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Title: Hope Prevails
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 8040 (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 messenger Aragorn had sent to Minas Tirith with the missive of Boromir’s whereabouts had sent word to the village that his message was delivered.
But that was five days ago; Boromir has been waiting for Faramir since, for five days.
From Boromir’s experience, the ride from Minas Tirith to this village should take no more than three, and a tight kernel of worry settles at the base of his stomach at the thought. He wonders if some fell occurrence has befallen Faramir. If he has been attacked, or encountered inclement weather—but then, his brother is skilled enough in the art of woodcraft that he would eventually find his way without issue.
If it was indeed Faramir who was coming for him.
Had it been another who rode from Minas Tirith, Boromir has no doubt they would take longer; perhaps Faramir could not be spared from the fight at the front to come for him. Gondor could ill afford to lose one of its Captains at such a crucial time.
It is for the same reason that Boromir decides he will keep his desire to rejoin the Fellowship, to look for the Halflings, hidden. Even if he could convince Faramir to come with him, Gondor could not spare both its Captains in the war.
He is lying in bed, well enough now to room elsewhere in the village than the healer’s herb-scented shack, as he ponders these thoughts for the hundredth time.
His limbs are sore from the menial tasks he does for the villagers, but as much as he does not wish to admit it, the gathering of firewood, drawing of water from the wells, and several successful patrols with the village’s makeshift army has helped slowly but surely to bring him back to fighting form. The morning sun peeks now through the worn, straw-colored shades over the window, a fiery orange glow that has Boromir trying to throw a hand over his eyes. His hand is caught in the blanket, however, despite his insistent tug, and Boromir sighs, resigning himself to suffering the irritating light. As beautiful and brilliant as he is sure it is, it remains an annoyance at present, and one hardly deserving of his attention, with the multitude of thoughts and worries he has.
What does capture his attention, however, is the sudden, blissful darkness against the blazing sun that paints his eyelids red, and he startles at the sound of a heavy chair sliding across a threadbare rug. The motion of someone moving to shade him from the sun’s light.
His eyes springing open, Boromir instantly tries to rise, to grapple for his sword—any man of Gondor should know better than to skulk around in the room of one of its Captains—but winces as the motion twists his injuries.
A hand lays itself gently over his chest, pressing him to the bed. “Rest, Boromir. You should not be up and about. Not yet.”
Boromir’s eyes widen at the easy cadence of the voice, the husky quality of it; he would know that voice anywhere. He turns to find Faramir peering at him, worried, one hand clasping his, hence the restraint, and his other stroking the hair from Boromir’s brow, gentle, and oh, how Boromir wants, to kiss him, to touch him, to pull him into the tightest embrace and never let go—
“Faramir,” he rasps. “Faramir.” Reaches for his brother and tugs him into a kiss that is all teeth and desperation, their limbs a tangled mess in their need to touch, to wind around each other, clutching, tight.
“Boromir,” Faramir breathes. His eyes are too bright with unshed tears, and Boromir takes a moment to kiss the corner of each eye, catching each tear that then falls as if they are perfect, precious crystals on his tongue. Touches lips to the softness of Faramir’s nose and cheeks, before returning to the fullness of his mouth.
When they finally pull apart for air, Boromir tweaks Faramir’s nose, teasing. “Skulking about in my room, were you? You should know better, little brother.”
“I arrived earlier,” Faramir explains. “And watched over you as you slept. Though,” he admits, sheepish, “I fell asleep in my vigil.”
“I hope you had sense enough not to come alone,” Boromir says, reproachful, even as his hands close, too worried, around Faramir’s. “The roads are not safe these days, even for a Captain of the Ithilien Rangers. Even,” Boromir breathes into the shell of Faramir’s ear, his voice pitched low, seductive, “for a Captain of Gondor.”
The flush at the base of Faramir’s neck rises to the tips of his ears. “I would have done, but Mablung and Damrod insisted on accompanying me in my journey to find you.” He nods toward the far wall. “They have the room beside us.”
“As well they should,” laughs Boromir. “No soldier would leave their Captain to brave the dangers of the open road alone, much less a Ranger of Gondor.”
“I will not soon forget their loyalty,” Faramir assures, before smiling, relieved, and pressing in close. “I am—I am glad to see you well,” he manages. There is a strange hoarseness to his voice that Boromir cannot quite place, but he casts the thought from his mind as Faramir winds fingers through his, warm and familiar.
“How came you to be here?” Boromir marvels. “Gondor has not the men to spare on such a venture.” He lets his free hand wander over Faramir’s visage, tracing the curve of his cheeks and lips. Lets his fingers trail along shoulders and forearms, lean and strong with corded muscle, until they come to rest on Faramir’s velvet-soft archer’s gloves, crafted of smoothest, strongest deerhide.
Faramir’s fingers curl more tightly within his. “Our father would spare neither expense nor any number of men to regain his heir,” he says wryly. “And I would have arrived sooner, but we were waylaid by a small band of Orcs as we passed Cair Andros. Forgive me.”
There is a lie in there somewhere, and Boromir knows it; knows from the way Faramir’s eyes hesitate before meeting his. The way his fingers worry at his tunic, picking at a loop of loose thread, a habit he has not yet cast off from their childhood days. Faramir has no reason to lie about the Orcs, so his falsehood lies in the statement about their father.
Oh, Boromir realizes, with a start.
It was true that Gondor had not the men to spare to bring Boromir home; therefore, Denethor had not sent men—had not even known his son might have fallen. Faramir must have journeyed post-haste from where he had been, whether it be Osgiliath, Minas Tirith, or his Rangers’ hideout at Henneth Annûn, to find him.
Such a swell of affection rises in his chest at that, that Boromir finds himself wordless for a moment, but he lets the lie stand for now. “Come, let us speak of other things, Faramir,” he says. He keeps hold of Faramir’s hand, moving to tug his brother into the empty space beside him on the cramped bed. When Faramir appears pensive, however, Boromir sighs. “What? What is it?”
“What if one of my Rangers were to walk in on us? Or one of the villagers?” Faramir shakes his head, and breathes a soft sigh of his own. “It was you,” Faramir murmurs, as if hardly daring to hope, “who said we should show more discretion.”
“Mmhn,” Boromir smiles, toying at a curl of hair by Faramir’s ear. “Discretion, yes, but we are here in closed chambers, are we not? If you have slid the bolt in the door, we will be fine.” His smile dims when still Faramir hesitates at the edge of the bed, though his upper body strains towards Boromir with obvious want. “Faramir,” Boromir says softly. “I did say that. And I am sorry for it—for the hurt it has caused you.”
“Boromir—”
“But nearly perishing in my quest has brought my priorities into sharper focus,” Boromir adds, by way of explanation. He cradles Faramir’s cheek with a roughened palm, his thumb tracing the arch of Faramir’s cheekbone. “Please, Faramir. Would you make me beg, in this?”
Faramir shakes his head. “No,” he says, his voice oddly rough. “You know I would not.”
Boromir tugs at Faramir’s hand again. “Then come here,” he insists, opening his arms, and this time, at the invitation, Faramir hesitates for less than a heartbeat, stripping off his cloak and tunic to slide into bed beside him. Slips into Boromir’s waiting arms and curls his own behind Boromir’s shoulders in an embrace of his own.
With a soft sigh of relief, Boromir cradles the back of Faramir’s head, bringing their mouths together, warm. Lets his fingers slip through soft curls, loving the way Faramir moves naturally into their kiss, as if they have done this a million times before, but no less ardent, as if this time, each time is special.
They while away long moments like this, simply kissing and touching, with small, close-mouthed presses of lips and exploratory fingers against skin as they breathe each other’s air.
Faramir strokes light fingertips along the line of Boromir’s collarbone. Slides them carefully over the bandages, as Boromir winds a hand over the jut of Faramir’s hip, gentle. He closes an arm around Boromir’s waist, mindful of the wounds at his shoulder and torso, and cradles Boromir’s head in the curve of his elbow, as he cards his fingers through Boromir’s hair.
His fingers tremble with a barely perceptible tremor, but Boromir feels it as keenly as a full-body shudder, and he lets his own fingers rub a trail of circles, gentle, from the nape of Faramir’s neck to the small of his back, to soothe. To reassure. Kisses Faramir’s brow, again and again, more than thankful that he can have this, this closeness, this safety, in his brother’s arms once again.
“That you are here with me again is nothing short of a miracle,” says Faramir, echoing Boromir’s own thoughts. “For I dreamt that you…” Faramir pauses, closing his eyes as if by doing so, he can will away the contents of the dream. “I dreamt you had fallen. I—I thought you dead.”
He wraps his arms around Boromir, hands knotting tight at Boromir’s back, and Faramir’s breathing is too fast all of a sudden, too erratic. Here is the reason for the hoarseness in his brother’s voice, the tremble of his lip: he had thought Boromir lost to him, had bitterly grieved his loss for days, before finding out otherwise, and by then his heart was nearly beyond repair.
Boromir leans in to press their foreheads together, warm. Nudges the tips of their noses against each other. “Hush,” he says softly. “It did not come to pass. Not this day.”
“Nor will it,” whispers Faramir, fierce. “Not ever.” He hitches Boromir closer, as if by the strength of his embrace and sheer will, he can keep Boromir from perishing, can keep him by his side forever. Buries his face into Boromir’s neck and breathes in, deep. “Oh, Boromir,” he says, a rush of words, a torrent of raw emotion and longing, “I have missed you. Two hundred thirty-six days I have not seen nor heard from you, save for the sound of your horn short days ago.”
That Faramir has counted their days apart sparks a new bloom of affection in Boromir’s chest, and he tightens his arms around Faramir’s waist, touched. “The journey to Rivendell alone took a hundred and ten,” he explains. “It was only after, that I realized there was not to be a journey of a few days’ ride back to you, but of one greater than us both: one to destroy Isildur’s Bane, which had been found.”
“So it is true,” Faramir breathes, touching his forehead against Boromir’s again. “And Elrond’s Council was indeed for…” They had often discussed the riddle voiced in both their dreams, before Boromir’s departure, especially its last cryptic lines: For Isildur’s Bane shall waken, and the Halfling forth shall stand.
Boromir nods into their embrace, glad for the fact that Faramir does not ask where his erstwhile companions, the other members of the Fellowship, are; he could not bear to tell Faramir that they had gone on without him. That he himself had been instrumental in the breaking of the Fellowship, through his folly of pursuing the ring, however noble his intentions were.
“The horn of Gondor was lost during my journey,” he says, forcing a laugh, an attempt to steer their conversation away from the ring. “I wonder what became of it.”
“Your horn washed up on the riverbank several days past,” Faramir frowns. “It was cloven in two. I am afraid it is beyond repair at the moment.”
“A pity,” Boromir sighs, before grinning wryly. “What shall I rally the armies of Gondor with now?”
Faramir gives him a reproachful squeeze. “That you still have your life means much, compared to the fate of the horn,” he chides gently. “I would cleave all the heirlooms of Gondor if it meant your safe return.”
Words of Boromir’s return, his safety, bring back memories too near of all that might have prevented it: of dead eyes, ravenous mouths, and pain, lancing sharp through his body, searing, burning, his friends being taken as he knelt helpless and useless—
“Boromir,” Faramir says. “Boromir.” His voice is steady, grounding Boromir and bringing him back to the present, his arms a comfort against the horrors Boromir has barely kept at bay. Only then does Boromir realize he is trembling, shaking, a sheen of nervous perspiration breaking over his brow. “What is it? What troubles you so?”
“Amon Hen,” Boromir tries, his mouth too dry, his heart hammering in his chest. His fingers twitch at Faramir’s back, fearful.
Faramir winds his fingers more snugly around Boromir’s waist. “What of it?”
“It was there, in that wretched place, that I thought I would breathe my last.” Boromir sighs and shakes his head, remembering. He curls his hands under Faramir’s shoulders, and chokes out a broken laugh. “You would think me selfish, little brother. That my very last thought was not of the safety of the Hobbits I failed to protect, captured as they were by the Uruk-hai. Nor was it of the fate of the ring. Nothing so noble as that. Or as grand.”
“What was it, then?” Faramir asks, quiet, going very still in Boromir’s arms. As if holding his breath, waiting for this revelation.
“My last thought—my last regret—was that I would never see you again.” A tear rolls unbidden down Boromir’s cheek, and he suddenly feels ashamed, that Faramir would see this weakness, this vulnerability, even if he is the only one in the world who would not judge Boromir for it.
That it was the thought of Faramir that sustained him, that brought him here goes without saying, and Faramir relaxes into their embrace, shushing him with quiet, whispered nothings. Frames Boromir’s face with warm, calloused palms. “You are here now,” he soothes. “I am here. There is nothing to fear.” He kisses Boromir on the brow, gentle. “Ever have you been the strong one, brother. But this time, let me be strong for you.”
He winds his arms around Boromir’s waist again, and fits their bodies together, warm. Lets the heat of his chest steep into Boromir’s back as he curls into him, a bulwark against all that would harm him and bring him to ruin. And with his brother at his back, as shield and protector both, Boromir finally returns to a deep, restful slumber.
~
“I know you wish to rejoin the others in the search for the Halflings,” Faramir says, “but the fact of it remains that the rest of the Fellowship is beyond our reach now, Boromir.” He lays his head on Boromir’s uninjured shoulder, the soft curls of his hair against skin oddly comforting. “It would take us days to catch them up.”
“What are you suggesting, then?” Boromir asks, yawning, still newly woken. The sun is at its highest in the sky now, however, and even he knows that he and Faramir cannot spend the rest of the day lying abed. Heat springs to his cheeks, instant, when he realizes Faramir has worked out his most prominent desire, without him even saying so. From the barest and simplest of stories Boromir had regaled him with about his time in the Fellowship.
Faramir eyes Boromir’s bandaged shoulder and torso steadily. “Ride back with me to Minas Tirith,” he says. “There, you will receive proper care. And when you are healed enough, we can entertain the possibility of locating and joining up with the members of your Fellowship again.”
Boromir frowns, despite the sense behind Faramir’s suggestion. “I would not rest behind the walls of Minas Tirith while my friends are—”
“Boromir.” Faramir’s right hand slides smoothly over the flat plane of Boromir’s belly, where it had rested, to slip into Boromir’s left, their fingers tangling together, loose. “You are still wounded. What help will you be to your friends, with an injured shoulder? When you can barely take more than two shallow breaths without resting? When—”
“All right,” sighs Boromir, silencing him with a hard peck to the mouth. “You have made your case.” Faramir speaks the truths he does not wish to hear, but Boromir knows he only does so out of love and concern. He draws Faramir closer with the arm he has slung about Faramir’s shoulders. “When shall we leave?”
Faramir pauses. “If you are fit to travel, I will ready the horses now.”
“Then I will prepare the provisions we need for the journey,” Boromir nods. “And say my goodbyes before we leave.”
They rise to throw on their tunics and cloaks, and have a hurried, modest breakfast of cheese and bread. Boromir hoards sections of both into a pack as food for their journey, before filling their water skins from the kettle. Finally, they ready their weapons—Boromir, his sword and shield, and Faramir, his sword and bow.
“I shall be back shortly,” Faramir calls, before leaving to gather the horses.
“Wait,” Boromir says, hurrying his steps to catch Faramir at the door. Pins Faramir against it, the scant inch it was open slamming shut behind them, as he clutches greedy handfuls of Faramir’s cloak in his hands. He would wind fingers into Faramir’s hair, if he could, to tug him close and nip kisses along jaw and throat and mouth, until his hair was a tousled mess, lovely in its disarray. Until his lips were swollen the red of berries ripe, every inch of them explored by Boromir and found to be just as sweet.
As it is, Boromir manages restraint enough to give Faramir only a quick press of lips to the mouth. A final kiss to tide them over until they reach Minas Tirith.
Faramir touches fingers to his lips and smiles, soft and fond, the motion crinkling his eyes at the corner, before he winds arms around Boromir’s neck. Surges forward to return his kiss in kind, mouth moving eagerly beneath his. Boromir takes this as permission to pull him in, hot and wanting, to slide his tongue just inside Faramir’s mouth, and touch the roof of his mouth, tasting Faramir’s tongue in turn, before Faramir pulls away, gasping.
“Enough,” laughs Faramir, “or we shall still be here come nightfall.”
There is logic in this, Boromir decides. And though he releases Faramir’s waist with a grumble, he secretly revels in the pleasing flush that has risen to Faramir’s cheeks.
Faramir darts forward, kissing him once more, hard. “This is not the end of the matter,” he says, arching a brow. It is a promise that there will be more to come later, and Boromir grins in response.
By the time Faramir brings the horses by, Boromir has bid his farewells and thanks both to the village’s healer and several of the village’s makeshift army. Mablung and Damrod, both mounted atop their own steeds, tip a nod in Boromir’s direction.
“My Lord,” they murmur, in respect.
There is, however, no horse to be had for Boromir himself. And while he would not presume to take one of the village’s precious horses for his own use, this is a predicament indeed.
“Faramir,” he tries, caught between amusement and incredulity. “What is the meaning of this?”
“We had to travel lightly and quickly; we did not have the means to bring another horse,” Faramir says. He quirks a grin then, holding out a hand to help Boromir up behind him. “But if it does not displease you, I would have you ride with me, brother.”
Boromir matches Faramir’s expression with a grin of his own. Faramir’s benefit is twofold; not only will they be allowed to ride together, but Faramir will be able to keep an eye out for him, and gauge the extent of Boromir’s exhaustion and injuries both.
“Displease me?” Boromir laughs, as he mounts and winds his arms around Faramir’s waist. “No. The very opposite, in fact.”
“Then hold fast to me,” says Faramir. “We make for Minas Tirith at once.” And he urges the horse into an unexpected gallop, startling a squawk out of Boromir that is less than dignified.
Faramir even has the gall to chuckle about it after.
~
They ride hard, stopping only to water the horses and resupply at villages as they require. By the time Faramir announces the last leg of their journey for the day, the sun is ready to dip beyond the horizon, its golden light limning the treeline even as it threatens to fade into the long shadows of the dark.
Boromir sighs, resting his face in the hood of Faramir’s cloak; it makes a lovely pillow, and cushions the jostling of their ride.
“What is it, Boromir?” Faramir asks. When Boromir remains silent, Faramir nudges him in the ribs with an elbow, insistent. “You have only been sighing for the better part of the afternoon. Out with it, before I mistake you for some lovelorn maiden.”
“Lovelorn?” Boromir laughs, tightening his arms around Faramir’s waist once, in retaliation. “For whom else but you?”
Faramir touches Boromir’s knee, gentle, but the steadiness of his grip shows that he will not stand for Boromir’s prevarication. They have so rarely hidden things from one another; they will not start now.
“I,” Boromir tries, before burying his face deeper into the hood of Faramir’s cloak, reveling in its warmth. “I was only thinking of the journey I undertook after Rivendell.”
Faramir hums, thoughtful. “What of it?”
“The things I saw! I wish I could have taken you with me, Faramir. The halls of Moria, which I am sure no Man has laid eyes upon for long years—the ethereal beauty of Lothlorien—and the majestic Argonath!”
Faramir laughs. “I am sure you saw a great many things, brother. Perhaps we may have time to revisit them together. After.”
After the business of the Ring, Boromir surmises, and he quiets, then. “Not all the sights were wonderful to behold.”
“Oh?” says Faramir. “You mean those within the depths of Moria, I presume.” He lowers his voice. “What horrors did you see, down there in the dark?”
“Not only Moria,” Boromir says, “though its once-grand halls teemed with Orcs, like a great, writhing sea. And following swiftly behind them was Durin’s Bane, against which we lost Gandalf—Mithrandir, as he was known to you,” Boromir amends, knowing how Faramir had spent long years under the wizard’s tutelage. He thinks he hears Faramir swallow, the apple of his throat shifting hard at the knowledge of the loss, but he does not seem surprised. “And at Amon Hen,” Boromir says, “there were deformed beings, like Orcs, but larger and stronger, that could move in the daylight.”
“The Uruk-hai emblazoned with the White Hand of Saruman, yes,” Faramir muses. “It is rumored that Saruman bred his own from Orcs and Men.”
The memory of that day brings to mind the one Uruk that had sunk arrows deep into his chest. Had nearly taken his life, as if Boromir was no more than a fly to be swatted away. This, so soon after the most hideous horror Boromir had seen: that of himself, his expression twisted with rage, as he had fought Frodo for the ring.
Boromir pauses, before forcing himself to speak. “Faramir. You know I—I set out from Rivendell, with eight companions. One of them, a Hobbit, was the Ringbearer. Such a heavy burden, for one so small.”
“Yes,” says Faramir. “I have heard as such.” During their stay in the village, Boromir had shared with Faramir occasional details regarding his journey with the Fellowship. He had not elaborated on the circumstances of their parting, however.
“We swore an oath to protect the Ringbearer. I swore an oath.” Boromir swallows, hard, before saying the most difficult words. “And then I tried to take it from him.” How the Ring had spoken to him then! Had tempted him into coveting it, all the while whispering of the victory Gondor might achieve over Mordor, all the lives that might be spared, the blood that would not be spilt. It had known of their father’s words, twisted them against him, in him, until he thought they were his own.
Boromir shivers; too well he remembers the forceful words with which he had accosted the Council: By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe! They had been a pale echo of his father’s: It is our blood which is being spilled, our people who are dying. Sauron is massing fresh armies, and when he returns, we will be powerless to stop him.
You must go; bring me back this mighty gift!
When Boromir speaks again, his voice feels too heavy with sorrow, with shame. “I might have killed for it.”
“Boromir,” Faramir tries, but Boromir shakes his head; he needs to say this, he must.
“Father says that ever the Ring seeks to corrupt the hearts of lesser men, and I…Faramir, I—” I am that lesser man. The weak link that sundered the Fellowship. He loosens his arms from around Faramir’s waist; he does not deserve this warmth, this understanding from his brother.
Faramir roars at that with such uncharacteristic vehemence that it shocks Boromir from his melancholy, and clutches at Boromir’s arms, tight. “You are no less a man for that,” Faramir says firmly. “The ring has ensnared many in its thrall. Even Isildur himself was ensorcelled by it.” He pauses, reflective. “I might have fallen prey to its lure as well, had it not been for the Halflings’ warning. Of its hold on you.”
Boromir sighs, heartened at least that his own ensnarement would keep his brother from the same fate, when the last half of his statement registers.
“The Halflings’ warning?” Boromir exclaims, surprised. “When did you encounter them? And where?”
“I caught them skulking in the grass as a battalion of Haradrim marched through Ithilien, several days past. They tried to impart upon me the magnitude of their quest, the details of which they would not reveal to me until under duress.” Faramir huffs a soft laugh. “They called themselves Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee of the Shire—a Hobbit and his gardener stealing into Mordor—can you imagine? That is one for the history books indeed.”
Boromir, who had sat up straighter at the mention of Halflings, deflates, unable to share fully in Faramir’s merriment. “Ah,” he says. This meant that the Hobbits he had failed, Merry and Pippin, had not yet been found. That Frodo and Sam had last been in the company of Faramir and his men is a comforting thought, however, and he lets himself sag further into Faramir’s back, relieved. “What did you do with them, then?”
Faramir pauses, as if to consider his answer. “I let them go. If luck holds, the Halflings and the ring will have found their way into Mordor by now.”
Boromir hangs his head, letting it rest between Faramir’s shoulder blades, defeated; like Aragorn, Faramir, too, had done what he could not.
“Oh, Boromir,” Faramir sighs. He touches Boromir’s hands where they are wound around his waist again, a kind and reassuring weight. “I have long shared your joys and sorrows, your hurts and your fears,” he says. “Do you think a moment’s madness would undo the years we have shared? No. I know you better than anyone. Certainly better than a Ring of Power that might prey on an instant of fear and doubt. I know the man that you are.”
He threads his fingers between Boromir’s once more, and Boromir can feel the flow of his affection through this simple touch, warm and unconditional, and he could weep, because he does not ask for Faramir’s understanding and continued faith in him, yet Faramir gives it, wholly, unfailingly.
“Faramir,” he tries, and something like a sob lodges in his throat, hindering his words: I am not worthy of your easy forgiveness. I do not deserve the chances you offer me, time and time again. It is just as well, for when Faramir turns for the briefest moment, his expression shows that he will brook no such self-pitying nonsense.
“I shall tell you this now, Boromir: fight with me, when the armies of Mordor come calling. Stand with me, that you may rise above that momentary madness, when you were not yourself, and you will make things right.” His grip on Boromir’s hands wound about him is tight, but not bruising, and just the right amount of warm.
“Will I?” Boromir asks, doubtful. “What of the oath I swore, the vow I made to protect, broken? That cannot be so easily forgiven and forgotten.”
“No,” Faramir agrees truthfully. “But in time, your deeds of honor and valor will speak for themselves.” He nudges Boromir, gentle. “Have you not already started, protecting Frodo’s kin by your own strength? Such deeds will redeem you, in time. And,” Faramir adds, softer still, “when you see Frodo again, if you still feel the need, you can apologize to him yourself.” Faramir sounds so resolute, unyielding in his belief, that Boromir has no choice but to believe in his brother.
Lettings his arms circle Faramir snugly once more, Boromir buries his face in the back of Faramir’s cloak, taking comfort from the familiar musk of dried leaves and earth and Faramir. “Only now do I see my folly,” he says. “I thought the ring would give me the strength to protect Gondor and our people. For so long we have fought Mordor, watched our friends and allies die in the trying, and I thought we might—I thought, finally—but it was not to be,” Boromir says, with a tight exhale of disappointment.
Faramir’s hand tightens around Boromir’s where they are knotted at his waist. “I will be your strength,” he says, determined, “as I always have. And you, mine. We shall do this together.” And by the way Faramir’s grip tightens around Boromir’s hand, hot, Boromir believes; that they can do this. That together, they can protect Gondor, overcome any adversity.
Together, they are invincible.
In a fit of childish mischief, he slaps the rump of their horse, startling it into a frenzied gallop. They take off at breakneck speed, and with the wind in his hair and his brother by his side, Boromir lets loose a whoop of joy, much like he had so long ago, before the burden of Gondor’s fate became his to bear. Now, with the assurance that his burden is halved, he feels lighter than air itself.
Faramir allows the unbridled speed for all of five heartbeats before tightening the reins and slowing their horse back into a controlled gallop. “Boromir,” he says with a reproving glare as he turns, “we are long past the days when you could startle my horse into bolting off like that.” His tone is fond, however, and before long, a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
Boromir laughs, memories bubbling to the surface of Faramir as a child, sailing past him on his spooked horse, bawling like a babe before Boromir raced to catch him up, to calm his brother more than the horse. “Yes, but it was amusing, was it not?” Boromir says, grinning. “Admit it. Admit it,” he. He dips his head and touches the tip of his nose to Faramir’s reproachful finger in his face, playful.
Faramir hums thoughtfully. “Amusing, yes, but for that, I should subject you to the indignity of riding in front of me. Where I can keep an eye on you.”
“Surely not!” Boromir frowns. “I could even ride on my own, if you permitted. Perhaps if Mablung and Damrod rode together, I could—”
“And for that impudence, I rather think I will,” Faramir says, his mouth curling into an odd half-smile. He slows the horse to a stop. “Off,” he commands, and Boromir dismounts grudgingly, before clasping his brother’s helping hand to mount the horse again, this time in front of Faramir. “Now turn,” Faramir says.
Boromir positions his rear just past the pommel of the saddle, both his legs to one side of the horse. It is an unsteady position, in his opinion, unless Faramir expects him to—
“You would have me cling to you like a limpet?” Boromir asks, even as he slips his arms back around Faramir’s waist, under his cloak. “A swooning maiden, in need of comfort and succor?” Truth be told, however, Faramir is warm and his cloak a cushion of sorts, and Boromir finds he cannot complain. He flashes Faramir a small, grateful smile.
Faramir laughs, knowing, and knocks his forehead against Boromir’s. “I would have you sit where I can make sure you are comfortable. That you are kept safe.” He chances a look at his Rangers that scout the path ahead; they are still far enough away, and Faramir lets his free hand rub soft, soothing circles into Boromir’s back as Boromir settles against his shoulder. “Rest, Boromir. I will tell you when we have arrived.”
“Mmhn,” says Boromir, and though he struggles to cling to consciousness, to take in the warmth of Faramir’s skin, and breathe in the scent of his life, of pine and earth, of leather and metal, the easy rhythm of the horse’s gait and Faramir’s arms snug around him lull him into eventual sleep.
~
“Boromir?” A hand on his uninjured shoulder shakes him awake, gently. When Boromir only groans, the hand moves to his forehead. “Boromir.” A cool and calloused palm cups his cheek, worried. “I have found our lodgings for the night.”
“Oh.” Boromir blinks sleepily. “Have we not reached Minas Tirith already?” He can feel Faramir tugging the edges of the cloak about his shoulders inward, shielding Boromir from an easterly wind that nips at his cheeks and nose. Whirls away leaves and stirs currents of dust as it goes.
“No,” says Faramir. “We have stopped at a town near the Great West Road for tonight. The roads are not safe after nightfall.” Faramir dismounts first, then helps Boromir off the horse with a guiding hand.
When they have stabled the horses for the night, Faramir first exchanges words with the man at the desk, then pays with a discreet pouch of silver coins. Passes one key to Mablung, and the other to Boromir, with a nod to Boromir to ready their room first, while Faramir sees to their packs.
The room is small but homey, and Boromir settles himself immediately on the bed, taking in the higher ceiling; no doubt this is the bigger of the two rooms they have paid for, Faramir’s men having taken the room to the right of them.
“Well,” says Boromir, eyeing the cozy hearth they can warm themselves by in the room. “That is a sight for sore eyes indeed.” He sprawls out along the bed, letting his limbs take up all the space.
Faramir laughs as he sets their bags down, and nudges him over to make room. “This bed is for both of us,” he says, as he removes his boots. “Mablung and Damrod were given the last of the rooms with separate beds.” He takes a moment to lie along Boromir’s side, before catching the clasp of Boromir’s cloak and pulling him in for a playful kiss. “The innkeeper gave us a lower rate on this room, as it was the last one left, along with his apologies.”
“I am sure you told him we would ‘manage’ the situation somehow, with your theatrical sighs and brand of put-upon exasperation,” says Boromir, biting down on a smile. He is long familiar with Faramir’s way of bartering, whether it be for books, or horses, or weaponry.
Faramir grins. “I might have done so, yes.”
Boromir snorts and lets himself laugh at that; they have had years of managing to share the same bed, and this night will prove no exception.
They build up the fire together, and before long, the innkeeper arrives with a platter, providing them a modest dinner of stewed potatoes and chicken, paired with bread and a pitcher of mead. A small helping of fruit is included in their meal, and though this fare pales in comparison to that of Minas Tirith’s, Boromir remains grateful that the inn can spare this much at all. They eat in companionable silence, Boromir pausing every now and then to feed a log into the hearth and Faramir absently chasing a grape around his plate, or stealing bits from Boromir’s.
Two apples come with their portion of fruit, though they are but small, sour things, green and hard; it has been long years since Boromir knew the taste of real apples, large and red and sweet, Gondor’s meager agricultural efforts having been overshadowed by the war. Regardless, he pares the apples, slowly, as he watches his brother in the rosy glow of the firelight. Cuts them into small, bite-sized pieces on a whim, and dips one into the well of honey, meant to flavor the meat. He touches the fruit to Faramir’s lips, slow, before pressing his thumb against Faramir’s lips instead, soft and full, and thinks he would rather like to kiss his brother.
Faramir seems to sense Boromir’s desire, and places a grape in his own mouth. Brings their mouths together, his hand at the nape of Boromir’s neck, as he kisses Boromir, long and slow and leisurely. Crushes the globe of fruit against Boromir’s lips, before Boromir surges forward, swallowing the grape whole and cutting Faramir’s teasing provocation short.
“Faramir,” he gasps. And as Faramir’s mouth yields sweetly under his, Boromir presses his advantage, sliding his tongue inside, touching it to Faramir’s in a kiss that is hot and wet and filthy. Claws at Faramir’s tunic, nearly tearing out the lacings in his haste.
“Easy, brother,” Faramir warns, his hand closing over Boromir’s. “We must look presentable tomorrow, when we return home.” With his hair mussed and lips rose-red with kisses, Faramir seems too far gone to be presentable, but Boromir chooses not to argue this point.
At Faramir’s last word, however, Boromir stills. Home. With its creature comforts, like soft sheets, ale at the ready, a well-stocked larder, and kitchens always open for the sons of the Steward—and oh, the Steward, their father, proud of bearing and spiteful of tongue. Boromir shudders at the thought, suddenly in no hurry to return home, soft sheets and rich ale or no.
It appears Faramir shares the sentiment, as his brow furrows, unhappy. As if he feels he should not have made mention of their home or their father. “Be calm, Boromir,” Faramir says, regardless. He brushes his lips lightly against Boromir’s, the distraction soft and sweet. “We still have tonight.”
Yes, thinks Boromir. They still have tonight, before the responsibility and weight of Gondor’s fate sit heavy upon their shoulders once more. He kisses Faramir with renewed fervor, steering him toward the bed in the corner, and they kick the sheets aside, laughing as their feet tangle together in the ragtag quilts and blankets. Boromir urges Faramir onto his side, that they may face each other, all the while laying small, nipping kisses to his neck, his shoulder. Wrenches Faramir’s tunic off with sharp, forceful pulls, exposing more of his brother to kiss, to taste, from the divine warmth of his belly to the perfect peaks of his nipples.
With an unhappy noise, Faramir tugs him up by the shoulders. Goads Boromir into sharing wet, open-mouthed kisses, to throats and shoulders and arms—mutual, enjoyable touches that have Faramir twisting in Boromir’s grip, panting.
“More,” Faramir whispers, curling his arms beneath Boromir’s shoulders. “More, Boromir, please.”
Boromir nudges his hips against Faramir’s, enjoying the slow, sweet grind of their lengths against each other through the fabric of their trousers, until even that is not nearly enough, and Faramir slips hands beneath Boromir’s tunic, raking greedy fingers into Boromir’s back. Inverts the garment as he goes, tugging it over Boromir’s head, insistent.
“All right, all right,” Boromir huffs, undoing the lacings on Faramir’s trousers and drawing out his length as Faramir fumbles at his. And then they are both out, Boromir’s the thicker and Faramir’s the leaner but longer, both just as achingly hard and wet and wanting.
With a hungry thrust of his hips, Boromir presses against Faramir, sliding their lengths together, but it is not enough—not enough friction, or skin, or contact—so Boromir slicks his hand with the precome that has welled out. Circles both their cocks with his fist, and slides his hand in the easy motions long established between him and his brother.
“Yes,” Faramir gasps, his throat hoarse, his voice ruined, shuddering and clutching at Boromir’s shoulders as Boromir presses his thumb into the heads of their cocks. It is a moment more before Faramir’s hand closes over Boromir’s, closing the circle, as he joins Boromir in thumbing the slits of their cocks, stroking the shafts in an easy, rhythmic manner. Presses his forehead against Boromir’s as they let pleasure build between them, like waves cresting upon a shore, each higher and more forceful than the last until Faramir breaks away, breathless, gasping. “Boromir,” he pants, “I—ah. Please, I—”
“Together,” Boromir insists, his grip around them tightening, despite Faramir’s soft noise of distress. “Together.”
Their strokes grow tighter, fiercer in their need, while their mouths meet in kisses urgent and harsh, blood drawn from lips between moans and gasps as they find their way to completion. Boromir manages a choked off “Faramir, I—” before Faramir silences him with a kiss that is hard and bruising and good, and together, finally, they gasp out twin cries of relief, shaking through their mutual release.
“How I have missed this,” Faramir sighs happily, as they lean back to catch their breath. He presses a thumb to the spill of his seed on Boromir’s stomach, and brings it to Boromir’s mouth. Lets it slip between waiting lips, watching mesmerized as Boromir sucks gently, swirling his tongue around the pad of Faramir’s thumb.
Boromir mirrors the motion, shivering as Faramir’s lips close around his thumb. Watches the way Faramir’s throat shifts, with each swallow of Boromir’s issue from the digit in his mouth.
“I thought,” Boromir teases after, “that perhaps you had missed my counsel, or our rousing conversations. But I see now it is only my body you have missed.”
Faramir bites down on Boromir’s thumb, gentle, in a play at being reproachful. “Fool,” he laughs. “You know of what I speak.” He fixes Boromir with a look that is warm and fond and all kinds of affectionate, one that clearly speaks I have missed you. I have missed all of you. Strokes fingers along the muscle of Boromir’s arm, whisper-light and playful.
As their breaths begin to even out, Boromir cleans them both off with a nearby towel, chuckling when Faramir curls into his side with a sleepy yawn. He watches his brother breathe, slowly, steadily, his chest rising in the soft moonlight, before pressing a kiss to his forehead. Thinks to say I love you or Thank you for understanding me, as he winds an arm around Faramir’s waist, but when Faramir releases a soft, snuffling noise, the moment is gone.
Regardless, Boromir lies back, content with the knowledge that for now, they are safe and together; takes comfort in the fact that they can still find solace in each others’ arms.
~
It is later in the night, when Boromir feels Faramir trying to burrow deeper into his arms, making a soft, keening noise as he does so.
“Faramir?” Boromir mumbles, blinking awake. “What is it?”
He realizes quickly that Faramir is still asleep, with his eyes shifting rapid beneath his eyelids and sweat beading on his brow. His brother is breathing too quickly, his skin too hot and clammy.
“Faramir,” Boromir whispers, shaking him. “Faramir.”
Faramir’s eyes flutter open, but it is a moment more before awareness returns to them, slowly but surely. “Forgive me—it was a dream,” Faramir manages, his quick, pained gasps slowing into even breaths at last. “Nothing more.” He slips his arms around Boromir’s waist, too tight, and from that motion alone, Boromir thinks he knows the contents of the dream.
“It was a nightmare, by the looks of it,” Boromir says, scowling. “Was it the same one from before?”
“No,” Faramir tries. At Boromir’s look: “Yes.”
Faramir has by now told him of his vision, before Boromir rode for Rivendell, though he shares it only with the sparest of details, and never in its entirety. Boromir has pieced enough of it together to know, however, of how Faramir found Boromir’s body in an Elven boat, his sword broken, with crude blades set at his feet. How he had watched Boromir sail past, as he stood to his knees in the bone-chilling waters of the Anduin, helpless to do anything but watch the light-filled craft bear his brother out to the Great Sea.
Boromir soothes him, pressing a hand to his brow and smoothing back the lock of hair that has fallen over Faramir’s face. Holds him through his full-body shudders. “Look at me,” Boromir says, bringing his hands up to clasp Faramir’s face. “Look at me.”
Faramir meets his eyes, his own wide, frightened, a nearly hunted look about them. Boromir would banish the terror in them, if he could. “Boromir—”
“We are here,” Boromir growls. “We live. Your dream did not come to pass; let it trouble you no further, Faramir.”
Faramir sighs, his breath a wisp of warmth against Boromir’s jaw, and shakes his head. “After all that talk of being your strength, a mere nightmare has me trembling like a child.”
Boromir kisses Faramir’s brow, warm. “You have strength, Faramir. Of a different kind.” He clasps Faramir’s face in his hands again, willing him to believe. “It is that differing strength that makes us complete. Whole. Lets us…”
“Lets us complement each other?” Faramir supplies, a hint of a smile appearing.
Boromir huffs a laugh. “You are the poet, not I.” He wraps his arms around Faramir’s waist again. “Now rest. We have a long ride ahead of us.”
He lets Faramir lay his head on his chest, soothing Faramir with the sound of his heartbeat, proof of his life. Curls his own fingers around Faramir’s wrist, to feel the thrum of his brother’s pulse beneath skin. And when Faramir finally falls asleep, Boromir follows soon after, lulled into slumber by the warmth of Faramir’s arm looped around him and the rhythm of his pulse, safe and steady and strong.
~
It takes the better part of a day to ride back to Minas Tirith, and they have barely passed the first gate upon their return, when one of Faramir’s Rangers rushes toward them, sweat beaded on his brow, his face ashen and sick with horror.
“My Lords,” the Ranger breathes, “the city—Osgiliath—has fallen.”
(tbc - Chapter 5)
End Notes:
OST:
- Boromir and Faramir’s reunion: Final Fantasy X – To Zanarkand
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!
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 8040 (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 messenger Aragorn had sent to Minas Tirith with the missive of Boromir’s whereabouts had sent word to the village that his message was delivered.
But that was five days ago; Boromir has been waiting for Faramir since, for five days.
From Boromir’s experience, the ride from Minas Tirith to this village should take no more than three, and a tight kernel of worry settles at the base of his stomach at the thought. He wonders if some fell occurrence has befallen Faramir. If he has been attacked, or encountered inclement weather—but then, his brother is skilled enough in the art of woodcraft that he would eventually find his way without issue.
If it was indeed Faramir who was coming for him.
Had it been another who rode from Minas Tirith, Boromir has no doubt they would take longer; perhaps Faramir could not be spared from the fight at the front to come for him. Gondor could ill afford to lose one of its Captains at such a crucial time.
It is for the same reason that Boromir decides he will keep his desire to rejoin the Fellowship, to look for the Halflings, hidden. Even if he could convince Faramir to come with him, Gondor could not spare both its Captains in the war.
He is lying in bed, well enough now to room elsewhere in the village than the healer’s herb-scented shack, as he ponders these thoughts for the hundredth time.
His limbs are sore from the menial tasks he does for the villagers, but as much as he does not wish to admit it, the gathering of firewood, drawing of water from the wells, and several successful patrols with the village’s makeshift army has helped slowly but surely to bring him back to fighting form. The morning sun peeks now through the worn, straw-colored shades over the window, a fiery orange glow that has Boromir trying to throw a hand over his eyes. His hand is caught in the blanket, however, despite his insistent tug, and Boromir sighs, resigning himself to suffering the irritating light. As beautiful and brilliant as he is sure it is, it remains an annoyance at present, and one hardly deserving of his attention, with the multitude of thoughts and worries he has.
What does capture his attention, however, is the sudden, blissful darkness against the blazing sun that paints his eyelids red, and he startles at the sound of a heavy chair sliding across a threadbare rug. The motion of someone moving to shade him from the sun’s light.
His eyes springing open, Boromir instantly tries to rise, to grapple for his sword—any man of Gondor should know better than to skulk around in the room of one of its Captains—but winces as the motion twists his injuries.
A hand lays itself gently over his chest, pressing him to the bed. “Rest, Boromir. You should not be up and about. Not yet.”
Boromir’s eyes widen at the easy cadence of the voice, the husky quality of it; he would know that voice anywhere. He turns to find Faramir peering at him, worried, one hand clasping his, hence the restraint, and his other stroking the hair from Boromir’s brow, gentle, and oh, how Boromir wants, to kiss him, to touch him, to pull him into the tightest embrace and never let go—
“Faramir,” he rasps. “Faramir.” Reaches for his brother and tugs him into a kiss that is all teeth and desperation, their limbs a tangled mess in their need to touch, to wind around each other, clutching, tight.
“Boromir,” Faramir breathes. His eyes are too bright with unshed tears, and Boromir takes a moment to kiss the corner of each eye, catching each tear that then falls as if they are perfect, precious crystals on his tongue. Touches lips to the softness of Faramir’s nose and cheeks, before returning to the fullness of his mouth.
When they finally pull apart for air, Boromir tweaks Faramir’s nose, teasing. “Skulking about in my room, were you? You should know better, little brother.”
“I arrived earlier,” Faramir explains. “And watched over you as you slept. Though,” he admits, sheepish, “I fell asleep in my vigil.”
“I hope you had sense enough not to come alone,” Boromir says, reproachful, even as his hands close, too worried, around Faramir’s. “The roads are not safe these days, even for a Captain of the Ithilien Rangers. Even,” Boromir breathes into the shell of Faramir’s ear, his voice pitched low, seductive, “for a Captain of Gondor.”
The flush at the base of Faramir’s neck rises to the tips of his ears. “I would have done, but Mablung and Damrod insisted on accompanying me in my journey to find you.” He nods toward the far wall. “They have the room beside us.”
“As well they should,” laughs Boromir. “No soldier would leave their Captain to brave the dangers of the open road alone, much less a Ranger of Gondor.”
“I will not soon forget their loyalty,” Faramir assures, before smiling, relieved, and pressing in close. “I am—I am glad to see you well,” he manages. There is a strange hoarseness to his voice that Boromir cannot quite place, but he casts the thought from his mind as Faramir winds fingers through his, warm and familiar.
“How came you to be here?” Boromir marvels. “Gondor has not the men to spare on such a venture.” He lets his free hand wander over Faramir’s visage, tracing the curve of his cheeks and lips. Lets his fingers trail along shoulders and forearms, lean and strong with corded muscle, until they come to rest on Faramir’s velvet-soft archer’s gloves, crafted of smoothest, strongest deerhide.
Faramir’s fingers curl more tightly within his. “Our father would spare neither expense nor any number of men to regain his heir,” he says wryly. “And I would have arrived sooner, but we were waylaid by a small band of Orcs as we passed Cair Andros. Forgive me.”
There is a lie in there somewhere, and Boromir knows it; knows from the way Faramir’s eyes hesitate before meeting his. The way his fingers worry at his tunic, picking at a loop of loose thread, a habit he has not yet cast off from their childhood days. Faramir has no reason to lie about the Orcs, so his falsehood lies in the statement about their father.
Oh, Boromir realizes, with a start.
It was true that Gondor had not the men to spare to bring Boromir home; therefore, Denethor had not sent men—had not even known his son might have fallen. Faramir must have journeyed post-haste from where he had been, whether it be Osgiliath, Minas Tirith, or his Rangers’ hideout at Henneth Annûn, to find him.
Such a swell of affection rises in his chest at that, that Boromir finds himself wordless for a moment, but he lets the lie stand for now. “Come, let us speak of other things, Faramir,” he says. He keeps hold of Faramir’s hand, moving to tug his brother into the empty space beside him on the cramped bed. When Faramir appears pensive, however, Boromir sighs. “What? What is it?”
“What if one of my Rangers were to walk in on us? Or one of the villagers?” Faramir shakes his head, and breathes a soft sigh of his own. “It was you,” Faramir murmurs, as if hardly daring to hope, “who said we should show more discretion.”
“Mmhn,” Boromir smiles, toying at a curl of hair by Faramir’s ear. “Discretion, yes, but we are here in closed chambers, are we not? If you have slid the bolt in the door, we will be fine.” His smile dims when still Faramir hesitates at the edge of the bed, though his upper body strains towards Boromir with obvious want. “Faramir,” Boromir says softly. “I did say that. And I am sorry for it—for the hurt it has caused you.”
“Boromir—”
“But nearly perishing in my quest has brought my priorities into sharper focus,” Boromir adds, by way of explanation. He cradles Faramir’s cheek with a roughened palm, his thumb tracing the arch of Faramir’s cheekbone. “Please, Faramir. Would you make me beg, in this?”
Faramir shakes his head. “No,” he says, his voice oddly rough. “You know I would not.”
Boromir tugs at Faramir’s hand again. “Then come here,” he insists, opening his arms, and this time, at the invitation, Faramir hesitates for less than a heartbeat, stripping off his cloak and tunic to slide into bed beside him. Slips into Boromir’s waiting arms and curls his own behind Boromir’s shoulders in an embrace of his own.
With a soft sigh of relief, Boromir cradles the back of Faramir’s head, bringing their mouths together, warm. Lets his fingers slip through soft curls, loving the way Faramir moves naturally into their kiss, as if they have done this a million times before, but no less ardent, as if this time, each time is special.
They while away long moments like this, simply kissing and touching, with small, close-mouthed presses of lips and exploratory fingers against skin as they breathe each other’s air.
Faramir strokes light fingertips along the line of Boromir’s collarbone. Slides them carefully over the bandages, as Boromir winds a hand over the jut of Faramir’s hip, gentle. He closes an arm around Boromir’s waist, mindful of the wounds at his shoulder and torso, and cradles Boromir’s head in the curve of his elbow, as he cards his fingers through Boromir’s hair.
His fingers tremble with a barely perceptible tremor, but Boromir feels it as keenly as a full-body shudder, and he lets his own fingers rub a trail of circles, gentle, from the nape of Faramir’s neck to the small of his back, to soothe. To reassure. Kisses Faramir’s brow, again and again, more than thankful that he can have this, this closeness, this safety, in his brother’s arms once again.
“That you are here with me again is nothing short of a miracle,” says Faramir, echoing Boromir’s own thoughts. “For I dreamt that you…” Faramir pauses, closing his eyes as if by doing so, he can will away the contents of the dream. “I dreamt you had fallen. I—I thought you dead.”
He wraps his arms around Boromir, hands knotting tight at Boromir’s back, and Faramir’s breathing is too fast all of a sudden, too erratic. Here is the reason for the hoarseness in his brother’s voice, the tremble of his lip: he had thought Boromir lost to him, had bitterly grieved his loss for days, before finding out otherwise, and by then his heart was nearly beyond repair.
Boromir leans in to press their foreheads together, warm. Nudges the tips of their noses against each other. “Hush,” he says softly. “It did not come to pass. Not this day.”
“Nor will it,” whispers Faramir, fierce. “Not ever.” He hitches Boromir closer, as if by the strength of his embrace and sheer will, he can keep Boromir from perishing, can keep him by his side forever. Buries his face into Boromir’s neck and breathes in, deep. “Oh, Boromir,” he says, a rush of words, a torrent of raw emotion and longing, “I have missed you. Two hundred thirty-six days I have not seen nor heard from you, save for the sound of your horn short days ago.”
That Faramir has counted their days apart sparks a new bloom of affection in Boromir’s chest, and he tightens his arms around Faramir’s waist, touched. “The journey to Rivendell alone took a hundred and ten,” he explains. “It was only after, that I realized there was not to be a journey of a few days’ ride back to you, but of one greater than us both: one to destroy Isildur’s Bane, which had been found.”
“So it is true,” Faramir breathes, touching his forehead against Boromir’s again. “And Elrond’s Council was indeed for…” They had often discussed the riddle voiced in both their dreams, before Boromir’s departure, especially its last cryptic lines: For Isildur’s Bane shall waken, and the Halfling forth shall stand.
Boromir nods into their embrace, glad for the fact that Faramir does not ask where his erstwhile companions, the other members of the Fellowship, are; he could not bear to tell Faramir that they had gone on without him. That he himself had been instrumental in the breaking of the Fellowship, through his folly of pursuing the ring, however noble his intentions were.
“The horn of Gondor was lost during my journey,” he says, forcing a laugh, an attempt to steer their conversation away from the ring. “I wonder what became of it.”
“Your horn washed up on the riverbank several days past,” Faramir frowns. “It was cloven in two. I am afraid it is beyond repair at the moment.”
“A pity,” Boromir sighs, before grinning wryly. “What shall I rally the armies of Gondor with now?”
Faramir gives him a reproachful squeeze. “That you still have your life means much, compared to the fate of the horn,” he chides gently. “I would cleave all the heirlooms of Gondor if it meant your safe return.”
Words of Boromir’s return, his safety, bring back memories too near of all that might have prevented it: of dead eyes, ravenous mouths, and pain, lancing sharp through his body, searing, burning, his friends being taken as he knelt helpless and useless—
“Boromir,” Faramir says. “Boromir.” His voice is steady, grounding Boromir and bringing him back to the present, his arms a comfort against the horrors Boromir has barely kept at bay. Only then does Boromir realize he is trembling, shaking, a sheen of nervous perspiration breaking over his brow. “What is it? What troubles you so?”
“Amon Hen,” Boromir tries, his mouth too dry, his heart hammering in his chest. His fingers twitch at Faramir’s back, fearful.
Faramir winds his fingers more snugly around Boromir’s waist. “What of it?”
“It was there, in that wretched place, that I thought I would breathe my last.” Boromir sighs and shakes his head, remembering. He curls his hands under Faramir’s shoulders, and chokes out a broken laugh. “You would think me selfish, little brother. That my very last thought was not of the safety of the Hobbits I failed to protect, captured as they were by the Uruk-hai. Nor was it of the fate of the ring. Nothing so noble as that. Or as grand.”
“What was it, then?” Faramir asks, quiet, going very still in Boromir’s arms. As if holding his breath, waiting for this revelation.
“My last thought—my last regret—was that I would never see you again.” A tear rolls unbidden down Boromir’s cheek, and he suddenly feels ashamed, that Faramir would see this weakness, this vulnerability, even if he is the only one in the world who would not judge Boromir for it.
That it was the thought of Faramir that sustained him, that brought him here goes without saying, and Faramir relaxes into their embrace, shushing him with quiet, whispered nothings. Frames Boromir’s face with warm, calloused palms. “You are here now,” he soothes. “I am here. There is nothing to fear.” He kisses Boromir on the brow, gentle. “Ever have you been the strong one, brother. But this time, let me be strong for you.”
He winds his arms around Boromir’s waist again, and fits their bodies together, warm. Lets the heat of his chest steep into Boromir’s back as he curls into him, a bulwark against all that would harm him and bring him to ruin. And with his brother at his back, as shield and protector both, Boromir finally returns to a deep, restful slumber.
“I know you wish to rejoin the others in the search for the Halflings,” Faramir says, “but the fact of it remains that the rest of the Fellowship is beyond our reach now, Boromir.” He lays his head on Boromir’s uninjured shoulder, the soft curls of his hair against skin oddly comforting. “It would take us days to catch them up.”
“What are you suggesting, then?” Boromir asks, yawning, still newly woken. The sun is at its highest in the sky now, however, and even he knows that he and Faramir cannot spend the rest of the day lying abed. Heat springs to his cheeks, instant, when he realizes Faramir has worked out his most prominent desire, without him even saying so. From the barest and simplest of stories Boromir had regaled him with about his time in the Fellowship.
Faramir eyes Boromir’s bandaged shoulder and torso steadily. “Ride back with me to Minas Tirith,” he says. “There, you will receive proper care. And when you are healed enough, we can entertain the possibility of locating and joining up with the members of your Fellowship again.”
Boromir frowns, despite the sense behind Faramir’s suggestion. “I would not rest behind the walls of Minas Tirith while my friends are—”
“Boromir.” Faramir’s right hand slides smoothly over the flat plane of Boromir’s belly, where it had rested, to slip into Boromir’s left, their fingers tangling together, loose. “You are still wounded. What help will you be to your friends, with an injured shoulder? When you can barely take more than two shallow breaths without resting? When—”
“All right,” sighs Boromir, silencing him with a hard peck to the mouth. “You have made your case.” Faramir speaks the truths he does not wish to hear, but Boromir knows he only does so out of love and concern. He draws Faramir closer with the arm he has slung about Faramir’s shoulders. “When shall we leave?”
Faramir pauses. “If you are fit to travel, I will ready the horses now.”
“Then I will prepare the provisions we need for the journey,” Boromir nods. “And say my goodbyes before we leave.”
They rise to throw on their tunics and cloaks, and have a hurried, modest breakfast of cheese and bread. Boromir hoards sections of both into a pack as food for their journey, before filling their water skins from the kettle. Finally, they ready their weapons—Boromir, his sword and shield, and Faramir, his sword and bow.
“I shall be back shortly,” Faramir calls, before leaving to gather the horses.
“Wait,” Boromir says, hurrying his steps to catch Faramir at the door. Pins Faramir against it, the scant inch it was open slamming shut behind them, as he clutches greedy handfuls of Faramir’s cloak in his hands. He would wind fingers into Faramir’s hair, if he could, to tug him close and nip kisses along jaw and throat and mouth, until his hair was a tousled mess, lovely in its disarray. Until his lips were swollen the red of berries ripe, every inch of them explored by Boromir and found to be just as sweet.
As it is, Boromir manages restraint enough to give Faramir only a quick press of lips to the mouth. A final kiss to tide them over until they reach Minas Tirith.
Faramir touches fingers to his lips and smiles, soft and fond, the motion crinkling his eyes at the corner, before he winds arms around Boromir’s neck. Surges forward to return his kiss in kind, mouth moving eagerly beneath his. Boromir takes this as permission to pull him in, hot and wanting, to slide his tongue just inside Faramir’s mouth, and touch the roof of his mouth, tasting Faramir’s tongue in turn, before Faramir pulls away, gasping.
“Enough,” laughs Faramir, “or we shall still be here come nightfall.”
There is logic in this, Boromir decides. And though he releases Faramir’s waist with a grumble, he secretly revels in the pleasing flush that has risen to Faramir’s cheeks.
Faramir darts forward, kissing him once more, hard. “This is not the end of the matter,” he says, arching a brow. It is a promise that there will be more to come later, and Boromir grins in response.
By the time Faramir brings the horses by, Boromir has bid his farewells and thanks both to the village’s healer and several of the village’s makeshift army. Mablung and Damrod, both mounted atop their own steeds, tip a nod in Boromir’s direction.
“My Lord,” they murmur, in respect.
There is, however, no horse to be had for Boromir himself. And while he would not presume to take one of the village’s precious horses for his own use, this is a predicament indeed.
“Faramir,” he tries, caught between amusement and incredulity. “What is the meaning of this?”
“We had to travel lightly and quickly; we did not have the means to bring another horse,” Faramir says. He quirks a grin then, holding out a hand to help Boromir up behind him. “But if it does not displease you, I would have you ride with me, brother.”
Boromir matches Faramir’s expression with a grin of his own. Faramir’s benefit is twofold; not only will they be allowed to ride together, but Faramir will be able to keep an eye out for him, and gauge the extent of Boromir’s exhaustion and injuries both.
“Displease me?” Boromir laughs, as he mounts and winds his arms around Faramir’s waist. “No. The very opposite, in fact.”
“Then hold fast to me,” says Faramir. “We make for Minas Tirith at once.” And he urges the horse into an unexpected gallop, startling a squawk out of Boromir that is less than dignified.
Faramir even has the gall to chuckle about it after.
They ride hard, stopping only to water the horses and resupply at villages as they require. By the time Faramir announces the last leg of their journey for the day, the sun is ready to dip beyond the horizon, its golden light limning the treeline even as it threatens to fade into the long shadows of the dark.
Boromir sighs, resting his face in the hood of Faramir’s cloak; it makes a lovely pillow, and cushions the jostling of their ride.
“What is it, Boromir?” Faramir asks. When Boromir remains silent, Faramir nudges him in the ribs with an elbow, insistent. “You have only been sighing for the better part of the afternoon. Out with it, before I mistake you for some lovelorn maiden.”
“Lovelorn?” Boromir laughs, tightening his arms around Faramir’s waist once, in retaliation. “For whom else but you?”
Faramir touches Boromir’s knee, gentle, but the steadiness of his grip shows that he will not stand for Boromir’s prevarication. They have so rarely hidden things from one another; they will not start now.
“I,” Boromir tries, before burying his face deeper into the hood of Faramir’s cloak, reveling in its warmth. “I was only thinking of the journey I undertook after Rivendell.”
Faramir hums, thoughtful. “What of it?”
“The things I saw! I wish I could have taken you with me, Faramir. The halls of Moria, which I am sure no Man has laid eyes upon for long years—the ethereal beauty of Lothlorien—and the majestic Argonath!”
Faramir laughs. “I am sure you saw a great many things, brother. Perhaps we may have time to revisit them together. After.”
After the business of the Ring, Boromir surmises, and he quiets, then. “Not all the sights were wonderful to behold.”
“Oh?” says Faramir. “You mean those within the depths of Moria, I presume.” He lowers his voice. “What horrors did you see, down there in the dark?”
“Not only Moria,” Boromir says, “though its once-grand halls teemed with Orcs, like a great, writhing sea. And following swiftly behind them was Durin’s Bane, against which we lost Gandalf—Mithrandir, as he was known to you,” Boromir amends, knowing how Faramir had spent long years under the wizard’s tutelage. He thinks he hears Faramir swallow, the apple of his throat shifting hard at the knowledge of the loss, but he does not seem surprised. “And at Amon Hen,” Boromir says, “there were deformed beings, like Orcs, but larger and stronger, that could move in the daylight.”
“The Uruk-hai emblazoned with the White Hand of Saruman, yes,” Faramir muses. “It is rumored that Saruman bred his own from Orcs and Men.”
The memory of that day brings to mind the one Uruk that had sunk arrows deep into his chest. Had nearly taken his life, as if Boromir was no more than a fly to be swatted away. This, so soon after the most hideous horror Boromir had seen: that of himself, his expression twisted with rage, as he had fought Frodo for the ring.
Boromir pauses, before forcing himself to speak. “Faramir. You know I—I set out from Rivendell, with eight companions. One of them, a Hobbit, was the Ringbearer. Such a heavy burden, for one so small.”
“Yes,” says Faramir. “I have heard as such.” During their stay in the village, Boromir had shared with Faramir occasional details regarding his journey with the Fellowship. He had not elaborated on the circumstances of their parting, however.
“We swore an oath to protect the Ringbearer. I swore an oath.” Boromir swallows, hard, before saying the most difficult words. “And then I tried to take it from him.” How the Ring had spoken to him then! Had tempted him into coveting it, all the while whispering of the victory Gondor might achieve over Mordor, all the lives that might be spared, the blood that would not be spilt. It had known of their father’s words, twisted them against him, in him, until he thought they were his own.
Boromir shivers; too well he remembers the forceful words with which he had accosted the Council: By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe! They had been a pale echo of his father’s: It is our blood which is being spilled, our people who are dying. Sauron is massing fresh armies, and when he returns, we will be powerless to stop him.
You must go; bring me back this mighty gift!
When Boromir speaks again, his voice feels too heavy with sorrow, with shame. “I might have killed for it.”
“Boromir,” Faramir tries, but Boromir shakes his head; he needs to say this, he must.
“Father says that ever the Ring seeks to corrupt the hearts of lesser men, and I…Faramir, I—” I am that lesser man. The weak link that sundered the Fellowship. He loosens his arms from around Faramir’s waist; he does not deserve this warmth, this understanding from his brother.
Faramir roars at that with such uncharacteristic vehemence that it shocks Boromir from his melancholy, and clutches at Boromir’s arms, tight. “You are no less a man for that,” Faramir says firmly. “The ring has ensnared many in its thrall. Even Isildur himself was ensorcelled by it.” He pauses, reflective. “I might have fallen prey to its lure as well, had it not been for the Halflings’ warning. Of its hold on you.”
Boromir sighs, heartened at least that his own ensnarement would keep his brother from the same fate, when the last half of his statement registers.
“The Halflings’ warning?” Boromir exclaims, surprised. “When did you encounter them? And where?”
“I caught them skulking in the grass as a battalion of Haradrim marched through Ithilien, several days past. They tried to impart upon me the magnitude of their quest, the details of which they would not reveal to me until under duress.” Faramir huffs a soft laugh. “They called themselves Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee of the Shire—a Hobbit and his gardener stealing into Mordor—can you imagine? That is one for the history books indeed.”
Boromir, who had sat up straighter at the mention of Halflings, deflates, unable to share fully in Faramir’s merriment. “Ah,” he says. This meant that the Hobbits he had failed, Merry and Pippin, had not yet been found. That Frodo and Sam had last been in the company of Faramir and his men is a comforting thought, however, and he lets himself sag further into Faramir’s back, relieved. “What did you do with them, then?”
Faramir pauses, as if to consider his answer. “I let them go. If luck holds, the Halflings and the ring will have found their way into Mordor by now.”
Boromir hangs his head, letting it rest between Faramir’s shoulder blades, defeated; like Aragorn, Faramir, too, had done what he could not.
“Oh, Boromir,” Faramir sighs. He touches Boromir’s hands where they are wound around his waist again, a kind and reassuring weight. “I have long shared your joys and sorrows, your hurts and your fears,” he says. “Do you think a moment’s madness would undo the years we have shared? No. I know you better than anyone. Certainly better than a Ring of Power that might prey on an instant of fear and doubt. I know the man that you are.”
He threads his fingers between Boromir’s once more, and Boromir can feel the flow of his affection through this simple touch, warm and unconditional, and he could weep, because he does not ask for Faramir’s understanding and continued faith in him, yet Faramir gives it, wholly, unfailingly.
“Faramir,” he tries, and something like a sob lodges in his throat, hindering his words: I am not worthy of your easy forgiveness. I do not deserve the chances you offer me, time and time again. It is just as well, for when Faramir turns for the briefest moment, his expression shows that he will brook no such self-pitying nonsense.
“I shall tell you this now, Boromir: fight with me, when the armies of Mordor come calling. Stand with me, that you may rise above that momentary madness, when you were not yourself, and you will make things right.” His grip on Boromir’s hands wound about him is tight, but not bruising, and just the right amount of warm.
“Will I?” Boromir asks, doubtful. “What of the oath I swore, the vow I made to protect, broken? That cannot be so easily forgiven and forgotten.”
“No,” Faramir agrees truthfully. “But in time, your deeds of honor and valor will speak for themselves.” He nudges Boromir, gentle. “Have you not already started, protecting Frodo’s kin by your own strength? Such deeds will redeem you, in time. And,” Faramir adds, softer still, “when you see Frodo again, if you still feel the need, you can apologize to him yourself.” Faramir sounds so resolute, unyielding in his belief, that Boromir has no choice but to believe in his brother.
Lettings his arms circle Faramir snugly once more, Boromir buries his face in the back of Faramir’s cloak, taking comfort from the familiar musk of dried leaves and earth and Faramir. “Only now do I see my folly,” he says. “I thought the ring would give me the strength to protect Gondor and our people. For so long we have fought Mordor, watched our friends and allies die in the trying, and I thought we might—I thought, finally—but it was not to be,” Boromir says, with a tight exhale of disappointment.
Faramir’s hand tightens around Boromir’s where they are knotted at his waist. “I will be your strength,” he says, determined, “as I always have. And you, mine. We shall do this together.” And by the way Faramir’s grip tightens around Boromir’s hand, hot, Boromir believes; that they can do this. That together, they can protect Gondor, overcome any adversity.
Together, they are invincible.
In a fit of childish mischief, he slaps the rump of their horse, startling it into a frenzied gallop. They take off at breakneck speed, and with the wind in his hair and his brother by his side, Boromir lets loose a whoop of joy, much like he had so long ago, before the burden of Gondor’s fate became his to bear. Now, with the assurance that his burden is halved, he feels lighter than air itself.
Faramir allows the unbridled speed for all of five heartbeats before tightening the reins and slowing their horse back into a controlled gallop. “Boromir,” he says with a reproving glare as he turns, “we are long past the days when you could startle my horse into bolting off like that.” His tone is fond, however, and before long, a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
Boromir laughs, memories bubbling to the surface of Faramir as a child, sailing past him on his spooked horse, bawling like a babe before Boromir raced to catch him up, to calm his brother more than the horse. “Yes, but it was amusing, was it not?” Boromir says, grinning. “Admit it. Admit it,” he. He dips his head and touches the tip of his nose to Faramir’s reproachful finger in his face, playful.
Faramir hums thoughtfully. “Amusing, yes, but for that, I should subject you to the indignity of riding in front of me. Where I can keep an eye on you.”
“Surely not!” Boromir frowns. “I could even ride on my own, if you permitted. Perhaps if Mablung and Damrod rode together, I could—”
“And for that impudence, I rather think I will,” Faramir says, his mouth curling into an odd half-smile. He slows the horse to a stop. “Off,” he commands, and Boromir dismounts grudgingly, before clasping his brother’s helping hand to mount the horse again, this time in front of Faramir. “Now turn,” Faramir says.
Boromir positions his rear just past the pommel of the saddle, both his legs to one side of the horse. It is an unsteady position, in his opinion, unless Faramir expects him to—
“You would have me cling to you like a limpet?” Boromir asks, even as he slips his arms back around Faramir’s waist, under his cloak. “A swooning maiden, in need of comfort and succor?” Truth be told, however, Faramir is warm and his cloak a cushion of sorts, and Boromir finds he cannot complain. He flashes Faramir a small, grateful smile.
Faramir laughs, knowing, and knocks his forehead against Boromir’s. “I would have you sit where I can make sure you are comfortable. That you are kept safe.” He chances a look at his Rangers that scout the path ahead; they are still far enough away, and Faramir lets his free hand rub soft, soothing circles into Boromir’s back as Boromir settles against his shoulder. “Rest, Boromir. I will tell you when we have arrived.”
“Mmhn,” says Boromir, and though he struggles to cling to consciousness, to take in the warmth of Faramir’s skin, and breathe in the scent of his life, of pine and earth, of leather and metal, the easy rhythm of the horse’s gait and Faramir’s arms snug around him lull him into eventual sleep.
“Boromir?” A hand on his uninjured shoulder shakes him awake, gently. When Boromir only groans, the hand moves to his forehead. “Boromir.” A cool and calloused palm cups his cheek, worried. “I have found our lodgings for the night.”
“Oh.” Boromir blinks sleepily. “Have we not reached Minas Tirith already?” He can feel Faramir tugging the edges of the cloak about his shoulders inward, shielding Boromir from an easterly wind that nips at his cheeks and nose. Whirls away leaves and stirs currents of dust as it goes.
“No,” says Faramir. “We have stopped at a town near the Great West Road for tonight. The roads are not safe after nightfall.” Faramir dismounts first, then helps Boromir off the horse with a guiding hand.
When they have stabled the horses for the night, Faramir first exchanges words with the man at the desk, then pays with a discreet pouch of silver coins. Passes one key to Mablung, and the other to Boromir, with a nod to Boromir to ready their room first, while Faramir sees to their packs.
The room is small but homey, and Boromir settles himself immediately on the bed, taking in the higher ceiling; no doubt this is the bigger of the two rooms they have paid for, Faramir’s men having taken the room to the right of them.
“Well,” says Boromir, eyeing the cozy hearth they can warm themselves by in the room. “That is a sight for sore eyes indeed.” He sprawls out along the bed, letting his limbs take up all the space.
Faramir laughs as he sets their bags down, and nudges him over to make room. “This bed is for both of us,” he says, as he removes his boots. “Mablung and Damrod were given the last of the rooms with separate beds.” He takes a moment to lie along Boromir’s side, before catching the clasp of Boromir’s cloak and pulling him in for a playful kiss. “The innkeeper gave us a lower rate on this room, as it was the last one left, along with his apologies.”
“I am sure you told him we would ‘manage’ the situation somehow, with your theatrical sighs and brand of put-upon exasperation,” says Boromir, biting down on a smile. He is long familiar with Faramir’s way of bartering, whether it be for books, or horses, or weaponry.
Faramir grins. “I might have done so, yes.”
Boromir snorts and lets himself laugh at that; they have had years of managing to share the same bed, and this night will prove no exception.
They build up the fire together, and before long, the innkeeper arrives with a platter, providing them a modest dinner of stewed potatoes and chicken, paired with bread and a pitcher of mead. A small helping of fruit is included in their meal, and though this fare pales in comparison to that of Minas Tirith’s, Boromir remains grateful that the inn can spare this much at all. They eat in companionable silence, Boromir pausing every now and then to feed a log into the hearth and Faramir absently chasing a grape around his plate, or stealing bits from Boromir’s.
Two apples come with their portion of fruit, though they are but small, sour things, green and hard; it has been long years since Boromir knew the taste of real apples, large and red and sweet, Gondor’s meager agricultural efforts having been overshadowed by the war. Regardless, he pares the apples, slowly, as he watches his brother in the rosy glow of the firelight. Cuts them into small, bite-sized pieces on a whim, and dips one into the well of honey, meant to flavor the meat. He touches the fruit to Faramir’s lips, slow, before pressing his thumb against Faramir’s lips instead, soft and full, and thinks he would rather like to kiss his brother.
Faramir seems to sense Boromir’s desire, and places a grape in his own mouth. Brings their mouths together, his hand at the nape of Boromir’s neck, as he kisses Boromir, long and slow and leisurely. Crushes the globe of fruit against Boromir’s lips, before Boromir surges forward, swallowing the grape whole and cutting Faramir’s teasing provocation short.
“Faramir,” he gasps. And as Faramir’s mouth yields sweetly under his, Boromir presses his advantage, sliding his tongue inside, touching it to Faramir’s in a kiss that is hot and wet and filthy. Claws at Faramir’s tunic, nearly tearing out the lacings in his haste.
“Easy, brother,” Faramir warns, his hand closing over Boromir’s. “We must look presentable tomorrow, when we return home.” With his hair mussed and lips rose-red with kisses, Faramir seems too far gone to be presentable, but Boromir chooses not to argue this point.
At Faramir’s last word, however, Boromir stills. Home. With its creature comforts, like soft sheets, ale at the ready, a well-stocked larder, and kitchens always open for the sons of the Steward—and oh, the Steward, their father, proud of bearing and spiteful of tongue. Boromir shudders at the thought, suddenly in no hurry to return home, soft sheets and rich ale or no.
It appears Faramir shares the sentiment, as his brow furrows, unhappy. As if he feels he should not have made mention of their home or their father. “Be calm, Boromir,” Faramir says, regardless. He brushes his lips lightly against Boromir’s, the distraction soft and sweet. “We still have tonight.”
Yes, thinks Boromir. They still have tonight, before the responsibility and weight of Gondor’s fate sit heavy upon their shoulders once more. He kisses Faramir with renewed fervor, steering him toward the bed in the corner, and they kick the sheets aside, laughing as their feet tangle together in the ragtag quilts and blankets. Boromir urges Faramir onto his side, that they may face each other, all the while laying small, nipping kisses to his neck, his shoulder. Wrenches Faramir’s tunic off with sharp, forceful pulls, exposing more of his brother to kiss, to taste, from the divine warmth of his belly to the perfect peaks of his nipples.
With an unhappy noise, Faramir tugs him up by the shoulders. Goads Boromir into sharing wet, open-mouthed kisses, to throats and shoulders and arms—mutual, enjoyable touches that have Faramir twisting in Boromir’s grip, panting.
“More,” Faramir whispers, curling his arms beneath Boromir’s shoulders. “More, Boromir, please.”
Boromir nudges his hips against Faramir’s, enjoying the slow, sweet grind of their lengths against each other through the fabric of their trousers, until even that is not nearly enough, and Faramir slips hands beneath Boromir’s tunic, raking greedy fingers into Boromir’s back. Inverts the garment as he goes, tugging it over Boromir’s head, insistent.
“All right, all right,” Boromir huffs, undoing the lacings on Faramir’s trousers and drawing out his length as Faramir fumbles at his. And then they are both out, Boromir’s the thicker and Faramir’s the leaner but longer, both just as achingly hard and wet and wanting.
With a hungry thrust of his hips, Boromir presses against Faramir, sliding their lengths together, but it is not enough—not enough friction, or skin, or contact—so Boromir slicks his hand with the precome that has welled out. Circles both their cocks with his fist, and slides his hand in the easy motions long established between him and his brother.
“Yes,” Faramir gasps, his throat hoarse, his voice ruined, shuddering and clutching at Boromir’s shoulders as Boromir presses his thumb into the heads of their cocks. It is a moment more before Faramir’s hand closes over Boromir’s, closing the circle, as he joins Boromir in thumbing the slits of their cocks, stroking the shafts in an easy, rhythmic manner. Presses his forehead against Boromir’s as they let pleasure build between them, like waves cresting upon a shore, each higher and more forceful than the last until Faramir breaks away, breathless, gasping. “Boromir,” he pants, “I—ah. Please, I—”
“Together,” Boromir insists, his grip around them tightening, despite Faramir’s soft noise of distress. “Together.”
Their strokes grow tighter, fiercer in their need, while their mouths meet in kisses urgent and harsh, blood drawn from lips between moans and gasps as they find their way to completion. Boromir manages a choked off “Faramir, I—” before Faramir silences him with a kiss that is hard and bruising and good, and together, finally, they gasp out twin cries of relief, shaking through their mutual release.
“How I have missed this,” Faramir sighs happily, as they lean back to catch their breath. He presses a thumb to the spill of his seed on Boromir’s stomach, and brings it to Boromir’s mouth. Lets it slip between waiting lips, watching mesmerized as Boromir sucks gently, swirling his tongue around the pad of Faramir’s thumb.
Boromir mirrors the motion, shivering as Faramir’s lips close around his thumb. Watches the way Faramir’s throat shifts, with each swallow of Boromir’s issue from the digit in his mouth.
“I thought,” Boromir teases after, “that perhaps you had missed my counsel, or our rousing conversations. But I see now it is only my body you have missed.”
Faramir bites down on Boromir’s thumb, gentle, in a play at being reproachful. “Fool,” he laughs. “You know of what I speak.” He fixes Boromir with a look that is warm and fond and all kinds of affectionate, one that clearly speaks I have missed you. I have missed all of you. Strokes fingers along the muscle of Boromir’s arm, whisper-light and playful.
As their breaths begin to even out, Boromir cleans them both off with a nearby towel, chuckling when Faramir curls into his side with a sleepy yawn. He watches his brother breathe, slowly, steadily, his chest rising in the soft moonlight, before pressing a kiss to his forehead. Thinks to say I love you or Thank you for understanding me, as he winds an arm around Faramir’s waist, but when Faramir releases a soft, snuffling noise, the moment is gone.
Regardless, Boromir lies back, content with the knowledge that for now, they are safe and together; takes comfort in the fact that they can still find solace in each others’ arms.
It is later in the night, when Boromir feels Faramir trying to burrow deeper into his arms, making a soft, keening noise as he does so.
“Faramir?” Boromir mumbles, blinking awake. “What is it?”
He realizes quickly that Faramir is still asleep, with his eyes shifting rapid beneath his eyelids and sweat beading on his brow. His brother is breathing too quickly, his skin too hot and clammy.
“Faramir,” Boromir whispers, shaking him. “Faramir.”
Faramir’s eyes flutter open, but it is a moment more before awareness returns to them, slowly but surely. “Forgive me—it was a dream,” Faramir manages, his quick, pained gasps slowing into even breaths at last. “Nothing more.” He slips his arms around Boromir’s waist, too tight, and from that motion alone, Boromir thinks he knows the contents of the dream.
“It was a nightmare, by the looks of it,” Boromir says, scowling. “Was it the same one from before?”
“No,” Faramir tries. At Boromir’s look: “Yes.”
Faramir has by now told him of his vision, before Boromir rode for Rivendell, though he shares it only with the sparest of details, and never in its entirety. Boromir has pieced enough of it together to know, however, of how Faramir found Boromir’s body in an Elven boat, his sword broken, with crude blades set at his feet. How he had watched Boromir sail past, as he stood to his knees in the bone-chilling waters of the Anduin, helpless to do anything but watch the light-filled craft bear his brother out to the Great Sea.
Boromir soothes him, pressing a hand to his brow and smoothing back the lock of hair that has fallen over Faramir’s face. Holds him through his full-body shudders. “Look at me,” Boromir says, bringing his hands up to clasp Faramir’s face. “Look at me.”
Faramir meets his eyes, his own wide, frightened, a nearly hunted look about them. Boromir would banish the terror in them, if he could. “Boromir—”
“We are here,” Boromir growls. “We live. Your dream did not come to pass; let it trouble you no further, Faramir.”
Faramir sighs, his breath a wisp of warmth against Boromir’s jaw, and shakes his head. “After all that talk of being your strength, a mere nightmare has me trembling like a child.”
Boromir kisses Faramir’s brow, warm. “You have strength, Faramir. Of a different kind.” He clasps Faramir’s face in his hands again, willing him to believe. “It is that differing strength that makes us complete. Whole. Lets us…”
“Lets us complement each other?” Faramir supplies, a hint of a smile appearing.
Boromir huffs a laugh. “You are the poet, not I.” He wraps his arms around Faramir’s waist again. “Now rest. We have a long ride ahead of us.”
He lets Faramir lay his head on his chest, soothing Faramir with the sound of his heartbeat, proof of his life. Curls his own fingers around Faramir’s wrist, to feel the thrum of his brother’s pulse beneath skin. And when Faramir finally falls asleep, Boromir follows soon after, lulled into slumber by the warmth of Faramir’s arm looped around him and the rhythm of his pulse, safe and steady and strong.
It takes the better part of a day to ride back to Minas Tirith, and they have barely passed the first gate upon their return, when one of Faramir’s Rangers rushes toward them, sweat beaded on his brow, his face ashen and sick with horror.
“My Lords,” the Ranger breathes, “the city—Osgiliath—has fallen.”
(tbc - Chapter 5)
End Notes:
OST:
- Boromir and Faramir’s reunion: Final Fantasy X – To Zanarkand
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!
