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Title: Hope Prevails
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 4550 (76900 total) - Accompanying artwork in chapter.
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.
~
“Boromir.”
Boromir blinks, his eyes bleary, before the room he is in comes into focus. The room is spacious and cheery, with a fire blazing cozily in the hearth, and the windows, wide, let in the cornsilk spill of sunlight, all of it a far cry from the cold sepulchre Minas Tirith will become.
These were the days of a distant past, when there was warmth, love, and laughter here still.
His mother rests on the bed in the corner, a small bundle pressed to her chest, and instantly Boromir recalls the significance of this moment; cherishes the memory as one of his earliest and happiest.
“Boromir,” she says again, gentle. Beckons him closer, careful not to disturb the fragile bundle in her arms.
Boromir watches himself as a child, dragging his chair over, before he suddenly is the child, the way such things are in dreams. He is no older than five years of age again, peering at the blanket-swaddled babe she has cradled against her chest. It howls so often and fiercely that even his father has left the room for his own peace of mind.
So far, Boromir’s impression of this ‘baby’ is of a small, red-faced lump, whose skill set consists of squalling, hiccupping, and scrunching its tiny brow into a most unbecoming scowl.
Still, he holds his arms out dutifully as his mother instructs, careful not to drop the squirming, softly sobbing bundle. But when Finduilas places the baby in Boromir’s arms, it settles immediately, with a quiet, gurgling sigh.
He looks down at the tiny being cradled in his arms, its head crowned with a fine down of golden hair, cheeks rosy with color. Pokes it with a finger, amused when its mouth latches onto him and sucks as if he were his mother’s breast.
“This is Faramir,” Finduilas says, smiling. “Your brother.”
“Brother?” Boromir echoes, wrinkling his nose. The word, at present, seems synonymous with eating, sleeping, and crying. And on occasion, soiling. When told he would be blessed with a brother, Boromir had thought he would be brought someone brave and strong, perhaps a Captain of the Guard—not this helpless creature, no larger than a doll.
Finduilas laughs, and Boromir’s heart aches at the sound, the bright chime of it beautiful, like bells, like music long-forgotten. “Yes,” she says, carding her fingers through Boromir’s hair, as he nestles into his mother’s side. “You must protect him. Cherish him. He will be your strength in the days to come. And you will be his.”
Boromir eyes the bundle in his arms, unconvinced. Watches the baby smack its lips, smelling of milk and sweetness, as it wriggles aimlessly in the cloth it is swaddled in. Then for one glorious moment, it blinks, gazing at Boromir with eyes of bluest blue, lips curving into a rare half-smile. Reaches out and clutches Boromir’s nose, with the tiny, perfect hand it has worked free.
Oh, thinks Boromir, a surge of affection swelling high in his chest. He draws the soft, lovely warmth of his brother—of Faramir—close, and lays a kiss on his forehead, gentle.
He is mine to protect, Boromir remembers deciding, at that moment. He is mine to cherish.
He is mine.
~
It is not long before the memory of his first meeting with Faramir gives way to another, and Boromir follows the loose, shimmering threads of the dream-path until he finds himself in another room, several years down the road.
As before, there is a welcoming fire crackling in the hearth, but the sprawling tapestries of the White Tree and the elaborately furnished bed are absent; instead, there are crates of weapons along the wall, on either side of a half-made bed. A messy stash of books lining the shelves, next to an ornamental display of swords perched delicately on miniature corbels. A battered, well-used rug opposite the hearth.
This is Boromir’s room, a place of comfort and safety and affection.
It was often, when their father would berate Faramir about some failing of his or another, that Faramir would find Boromir in his room and burrow into his arms. Bury his face in Boromir’s belly to dry his tears on the soft fabric of Boromir’s tunic.
Hush, little one, Boromir would say, stroking his feather-soft hair and rubbing soothing circles into his back.
Boromir would let Faramir curl into his sheets—the same blankets Boromir would teasingly throw over his brother and record how long it took him to escape—and when he was safely snuggled in their warmth, Boromir would read to him, retelling tales of great battles and embellishing the feats of heroes of old, as their mother had done when she was alive. Faramir could be assured, that when he hovered on the edge of sleep, Boromir would curl up behind him and take him into his arms until Faramir could find slumber, away from expectation and duty and the ever-growing wrath of their father. Would be Faramir’s shield, against the harshness of the world, both from within their home, and without.
Other times, Faramir would slip into his room simply to enjoy his company, joining Boromir on the battered blue rug, with his own books on Elven history and Dwarven lore. Would share his findings in return for such knowledge as the proper grip of a sword. The ideal weight for a shield.
On this night, however, Faramir seems to have come with a certain purpose in mind.
He had joined Boromir on the hearth-facing rug as was his wont, sharing the space with him easily out of habit. But instead of reading, Boromir finds that Faramir has been subtly watching him all night, his eyes slightly glazed and his pupils blown wide. A dreamy half-smile tugs at his lips, each time his eyes dart over the top of his book to sneak a shy glance at Boromir.
In turn, Boromir watches Faramir discreetly, noting the shadows the flickering light casts upon his face. The way the fire highlights the red of his autumn-gold hair. The manner in which Faramir puckers his rosebud mouth when pursing his lips in thought.
He has never looked more beautiful than he does now, and—
Too late, he notices Faramir watching him back, a slight tilt to his head, curious. Boromir hides quickly behind the wide cover of his book, mortified, a burning heat flushing his cheeks. He is a poor liar, and any moment now, Faramir will discover the secret he has been trying so hard to hide: that at some point, Faramir had become indispensable to him, had become everything in his life, and his feelings for Faramir had far transcended that of the fraternal, even if he could not pinpoint just how and when it had happened.
Perhaps it had been their heightened closeness following their mother’s death. Or the way Faramir continually sought his presence or comfort in his arms that made him such a constant fixture in Boromir’s life, that he found himself hard-pressed to go a day without seeing the warmth of Faramir’s smile. Hearing the brightness of his laugh. Regardless, these were things he could not tell Faramir, could never let him know, for fear of Faramir hating him. That he had betrayed their sacrosanct relationship as brothers for the idea of something more, something—
Boromir startles, nearly dropping his book when Faramir wriggles his way into Boromir’s arms. Settles between Boromir and the book, nestling in between knees and hips and elbows, before pressing the back of his head against Boromir’s chest.
“I,” Faramir tries, and Boromir can hear the audible click of his throat as he swallows, “I thought I felt a draft.”
“Sit closer to the fire, then,” Boromir huffs, even as he wraps his arms more securely around Faramir, indulging him. Shuffles their amalgamation of rug-books-brothers closer to the grate, letting the heat of the fire wash over them.
They rest on the rug in silence, enjoying the lovely warmth for short moments, before Boromir rests his chin on Faramir’s feather-soft hair. Breathes in its fresh, honeyed scent as he closes his eyes. He wonders how he ever did without Faramir; how—when he was old enough to search for the meanings of their names in Minas Tirith’s archives—his parents could have named his brother Faramir, for ‘sufficient’ jewel, when ever he has been the embodiment of vital and needed and essential—
“Boromir?”
“Mmhn.” Boromir’s eyes flutter open, and at the sound of Faramir’s voice, small and scared, he sighs. He has lost the skein of his thoughts, but it is probably for the best. “Faramir? What is it that troubles—”
“I love you,” Faramir says softly. His small hands wrap around Boromir’s as he tucks himself further into Boromir’s space.
“Oh,” says Boromir, heart fluttering in his chest like a panicked songbird. “I—yes, as do I, Faramir.”
He reaches up to smother Faramir’s hair. Leans in to press a kiss to his cheek. It is the coward’s way to share this sentiment, Boromir knows, because this way, he can hide his own expression. Will not have to see disgust or fear on Faramir’s. If Faramir only knew the nature of Boromir’s affection, he would turn Boromir away, would not come willingly to what he had once thought of as only a brother’s embrace!
No—to have him like this, soft and willing and adoring, is enough, and Boromir knows better than to hope for more.
Faramir stills Boromir’s hand, his fingers curling about Boromir’s wrist. He turns then, and oh, Boromir can see what he is about to say, can see what is in his heart as plain as day; for all the walls Faramir has thrown up around himself against their father’s harsh words, he wears his heart on his sleeve in Boromir’s presence. And for all that Boromir has been lauded for his courage, his fearless heart, it is Faramir who is steadfast and brave when it counts.
“I love you as more than a brother,” Faramir says, his voice whisper-quiet. His eyes are wide and round, and Boromir can feel him trembling. As if he is afraid Boromir will judge him for this, will throw him out of his room, denouncing him as corrupt and disowning him as kin.
Boromir swallows hard, around the hope and elation knotting tight in his throat; he had not imagined Faramir would feel this way, much less be the first to speak.
“Oh, Faramir,” Boromir says at last. He laughs, relieved, in the soft, sunset glow of the firelight, and squeezes Faramir’s hand reassuringly. Thinks to ask Faramir if he is sure of his feelings, for this is no light matter. But Faramir speaks with such seriousness, such conviction, that he knows Faramir indeed knows his own heart, and so, he would not make Faramir wait in this. “As do I,” Boromir repeats, more gently this time.
Faramir makes a sound that is bright and sweet, and all kinds of ecstatic. “Then it is as I hoped!” he exclaims, fear vanishing from his face, replaced by genuine delight.
He throws his arms about Boromir’s neck in the most heartfelt embrace, and as he topples Boromir to the floor, Boromir’s heart fills with a giddy joy, for Faramir is now his, in all the ways that matter.
In all the ways he has wanted.
Reliving this memory warms Boromir to the core with a happiness he has not known in months. So it is all too soon when the pleasing, familiar warmth of the hearth twists away, pulling him into a memory that is colder, crueler—one set much farther in the future, amidst the broken masonry of Osgiliath.
~
“Good speech,” says Faramir, his hands gripping Boromir’s forearms, firm. “Nice and short.”
Boromir’s speech, made from atop a ruined spire, had been effective enough; the crowd of soldiers below had been roused into joyous fervor by the very words Let the armies of Mordor know this: never again will the land of my people fall into enemy hands! Each and every one of them had fought hard to win their part of Osgiliath back from the Orcs, and in this reprieve is their time to celebrate, before the inevitable return to battle.
Now, though, Boromir takes a moment to appreciate how Faramir’s hands have closed around his elbows—a solid weight, much like the steadfast support he has always been. The way his hair glows autumn-bright in the sunlight, such that there is. And the sound of his laughter, soft and warm and real, is enough to chase away the long shadows the enemy had cast over Boromir’s heart, if only just.
Seeing Faramir wind his way through archers and soldiers both in a bid to be first to greet him, even after so arduous a battle, had warmed Boromir thoroughly. And despite the filth of battle smeared over his tunic, the ridge of his cheek, Faramir looks now the very paragon of beauty, a sentiment he is sure Faramir shares of him; Boromir knows he must be a sorry sight, with his dented cuirass, his tattered cloak, blood and ichor crusted over his mail armour entire, and still—still Faramir had flung his arms wide open for embrace and Boromir had sailed into them, unabashed, both of them forgetting themselves in the moment. Reveling in the sheer and mutual relief that they had both made it from the battle alive.
They have less than a moment to enjoy the warmth of each other’s arms before they must pull away, but as Boromir draws back, Faramir hangs on, clings, like stubborn lichen to rock. So Boromir lets his arms come up to clasp Faramir’s again, helpless. Lets them have this, even in light of all the soldiers and Rangers who surround them, because surely, in this commotion, this celebratory din, a less-than-brotherly gesture such as theirs would be overlooked.
“Short?” Boromir laughs of Faramir’s jibe at his speech. He arches a brow, even as he squeezes Faramir’s upper arm, teasing. “It leaves more time for drinking!”
And the way Faramir beams at that, bright, the endearing way his eyes crease at the corners with the broadness of his grin, makes Boromir want to drag him away, behind the battered watchtower in the part of Osgiliath no one dares go. To kiss him senseless, until his lips are cherry-red and swollen with proof of their passion. To paint his neck with rose-colored bruises, and rake his hands through Faramir’s hair until he looks so thoroughly debauched that there is no doubt as to whom Faramir belongs.
But Boromir keeps his mouth and lips and hands to himself, through a great effort of will. Dares to slide searching fingers only far enough to clasp Faramir’s shoulders in an age-old show of camaraderie, even as his thumbs dip traitorously into the line of Faramir’s collarbone.
The things I would do to you, Boromir muses, were we alone this very instant. “Break out the ale!” he calls aloud instead, drawing away from such treacherous thoughts. “These men are thirsty!”
In the joyful clamor following their Captain’s decree, of soldiers only too glad for this chance to indulge, no one minds that he and Faramir are holding each other still. No one sees the way Boromir keeps his gaze fixed on Faramir, taking in the sight of his brother’s unbridled joy and keeping it safe, like a perfect pearl of happiness in his heart.
And few, if any of them, notice when Boromir leads Faramir away by the hand, for a private celebration of their own.
“As I was saying, that was a rousing victory speech you made back there,” Faramir nods, as they pass beneath an old archway, nearing a set of ale kegs from which Boromir fills two goblets. He mimics Boromir’s pose from atop the spire, confidence and assurance in every inch of his stance, hand held high with the draw of an invisible sword. A playful smile curves his lips as he mouths the words For Gondor! “And your battle cry itself? That was…” Faramir pauses, searching for the right word. “Awe-inspiring. Patriotic. And so very abridged—”
“Be quiet, you,” laughs Boromir, recognizing Faramir’s teasing for what it is. “You may speak only when you have established a battle cry of your own.” He would shake a finger in Faramir’s face in reprimand, but his hands are full at present, and it would not do to spill their first celebratory drinks in so long, stale as the ale is. “Besides, it is the nature of battle cries to be abridged.”
Faramir hums, amused. “I am sure I could still come up with better.”
“Oh?” Boromir asks. “Would you dedicate your battle to the city, then? To its people?” He skims the excess foam from Faramir’s goblet with the spout of the keg, and grins when Faramir simply blinks at him. “I thought not. You could do no better than Gondor, for those are the lands we govern and defend.”
Faramir sniffs at that, in a way that could almost be considered haughty. “I have no need to dedicate my battles to all the lands and beyond.” He beckons Boromir closer, and as Faramir’s lips brush his ear, the warmth of his breath sends a thrill of anticipation down Boromir’s spine. “For Boromir,” Faramir whispers, fierce. He leans back, arms folded over his chest as he tilts his chin upward, defiant. “That would be my battle cry, I suppose.” He stifles a laugh as Boromir sputters and nearly spills his goblet of ale.
“Enough about that,” huffs Boromir, sure that his face flushes the exact shade of crimson he so often enjoys on Faramir. He is careful not to let their gloved fingers rest together overlong, as he presses Faramir’s goblet into his hands. Knocks his own goblet into it in a toast. “Remember today, little brother,” he smiles. “Today, life is good.”
That they may share in the flush of victory and in drink like this today, together and whole and alive, is a marvel, one Boromir would drink to. And by Faramir’s matching grin, it seems he shares the sentiment completely.
They drink a draught each from their own goblets, long and deep and full, before Boromir notices Faramir watching him, steadily, over the rim of his goblet, his half-lidded gaze fixed on Boromir’s mouth.
“Boromir,” Faramir murmurs, quiet. His lips are parted in a soft, wistful smile, one that sends a warm flutter through Boromir’s chest, and his hand inches forward, slow, as if to bring his goblet to Boromir’s lips. Hoping Boromir might do the same, that they might drink of each other’s ale, in a toast more intimate than celebratory.
Boromir shakes his head, the motion almost imperceptible.
Secluded beneath the archway as they are, any one of Boromir’s soldiers or Faramir’s Rangers could stumble upon them in a bid to refill their tankards, and such a gesture could not be explained away by their fraternal bond. A hearty embrace following a hard-won battle was one thing; drinking from each other’s goblets like a pair of newly-wedded lovebirds was another.
Denial of the action does not stop them from wanting, however, and they watch each other, desire stirring only in their eyes, with wary smiles at the corners of their mouths. At least, until Faramir’s eyes dart away from his, and he deflates against the wall, looking the very picture of disappointment.
It cannot be helped; they have grown from soft, affectionate touches, innumerable in their childhood, to the careful and controlled contact of adulthood, especially in the presence of others. Even in embrace, Boromir would let them revel in each other’s warmth for less than a moment, preferring to save their fiery embraces for the night.
This, then, was his way of protecting his brother.
He would be damned before seeing either of them exiled, or worse, burned at the stake, a punishment awaiting those who lay with other men—though their crime would be twofold, their lover a man and brother both; there would be nothing left of them after immolation for the first charge alone.
They have managed to scrape by all this time on scraps of affection, of stolen kisses and embraces between days, months of separation, when Faramir departed to lead an expedition of Rangers through Ithilien to ambush the enemy, or when Boromir was sent to lead patrols along the outer borders of Gondor. Then Faramir had flung arms around him short moments ago, his embrace crushingly tight, and Boromir was lost. He had been helpless to resist the warmth, the comfort, and had given in, just like that, allowing Faramir’s arms to linger on elbows and forearms, while his own traitorous hands skimmed the line of Faramir’s shoulders, his waist, aching to go lower, to curl over Faramir’s hips as Boromir traced the dip of his throat with his lips, mapped the inside of Faramir’s mouth with his tongue—
“Boromir?” Faramir asks, interrupting his thoughts, and all at once, Boromir realizes his gaze has also been fixed on Faramir’s mouth, in the same guilty desire. He swipes his tongue over his own lip, trying desperately not to think of pressing his thumb into the fullness of Faramir’s.
“Later,” Boromir manages, a bare whisper, fanning the tiny flame of hope in Faramir’s eyes. Yes, later, under the cover of night, they might…
The thought of later wilts under the incandescence of Faramir’s smile, spreading slowly across his face like a swathe of melting honey and sunlight.
Something catches in Boromir’s chest at the sight, and whether it is his breath or his heart, he knows not. He knows only that he loves this, watching the way his brother’s features soften in the light, with such hope in his eyes; it reminds him of their younger days, when the world was fairer and the days free from care, and Faramir’s eyes had been bright with wonder instead of deadened by the horrors of war.
Against his better judgment, Boromir finds himself reaching for Faramir, wanting to cup Faramir’s cheek in his palm and nip his lower lip with just the softest tug of teeth. To lick away the froth from the ale that has gathered on his upper lip, before licking boldly into Faramir’s mouth to claim the taste of him, the familiar sweetness he is sure to find.
By the way Faramir’s gaze meets his, his eyes hooded and dark, it seems Faramir wishes to do the same, if not more.
Boromir loves the flare of hope in Faramir’s eyes, the warmth of his smile too much to deny him this, and he has been holding back the tide of his affections for so long, that before he knows it, he has curled fingers around Faramir’s wrist. Delights in the motion of Faramir’s fingers shifting to twine back through his own. He would lead Faramir to the abandoned watchtower now, to press him hard against dulled and broken stone and kiss him until he was gasping for breath. Until he was scrabbling at the loose stone for purchase, or clawing at Boromir’s back for air. Surely in all this commotion, they would not be missed—
Suddenly, Faramir’s smile fades, a candle’s flame extinguished all too soon by the bitter wind.
“What is it?” Boromir asks, sorry to see Faramir’s good humor vanish so quickly. His own brow furrows, a mirror of Faramir’s expression, but he does not release Faramir’s hand in a blind panic.
“He is here,” Faramir says, frowning, his eyes fixed on a point just over Boromir’s shoulder.
Boromir forces himself to break his gaze away from Faramir, away from where he has been drinking in the sight of his brother like wine, secreting the image away for darker nights, when there would be little warmth and light to be had—and notices their father immediately. Denethor strikes a severe and imposing figure, even as he weaves his way through the crowd of soldiers with false reassurances and insincere congratulations on his lips.
“Where is Gondor’s finest?” Denethor calls. “Where is my firstborn?”
Boromir sighs. Father is here, and he will come this way soon enough. Such is the fate of the sons of the steward of Gondor; they are not to be afforded one moment of peace, not even one following a hard-won victory. His fingers tighten around Faramir’s for all of a moment, a silent plea of Give me strength, before he is forced to release them, reluctant. Even then, he lets the tips of his fingers skim the backside of Faramir’s hand. As if to say, This is not yet over; we will continue this later.
With a quick nod, Faramir catches his hand and squeezes once—a subtle and wordless reassurance, before Boromir steps into Denethor’s view, his gait steady and self-assured, despite the sway from the weight of his armour.
“Father!” Boromir calls, throwing on the widest smile he can bear.
It is no longer the genuine smile of days past, when the man before him still remembered how to be a father, instead of hiding in his high tower and consulting strange, nebulous powers to track the enemy’s movements. But even if Boromir’s smiles—the ones that come from the heart, ones that crease his eyes in the corners like his brother’s—have long been for Faramir alone, Boromir does what he must to maintain the façade, of being the model son, soldier, and captain Denethor has come to expect.
All Boromir remembers after that is his father’s insincere embrace, the words Bring me back this mighty gift
this mighty gift
gift
and his answer of My place is here with my people, not in Rivendell!, the only time Boromir can actively recall disobeying this order of Denethor’s. But their father had insisted time and time again that the ring was a gift, a boon against the dark forces of Mordor they kept at bay. It was this conversation that had set in motion his ill-fated journey, these words that had set him on the path to ruin, and Boromir struggles to turn away from the memory, only to find that all around him is the cold stone of Osgiliath, with no escape in sight, and his father’s voice increases in volume, the sound of it unnaturally loud, as if he is shouting from within Boromir’s mind itself.
You must go, bring me back—
No! thinks Boromir desperately.
—this mighty gift!
No, no, no, Boromir tries, clawing for escape within these walls but finding none; he does not want to continue down this path, does not want to think of anything regarding the One Ring, not here in this dream-world, where he was promised safety and happiness. He does not want to remember the soft, sibilant voice of the ring, tempting him with its dark promises, of glory, of being Gondor’s savior, but most of all, of the safety of his people, of Faramir—
And as if something hears his thoughts, the pure desperation of his pleading, the silhouettes of Osgiliath, Faramir, and Denethor fade into a yawning blackness, granting him merciful reprieve in the form of his familiar chambers within Minas Tirith.
(tbc - Chapter 2b)
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 4550 (76900 total) - Accompanying artwork in chapter.
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.
“Boromir.”
Boromir blinks, his eyes bleary, before the room he is in comes into focus. The room is spacious and cheery, with a fire blazing cozily in the hearth, and the windows, wide, let in the cornsilk spill of sunlight, all of it a far cry from the cold sepulchre Minas Tirith will become.
These were the days of a distant past, when there was warmth, love, and laughter here still.
His mother rests on the bed in the corner, a small bundle pressed to her chest, and instantly Boromir recalls the significance of this moment; cherishes the memory as one of his earliest and happiest.
“Boromir,” she says again, gentle. Beckons him closer, careful not to disturb the fragile bundle in her arms.
Boromir watches himself as a child, dragging his chair over, before he suddenly is the child, the way such things are in dreams. He is no older than five years of age again, peering at the blanket-swaddled babe she has cradled against her chest. It howls so often and fiercely that even his father has left the room for his own peace of mind.
So far, Boromir’s impression of this ‘baby’ is of a small, red-faced lump, whose skill set consists of squalling, hiccupping, and scrunching its tiny brow into a most unbecoming scowl.
Still, he holds his arms out dutifully as his mother instructs, careful not to drop the squirming, softly sobbing bundle. But when Finduilas places the baby in Boromir’s arms, it settles immediately, with a quiet, gurgling sigh.
He looks down at the tiny being cradled in his arms, its head crowned with a fine down of golden hair, cheeks rosy with color. Pokes it with a finger, amused when its mouth latches onto him and sucks as if he were his mother’s breast.
“This is Faramir,” Finduilas says, smiling. “Your brother.”
“Brother?” Boromir echoes, wrinkling his nose. The word, at present, seems synonymous with eating, sleeping, and crying. And on occasion, soiling. When told he would be blessed with a brother, Boromir had thought he would be brought someone brave and strong, perhaps a Captain of the Guard—not this helpless creature, no larger than a doll.
Finduilas laughs, and Boromir’s heart aches at the sound, the bright chime of it beautiful, like bells, like music long-forgotten. “Yes,” she says, carding her fingers through Boromir’s hair, as he nestles into his mother’s side. “You must protect him. Cherish him. He will be your strength in the days to come. And you will be his.”
Boromir eyes the bundle in his arms, unconvinced. Watches the baby smack its lips, smelling of milk and sweetness, as it wriggles aimlessly in the cloth it is swaddled in. Then for one glorious moment, it blinks, gazing at Boromir with eyes of bluest blue, lips curving into a rare half-smile. Reaches out and clutches Boromir’s nose, with the tiny, perfect hand it has worked free.
Oh, thinks Boromir, a surge of affection swelling high in his chest. He draws the soft, lovely warmth of his brother—of Faramir—close, and lays a kiss on his forehead, gentle.
He is mine to protect, Boromir remembers deciding, at that moment. He is mine to cherish.
He is mine.
It is not long before the memory of his first meeting with Faramir gives way to another, and Boromir follows the loose, shimmering threads of the dream-path until he finds himself in another room, several years down the road.
As before, there is a welcoming fire crackling in the hearth, but the sprawling tapestries of the White Tree and the elaborately furnished bed are absent; instead, there are crates of weapons along the wall, on either side of a half-made bed. A messy stash of books lining the shelves, next to an ornamental display of swords perched delicately on miniature corbels. A battered, well-used rug opposite the hearth.
This is Boromir’s room, a place of comfort and safety and affection.
It was often, when their father would berate Faramir about some failing of his or another, that Faramir would find Boromir in his room and burrow into his arms. Bury his face in Boromir’s belly to dry his tears on the soft fabric of Boromir’s tunic.
Hush, little one, Boromir would say, stroking his feather-soft hair and rubbing soothing circles into his back.
Boromir would let Faramir curl into his sheets—the same blankets Boromir would teasingly throw over his brother and record how long it took him to escape—and when he was safely snuggled in their warmth, Boromir would read to him, retelling tales of great battles and embellishing the feats of heroes of old, as their mother had done when she was alive. Faramir could be assured, that when he hovered on the edge of sleep, Boromir would curl up behind him and take him into his arms until Faramir could find slumber, away from expectation and duty and the ever-growing wrath of their father. Would be Faramir’s shield, against the harshness of the world, both from within their home, and without.
Other times, Faramir would slip into his room simply to enjoy his company, joining Boromir on the battered blue rug, with his own books on Elven history and Dwarven lore. Would share his findings in return for such knowledge as the proper grip of a sword. The ideal weight for a shield.
On this night, however, Faramir seems to have come with a certain purpose in mind.
He had joined Boromir on the hearth-facing rug as was his wont, sharing the space with him easily out of habit. But instead of reading, Boromir finds that Faramir has been subtly watching him all night, his eyes slightly glazed and his pupils blown wide. A dreamy half-smile tugs at his lips, each time his eyes dart over the top of his book to sneak a shy glance at Boromir.
In turn, Boromir watches Faramir discreetly, noting the shadows the flickering light casts upon his face. The way the fire highlights the red of his autumn-gold hair. The manner in which Faramir puckers his rosebud mouth when pursing his lips in thought.
He has never looked more beautiful than he does now, and—
Too late, he notices Faramir watching him back, a slight tilt to his head, curious. Boromir hides quickly behind the wide cover of his book, mortified, a burning heat flushing his cheeks. He is a poor liar, and any moment now, Faramir will discover the secret he has been trying so hard to hide: that at some point, Faramir had become indispensable to him, had become everything in his life, and his feelings for Faramir had far transcended that of the fraternal, even if he could not pinpoint just how and when it had happened.
Perhaps it had been their heightened closeness following their mother’s death. Or the way Faramir continually sought his presence or comfort in his arms that made him such a constant fixture in Boromir’s life, that he found himself hard-pressed to go a day without seeing the warmth of Faramir’s smile. Hearing the brightness of his laugh. Regardless, these were things he could not tell Faramir, could never let him know, for fear of Faramir hating him. That he had betrayed their sacrosanct relationship as brothers for the idea of something more, something—
Boromir startles, nearly dropping his book when Faramir wriggles his way into Boromir’s arms. Settles between Boromir and the book, nestling in between knees and hips and elbows, before pressing the back of his head against Boromir’s chest.
“I,” Faramir tries, and Boromir can hear the audible click of his throat as he swallows, “I thought I felt a draft.”
“Sit closer to the fire, then,” Boromir huffs, even as he wraps his arms more securely around Faramir, indulging him. Shuffles their amalgamation of rug-books-brothers closer to the grate, letting the heat of the fire wash over them.
They rest on the rug in silence, enjoying the lovely warmth for short moments, before Boromir rests his chin on Faramir’s feather-soft hair. Breathes in its fresh, honeyed scent as he closes his eyes. He wonders how he ever did without Faramir; how—when he was old enough to search for the meanings of their names in Minas Tirith’s archives—his parents could have named his brother Faramir, for ‘sufficient’ jewel, when ever he has been the embodiment of vital and needed and essential—
“Boromir?”
“Mmhn.” Boromir’s eyes flutter open, and at the sound of Faramir’s voice, small and scared, he sighs. He has lost the skein of his thoughts, but it is probably for the best. “Faramir? What is it that troubles—”
“I love you,” Faramir says softly. His small hands wrap around Boromir’s as he tucks himself further into Boromir’s space.
“Oh,” says Boromir, heart fluttering in his chest like a panicked songbird. “I—yes, as do I, Faramir.”
He reaches up to smother Faramir’s hair. Leans in to press a kiss to his cheek. It is the coward’s way to share this sentiment, Boromir knows, because this way, he can hide his own expression. Will not have to see disgust or fear on Faramir’s. If Faramir only knew the nature of Boromir’s affection, he would turn Boromir away, would not come willingly to what he had once thought of as only a brother’s embrace!
No—to have him like this, soft and willing and adoring, is enough, and Boromir knows better than to hope for more.
Faramir stills Boromir’s hand, his fingers curling about Boromir’s wrist. He turns then, and oh, Boromir can see what he is about to say, can see what is in his heart as plain as day; for all the walls Faramir has thrown up around himself against their father’s harsh words, he wears his heart on his sleeve in Boromir’s presence. And for all that Boromir has been lauded for his courage, his fearless heart, it is Faramir who is steadfast and brave when it counts.
“I love you as more than a brother,” Faramir says, his voice whisper-quiet. His eyes are wide and round, and Boromir can feel him trembling. As if he is afraid Boromir will judge him for this, will throw him out of his room, denouncing him as corrupt and disowning him as kin.
Boromir swallows hard, around the hope and elation knotting tight in his throat; he had not imagined Faramir would feel this way, much less be the first to speak.
“Oh, Faramir,” Boromir says at last. He laughs, relieved, in the soft, sunset glow of the firelight, and squeezes Faramir’s hand reassuringly. Thinks to ask Faramir if he is sure of his feelings, for this is no light matter. But Faramir speaks with such seriousness, such conviction, that he knows Faramir indeed knows his own heart, and so, he would not make Faramir wait in this. “As do I,” Boromir repeats, more gently this time.
Faramir makes a sound that is bright and sweet, and all kinds of ecstatic. “Then it is as I hoped!” he exclaims, fear vanishing from his face, replaced by genuine delight.
He throws his arms about Boromir’s neck in the most heartfelt embrace, and as he topples Boromir to the floor, Boromir’s heart fills with a giddy joy, for Faramir is now his, in all the ways that matter.
In all the ways he has wanted.
Reliving this memory warms Boromir to the core with a happiness he has not known in months. So it is all too soon when the pleasing, familiar warmth of the hearth twists away, pulling him into a memory that is colder, crueler—one set much farther in the future, amidst the broken masonry of Osgiliath.
“Good speech,” says Faramir, his hands gripping Boromir’s forearms, firm. “Nice and short.”
Boromir’s speech, made from atop a ruined spire, had been effective enough; the crowd of soldiers below had been roused into joyous fervor by the very words Let the armies of Mordor know this: never again will the land of my people fall into enemy hands! Each and every one of them had fought hard to win their part of Osgiliath back from the Orcs, and in this reprieve is their time to celebrate, before the inevitable return to battle.
Now, though, Boromir takes a moment to appreciate how Faramir’s hands have closed around his elbows—a solid weight, much like the steadfast support he has always been. The way his hair glows autumn-bright in the sunlight, such that there is. And the sound of his laughter, soft and warm and real, is enough to chase away the long shadows the enemy had cast over Boromir’s heart, if only just.
Seeing Faramir wind his way through archers and soldiers both in a bid to be first to greet him, even after so arduous a battle, had warmed Boromir thoroughly. And despite the filth of battle smeared over his tunic, the ridge of his cheek, Faramir looks now the very paragon of beauty, a sentiment he is sure Faramir shares of him; Boromir knows he must be a sorry sight, with his dented cuirass, his tattered cloak, blood and ichor crusted over his mail armour entire, and still—still Faramir had flung his arms wide open for embrace and Boromir had sailed into them, unabashed, both of them forgetting themselves in the moment. Reveling in the sheer and mutual relief that they had both made it from the battle alive.
They have less than a moment to enjoy the warmth of each other’s arms before they must pull away, but as Boromir draws back, Faramir hangs on, clings, like stubborn lichen to rock. So Boromir lets his arms come up to clasp Faramir’s again, helpless. Lets them have this, even in light of all the soldiers and Rangers who surround them, because surely, in this commotion, this celebratory din, a less-than-brotherly gesture such as theirs would be overlooked.
“Short?” Boromir laughs of Faramir’s jibe at his speech. He arches a brow, even as he squeezes Faramir’s upper arm, teasing. “It leaves more time for drinking!”
And the way Faramir beams at that, bright, the endearing way his eyes crease at the corners with the broadness of his grin, makes Boromir want to drag him away, behind the battered watchtower in the part of Osgiliath no one dares go. To kiss him senseless, until his lips are cherry-red and swollen with proof of their passion. To paint his neck with rose-colored bruises, and rake his hands through Faramir’s hair until he looks so thoroughly debauched that there is no doubt as to whom Faramir belongs.
But Boromir keeps his mouth and lips and hands to himself, through a great effort of will. Dares to slide searching fingers only far enough to clasp Faramir’s shoulders in an age-old show of camaraderie, even as his thumbs dip traitorously into the line of Faramir’s collarbone.
The things I would do to you, Boromir muses, were we alone this very instant. “Break out the ale!” he calls aloud instead, drawing away from such treacherous thoughts. “These men are thirsty!”
In the joyful clamor following their Captain’s decree, of soldiers only too glad for this chance to indulge, no one minds that he and Faramir are holding each other still. No one sees the way Boromir keeps his gaze fixed on Faramir, taking in the sight of his brother’s unbridled joy and keeping it safe, like a perfect pearl of happiness in his heart.
And few, if any of them, notice when Boromir leads Faramir away by the hand, for a private celebration of their own.
“As I was saying, that was a rousing victory speech you made back there,” Faramir nods, as they pass beneath an old archway, nearing a set of ale kegs from which Boromir fills two goblets. He mimics Boromir’s pose from atop the spire, confidence and assurance in every inch of his stance, hand held high with the draw of an invisible sword. A playful smile curves his lips as he mouths the words For Gondor! “And your battle cry itself? That was…” Faramir pauses, searching for the right word. “Awe-inspiring. Patriotic. And so very abridged—”
“Be quiet, you,” laughs Boromir, recognizing Faramir’s teasing for what it is. “You may speak only when you have established a battle cry of your own.” He would shake a finger in Faramir’s face in reprimand, but his hands are full at present, and it would not do to spill their first celebratory drinks in so long, stale as the ale is. “Besides, it is the nature of battle cries to be abridged.”
Faramir hums, amused. “I am sure I could still come up with better.”
“Oh?” Boromir asks. “Would you dedicate your battle to the city, then? To its people?” He skims the excess foam from Faramir’s goblet with the spout of the keg, and grins when Faramir simply blinks at him. “I thought not. You could do no better than Gondor, for those are the lands we govern and defend.”
Faramir sniffs at that, in a way that could almost be considered haughty. “I have no need to dedicate my battles to all the lands and beyond.” He beckons Boromir closer, and as Faramir’s lips brush his ear, the warmth of his breath sends a thrill of anticipation down Boromir’s spine. “For Boromir,” Faramir whispers, fierce. He leans back, arms folded over his chest as he tilts his chin upward, defiant. “That would be my battle cry, I suppose.” He stifles a laugh as Boromir sputters and nearly spills his goblet of ale.
“Enough about that,” huffs Boromir, sure that his face flushes the exact shade of crimson he so often enjoys on Faramir. He is careful not to let their gloved fingers rest together overlong, as he presses Faramir’s goblet into his hands. Knocks his own goblet into it in a toast. “Remember today, little brother,” he smiles. “Today, life is good.”
That they may share in the flush of victory and in drink like this today, together and whole and alive, is a marvel, one Boromir would drink to. And by Faramir’s matching grin, it seems he shares the sentiment completely.
They drink a draught each from their own goblets, long and deep and full, before Boromir notices Faramir watching him, steadily, over the rim of his goblet, his half-lidded gaze fixed on Boromir’s mouth.
“Boromir,” Faramir murmurs, quiet. His lips are parted in a soft, wistful smile, one that sends a warm flutter through Boromir’s chest, and his hand inches forward, slow, as if to bring his goblet to Boromir’s lips. Hoping Boromir might do the same, that they might drink of each other’s ale, in a toast more intimate than celebratory.
Boromir shakes his head, the motion almost imperceptible.
Secluded beneath the archway as they are, any one of Boromir’s soldiers or Faramir’s Rangers could stumble upon them in a bid to refill their tankards, and such a gesture could not be explained away by their fraternal bond. A hearty embrace following a hard-won battle was one thing; drinking from each other’s goblets like a pair of newly-wedded lovebirds was another.
Denial of the action does not stop them from wanting, however, and they watch each other, desire stirring only in their eyes, with wary smiles at the corners of their mouths. At least, until Faramir’s eyes dart away from his, and he deflates against the wall, looking the very picture of disappointment.
It cannot be helped; they have grown from soft, affectionate touches, innumerable in their childhood, to the careful and controlled contact of adulthood, especially in the presence of others. Even in embrace, Boromir would let them revel in each other’s warmth for less than a moment, preferring to save their fiery embraces for the night.
This, then, was his way of protecting his brother.
He would be damned before seeing either of them exiled, or worse, burned at the stake, a punishment awaiting those who lay with other men—though their crime would be twofold, their lover a man and brother both; there would be nothing left of them after immolation for the first charge alone.
They have managed to scrape by all this time on scraps of affection, of stolen kisses and embraces between days, months of separation, when Faramir departed to lead an expedition of Rangers through Ithilien to ambush the enemy, or when Boromir was sent to lead patrols along the outer borders of Gondor. Then Faramir had flung arms around him short moments ago, his embrace crushingly tight, and Boromir was lost. He had been helpless to resist the warmth, the comfort, and had given in, just like that, allowing Faramir’s arms to linger on elbows and forearms, while his own traitorous hands skimmed the line of Faramir’s shoulders, his waist, aching to go lower, to curl over Faramir’s hips as Boromir traced the dip of his throat with his lips, mapped the inside of Faramir’s mouth with his tongue—
“Boromir?” Faramir asks, interrupting his thoughts, and all at once, Boromir realizes his gaze has also been fixed on Faramir’s mouth, in the same guilty desire. He swipes his tongue over his own lip, trying desperately not to think of pressing his thumb into the fullness of Faramir’s.
“Later,” Boromir manages, a bare whisper, fanning the tiny flame of hope in Faramir’s eyes. Yes, later, under the cover of night, they might…
The thought of later wilts under the incandescence of Faramir’s smile, spreading slowly across his face like a swathe of melting honey and sunlight.
Something catches in Boromir’s chest at the sight, and whether it is his breath or his heart, he knows not. He knows only that he loves this, watching the way his brother’s features soften in the light, with such hope in his eyes; it reminds him of their younger days, when the world was fairer and the days free from care, and Faramir’s eyes had been bright with wonder instead of deadened by the horrors of war.
Against his better judgment, Boromir finds himself reaching for Faramir, wanting to cup Faramir’s cheek in his palm and nip his lower lip with just the softest tug of teeth. To lick away the froth from the ale that has gathered on his upper lip, before licking boldly into Faramir’s mouth to claim the taste of him, the familiar sweetness he is sure to find.
By the way Faramir’s gaze meets his, his eyes hooded and dark, it seems Faramir wishes to do the same, if not more.
Boromir loves the flare of hope in Faramir’s eyes, the warmth of his smile too much to deny him this, and he has been holding back the tide of his affections for so long, that before he knows it, he has curled fingers around Faramir’s wrist. Delights in the motion of Faramir’s fingers shifting to twine back through his own. He would lead Faramir to the abandoned watchtower now, to press him hard against dulled and broken stone and kiss him until he was gasping for breath. Until he was scrabbling at the loose stone for purchase, or clawing at Boromir’s back for air. Surely in all this commotion, they would not be missed—
Suddenly, Faramir’s smile fades, a candle’s flame extinguished all too soon by the bitter wind.
“What is it?” Boromir asks, sorry to see Faramir’s good humor vanish so quickly. His own brow furrows, a mirror of Faramir’s expression, but he does not release Faramir’s hand in a blind panic.
“He is here,” Faramir says, frowning, his eyes fixed on a point just over Boromir’s shoulder.
Boromir forces himself to break his gaze away from Faramir, away from where he has been drinking in the sight of his brother like wine, secreting the image away for darker nights, when there would be little warmth and light to be had—and notices their father immediately. Denethor strikes a severe and imposing figure, even as he weaves his way through the crowd of soldiers with false reassurances and insincere congratulations on his lips.
“Where is Gondor’s finest?” Denethor calls. “Where is my firstborn?”
Boromir sighs. Father is here, and he will come this way soon enough. Such is the fate of the sons of the steward of Gondor; they are not to be afforded one moment of peace, not even one following a hard-won victory. His fingers tighten around Faramir’s for all of a moment, a silent plea of Give me strength, before he is forced to release them, reluctant. Even then, he lets the tips of his fingers skim the backside of Faramir’s hand. As if to say, This is not yet over; we will continue this later.
With a quick nod, Faramir catches his hand and squeezes once—a subtle and wordless reassurance, before Boromir steps into Denethor’s view, his gait steady and self-assured, despite the sway from the weight of his armour.
“Father!” Boromir calls, throwing on the widest smile he can bear.
It is no longer the genuine smile of days past, when the man before him still remembered how to be a father, instead of hiding in his high tower and consulting strange, nebulous powers to track the enemy’s movements. But even if Boromir’s smiles—the ones that come from the heart, ones that crease his eyes in the corners like his brother’s—have long been for Faramir alone, Boromir does what he must to maintain the façade, of being the model son, soldier, and captain Denethor has come to expect.
All Boromir remembers after that is his father’s insincere embrace, the words Bring me back this mighty gift
this mighty gift
gift
and his answer of My place is here with my people, not in Rivendell!, the only time Boromir can actively recall disobeying this order of Denethor’s. But their father had insisted time and time again that the ring was a gift, a boon against the dark forces of Mordor they kept at bay. It was this conversation that had set in motion his ill-fated journey, these words that had set him on the path to ruin, and Boromir struggles to turn away from the memory, only to find that all around him is the cold stone of Osgiliath, with no escape in sight, and his father’s voice increases in volume, the sound of it unnaturally loud, as if he is shouting from within Boromir’s mind itself.
You must go, bring me back—
No! thinks Boromir desperately.
—this mighty gift!
No, no, no, Boromir tries, clawing for escape within these walls but finding none; he does not want to continue down this path, does not want to think of anything regarding the One Ring, not here in this dream-world, where he was promised safety and happiness. He does not want to remember the soft, sibilant voice of the ring, tempting him with its dark promises, of glory, of being Gondor’s savior, but most of all, of the safety of his people, of Faramir—
And as if something hears his thoughts, the pure desperation of his pleading, the silhouettes of Osgiliath, Faramir, and Denethor fade into a yawning blackness, granting him merciful reprieve in the form of his familiar chambers within Minas Tirith.
(tbc - Chapter 2b)
