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Title: Hope Prevails
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 5300 (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.
~
Boromir and Faramir share a dark look, before Faramir nods for the Ranger to continue.
“My Lord,” the Ranger says quickly, acknowledging Boromir before turning to his brother again. “Captain Faramir, we—we could not hold Osgiliath. We were outnumbered in the night, when Orcs came from the river. And when the Nazgûl joined the fight upon their fell-beasts at dawn, the battle was truly lost.” He shakes his head, defeated. “I am afraid only a handful of us made it back to the city.”
Faramir’s expression dims instantly, and it pains something in Boromir’s heart to see his brother’s face, so recently flushed with joy, darken thus. “I will speak with the Steward,” Faramir says. He nudges their horse into a canter, as the Ranger nods and takes his leave.
“Faramir,” Boromir starts, trying to loosen his arms from around Faramir’s waist. “If I had not…if you had remained at Osgiliath, to lead your men, they would still be ali—”
“No.” Faramir tightens his hold on Boromir. “It is no fault of yours. If anything, it is mine; only now do I remember that we pulled five hundred from Osgiliath to strengthen our defenses at the river to the north, and that they called not long ago for reinforcements from Henneth Annûn. I should have known the city would not hold, but still, I chose to believe we could hold it. Even just for another day.” He sighs, defeated. “But it seems Mordor’s armies wait for no man.”
There is naught Boromir can say to that. The loss for Faramir must be especially heartrending, for he had regained a brother, but lost his friends and a city in exchange. He lets his arms settle back around Faramir, hoping the gesture will lend Faramir strength and courage in the meeting that is to come.
When they have stabled Faramir’s horse, they make their way to the Citadel, to the hall of the tower where their father awaits.
“My son!” Denethor cries, as they enter. He spreads his arms wide in greeting, his eyes shining, before circling Boromir’s shoulders with a bone-crushing embrace. “Having brought home the Ring of Power, no doubt!” He looks searchingly at Boromir, like a child greedily seeking a sweet, as if Boromir might have it hidden within the folds of his tunic. “Where is this mighty gift? The weapon that will change our fortunes in this war?”
“The ring is—the ring has—” Boromir tries, before Faramir moves to stand beside him, the motion automatic, instinctual. Presses a hand to the small of Boromir’s back, discreet and reassuring.
“The ring is beyond our reach now,” says Faramir, and for fielding this question for him, for this one small thing, Boromir is immensely grateful, leaning back the minutest distance into Faramir’s touch.
“Oh? ‘Beyond our reach’, is it?” Denethor says coldly, his pleasant demeanor vanishing as soon as Faramir speaks. “I had hoped the ill rumor that you sent the Ring of Power into Mordor in the hands of a witless Halfling would prove untrue. That your brother might still have brought home this kingly gift.”
“Father, the fault was mine—” Boromir says, hoping to deflect the blame from Faramir, but Denethor only roars for their silence, and rounds on Faramir again.
“In fact, I hear tell of something else that is ‘beyond our reach’ now as well. Osgiliath has fallen,” Denethor says pointedly, “again. The garrison there was ambushed in the night.” He glares at Faramir with a fury white-hot and plain. “Were you not entrusted to protect the city? Instead, you abandon your post, and run off on a whim. To chase some witless maiden, no doubt!”
Boromir breathes in softly, careful not to arouse their father’s suspicion. This confirms what he had long suspected: that Faramir had not seen fit to tell their father of Boromir’s near fall at Amon Hen before riding out to meet him, or of his weakness that had only hastened the breaking of the Fellowship. Ever has Faramir hidden Boromir’s shortcomings and made up for them with his own strengths, and Boromir done the same in return.
“It is your folly that allowed our city to be taken,” Denethor continues. “Your naïveté that robbed Gondor of the ring!” He turns from where he berates Faramir and beams brightly, hands braced on Boromir’s shoulders. “But you, Boromir, you can retake the city! I will not yield the river and Pelennor unfought; ride out with your men on the morrow, and reclaim what is ours!”
“But Father, the Orcs have overrun the city,” says Boromir. “Even now, they amass behind its walls!”
Denethor’s good humor fades just as quickly. “Would you deny your own father in this? You have done it before, you can do so again. Take back Osgiliath. Take back what is ours by right, and let the flag of Gondor fly from its spires once more!” He settles in his Steward’s chair of carven stone. “Surely in the absence of bringing Gondor the ring, you are up to such a small task?” He folds his hands over his Steward’s staff, eyeing Boromir steadily, before his gaze, too sharp by some unknown power, falls to Faramir. “Well? Is there no Captain here who still has the courage to do his lord's will?”
Boromir opens his mouth for grudging acquiescence; he will not let their father bully Faramir into this in his stead, guilt him into taking on this doomed task, but Faramir steps forward first. “I will go in Boromir’s stead,” he says. “Boromir is still recovering from wounds he sustained on his journey, and must take some rest before he—”
“Is your brother to speak for you from now on?” Denethor sneers, turning to Boromir with a cruel twist to his mouth. “I have entrusted this task to you, not Faramir.” He waves them off, dismissive. “Do not trouble me with every hurt and sorrow that ails you. Stop by the Houses, if you must.”
The Houses of Healing, Boromir thinks, releasing a small sigh of relief. His wounds will receive proper treatment there, at least for long enough until he must ride to Osgiliath.
At the thought of that city, he shudders. Their battles for Osgiliath have met with varied results, each success coupled with failure; the last time, they had kept the western shore at the cost of the east, paid dearly with the lives of Men for the destruction of the last bridge to keep the enemy at bay.
Faramir seems to have had the same thought during their walk to the healing chambers, as he reaches out to brush his knuckles against Boromir’s. Falls into step beside Boromir, his footfalls just as heavy in the wake of their father’s order. “Together,” he says firmly, quiet. “We will ride out and lead the vanguard together.”
Boromir threads his fingers bravely through Faramir’s. “Together,” he nods. Together, he and his brother are worth ten men—no, a hundred—and if their father wills it, they will see this done.
~
Further reports from Faramir’s Rangers tally the total of Sauron’s army—only that which is gathered at Osgiliath alone—to be at least a hundred and eighty thousand, with more Easterlings and Southrons joining them each day.
“With your Rangers and our soldiers depleted after the last attack on Osgiliath, the most we can spare for this venture is two hundred men.” Boromir shakes his head. “Two hundred, against nearly two hundred thousand? Not even with ten thousand men could we retake Osgiliath now. It is folly,” he sighs, sinking back into his chair, dejected. Winces as the new bandages from the healing halls chafe against skin. Chairs in the council room were made more for ceremony and pomp, and not for comfort, it seems.
“We may have enough for a charge with heavy cavalry,” Faramir points out.
“But not men enough to support us as light cavalry,” Boromir says. “And we have not the time to gather archers to us. Besides, it would not bode us well to be rushing at the Orcs under the full light of day.” He stands and braces his hands on the table, hair falling over his eyes as he hangs his head. “They will see us coming. Our bodies would litter the fields of Pelennor before we even reached the city. And so, I think—
“—we should set out just before dawn,” Faramir finishes, already nodding. “That they will still be muddled with sleep, or at the least be exposed to the first light of the sun, while we will have the advantage.”
“Except you forget: the Orcs flourish under cover of darkness,” says a voice, dry and unimpressed, from the direction of the great hall. “And the light of the sun has fallen into shadow, a device of Sauron’s making to ease his army’s passage.”
“Gandalf?” Boromir says, his voice filled with wonder and awe at the same time Faramir gasps the wizard’s Elven name. Boromir lopes forward to embrace Gandalf as the wizard steps into the council room. “I thought you had fallen, my friend. At the hands of the Balrog. But here you are, hale and well!”
Gandalf, his hair snow-white and drawn away from his face, leans back from Boromir’s careful, one-armed embrace. “I did,” he laughs, “but that is a story for another time. Now,” Gandalf says, regarding the two of them sternly. “What is this I hear about Osgiliath?”
Faramir’s bright smile at seeing his once-mentor sours instantly. “The Steward has given the order for us to retake the city. In spite of the knowledge that it is overrun.”
“Fool of a Steward!” Gandalf snarls, striking his staff into the ground. “Spending his sons in one fell swoop, especially one so recently returned from death’s door!”
From that, Boromir gathers that Gandalf knows about what transpired at Amon Hen, and he and Faramir share a cautious look. There is nothing of reproach in the wizard’s tone, however; in fact, he seems almost indignant on their behalf.
“This is a fool’s errand,” Gandalf declares darkly. “There is a time and place to reclaim the lost cities of Gondor, but this is not it.”
“What would you have us do instead?” asks Faramir with a sigh. “The Steward’s word is law.”
Gandalf turns his gaze on both of them, but his words are directed toward Faramir. “I have taught you better than that, Faramir—the laws of Men are not the laws of the land! I will speak with the Steward; you would do better to stay and strengthen the forces here at Minas Tirith.”
With that, Gandalf turns from the hall, a whirl of white robes and irritation.
Boromir studies the map they have spread out along the table, of Gondor and its surrounding lands. Picks absently at a corner of the map, the parchment yellowed with age and rumpled from long years of use.
“There is wisdom to Gandalf’s words,” he says finally. “Our father’s will has turned to madness, whether by his dark need for the Ring or by another power, I do not know. But there is no need for us throw away our lives so rashly.” He strokes his jaw, thoughtful. “Perhaps this venture could serve as a token attack. It may not even have to be an attack at all.”
“Oh?” says Faramir. “What are you suggesting?”
“The Rangers function best from the shadows, utilizing stealth; they would be ill-used in a straight charge. We could instead use this as an opportunity to scout the city further. Our numbers until now have been inexact; this would allow us to confirm how many of the enemy are established at Osgiliath, who else is coming, and from where,” Boromir explains. “Then we will withdraw our forces quickly and quietly, and regroup at Minas Tirith. So that we may strike out at the enemy and defend our city from a place of strength.”
“Is there a need to leave Minas Tirith at all?” asks Faramir, doubtful. “Mithrandir said Gondor would be better served if we were to stay and strengthen the city from within.”
Boromir shakes his head. “We must set out for Osgiliath regardless, to appease our father. And when we return, we will tell him we tried but failed to take back the city. He will not know the attempt was a token one at best.” It does not bear saying that an actual attempt would be hopeless also, and result in more losses than their city can bear.
“But Mithrandir said he would speak with—” Faramir tries, and Boromir can see how his brother still clings to hope, still places his trust in his old teacher. He places his palm over Faramir’s hand, warm.
“Faramir,” he says, honest as he has always been with his brother. “You and I both know Father will not rescind his order. Our only hope now is to reduce the number of casualties that we can, to keep men enough for the fight that is sure to come to Minas Tirith. What I need to know now is, are you with me in this?”
Faramir frowns, clearly unhappy at the prospect of losing more Rangers, perhaps even at losing his own life. But he turns his hand, curling his palm up to meet Boromir’s. “I am,” he says softly. “Always.”
Only then does Boromir release a sigh of relief, a breath he had not known he was holding, until he knew his brother was with him in this, utterly and completely.
~
Together, Boromir and Faramir inform the men of the impending mission, notify them of the change that they are not, as first expected, charging into battle, but engaging in reconnaissance. It is an apparent relief, especially to those so recently returned from Osgiliath.
When they have ensured that all the men are aware of the change, and that the weaponry and supplies are ready for the next day’s task, Boromir retires to his room, and Faramir to his. Their unspoken agreement to retire separately and reunite later in the night still stands, however, and on this night, it is Boromir’s turn to go to his brother.
“Faramir?” he whispers cautiously, as he makes his way into the near-dark of the room. It is unlikely for anyone else to be present, but long years of this have taught Boromir the importance of discretion. Only fools and novice thieves announce their presence boisterously, and he is neither.
Faramir’s response is to tug him into the bed, quiet, shifting until there is space enough for both of them. “I nearly thought you would not come,” Faramir breathes, pinching Boromir’s side lightly in reproach.
Boromir chuckles into Faramir’s mouth as he winds his arms around Faramir’s waist. “I had to wait for the last of the maids to return to her quarters. You would not believe half the gossip they enjoy twittering about in the late hours.”
When Faramir says nothing in reply, Boromir fears he has fallen asleep. “Faramir?” he says, nudging his brother, once. If Faramir has indeed found slumber, it is well-deserved; he would let his brother rest, for the day has been taxing on them both. It is a surprise, then, when Faramir twines his arms under Boromir’s shoulders, his legs pressing behind Boromir’s knees and wrapping around his calves.
“I do not wish to set out for Osgiliath on the morrow,” Faramir whispers, sudden, fierce.
“We have been through this, Faramir. We must.” Boromir touches their foreheads together, in a bid to reassure his brother.
“No,” says Faramir, emphatic, jerking away from the touch. “No.”
“We must. I know the thought of losing even one of your Rangers upsets you,” Boromir tries, “but—”
Faramir releases Boromir’s shoulders, hands curling tight around Boromir’s instead, as he shakes his head. “My Rangers, yes. My friends. But the thought of losing you,” Faramir whispers, “is what distresses me the most.”
Boromir snorts a laugh. “I can handle myself in battle, if it comes to that. You need not worry.”
“Yes, because you handled yourself so well at Amon Hen,” Faramir says bitterly, before his eyes widen in realization. He leans in to kiss Boromir’s jaw, gentle, in apology. “Boromir, I am sorry. I did not mean to—”
“I was outnumbered,” Boromir replies mulishly. It is all he will say on the matter; Boromir will tell Faramir in time, of the lone Uruk-hai bowman that had laid him low, but it is not now.
“And if we are outnumbered at Osgiliath, as we are sure to be? What then?” Faramir asks, his hands clutching too tight, too worried around Boromir’s, making him wonder if Faramir has indeed had a vision of the next day’s events. “What happens, if for all our stealth, the enemy finds us out and surrounds us? If I am not there to help you, just as I was not there at—”
“Faramir,” Boromir says softly. Draws him in close, until he can wrap his arms fully around Faramir’s waist. The time for panic and trepidation is long past; so, too, is the time for preparation on the battle’s eve, in armaments and strategy. There is only time enough now for tender words, gentler affections, and pleasure, too, if Faramir will allow it. “We have made our plans,” he says, pressing a kiss to Faramir’s cheek, experimental. “We have prepared our strategy.” A kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Let us now turn our minds to other things,” he soothes, as he kisses Faramir on the mouth proper. Pauses, a twitch of a smile tugging at his lips. “Things of a more pleasurable nature.”
“You cannot be serious,” Faramir manages, between Boromir’s presses of lips to his. “I try to speak reason to you, and you try to silence me with—nngh—kisses, of all things!”
“Oh?” Boromir muses, smiling at the little gasps Faramir makes between each meeting of their mouths. “Then I shall cease forthwith.”
Faramir reaches for Boromir’s neck, tugging him forward. “Do not dare,” he huffs, somewhere between laughter and irritation.
Boromir takes this as an invitation to surge forward, his hands insatiable in their quest for Faramir’s warmth, for the touch of his skin, as he kisses his way down Faramir’s jaw, along his throat. He urges Faramir out of his tunic as Faramir tugs his off in turn, and oh, that is lovely—the expanse of skin and warmth of Faramir’s body against his—but Boromir has another destination in mind, and he blazes a trail with lips and tongue down Faramir’s chest. Over his belly. Hot, feverish kisses that have Faramir arching against his touch.
“Boromir?” Faramir says, hesitant, when Boromir starts mouthing at the drawstring of his undergarments. And again, with more conviction, when Boromir tugs them down with his teeth and off. “Boromir, wait—”
Boromir pauses in the middle of pressing bruising kisses into Faramir’s thighs, leaving wine-dark marks along them. “All right?” he asks, his voice hoarse, more breathy than usual. They have loved each other with calloused fingers and firm, steady strokes, but never in the manner that Boromir is suggesting now, a pleasure to be gained from lips and tongue, paired with slickened palms and clever fingers.
Faramir takes a shaky breath. “All right,” he nods, and at this permission, Boromir nuzzles his face into Faramir’s lap. Buries his face into the soft nest of red-gold curls, simply breathing in, enjoying the scent, the musk of his brother, before daring to dart out his tongue and taste.
When Faramir rakes a hand through Boromir’s hair, fingers tightening within it, Boromir becomes more daring, laving his tongue along Faramir’s sac. Slides his palm along the hardened length as he draws it forth, full and flush and leaking, licking around the head of Faramir’s cock. Touches his tongue to the slit, and at Faramir’s surprised moan, swallows him down, lips closing full around his shaft.
“Boromir,” Faramir says, his voice strained. “This—this is hardly fair.”
“Mmnh,” hums Boromir, and at Faramir’s choked groan, he huffs a laugh. “Fair, no. Indecent? Yes.” He lifts his head to look into Faramir’s eyes, the sea-blue of his brother’s eyes nearly annexed by black. “Well? Do you feel pleasure from such indecency?” he asks cheekily.
“I will show you indecency,” Faramir growls, shifting forcibly until Boromir is on his hands and knees above him, taking Boromir into his mouth as Boromir has done him. He flicks his tongue into the delicate hood of Boromir’s cock. Steadies Boromir’s hips with his hands, his fingers pressed into skin, firm and unyielding.
Faramir, Boromir thinks to gasp, urgent, hushed, but Faramir nudges his length against Boromir’s mouth, and Boromir busies himself with pleasuring his brother in turn, nosing at his cock, gentle. Presses darting licks to the tip, the shaft, before letting it slide deep into his mouth. Lets it press against the back of his throat, before drawing it back out to tease the head again, a motion he repeats, until with a muffled cry from Faramir below, he tastes the burst of Faramir’s essence on his tongue, of tang and salt and warmth. Drinks each drop down, eager, greedy, until Faramir is shaking in his grip, panting, breathless.
“Boromir,” Faramir gasps tightly, his voice wet. He redoubles efforts on his end, cupping Boromir’s sac as he swirls his tongue over it. Forms a ring with his fingers as he slides Boromir’s length deep into his throat and out, again and again until Boromir is left scrabbling at Faramir’s thighs for purchase, clawing nails into the sheets, his teeth gritted as Faramir licks and tugs and strokes. It is only when Faramir presses a finger slyly against his hole, pressing up and nearly in, that Boromir jerks forward, breath catching harsh in his throat in a wordless cry, his body shaking hard as he spills into Faramir’s waiting mouth.
With a soft, satisfied noise, Faramir crawls back into the circle of Boromir’s arms. Nudges into the space meant only for him, as he kisses Boromir again, neither hungry nor sensual this time, but gentle brushes of lips against brow and cheeks and mouth.
Boromir chuckles at these softer touches. Licks boldly into Faramir’s mouth, tasting himself on Faramir’s lips, before Faramir matches his affections, chasing the flavour of his own essence into Boromir’s.
“If that was a taste of your indecency, perhaps you should next show me debauchery,” says Boromir, sleepy, sated.
“I may well do that,” agrees Faramir, and there is a smile in his voice that Boromir feels against his lips as much as he hears. Makes him nuzzle closer into his brother’s arms.
As he watches Faramir’s eyes flutter closed, Boromir’s heart aches at the sight of their hair fanned out together on the pillow, his honey-blond mingling with Faramir’s autumn-gold. The thought occurs to him then, that if all goes wrong tomorrow, if there is no next time, at least they will have had this.
He twines himself tighter into Faramir’s arms, where he finds a quiet, if fitful slumber.
At least they will have had this.
~
They wait for word from Gandalf, regarding the original strategy of staying at Minas Tirith and strengthening the city’s defenses from within. Trust in him to sway their father’s decision, giving the wizard the benefit of the doubt.
When the hour before dawn comes, however, there is neither sign of Gandalf nor a retraction of the Steward’s orders; clearly, talks have failed. With a heavy heart and Faramir’s assistance, Boromir quickly musters a contingent of Rangers to set out for Osgiliath.
He studies the lay of the land before they set out, realizing that Gandalf had indeed spoken true: from the direction of Mordor, an unnatural gloom steals its way across the sky, veiling even the brightest of stars. Boromir shivers at the implications of such a darkness and pulls his cloak tighter about himself against the twilight chill, grateful now for its extra lining of fur; he had placed his Elven cloak into the storage of his room, along with the belt of golden leaves, both gifts from Galadriel too much of a reminder of his time with the Fellowship. Had decided instead to trade the utility of the forest-green cloak for the warmth of his old one, feeling unworthy of the Elves’ gift.
Faramir presses fingers, warm, to Boromir’s waist, a distraction from his nebulous thoughts. Soothes a circle into the small of his back, the motion carefully discreet but affectionate. He raises his eyebrows as if to ask, Ready?
Boromir nods in response, and together, they signal the contingent of Rangers they have gathered, snaking their way quietly through the tall grasses. There is nothing stirring the air, save for the sound of the wind, whispering dry through the grass and curling whisper-soft around their boots. With the sun yet to appear in the sky, perhaps their fewer numbers will have an advantage.
They arrive on the outskirts of Osgiliath with time enough to take advantage of the darkness, the numerous Rangers taking cover in shadows and crevices both. A quick survey of the city’s battered ruins diminishes Boromir’s fears that Sauron’s army would be lying in wait for them, this tiny rebel group of Men from Minas Tirith; it appears they are completely unworried by any defiant force from Gondor, and are instead, busy preparing for the battle ahead, working their makeshift forges and setting blades to whetstones. Those Orcs who slave at neither engage in loose sparring matches amongst themselves, or squabble over dice games to while away the time.
Boromir signals for Faramir and their men to advance; it is nearly too easy, with the Orcs distracted in such a manner. Faramir and the Rangers quietly assassinate the outliers in Sauron’s army, those who had been alone and away from the group, who might alert the others to their presence, slitting throats with concealed daggers and laying their bodies away from where they fell. Boromir counts Haradrim, Easterlings and Orcs among the corpses, his apprehension growing at this confirmation of the Rangers’ intelligence; Sauron’s army is indeed varied and strong, if he can count these groups among his allies.
Both Boromir and Faramir advance enough to see the tops of siege towers and what appear to be rudimentary battering rams, before doubling back behind a broken pillar.
“Should we scout deeper into the city?” Boromir asks, looking to his brother. “Perhaps we could find out what other weapons the enemy will use against us.”
With a frown, Faramir shakes his head. “Have we not already seen the state of Sauron’s armies? What advantage would there be in scouting further? We should leave while our way back is still clear.” When Boromir furrows his brow, Faramir whispers reassuringly, “Whichever decision you make, know that I am with you.”
Boromir nods, encouraged. “We will go back,” he says, having considered his brother’s reasoning and found it sound.
Faramir palms the hilt of his sword, cautious, while pressing his other hand to the small of Boromir’s back, protective, and they step out from beneath the pillar’s shadow for all but a moment to signal the men to turn back.
Right into the line of sight of an Orc lookout, stationed high upon a crumbling bell tower.
Faramir nocks an arrow before Boromir can alert him to the Orc, letting his arrow fly. Its flight is swift and true, striking its mark between the eyes in an instant, but it is too late; the Orc, in its death throes, tangles a vindictive hand around the pull of the bell, and the loud, heavy chime of the bell rings out across the city, alerting Osgiliath’s new inhabitants to their presence.
An unnatural quiet follows the dying echoes of the bell, but before long, a rush of scuttling follows, Orcs swarming out from behind crumbled battlements and half-collapsed stairways, not unlike a startled ant colony, to surround them. Faramir had been right: that they were hopelessly outnumbered, even here on the edges of Osgiliath. That there had been hordes of Sauron’s army hidden deeper in the city, shaping their crude blades and towers, battering rams to break down Gondor’s already feeble defenses, and who knew what else.
They are no longer safe now, no longer unseen.
Boromir’s hand finds Faramir’s in the chaos for all but a second—if they must fight, he would fight with his brother by his side—before they are both drawing swords, fighting for their lives and for those under their command.
“Fall back!” Boromir roars over the rattling war cries of the Orcs. “Fall back to Minas Tirith!” He fights off the oncoming Orcs, herding Faramir and his Rangers onward behind him, hoping to let them escape first, that they would not waste any life in this venture.
The Rangers, for their part, dispatch Orcs and the now advancing Haradrim with arrow after arrow as they fight their way back toward Minas Tirith, drawing as near to the border where they entered as they can.
The way appears nearly clear when the air is rent by the scalding scream of a Nazgûl, the beat of its fell-beast’s wings heavy, foul, a violent gale forcing them back and away from Minas Tirith.
“Faramir!” Boromir calls, and knowing his request, Faramir lets fly an arrow at the fell-beast’s throat, lifting the shadow from overhead in an instant.
From afar, Boromir spies Gandalf making his way across the fields atop his shining steed, his staff held high as a light, pure and white, emanates from it, arcing toward the Nazgûl and its fell-beast in a wide beam. Fends them off from the escaping Rangers. He breathes a small sigh of relief; as long as the Rangers make it to the borders of Osgiliath, they will be safe. With that thought, he turns, searching for Faramir in the chaos.
Panic seizes him; Faramir had been at his back only moments ago, but is now nowhere to be seen. Had he followed his men to safety, retreating from Osgiliath? Or had he been trapped among the ruins, still fighting, or worse, still looking for Boromir?
A quick glance at his surroundings shows Faramir fighting off an Orc with his sword, sparing just enough time to fling a dagger in Boromir’s direction, felling an Orc just behind him. Boromir grunts, grateful, and just as Faramir slays the Orc he was fighting, Boromir calls for him. Thinks to tell him to fall back; that they must retreat, now, especially while his old mentor has shielded them from the worst of the Nazgûl’s fury. He turns, for just a moment, to see that Gandalf has turned back towards Minas Tirith, but this cannot be right, he is leaving without them—
—and Faramir, when he turns back—Faramir, distracted by Boromir’s call for all of a heartbeat, is instantly struck by arrows from an Orc sniper.
“No!” Boromir cries. He leaps over fallen Orcs and stone ruins, dashing toward Faramir’s fallen form, his heart in his throat. If only he had kept silent, or been close enough to shield Faramir from the arrows! As it is, he grips his sword tightly mid-run, ready to defend his brother if need be. To buy time, in the hopes that Gandalf might still return and ensure Faramir’s escape from the city.
His cry seems to have drawn the attention of lesser Orcs nearby, however, and one of them seizes its opportunity in Boromir’s distraction, leaping out to club him across the back of the head, the blow studded, brutal and sharp.
Boromir registers a dull throbbing, and a tacky wetness, one that trails down the back of his head and mats his hair with blood, before darkness takes him.
(tbc - Chapter 6)
End Notes:
- “…they had kept the western shore at the cost of the east, paid dearly with the lives of Men for the destruction of the last bridge to keep the enemy at bay”. Refers to Sauron’s previous attack on Osgiliath, in which Boromir and Faramir had to cast down the bridge connecting Western and Eastern Osgiliath, to prevent Sauron’s forces from advancing—and only they and two other Men survived.
- Scene of Boromir and Faramir fighting by each other’s side at Osgiliath inspired by Blood of Numenor by Magali Villeneuve.
OST:
- The Battle at Osgiliath: Sword and Council – Brian Tyler
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: 5300 (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.
Boromir and Faramir share a dark look, before Faramir nods for the Ranger to continue.
“My Lord,” the Ranger says quickly, acknowledging Boromir before turning to his brother again. “Captain Faramir, we—we could not hold Osgiliath. We were outnumbered in the night, when Orcs came from the river. And when the Nazgûl joined the fight upon their fell-beasts at dawn, the battle was truly lost.” He shakes his head, defeated. “I am afraid only a handful of us made it back to the city.”
Faramir’s expression dims instantly, and it pains something in Boromir’s heart to see his brother’s face, so recently flushed with joy, darken thus. “I will speak with the Steward,” Faramir says. He nudges their horse into a canter, as the Ranger nods and takes his leave.
“Faramir,” Boromir starts, trying to loosen his arms from around Faramir’s waist. “If I had not…if you had remained at Osgiliath, to lead your men, they would still be ali—”
“No.” Faramir tightens his hold on Boromir. “It is no fault of yours. If anything, it is mine; only now do I remember that we pulled five hundred from Osgiliath to strengthen our defenses at the river to the north, and that they called not long ago for reinforcements from Henneth Annûn. I should have known the city would not hold, but still, I chose to believe we could hold it. Even just for another day.” He sighs, defeated. “But it seems Mordor’s armies wait for no man.”
There is naught Boromir can say to that. The loss for Faramir must be especially heartrending, for he had regained a brother, but lost his friends and a city in exchange. He lets his arms settle back around Faramir, hoping the gesture will lend Faramir strength and courage in the meeting that is to come.
When they have stabled Faramir’s horse, they make their way to the Citadel, to the hall of the tower where their father awaits.
“My son!” Denethor cries, as they enter. He spreads his arms wide in greeting, his eyes shining, before circling Boromir’s shoulders with a bone-crushing embrace. “Having brought home the Ring of Power, no doubt!” He looks searchingly at Boromir, like a child greedily seeking a sweet, as if Boromir might have it hidden within the folds of his tunic. “Where is this mighty gift? The weapon that will change our fortunes in this war?”
“The ring is—the ring has—” Boromir tries, before Faramir moves to stand beside him, the motion automatic, instinctual. Presses a hand to the small of Boromir’s back, discreet and reassuring.
“The ring is beyond our reach now,” says Faramir, and for fielding this question for him, for this one small thing, Boromir is immensely grateful, leaning back the minutest distance into Faramir’s touch.
“Oh? ‘Beyond our reach’, is it?” Denethor says coldly, his pleasant demeanor vanishing as soon as Faramir speaks. “I had hoped the ill rumor that you sent the Ring of Power into Mordor in the hands of a witless Halfling would prove untrue. That your brother might still have brought home this kingly gift.”
“Father, the fault was mine—” Boromir says, hoping to deflect the blame from Faramir, but Denethor only roars for their silence, and rounds on Faramir again.
“In fact, I hear tell of something else that is ‘beyond our reach’ now as well. Osgiliath has fallen,” Denethor says pointedly, “again. The garrison there was ambushed in the night.” He glares at Faramir with a fury white-hot and plain. “Were you not entrusted to protect the city? Instead, you abandon your post, and run off on a whim. To chase some witless maiden, no doubt!”
Boromir breathes in softly, careful not to arouse their father’s suspicion. This confirms what he had long suspected: that Faramir had not seen fit to tell their father of Boromir’s near fall at Amon Hen before riding out to meet him, or of his weakness that had only hastened the breaking of the Fellowship. Ever has Faramir hidden Boromir’s shortcomings and made up for them with his own strengths, and Boromir done the same in return.
“It is your folly that allowed our city to be taken,” Denethor continues. “Your naïveté that robbed Gondor of the ring!” He turns from where he berates Faramir and beams brightly, hands braced on Boromir’s shoulders. “But you, Boromir, you can retake the city! I will not yield the river and Pelennor unfought; ride out with your men on the morrow, and reclaim what is ours!”
“But Father, the Orcs have overrun the city,” says Boromir. “Even now, they amass behind its walls!”
Denethor’s good humor fades just as quickly. “Would you deny your own father in this? You have done it before, you can do so again. Take back Osgiliath. Take back what is ours by right, and let the flag of Gondor fly from its spires once more!” He settles in his Steward’s chair of carven stone. “Surely in the absence of bringing Gondor the ring, you are up to such a small task?” He folds his hands over his Steward’s staff, eyeing Boromir steadily, before his gaze, too sharp by some unknown power, falls to Faramir. “Well? Is there no Captain here who still has the courage to do his lord's will?”
Boromir opens his mouth for grudging acquiescence; he will not let their father bully Faramir into this in his stead, guilt him into taking on this doomed task, but Faramir steps forward first. “I will go in Boromir’s stead,” he says. “Boromir is still recovering from wounds he sustained on his journey, and must take some rest before he—”
“Is your brother to speak for you from now on?” Denethor sneers, turning to Boromir with a cruel twist to his mouth. “I have entrusted this task to you, not Faramir.” He waves them off, dismissive. “Do not trouble me with every hurt and sorrow that ails you. Stop by the Houses, if you must.”
The Houses of Healing, Boromir thinks, releasing a small sigh of relief. His wounds will receive proper treatment there, at least for long enough until he must ride to Osgiliath.
At the thought of that city, he shudders. Their battles for Osgiliath have met with varied results, each success coupled with failure; the last time, they had kept the western shore at the cost of the east, paid dearly with the lives of Men for the destruction of the last bridge to keep the enemy at bay.
Faramir seems to have had the same thought during their walk to the healing chambers, as he reaches out to brush his knuckles against Boromir’s. Falls into step beside Boromir, his footfalls just as heavy in the wake of their father’s order. “Together,” he says firmly, quiet. “We will ride out and lead the vanguard together.”
Boromir threads his fingers bravely through Faramir’s. “Together,” he nods. Together, he and his brother are worth ten men—no, a hundred—and if their father wills it, they will see this done.
Further reports from Faramir’s Rangers tally the total of Sauron’s army—only that which is gathered at Osgiliath alone—to be at least a hundred and eighty thousand, with more Easterlings and Southrons joining them each day.
“With your Rangers and our soldiers depleted after the last attack on Osgiliath, the most we can spare for this venture is two hundred men.” Boromir shakes his head. “Two hundred, against nearly two hundred thousand? Not even with ten thousand men could we retake Osgiliath now. It is folly,” he sighs, sinking back into his chair, dejected. Winces as the new bandages from the healing halls chafe against skin. Chairs in the council room were made more for ceremony and pomp, and not for comfort, it seems.
“We may have enough for a charge with heavy cavalry,” Faramir points out.
“But not men enough to support us as light cavalry,” Boromir says. “And we have not the time to gather archers to us. Besides, it would not bode us well to be rushing at the Orcs under the full light of day.” He stands and braces his hands on the table, hair falling over his eyes as he hangs his head. “They will see us coming. Our bodies would litter the fields of Pelennor before we even reached the city. And so, I think—
“—we should set out just before dawn,” Faramir finishes, already nodding. “That they will still be muddled with sleep, or at the least be exposed to the first light of the sun, while we will have the advantage.”
“Except you forget: the Orcs flourish under cover of darkness,” says a voice, dry and unimpressed, from the direction of the great hall. “And the light of the sun has fallen into shadow, a device of Sauron’s making to ease his army’s passage.”
“Gandalf?” Boromir says, his voice filled with wonder and awe at the same time Faramir gasps the wizard’s Elven name. Boromir lopes forward to embrace Gandalf as the wizard steps into the council room. “I thought you had fallen, my friend. At the hands of the Balrog. But here you are, hale and well!”
Gandalf, his hair snow-white and drawn away from his face, leans back from Boromir’s careful, one-armed embrace. “I did,” he laughs, “but that is a story for another time. Now,” Gandalf says, regarding the two of them sternly. “What is this I hear about Osgiliath?”
Faramir’s bright smile at seeing his once-mentor sours instantly. “The Steward has given the order for us to retake the city. In spite of the knowledge that it is overrun.”
“Fool of a Steward!” Gandalf snarls, striking his staff into the ground. “Spending his sons in one fell swoop, especially one so recently returned from death’s door!”
From that, Boromir gathers that Gandalf knows about what transpired at Amon Hen, and he and Faramir share a cautious look. There is nothing of reproach in the wizard’s tone, however; in fact, he seems almost indignant on their behalf.
“This is a fool’s errand,” Gandalf declares darkly. “There is a time and place to reclaim the lost cities of Gondor, but this is not it.”
“What would you have us do instead?” asks Faramir with a sigh. “The Steward’s word is law.”
Gandalf turns his gaze on both of them, but his words are directed toward Faramir. “I have taught you better than that, Faramir—the laws of Men are not the laws of the land! I will speak with the Steward; you would do better to stay and strengthen the forces here at Minas Tirith.”
With that, Gandalf turns from the hall, a whirl of white robes and irritation.
Boromir studies the map they have spread out along the table, of Gondor and its surrounding lands. Picks absently at a corner of the map, the parchment yellowed with age and rumpled from long years of use.
“There is wisdom to Gandalf’s words,” he says finally. “Our father’s will has turned to madness, whether by his dark need for the Ring or by another power, I do not know. But there is no need for us throw away our lives so rashly.” He strokes his jaw, thoughtful. “Perhaps this venture could serve as a token attack. It may not even have to be an attack at all.”
“Oh?” says Faramir. “What are you suggesting?”
“The Rangers function best from the shadows, utilizing stealth; they would be ill-used in a straight charge. We could instead use this as an opportunity to scout the city further. Our numbers until now have been inexact; this would allow us to confirm how many of the enemy are established at Osgiliath, who else is coming, and from where,” Boromir explains. “Then we will withdraw our forces quickly and quietly, and regroup at Minas Tirith. So that we may strike out at the enemy and defend our city from a place of strength.”
“Is there a need to leave Minas Tirith at all?” asks Faramir, doubtful. “Mithrandir said Gondor would be better served if we were to stay and strengthen the city from within.”
Boromir shakes his head. “We must set out for Osgiliath regardless, to appease our father. And when we return, we will tell him we tried but failed to take back the city. He will not know the attempt was a token one at best.” It does not bear saying that an actual attempt would be hopeless also, and result in more losses than their city can bear.
“But Mithrandir said he would speak with—” Faramir tries, and Boromir can see how his brother still clings to hope, still places his trust in his old teacher. He places his palm over Faramir’s hand, warm.
“Faramir,” he says, honest as he has always been with his brother. “You and I both know Father will not rescind his order. Our only hope now is to reduce the number of casualties that we can, to keep men enough for the fight that is sure to come to Minas Tirith. What I need to know now is, are you with me in this?”
Faramir frowns, clearly unhappy at the prospect of losing more Rangers, perhaps even at losing his own life. But he turns his hand, curling his palm up to meet Boromir’s. “I am,” he says softly. “Always.”
Only then does Boromir release a sigh of relief, a breath he had not known he was holding, until he knew his brother was with him in this, utterly and completely.
Together, Boromir and Faramir inform the men of the impending mission, notify them of the change that they are not, as first expected, charging into battle, but engaging in reconnaissance. It is an apparent relief, especially to those so recently returned from Osgiliath.
When they have ensured that all the men are aware of the change, and that the weaponry and supplies are ready for the next day’s task, Boromir retires to his room, and Faramir to his. Their unspoken agreement to retire separately and reunite later in the night still stands, however, and on this night, it is Boromir’s turn to go to his brother.
“Faramir?” he whispers cautiously, as he makes his way into the near-dark of the room. It is unlikely for anyone else to be present, but long years of this have taught Boromir the importance of discretion. Only fools and novice thieves announce their presence boisterously, and he is neither.
Faramir’s response is to tug him into the bed, quiet, shifting until there is space enough for both of them. “I nearly thought you would not come,” Faramir breathes, pinching Boromir’s side lightly in reproach.
Boromir chuckles into Faramir’s mouth as he winds his arms around Faramir’s waist. “I had to wait for the last of the maids to return to her quarters. You would not believe half the gossip they enjoy twittering about in the late hours.”
When Faramir says nothing in reply, Boromir fears he has fallen asleep. “Faramir?” he says, nudging his brother, once. If Faramir has indeed found slumber, it is well-deserved; he would let his brother rest, for the day has been taxing on them both. It is a surprise, then, when Faramir twines his arms under Boromir’s shoulders, his legs pressing behind Boromir’s knees and wrapping around his calves.
“I do not wish to set out for Osgiliath on the morrow,” Faramir whispers, sudden, fierce.
“We have been through this, Faramir. We must.” Boromir touches their foreheads together, in a bid to reassure his brother.
“No,” says Faramir, emphatic, jerking away from the touch. “No.”
“We must. I know the thought of losing even one of your Rangers upsets you,” Boromir tries, “but—”
Faramir releases Boromir’s shoulders, hands curling tight around Boromir’s instead, as he shakes his head. “My Rangers, yes. My friends. But the thought of losing you,” Faramir whispers, “is what distresses me the most.”
Boromir snorts a laugh. “I can handle myself in battle, if it comes to that. You need not worry.”
“Yes, because you handled yourself so well at Amon Hen,” Faramir says bitterly, before his eyes widen in realization. He leans in to kiss Boromir’s jaw, gentle, in apology. “Boromir, I am sorry. I did not mean to—”
“I was outnumbered,” Boromir replies mulishly. It is all he will say on the matter; Boromir will tell Faramir in time, of the lone Uruk-hai bowman that had laid him low, but it is not now.
“And if we are outnumbered at Osgiliath, as we are sure to be? What then?” Faramir asks, his hands clutching too tight, too worried around Boromir’s, making him wonder if Faramir has indeed had a vision of the next day’s events. “What happens, if for all our stealth, the enemy finds us out and surrounds us? If I am not there to help you, just as I was not there at—”
“Faramir,” Boromir says softly. Draws him in close, until he can wrap his arms fully around Faramir’s waist. The time for panic and trepidation is long past; so, too, is the time for preparation on the battle’s eve, in armaments and strategy. There is only time enough now for tender words, gentler affections, and pleasure, too, if Faramir will allow it. “We have made our plans,” he says, pressing a kiss to Faramir’s cheek, experimental. “We have prepared our strategy.” A kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Let us now turn our minds to other things,” he soothes, as he kisses Faramir on the mouth proper. Pauses, a twitch of a smile tugging at his lips. “Things of a more pleasurable nature.”
“You cannot be serious,” Faramir manages, between Boromir’s presses of lips to his. “I try to speak reason to you, and you try to silence me with—nngh—kisses, of all things!”
“Oh?” Boromir muses, smiling at the little gasps Faramir makes between each meeting of their mouths. “Then I shall cease forthwith.”
Faramir reaches for Boromir’s neck, tugging him forward. “Do not dare,” he huffs, somewhere between laughter and irritation.
Boromir takes this as an invitation to surge forward, his hands insatiable in their quest for Faramir’s warmth, for the touch of his skin, as he kisses his way down Faramir’s jaw, along his throat. He urges Faramir out of his tunic as Faramir tugs his off in turn, and oh, that is lovely—the expanse of skin and warmth of Faramir’s body against his—but Boromir has another destination in mind, and he blazes a trail with lips and tongue down Faramir’s chest. Over his belly. Hot, feverish kisses that have Faramir arching against his touch.
“Boromir?” Faramir says, hesitant, when Boromir starts mouthing at the drawstring of his undergarments. And again, with more conviction, when Boromir tugs them down with his teeth and off. “Boromir, wait—”
Boromir pauses in the middle of pressing bruising kisses into Faramir’s thighs, leaving wine-dark marks along them. “All right?” he asks, his voice hoarse, more breathy than usual. They have loved each other with calloused fingers and firm, steady strokes, but never in the manner that Boromir is suggesting now, a pleasure to be gained from lips and tongue, paired with slickened palms and clever fingers.
Faramir takes a shaky breath. “All right,” he nods, and at this permission, Boromir nuzzles his face into Faramir’s lap. Buries his face into the soft nest of red-gold curls, simply breathing in, enjoying the scent, the musk of his brother, before daring to dart out his tongue and taste.
When Faramir rakes a hand through Boromir’s hair, fingers tightening within it, Boromir becomes more daring, laving his tongue along Faramir’s sac. Slides his palm along the hardened length as he draws it forth, full and flush and leaking, licking around the head of Faramir’s cock. Touches his tongue to the slit, and at Faramir’s surprised moan, swallows him down, lips closing full around his shaft.
“Boromir,” Faramir says, his voice strained. “This—this is hardly fair.”
“Mmnh,” hums Boromir, and at Faramir’s choked groan, he huffs a laugh. “Fair, no. Indecent? Yes.” He lifts his head to look into Faramir’s eyes, the sea-blue of his brother’s eyes nearly annexed by black. “Well? Do you feel pleasure from such indecency?” he asks cheekily.
“I will show you indecency,” Faramir growls, shifting forcibly until Boromir is on his hands and knees above him, taking Boromir into his mouth as Boromir has done him. He flicks his tongue into the delicate hood of Boromir’s cock. Steadies Boromir’s hips with his hands, his fingers pressed into skin, firm and unyielding.
Faramir, Boromir thinks to gasp, urgent, hushed, but Faramir nudges his length against Boromir’s mouth, and Boromir busies himself with pleasuring his brother in turn, nosing at his cock, gentle. Presses darting licks to the tip, the shaft, before letting it slide deep into his mouth. Lets it press against the back of his throat, before drawing it back out to tease the head again, a motion he repeats, until with a muffled cry from Faramir below, he tastes the burst of Faramir’s essence on his tongue, of tang and salt and warmth. Drinks each drop down, eager, greedy, until Faramir is shaking in his grip, panting, breathless.
“Boromir,” Faramir gasps tightly, his voice wet. He redoubles efforts on his end, cupping Boromir’s sac as he swirls his tongue over it. Forms a ring with his fingers as he slides Boromir’s length deep into his throat and out, again and again until Boromir is left scrabbling at Faramir’s thighs for purchase, clawing nails into the sheets, his teeth gritted as Faramir licks and tugs and strokes. It is only when Faramir presses a finger slyly against his hole, pressing up and nearly in, that Boromir jerks forward, breath catching harsh in his throat in a wordless cry, his body shaking hard as he spills into Faramir’s waiting mouth.
With a soft, satisfied noise, Faramir crawls back into the circle of Boromir’s arms. Nudges into the space meant only for him, as he kisses Boromir again, neither hungry nor sensual this time, but gentle brushes of lips against brow and cheeks and mouth.
Boromir chuckles at these softer touches. Licks boldly into Faramir’s mouth, tasting himself on Faramir’s lips, before Faramir matches his affections, chasing the flavour of his own essence into Boromir’s.
“If that was a taste of your indecency, perhaps you should next show me debauchery,” says Boromir, sleepy, sated.
“I may well do that,” agrees Faramir, and there is a smile in his voice that Boromir feels against his lips as much as he hears. Makes him nuzzle closer into his brother’s arms.
As he watches Faramir’s eyes flutter closed, Boromir’s heart aches at the sight of their hair fanned out together on the pillow, his honey-blond mingling with Faramir’s autumn-gold. The thought occurs to him then, that if all goes wrong tomorrow, if there is no next time, at least they will have had this.
He twines himself tighter into Faramir’s arms, where he finds a quiet, if fitful slumber.
At least they will have had this.
They wait for word from Gandalf, regarding the original strategy of staying at Minas Tirith and strengthening the city’s defenses from within. Trust in him to sway their father’s decision, giving the wizard the benefit of the doubt.
When the hour before dawn comes, however, there is neither sign of Gandalf nor a retraction of the Steward’s orders; clearly, talks have failed. With a heavy heart and Faramir’s assistance, Boromir quickly musters a contingent of Rangers to set out for Osgiliath.
He studies the lay of the land before they set out, realizing that Gandalf had indeed spoken true: from the direction of Mordor, an unnatural gloom steals its way across the sky, veiling even the brightest of stars. Boromir shivers at the implications of such a darkness and pulls his cloak tighter about himself against the twilight chill, grateful now for its extra lining of fur; he had placed his Elven cloak into the storage of his room, along with the belt of golden leaves, both gifts from Galadriel too much of a reminder of his time with the Fellowship. Had decided instead to trade the utility of the forest-green cloak for the warmth of his old one, feeling unworthy of the Elves’ gift.
Faramir presses fingers, warm, to Boromir’s waist, a distraction from his nebulous thoughts. Soothes a circle into the small of his back, the motion carefully discreet but affectionate. He raises his eyebrows as if to ask, Ready?
Boromir nods in response, and together, they signal the contingent of Rangers they have gathered, snaking their way quietly through the tall grasses. There is nothing stirring the air, save for the sound of the wind, whispering dry through the grass and curling whisper-soft around their boots. With the sun yet to appear in the sky, perhaps their fewer numbers will have an advantage.
They arrive on the outskirts of Osgiliath with time enough to take advantage of the darkness, the numerous Rangers taking cover in shadows and crevices both. A quick survey of the city’s battered ruins diminishes Boromir’s fears that Sauron’s army would be lying in wait for them, this tiny rebel group of Men from Minas Tirith; it appears they are completely unworried by any defiant force from Gondor, and are instead, busy preparing for the battle ahead, working their makeshift forges and setting blades to whetstones. Those Orcs who slave at neither engage in loose sparring matches amongst themselves, or squabble over dice games to while away the time.
Boromir signals for Faramir and their men to advance; it is nearly too easy, with the Orcs distracted in such a manner. Faramir and the Rangers quietly assassinate the outliers in Sauron’s army, those who had been alone and away from the group, who might alert the others to their presence, slitting throats with concealed daggers and laying their bodies away from where they fell. Boromir counts Haradrim, Easterlings and Orcs among the corpses, his apprehension growing at this confirmation of the Rangers’ intelligence; Sauron’s army is indeed varied and strong, if he can count these groups among his allies.
Both Boromir and Faramir advance enough to see the tops of siege towers and what appear to be rudimentary battering rams, before doubling back behind a broken pillar.
“Should we scout deeper into the city?” Boromir asks, looking to his brother. “Perhaps we could find out what other weapons the enemy will use against us.”
With a frown, Faramir shakes his head. “Have we not already seen the state of Sauron’s armies? What advantage would there be in scouting further? We should leave while our way back is still clear.” When Boromir furrows his brow, Faramir whispers reassuringly, “Whichever decision you make, know that I am with you.”
Boromir nods, encouraged. “We will go back,” he says, having considered his brother’s reasoning and found it sound.
Faramir palms the hilt of his sword, cautious, while pressing his other hand to the small of Boromir’s back, protective, and they step out from beneath the pillar’s shadow for all but a moment to signal the men to turn back.
Right into the line of sight of an Orc lookout, stationed high upon a crumbling bell tower.
Faramir nocks an arrow before Boromir can alert him to the Orc, letting his arrow fly. Its flight is swift and true, striking its mark between the eyes in an instant, but it is too late; the Orc, in its death throes, tangles a vindictive hand around the pull of the bell, and the loud, heavy chime of the bell rings out across the city, alerting Osgiliath’s new inhabitants to their presence.
An unnatural quiet follows the dying echoes of the bell, but before long, a rush of scuttling follows, Orcs swarming out from behind crumbled battlements and half-collapsed stairways, not unlike a startled ant colony, to surround them. Faramir had been right: that they were hopelessly outnumbered, even here on the edges of Osgiliath. That there had been hordes of Sauron’s army hidden deeper in the city, shaping their crude blades and towers, battering rams to break down Gondor’s already feeble defenses, and who knew what else.
They are no longer safe now, no longer unseen.
Boromir’s hand finds Faramir’s in the chaos for all but a second—if they must fight, he would fight with his brother by his side—before they are both drawing swords, fighting for their lives and for those under their command.
“Fall back!” Boromir roars over the rattling war cries of the Orcs. “Fall back to Minas Tirith!” He fights off the oncoming Orcs, herding Faramir and his Rangers onward behind him, hoping to let them escape first, that they would not waste any life in this venture.
The Rangers, for their part, dispatch Orcs and the now advancing Haradrim with arrow after arrow as they fight their way back toward Minas Tirith, drawing as near to the border where they entered as they can.
The way appears nearly clear when the air is rent by the scalding scream of a Nazgûl, the beat of its fell-beast’s wings heavy, foul, a violent gale forcing them back and away from Minas Tirith.
“Faramir!” Boromir calls, and knowing his request, Faramir lets fly an arrow at the fell-beast’s throat, lifting the shadow from overhead in an instant.
From afar, Boromir spies Gandalf making his way across the fields atop his shining steed, his staff held high as a light, pure and white, emanates from it, arcing toward the Nazgûl and its fell-beast in a wide beam. Fends them off from the escaping Rangers. He breathes a small sigh of relief; as long as the Rangers make it to the borders of Osgiliath, they will be safe. With that thought, he turns, searching for Faramir in the chaos.
Panic seizes him; Faramir had been at his back only moments ago, but is now nowhere to be seen. Had he followed his men to safety, retreating from Osgiliath? Or had he been trapped among the ruins, still fighting, or worse, still looking for Boromir?
A quick glance at his surroundings shows Faramir fighting off an Orc with his sword, sparing just enough time to fling a dagger in Boromir’s direction, felling an Orc just behind him. Boromir grunts, grateful, and just as Faramir slays the Orc he was fighting, Boromir calls for him. Thinks to tell him to fall back; that they must retreat, now, especially while his old mentor has shielded them from the worst of the Nazgûl’s fury. He turns, for just a moment, to see that Gandalf has turned back towards Minas Tirith, but this cannot be right, he is leaving without them—
—and Faramir, when he turns back—Faramir, distracted by Boromir’s call for all of a heartbeat, is instantly struck by arrows from an Orc sniper.
“No!” Boromir cries. He leaps over fallen Orcs and stone ruins, dashing toward Faramir’s fallen form, his heart in his throat. If only he had kept silent, or been close enough to shield Faramir from the arrows! As it is, he grips his sword tightly mid-run, ready to defend his brother if need be. To buy time, in the hopes that Gandalf might still return and ensure Faramir’s escape from the city.
His cry seems to have drawn the attention of lesser Orcs nearby, however, and one of them seizes its opportunity in Boromir’s distraction, leaping out to club him across the back of the head, the blow studded, brutal and sharp.
Boromir registers a dull throbbing, and a tacky wetness, one that trails down the back of his head and mats his hair with blood, before darkness takes him.
(tbc - Chapter 6)
End Notes:
- “…they had kept the western shore at the cost of the east, paid dearly with the lives of Men for the destruction of the last bridge to keep the enemy at bay”. Refers to Sauron’s previous attack on Osgiliath, in which Boromir and Faramir had to cast down the bridge connecting Western and Eastern Osgiliath, to prevent Sauron’s forces from advancing—and only they and two other Men survived.
- Scene of Boromir and Faramir fighting by each other’s side at Osgiliath inspired by Blood of Numenor by Magali Villeneuve.
OST:
- The Battle at Osgiliath: Sword and Council – Brian Tyler
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!
