faramir has been absent for more than a week, sent to patrol Osgiliath and drive off remnant Orcs in the outlying lands. Up here, secluded away from the others of the hall, there is no need for pretense, and Boromir flies into Faramir’s open arms.

“It has been too long,” murmurs Boromir, burying his face in Faramir’s hair, as Faramir does his. Revels in the honeyed scent clinging faint to the curls at Faramir’s neck.

“Agreed,” Faramir says. He sweeps the edges of the cloak he borrowed from Boromir around him, enveloping them both in a cocoon of warmth and comfort. It has become something of a ritual, that of the two of them, whoever leaves for a mission may wear it. The cloak smells of them both now, of earth and leaves and fire, and a hint of pipe-weed smoke, on the rare occasion Boromir indulges—a habit he had picked up from Merry and Pippin. “Too long indeed.”

But for Faramir’s warmth, the night air is crisp and cool and just the wrong side of biting, and Boromir circles his arms tighter about Faramir’s waist within their cloak; how good it is to have Faramir in his arms again! “I shall have to insist on a new law, then,” he says.

“Oh?” Faramir teases, huffing a soft laugh into Boromir’s mouth. “That any assignment or patrol beyond the city that might last a week or more, we shall do together?”

“Yes,” Boromir whispers. He breathes in the scent of Faramir, like he cannot get enough of him, drinks his fill of him with lips and tongue while his hands wander and touch, his nose nudging into the hollows of Faramir’s throat and ears, because it has been too long. “Yes.”

“Done,” says Faramir immediately. “Let us speak with Aragorn about it on the morrow.”

“How did you know I—” Boromir starts, before shaking his head; that Faramir knows what is in his heart should not be a surprise at all.

Faramir only laughs, loops the cowl of the cloak over both their heads—hardly a shield against prying eyes—and kisses him on the mouth, warm and soft and full. He tastes of apples, summer-bright and sweet, the first of the crop from farms newly established on the Pelennor Fields. And when he presses his tongue against Boromir’s, fills his mouth, his senses, with the heady scent of fruit and honey, like wine, Boromir kisses back, hungrier, harder, until he is breathless, drowning, consumed completely by thoughts of Faramir, on his lips, in his mouth, fingers woven through his hair. Until he is helpless to do anything but cling to Faramir, his hands clawed into Faramir’s tunic, twisting into his cloak.

“And so?” Faramir says, when they finally break apart for air. “What counsel do you seek from the stars tonight?” When Boromir does not answer, he tips Boromir’s jaw up, gentle, between thumb and forefinger. Kisses him, soft and reassuring. “Boromir? What is it that troubles you so? Ever have you sought refuge here when—”

“It is nothing,” says Boromir, too sharply, turning away. “Nothing troubles me. Please. Inquire no further, Faramir.”

Faramir nearly flinches away, but he lets his hand cup Boromir’s cheek instead, hesitant. “Boromir,” he says, his voice filled with hurt that Boromir has no right to inflict, no reason.

“I am sorry,” Boromir says immediately, drawing Faramir close again. “I only—I have often wondered what will become of us. If we are to live a life of deception and subterfuge for the rest of our days, ever vigilant, waiting only for such stolen moments as these. Waiting for the night.” He presses his forehead to Faramir’s, for courage. For strength. “I have heard what some in the lower circles of the city say of us: that what we have is unnatural. That it is wrong. But how can it be, if we harm no one with this?”

Faramir clasps his hands around Boromir, at the small of his back, and hitches him in close, his arms a haven of comfort and safety. “Our friend, Samwise,” Faramir says slowly, “once told me, that in the quest to destroy the ring, in the darkest hour before the dawn, he looked to the ash-filled, fiery skies of Mordor. Saw naught but darkness, save a single star. That he shared that single brightness with Frodo, saying, ‘Look! There is light, and beauty up there that no shadow can touch.’

“I know that there are those who stand against us. That there may indeed be peril ahead. But there is love also, and beauty to be found in what we have. And if we hold fast to it, together, we shall be a light that no shadow can touch.”

“Mmh,” Boromir smiles, bringing their lips together, gentle. Faramir has not said as much, but the ardent way in which he gazes at Boromir shows that he thinks Boromir his single point of brightness in an otherwise light-starved night. “Inspiring you to such poetry as this—Samwise is wise, indeed.”

Faramir groans at the ill-timed jest. “Boromir.”

Boromir chuckles then, relieved and encouraged by his brother’s comfort and their friend’s wisdom both. “How is it,” he says, “that I only need hear such declaration from you to feel heartened again?”

“Heartened?” Faramir laughs. “That, Boromir, is because I am your heart.” He lays his hand over Boromir’s chest, and Boromir can feel the hammering of his heart against Faramir’s palm; he mirrors the gesture, laying his hand over Faramir’s chest, delighting in the beat of Faramir’s heart in time with his. “And you are mine.”

Boromir smiles, broad, leaning in for a kiss after nuzzling into the hair of his brother, his lover, his heart; it seems, that like so many other things—their likeness, battle-prowess, and immense devotion to each other—they have each others’ talent for ill-timed jests, after all.

“Perhaps, while you are in such a good mood,” Faramir says between kisses, “I should remind you of the lands the King has granted us, just south of Osgiliath.”

“Oh, the lands of Emyn Arnen?” Boromir laughs. He looks out to the hills beyond the city, past where the Anduin cuts a ribbon of silver across the land. “The ancestral home of the Stewards, yes—I had nearly forgotten. What of them?”

“Forgotten in your brooding,” snorts Faramir, even as he takes Boromir’s hands into his own, warm. Soothes Boromir’s knuckles, reddened with the cold, with kisses feather-light and sweet. “Our lives will not be comprised of stolen moments such as these forever,” he whispers, fierce. “One day, our paths shall lead out to those hills.” He touches his lips to Boromir’s brow, reassuring. “When we have rid the lands of Sauron’s remaining forces, the Orcs that still prowl these lands, and seen Gondor into an age of prosperity, we may finally find peace of our own out there.”

Boromir nods; they could live in the hills in privacy, away from all this, returning to Minas Tirith only as Aragorn needed them. “We will,” he says, with conviction. “I know it.” He winds his arms about Faramir’s waist, and leans in to capture his mouth once more. Boromir dares to hope for that day now; dares to imagine the life they may seek out, in lands they can call their own. “And we will find it together.”


End Notes:

- Night, At the Castle Walls: Kaisou – Yoshikawa Youichirou
- Looking To the Future: Legacy – Brian Tyler

All right, so this story is what I disappeared for most of 2014 to write—a personal project to see Boromir live and return to his city and his brother again. ^3^ ~ ♥

I hope you’ve all enjoyed this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it! I do have a few more ideas for this ‘verse, which hopefully I can get to soon. Until then, thank you for joining me on this adventure!

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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