Title: Hope Prevails
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 5320 (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 first thing Boromir remembers when he blinks back into a wakeful daze, is the sight of Faramir crumpling before him, pierced through with arrows.
That he should survive his injuries at Amon Hen but Faramir be felled by arrows in turn is an irony too bitter to bear, and it takes all that Boromir has to lie stock-still and observe his surroundings first, instead of searching for Faramir in a frenzied panic.
Of the Orcs that had swarmed their company earlier, many have returned to their prior tasks, either working the forges, sharpening their blades, or constructing their machines of war. He searches the ground around him discreetly, spotting several of the Rangers he had come with lying where they had fallen.
His brother is not among them.
Hope springs anew in Boromir’s heart, like a hardy mountain flower pushing between cracks of even the most barren rock; Faramir must have gotten away, he decides. He must still live!
Boromir spares a moment to wonder why he himself is still alive, but credits the outcropping of rock that had collapsed on him when he lost consciousness, littering him with ash and rubble, obscuring him from the Orcs’ sight. That, or the Orcs were so assured of their resounding victory that they did not stop to check if Boromir was dead.
He takes advantage of the Orcs’ distraction to snake across the dusty ground. Scrounges pieces of Orc armour from their dead, while those alive busy themselves amassing armaments to march against Minas Tirith, and dons the armour quickly, to hide among their number.
Boromir knows subtlety and subterfuge now, and he will have need of both if he is to see his brother and his city again.
Picking his way across fallen battlements and clouds of mortar dust, he harvests more Orc armour, grabbing a helm here, trading a rusted cuirass there, until he is no longer recognizable as a Captain of Gondor, resplendent in a fur cloak and embroidered crimson tunic but as a solid, broadly built Orc with less-than-grimy skin. He is well-blended within the enemy colors now, camouflaged with the Orcs’ dull plate-scale armour and their crude blades.
In his search for armour, Boromir stumbles upon Madril’s body, his eyes wide even in death, his thinning grey hair matted with blood. The spear impaled through his chest has been left standing, as if a testament to the Orcs’ might, and the dawn of their age. Boromir spares a moment to say a silent prayer for Faramir’s second-in-command, lamenting the loss of friend and soldier both. Gondor had lost a good man in his passing; she would have need of each one before the end.
A self-assured voice detailing battle plans captures Boromir’s attention, and he sneaks closer, hoping to eavesdrop on their strategy.
“—plan is to lay siege to Minas Tirith,” Boromir overhears from behind a half-formed wall. “We’ll take out their gates with Grond, and get over their high walls to lay waste to their armies with our siege towers.”
Boromir creeps ever closer; an Orc who he assumes to be their leader, a deformed bulbous thing with a lame left hand, is issuing orders to those under his command.
“Anyone left alive will be taken out by our catapults or be crushed by their own debris.” The Orc nods, sanctimonious. “The age of Men is over,” he declares. “The time of the Orc has come!”
Boromir doubles back behind the wall, his heart drumming so wildly in his chest, he fears it can be heard even amid the loud cheers and stamping of the Orcs nearby. He barely manages to make out their further plans among the din: that the endless hordes of Orcs will be followed closely by legions of the Haradrim aboard their fearsome mûmakil, the Corsairs with their stealthy ships, and the Nazgûl upon their fell-beasts.
Against this force, Minas Tirith will be razed to the ground.
The city must be warned! Boromir thinks, horrified. Minas Tirith cannot stand against this army amassing on all sides, its own armies depleted and disheartened so.
He moves with measured stealth, back through the makeshift camps set up in the city, and commandeers a warg, planning to ride out to Minas Tirith in the guise of an Orc scout. But as he reaches the outer limits of the city, an Orc wearing the skull of either its enemy or its brethren—it is hard to tell, with these befouled creatures—as a helmet calls him back.
“’Oy! Where’re ye’ going?” the Orc asks, grabbing a handful of the warg’s fur to halt it.
The warg growls in displeasure, snapping at the Orc with teeth razor-sharp and wet. Boromir hides his laugh behind a cough when the Orc snatches his hand back to avoid having it bitten off; he is starting to grow fond of this warg already, and he scratches a hand through the burnt-umber fur of its head. Stifles a smile when the warg chuffs at him, affectionate, like an overgrown dog.
“Goin’ to scout the city we’re to attack,” Boromir replies gruffly.
The Orc laughs, his voice cruel, grating like loose gravel. “We got all the ‘telligence we need on the city,” he says. “Get ta’ work on loading the catapults instead, ye’ lazy scum. Or check that the siege towers’ll hold ‘til we get close to the city. There’s work here needs doin’!” He kicks at the warg’s rump as Boromir turns to go, and Boromir feels a dark satisfaction when the warg snaps teeth too close to the Orc’s face for comfort.
Boromir grudgingly tethers the warg where he found it, petting it, regretful, as it noses questioningly at his hand. “Another time, perhaps,” he offers. It is a platitude; he knows not whether either of them will survive this war.
As soon as Boromir returns to the camp the Orc directed him towards, he does not load the catapults as instructed, but silently sabotages them instead, loosening bolts under the guise of tightening them, fraying the ropes where he can. He does the same with the battering rams, hoping these changes, however small, will somehow turn the tide of the war.
When he happens upon the siege towers, however, Boromir strokes his jaw, thoughtful, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind. This may well be his only recourse; any further attempts to escape Osgiliath would be suspect.
Just as he is evaluating his options, the blare of war horns sounds over the city, dark and resonant, the baleful noise signalling their march. Boromir scrambles to join the Orcs’ ranks, quickening his steps to match those around him, their footfalls heavy, menacing, meant to strike terror into the hearts of Men.
Boromir suppresses a shudder of his own—he can only hope now that his brother is safe behind the city walls, that the intelligence gained in their mission will prepare the city for what is to come, and that Gandalf has a plan, against the army over two hundred thousand-strong, that Mordor will soon bring to Minas Tirith’s gates, each of their number merciless, savage and cruel.
~
The march to Minas Tirith is miserable and the pace brutal—made all the more so by a hulking Orc taskmaster, waiting in the wings to flog those who fall behind with a barbed whip. Only the thought of Faramir drives Boromir onward now, keeping him on his feet and propelling him on in this farce.
The armies soon arrive in front of the city, and when the screeching cry of “Catapults!” is heard, Boromir is jostled into helping load them. He does so with a sick horror, finding that the initial projectiles are none other than the heads of his fallen comrades, in varying states of decay. Closes his eyes and swallows, hard, to quell the wave of revulsion that rises from his stomach.
These are Orc heads, Boromir tells himself. Orcs that were felled in Osgiliath to keep the presence of our company secret.
Soon, volleys of arrows rain down from the city in response, followed by chunks of debris from Minas Tirith’s own parapets.
Boromir dodges the volley of arrows coming from the city above, taking cover behind the siege towers and the bands of Orcs rushing ahead of him, eager for a chance at the fight. He must make his way into Minas Tirith, and with haste, but how?
For a moment he considers joining the ranks of those Orcs at the battering rams, but gambles instead on one of the siege towers making it through the fields intact; though they stand a higher chance of being shattered by the city’s own trebuchets, the siege towers would provide access to the city more quickly, which is just what Boromir needs.
When his unit is a distance close enough to the city’s walls, Boromir shoulders his way through the other Orcs, climbing into one of the troll-driven siege towers yet unbroken. Hoists himself up, rung over rung, the coarse wood tearing and scraping at his hands. Never has he been more grateful for the clawed Orc gauntlets he had stolen from one of their dead than now.
He bullies his way through the tower, ignoring reedy cries of “’Ey!” and “Watch where yer’ goin’!” until he makes it to the top. At the unsteady sway of the tower, Boromir thinks to remake his decision, to return to safer ground and join the battering rams, but it is too late; he has thrown his lot in with the tower, and already the leader at the front is slamming down the gangplank to the upper walls.
They have breached the city, and the Orcs around him bellow as if victory is already theirs.
Boromir lets the Orcs hurrying ahead of him on the gangplank take the brunt of the counterattack, and the moment he feels the familiar flagstones of Minas Tirith beneath his feet again, he strips off his Orc helmet, turning on the ones he came up with, vicious.
Undoes a Gondorian cuirass, dented, from one of the fallen when there is a lull in the attack, and flings the Orc one away, shoving the new one on hastily and fastening the catches when he can.
He is slipping his hands back into the Orc gauntlets when he spots a cluster of soldiers gaping at him. “To me!” Boromir shouts, rallying the men toward him. Several of them are so grateful to see him, grateful for his guidance in this chaos that they nearly fall to their knees. “To me!” he shouts again above the din.
“To Captain Boromir!” they cry, heartened, passing on the message.
Once Boromir has gathered a sizeable number of soldiers, he mobilizes the small battalion to hold the Great Gate against the enormous wolf’s-head battering ram that threatens to charge through. They cannot man both gates and walls at the same time, and Boromir has seen enough to trust in Gandalf to lead the defense at the walls.
“Ready!” shouts Boromir, over the deafening chant of Grond, Grond, Grond from outside. “Steady!”
A group of soldiers stands staunchly, their spears aimed toward the gate, a line of archers behind them. Boromir’s keen eye does not miss their trembling.
“You are warriors of Gondor,” Boromir declares, his voice finding volume as he remembers Aragorn’s rallying words, words that had wrenched him back into the world of the living, had given him purpose. “You are warriors of Gondor, and no matter what comes through that gate, you will stand your ground!”
Boromir nearly falters when the flaming wolf’s head breaks through the last of Minas Tirith’s main gate and armoured trolls burst through as the vanguard. But he gathers enough wits about him to shout, “Volley!” for a cascade of arrows from the archers.
The arrows deter the trolls for all of a few seconds before they swing their maces and dispatch most of the spearmen in the frontline in one go.
“For Gondor!” Boromir shouts in defiance, his sword held high as he dashes toward the nearest troll. His sword arcs through the air, forceful flashes of steel that rend and gouge until the troll crumples to the ground, its torso a mess of ichor and broken flesh.
Finding their courage in the presence of their Captain and following his example, the remaining soldiers charge into the fray, hacking and slashing at the trolls that had burst through.
“For Gondor!” Boromir cries again, and those that had followed him, who knew the taste of victory in West Osgiliath not so long ago, join him in his war cry, hungering not only for survival, but victory also, even in the face of the Orcs rushing into the city. Even in the face of trolls smashing apart both men and the city with each swing of their maces.
They kill what Orcs they can, weaken the trolls where they are able, and continue fighting this way until finally, even Boromir must admit that the first level of the city is overrun. That they must retreat to the next level or risk certain death.
“Fall back!” Boromir urges. “Fall back to the second level!” He notices the lack of women and children in the part of the city they have retreated to, and spares a moment to be thankful for Gandalf’s preemptive evacuation efforts.
When at last the soldiers still left have gathered safely behind the gate of the city’s second level, there is a momentary lull—a chance of respite in the battle in which Boromir strains to think of strategies to hold this gate against the onslaught of Orcs sure to come.
“Captain Boromir!” shouts a voice, surprised and all kinds of relieved.
“Rýndaer?” Boromir calls, heartened. He knows not how Rýndaer, a captain stationed usually in the city’s fifth circle, survived the catapult and Nazgûl attacks, but clasps his shoulders in camaraderie, grateful for this miracle.
“We thought you had fallen in Osgiliath,” Rýndaer says in a breathy rush, wiping a mess of grime and blood from his brow. “The foolhardy Rangers who turned back for Captain Faramir said they could not find your body—with good reason, I now see!” Rýndaer beams. “This is good news, indeed! You must let Lord Denethor know immediately; he was told Osgiliath had fallen, that both his sons were—”
“Wait, never mind that; what of Faramir?” Boromir asks desperately. “Have you seen him?” He grips the soldier by the shoulders, nearly shaking Rýndaer in his panic. “Have you seen my brother?”
“Ah—yes, I—Lord Denethor has taken to him to the Houses,” Rýndaer says, suddenly quiet.
“Oh, of Healing,” sighs Boromir, sagging against the soldier in relief. He knew Faramir could not have fallen so easily, knew it in his heart.
Rýndaer brings his arms up to steady Boromir’s shoulders, oddly gentle. “No,” he says, shaking his head, solemn, “the Houses of the Dead.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I hear that Lord Denethor and the pallbearers traversed Rath Dínen not long ago, bearing Lord Faramir’s body.”
No. In an instant, Boromir feels as if the breath has been wrung from his lungs, robbing him of air, and he deflates, crumpling against Rýndaer for support. Not Faramir—it cannot be.
From Rýndaer’s report, they must be taking his brother’s body to be interred with the kings and stewards of old. Something in Boromir’s chest shatters at the thought, a keen blow that slips through the cracks of his cuirass and strikes at his heart, but he has not time enough to sink to his knees, to grieve for his brother properly.
A deeper, darker part of him churns with guilt; tells him that in return for his life being spared at Amon Hen, Faramir’s was taken in exchange.
“Captain Boromir?” Rýndaer tries, hesitant, and it is only then Boromir realizes he has been saying his litany of No, no, no aloud. He looks up, forlorn, his fingers still clutching Rýndaer’s shoulders, useless. Stares unseeing, as Rýndaer offers him empty platitudes, the ones Boromir himself has offered to the wives of his soldiers, widowed too soon from the war.
My condolences, he remembers saying. I am sorry for your loss.
But no matter the number of condolences or apologies, they could not bring back the dead. Could not bring the light back into their eyes. And the thought of Faramir, interred in stone, his lightless gaze forever turned to his lidded tomb, nearly cripples Boromir.
Numbs him until he is rooted firmly in place, clinging to Rýndaer, wordless, hopeless.
Never would Faramir take in the wondrous beauty of Rivendell, with its gently cascading falls and elegant architecture, or the radiance of Caras Galadhon—even the majestic Argonath that marked the border of their home, all of them sights Faramir had long wished for. Vistas Boromir had promised they would visit together, after.
There would be no after, now. No together. The notion of a life without his brother buckles Boromir’s knees from beneath him, and a crushing pain seizes his chest, leaving an aching hollow where his heart once was.
“Gandalf!” A familiar voice, thin and terror-stricken, shakes him from his stupor. “Gandalf!”
Boromir first spots Gandalf—who must have ridden down from the higher circles during the lull, to check the strength of their second circle’s gate—then Pippin, alive and well, dressed puzzlingly in Gondor’s colors, dashing this way and that to duck past the trampling hooves of rearing horses and slipping nearly unseen past the soldiers. Boromir has not the time for a greeting when the scattering of Orcs from higher in the city might continue their onslaught any moment, but he thinks to reach Pippin somehow, to herd the tiny Halfling behind him and protect him, until he hears Pippin shout the words Faramir and burning him alive to Gandalf, as he finds Gandalf in the fray. Sees Gandalf tug Pippin onto his horse and gallop off toward the higher circles of the city.
Alive! Boromir registers suddenly, stunned. He leaps to his feet in an instant, heart pounding double time in his chest. But the gate, he must hold it—
“Go!” Rýndaer says, eyes wide at the realization. He pushes Boromir in the direction of the city’s higher levels. “I will lead the troops gathered here in your stead. Go!”
Spurred by his encouragement, Boromir charges his way forward through the trail leading to the Houses of the Dead. One Orc, then another, thinks to waylay him on his hurried course, but Boromir drives them from his path with a roar, cleaving heads from shoulders, limbs from torsos, one after another, brutal. Seizes a riderless horse to hasten his flight to Faramir.
Please, Boromir begs, racing through level after level of the city, as if the whole legion of Nazgûl dogs his heels. He does not know what he pleads with the Valar for first—that he is not too late, that Faramir still lives, that their father might come to his senses and cease this nonsense—only knows that he must see his brother, safe and alive or no.
When he reaches the House of the Stewards, Boromir finds the great doors slightly ajar and throws them open, groaning with the effort, stumbling into the chamber in time to see a makeshift pyre alight with fire, the flames roaring at oil-soaked wood. He makes out Pippin’s small form in the fire, struggling to roll Faramir off the pyre, and races over himself to help. Forcibly wrenches Faramir from the fire, despite the gruesome pain that lances through his barely-healed shoulder.
“Faramir,” Boromir gasps, his voice hoarse, desperate. He and Pippin hurry to beat the flames from Faramir’s finery, before there are talons set at his shoulders, tearing Pippin away and wrenching Boromir from his brother’s side.
“You will not take my son from me!” Denethor howls, wrestling with Pippin, shaking him, clawing him, as if the Halfling who would not bend to his madness was an obstacle to destroy, to ruin.
“Father!” Boromir snaps. He thinks to throw himself against his father, just as Gandalf’s horse rears up and knocks Denethor into the fire.
“My son?” Denethor says, hesitant, from within the flames. “My son!” he cries again, jubilant. “Boromir, Faramir—”
Boromir spares a moment to be glad their father sees his sons alive, before leaving him to his own devices; surely he will leap out of the flames of his own accord. For now, Boromir must tend to his brother.
That plan changes quickly when Denethor begins screaming, bolting out the doors with his clothes aflame.
Boromir thinks to race after Denethor, to wrestle him to the ground and beat the flames from his body because his father is on fire but instead sinks to his knees by Faramir’s side, his body arranging his priorities for him.
“Faramir?” he whispers. “Faramir, love, please.” Boromir listens desperately at his chest for a heartbeat, and upon finding a weak but steady rhythm, fumbles for his brother’s hand, holding it tight, as if the force with which he clasps it will bring him around. He barely registers his slip in his address of Faramir, because his brother lies unmoving, barely breathing, proper forms of address be damned.
It is just as well that Gandalf elbows him out of the way, laying a hand across Faramir’s brow. He whispers old words, ancient and fey and imbued with power, and within the span of a heartbeat—two—Faramir crinkles his brow, the motion long-familiar and endearing to Boromir. Blinks up at them, his gaze distant and unfocused.
“Faramir,” Boromir breathes in relief. He clasps Faramir’s face in his hands, thinking to kiss him, to pepper his nose and cheeks and brow with kisses soft and light, thankful for Faramir’s life, before remembering himself in the wizard’s presence. Makes the concession to lay a kiss to Faramir’s brow, gentle, then another and another—
“Boromir,” Faramir gasps, eyes flying wide as he clutches at Boromir’s forearms. The effort of it must strain his injury, as he winces, but his grip is no less desperate for it. “I thought you lost to me, I saw you fall—”
Boromir shakes his head, a bubble of relieved laughter welling up inside him. “I took a blow,” he says, cradling Faramir’s upper body, careful. “But it was not so grievous a wound that I could not make my way back to the city.”
“How did you make your way back?” Faramir asks. “The Orcs…” He tries to rise, but his knees buckle beneath him, and Boromir catches him before he slides to the ground. He hefts Faramir’s arm over his shoulder, holds him steady around the waist. It is all he will allow himself to do in front of Gandalf’s keen gaze.
“I shall regale you with the story another time,” Boromir says, as he half-carries, half-tows his brother toward the healing chambers. “For now, though, you must have proper care. And rest. And someone to see to your wounds.”
He stays just long enough to see Faramir settled in a small cot within the healing halls before turning to go. “Rest now, Faramir,” says Boromir. He brushes a dry wisp of a kiss to his brother’s brow. “I would stay longer, but I must join the men in holding the inner defenses of the city.”
Faramir catches his forearm, his grip bruisingly tight. “Stay safe, brother,” he says. “And return to me. Alive.”
“Faramir, I—” Boromir tries, already shaking his head; he cannot promise that. And because no one is watching them, too busy tending to the wounded or engaged in the battle outside, he presses his lips to Faramir’s, once, hard, before tearing himself away. It is all the promise he can offer for now.
Faramir drags him back by the shoulders for another kiss, heated, searing, and just as Boromir makes to move away, he bites Boromir at the base of his throat, marking him.
“Come back before this fades,” Faramir demands. His fingers wind tight in Boromir’s hair, as if the pressure of them can wrest the promise he needs from Boromir. “Come back to me.” His voice is pitched low, forceful, the weight of it showing that this is no mere request, but a command.
Boromir nods, his heart in his throat; with this, Faramir has marked him, has made Boromir his. He swallows hard, glad for the moment of respite the old wizard has given them, having tarried by the entrance with Pippin, but when he turns to leave, Gandalf is right there.
For one awful, panicked moment, Boromir thinks they have been caught out; he watches as Gandalf’s hollow-eyed gaze sweeps over Faramir’s flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. The way it settles on the bruise forming at the base of Boromir’s throat, a damning rose-colored mark, half-hidden by his tunic.
Gandalf sighs and murmurs something inaudible, before gesturing impatiently with his staff. “Come along, then,” he says to Boromir sternly. “Time is not our ally in this war.” At Boromir’s hesitation to leave his brother’s side, Gandalf’s voice gentles for all but a moment. “There will be time for affections and softer emotions later. But right now, your city needs you.”
He stalks away then, his white cloak stained grey with travel and wear billowing behind him. Pippin, for his part, tips a bright nod in the brothers’ direction before hurrying after him.
Gandalf is right; there will be time enough later for affections, reunions, and mourning, but it is not this time.
Both brothers breathe a sigh of relief when Gandalf is out of sight. Neither of them are fool enough to believe the wizard did not see, but whether he keeps his silence out of an old fondness for Faramir, his once-pupil, or sees no reason to disclose their indiscretion due to indifference, the fact remains that Minas Tirith needs him, needs Boromir to rally its disheartened troops and hold the city against the enemy army.
Boromir squeezes Faramir’s hand once, quick, and turns toward the direction Gandalf left in. As he makes his way out to the battlements, his fingers light on the bruise Faramir has left him, and he presses the mark for encouragement, a strange sense of boldness overtaking him; Faramir has given him a decree—to return before the bruise fades—and he intends to honor that, but first Boromir has a city, a home, and precious lives to defend.
~
Having grown ever hopeful since learning of Pippin’s feat of lighting the first beacon of Gondor, Boromir is immensely glad to find that Rohan, their old allies, have answered their call for aid.
His joy is short-lived, however, when Rohan’s arrival—heralded by the rich, golden tones of war horns bold and clear—is followed by the Haradrim, rampaging through Rohan’s ranks with their mûmakil. Their spiked tusks and wide feet trample through the army of Horse-lords as if they were but mere insects, cutting a swathe through their brave lines.
Then there is no time at all to watch the rest of the battle, as Orcs attempt to charge through the gate Boromir has returned to guard. They try first with their faulty battering rams, confused when the logs tumble clumsily out of their ropes, then enlist in the aid of trolls, tittering as the trolls slam their heavy maces against the wooden gate, splintering it.
Boromir braces himself for another wave of trolls, widening his stance. He knows not how many more of them he and his men can take on, how many more circles of the city they will have to abandon in the effort to protect it. But he squares his shoulders and steels his jaw all the same.
The future of Gondor is up there, he thinks, remembering how the women and children had been herded to safety in the upper levels of the city. And Faramir as well. I cannot let them break through!
As the last of the gate shatters beneath the heavy blows of maces, Boromir takes up the cry, “Fight! Fight for your lives! For your family’s lives!” just in time to see a horde of dead men, a strange, unearthly ghost-army, swarm over the Orcs and trolls.
“For the King!” he makes out from their hoarse rattles, as they leave Orc and troll corpses in their wake. “For the King of Gondor, and our honour!”
Aragorn! Boromir remembers, his spirits lifted. Aragorn had come through after all; had remembered his promise not to let the White City fall, and with this new encouragement, would not let her people fail.
With this thought, Boromir charges into the fray, his hope renewed, cutting down what he can of the enemy. Inspires, with his actions, what hope he can in his own men.
“For Gondor!” Boromir roars between kills, heaving his sword into the air, high, ichor staining his weapon and armor both. He finds himself immensely cheered when his soldiers, his people, take up the cry as their own.
For Gondor!
~
It is a long and hard-fought battle, but by the end of it, when hundreds of Mordor’s forces lie dead within the city and thousands more on the fields of Pelennor, Boromir picks his way back through fallen soldiers and foul Orc corpses. Makes his way through circle after arduous circle of the city, favouring his right leg too heavily, to stagger into the Houses of Healing—only to find Faramir stumbling his way out to greet him, his hands white-knuckled as they clutch the wall for support.
“You should not be out here,” Boromir says, reproachful, but that Faramir would search for him, would worry for him immediately after the battle, warms his heart, and he opens his arms wide for an embrace.
Faramir pushes him into a darkened corner instead, kissing him again and again, his hands finding their way under Boromir’s armor, under his tunic, to touch, to test, to confirm he is unhurt. “Boromir,” he whispers, his hands wandering higher, warm and lovely as they press against Boromir’s belly, his ribs. “Boromir.”
“The battle is over,” Boromir manages, between urgent, breathy kisses. “The city—the city is safe.”
“And you?” whispers Faramir. His hands wander over Boromir’s shoulders, checking his arms and torso, patting his waist. They are not the carnal caresses of a lover but touches of concern and worry. “Are you hurt?”
Boromir lifts one of Faramir’s hands to his lips, brushing a kiss over roughened knuckles, to reassure. “Nothing time will not heal.” He will have a healer see to his leg later, and the wound in his shoulder that he suspects has reopened, but only after he and his brother have had a moment’s peace to themselves.
Finally assured of his well-being, Faramir notices the few pieces of blood-spattered Orc armor layered beneath Boromir’s Gondorian armor, pulled on hastily during the battle.
“Mmh, clever,” Faramir smiles. “I see how you came back from Osgiliath. Perhaps I should reward your ingenuity with another—” His mouth twists with a moue of disappointment as he tugs Boromir’s tunic down at the neck. “Well. If nothing else, it appears time has healed the mark I left on you.” Faramir laughs. “I shall have to make another.”
“Make haste then,” Boromir grins, folding Faramir into his arms and touching lips, soft, to Faramir’s brow and mouth. “I heard footsteps pass this way not long ago, and know not when they shall be back again. We may be caught, unless you prefer to make the sounds of a fair maiden again, like that time we—ah.”
The threat of being discovered, coupled with Boromir’s easy humour, only makes Faramir bite all the harder, sink his teeth in all the deeper, demonstrating soundly that he is no swooning maiden, as he claims Boromir as his and his alone.
(tbc - Chapter 7)
End Notes:
OST:
- The March to Minas Tirith: Beowulf – Main Theme
- En Route to Rescue Faramir from the Pyre: Helios – Audiomachine
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: 5320 (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 first thing Boromir remembers when he blinks back into a wakeful daze, is the sight of Faramir crumpling before him, pierced through with arrows.
That he should survive his injuries at Amon Hen but Faramir be felled by arrows in turn is an irony too bitter to bear, and it takes all that Boromir has to lie stock-still and observe his surroundings first, instead of searching for Faramir in a frenzied panic.
Of the Orcs that had swarmed their company earlier, many have returned to their prior tasks, either working the forges, sharpening their blades, or constructing their machines of war. He searches the ground around him discreetly, spotting several of the Rangers he had come with lying where they had fallen.
His brother is not among them.
Hope springs anew in Boromir’s heart, like a hardy mountain flower pushing between cracks of even the most barren rock; Faramir must have gotten away, he decides. He must still live!
Boromir spares a moment to wonder why he himself is still alive, but credits the outcropping of rock that had collapsed on him when he lost consciousness, littering him with ash and rubble, obscuring him from the Orcs’ sight. That, or the Orcs were so assured of their resounding victory that they did not stop to check if Boromir was dead.
He takes advantage of the Orcs’ distraction to snake across the dusty ground. Scrounges pieces of Orc armour from their dead, while those alive busy themselves amassing armaments to march against Minas Tirith, and dons the armour quickly, to hide among their number.
Boromir knows subtlety and subterfuge now, and he will have need of both if he is to see his brother and his city again.
Picking his way across fallen battlements and clouds of mortar dust, he harvests more Orc armour, grabbing a helm here, trading a rusted cuirass there, until he is no longer recognizable as a Captain of Gondor, resplendent in a fur cloak and embroidered crimson tunic but as a solid, broadly built Orc with less-than-grimy skin. He is well-blended within the enemy colors now, camouflaged with the Orcs’ dull plate-scale armour and their crude blades.
In his search for armour, Boromir stumbles upon Madril’s body, his eyes wide even in death, his thinning grey hair matted with blood. The spear impaled through his chest has been left standing, as if a testament to the Orcs’ might, and the dawn of their age. Boromir spares a moment to say a silent prayer for Faramir’s second-in-command, lamenting the loss of friend and soldier both. Gondor had lost a good man in his passing; she would have need of each one before the end.
A self-assured voice detailing battle plans captures Boromir’s attention, and he sneaks closer, hoping to eavesdrop on their strategy.
“—plan is to lay siege to Minas Tirith,” Boromir overhears from behind a half-formed wall. “We’ll take out their gates with Grond, and get over their high walls to lay waste to their armies with our siege towers.”
Boromir creeps ever closer; an Orc who he assumes to be their leader, a deformed bulbous thing with a lame left hand, is issuing orders to those under his command.
“Anyone left alive will be taken out by our catapults or be crushed by their own debris.” The Orc nods, sanctimonious. “The age of Men is over,” he declares. “The time of the Orc has come!”
Boromir doubles back behind the wall, his heart drumming so wildly in his chest, he fears it can be heard even amid the loud cheers and stamping of the Orcs nearby. He barely manages to make out their further plans among the din: that the endless hordes of Orcs will be followed closely by legions of the Haradrim aboard their fearsome mûmakil, the Corsairs with their stealthy ships, and the Nazgûl upon their fell-beasts.
Against this force, Minas Tirith will be razed to the ground.
The city must be warned! Boromir thinks, horrified. Minas Tirith cannot stand against this army amassing on all sides, its own armies depleted and disheartened so.
He moves with measured stealth, back through the makeshift camps set up in the city, and commandeers a warg, planning to ride out to Minas Tirith in the guise of an Orc scout. But as he reaches the outer limits of the city, an Orc wearing the skull of either its enemy or its brethren—it is hard to tell, with these befouled creatures—as a helmet calls him back.
“’Oy! Where’re ye’ going?” the Orc asks, grabbing a handful of the warg’s fur to halt it.
The warg growls in displeasure, snapping at the Orc with teeth razor-sharp and wet. Boromir hides his laugh behind a cough when the Orc snatches his hand back to avoid having it bitten off; he is starting to grow fond of this warg already, and he scratches a hand through the burnt-umber fur of its head. Stifles a smile when the warg chuffs at him, affectionate, like an overgrown dog.
“Goin’ to scout the city we’re to attack,” Boromir replies gruffly.
The Orc laughs, his voice cruel, grating like loose gravel. “We got all the ‘telligence we need on the city,” he says. “Get ta’ work on loading the catapults instead, ye’ lazy scum. Or check that the siege towers’ll hold ‘til we get close to the city. There’s work here needs doin’!” He kicks at the warg’s rump as Boromir turns to go, and Boromir feels a dark satisfaction when the warg snaps teeth too close to the Orc’s face for comfort.
Boromir grudgingly tethers the warg where he found it, petting it, regretful, as it noses questioningly at his hand. “Another time, perhaps,” he offers. It is a platitude; he knows not whether either of them will survive this war.
As soon as Boromir returns to the camp the Orc directed him towards, he does not load the catapults as instructed, but silently sabotages them instead, loosening bolts under the guise of tightening them, fraying the ropes where he can. He does the same with the battering rams, hoping these changes, however small, will somehow turn the tide of the war.
When he happens upon the siege towers, however, Boromir strokes his jaw, thoughtful, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind. This may well be his only recourse; any further attempts to escape Osgiliath would be suspect.
Just as he is evaluating his options, the blare of war horns sounds over the city, dark and resonant, the baleful noise signalling their march. Boromir scrambles to join the Orcs’ ranks, quickening his steps to match those around him, their footfalls heavy, menacing, meant to strike terror into the hearts of Men.
Boromir suppresses a shudder of his own—he can only hope now that his brother is safe behind the city walls, that the intelligence gained in their mission will prepare the city for what is to come, and that Gandalf has a plan, against the army over two hundred thousand-strong, that Mordor will soon bring to Minas Tirith’s gates, each of their number merciless, savage and cruel.
The march to Minas Tirith is miserable and the pace brutal—made all the more so by a hulking Orc taskmaster, waiting in the wings to flog those who fall behind with a barbed whip. Only the thought of Faramir drives Boromir onward now, keeping him on his feet and propelling him on in this farce.
The armies soon arrive in front of the city, and when the screeching cry of “Catapults!” is heard, Boromir is jostled into helping load them. He does so with a sick horror, finding that the initial projectiles are none other than the heads of his fallen comrades, in varying states of decay. Closes his eyes and swallows, hard, to quell the wave of revulsion that rises from his stomach.
These are Orc heads, Boromir tells himself. Orcs that were felled in Osgiliath to keep the presence of our company secret.
Soon, volleys of arrows rain down from the city in response, followed by chunks of debris from Minas Tirith’s own parapets.
Boromir dodges the volley of arrows coming from the city above, taking cover behind the siege towers and the bands of Orcs rushing ahead of him, eager for a chance at the fight. He must make his way into Minas Tirith, and with haste, but how?
For a moment he considers joining the ranks of those Orcs at the battering rams, but gambles instead on one of the siege towers making it through the fields intact; though they stand a higher chance of being shattered by the city’s own trebuchets, the siege towers would provide access to the city more quickly, which is just what Boromir needs.
When his unit is a distance close enough to the city’s walls, Boromir shoulders his way through the other Orcs, climbing into one of the troll-driven siege towers yet unbroken. Hoists himself up, rung over rung, the coarse wood tearing and scraping at his hands. Never has he been more grateful for the clawed Orc gauntlets he had stolen from one of their dead than now.
He bullies his way through the tower, ignoring reedy cries of “’Ey!” and “Watch where yer’ goin’!” until he makes it to the top. At the unsteady sway of the tower, Boromir thinks to remake his decision, to return to safer ground and join the battering rams, but it is too late; he has thrown his lot in with the tower, and already the leader at the front is slamming down the gangplank to the upper walls.
They have breached the city, and the Orcs around him bellow as if victory is already theirs.
Boromir lets the Orcs hurrying ahead of him on the gangplank take the brunt of the counterattack, and the moment he feels the familiar flagstones of Minas Tirith beneath his feet again, he strips off his Orc helmet, turning on the ones he came up with, vicious.
Undoes a Gondorian cuirass, dented, from one of the fallen when there is a lull in the attack, and flings the Orc one away, shoving the new one on hastily and fastening the catches when he can.
He is slipping his hands back into the Orc gauntlets when he spots a cluster of soldiers gaping at him. “To me!” Boromir shouts, rallying the men toward him. Several of them are so grateful to see him, grateful for his guidance in this chaos that they nearly fall to their knees. “To me!” he shouts again above the din.
“To Captain Boromir!” they cry, heartened, passing on the message.
Once Boromir has gathered a sizeable number of soldiers, he mobilizes the small battalion to hold the Great Gate against the enormous wolf’s-head battering ram that threatens to charge through. They cannot man both gates and walls at the same time, and Boromir has seen enough to trust in Gandalf to lead the defense at the walls.
“Ready!” shouts Boromir, over the deafening chant of Grond, Grond, Grond from outside. “Steady!”
A group of soldiers stands staunchly, their spears aimed toward the gate, a line of archers behind them. Boromir’s keen eye does not miss their trembling.
“You are warriors of Gondor,” Boromir declares, his voice finding volume as he remembers Aragorn’s rallying words, words that had wrenched him back into the world of the living, had given him purpose. “You are warriors of Gondor, and no matter what comes through that gate, you will stand your ground!”
Boromir nearly falters when the flaming wolf’s head breaks through the last of Minas Tirith’s main gate and armoured trolls burst through as the vanguard. But he gathers enough wits about him to shout, “Volley!” for a cascade of arrows from the archers.
The arrows deter the trolls for all of a few seconds before they swing their maces and dispatch most of the spearmen in the frontline in one go.
“For Gondor!” Boromir shouts in defiance, his sword held high as he dashes toward the nearest troll. His sword arcs through the air, forceful flashes of steel that rend and gouge until the troll crumples to the ground, its torso a mess of ichor and broken flesh.
Finding their courage in the presence of their Captain and following his example, the remaining soldiers charge into the fray, hacking and slashing at the trolls that had burst through.
“For Gondor!” Boromir cries again, and those that had followed him, who knew the taste of victory in West Osgiliath not so long ago, join him in his war cry, hungering not only for survival, but victory also, even in the face of the Orcs rushing into the city. Even in the face of trolls smashing apart both men and the city with each swing of their maces.
They kill what Orcs they can, weaken the trolls where they are able, and continue fighting this way until finally, even Boromir must admit that the first level of the city is overrun. That they must retreat to the next level or risk certain death.
“Fall back!” Boromir urges. “Fall back to the second level!” He notices the lack of women and children in the part of the city they have retreated to, and spares a moment to be thankful for Gandalf’s preemptive evacuation efforts.
When at last the soldiers still left have gathered safely behind the gate of the city’s second level, there is a momentary lull—a chance of respite in the battle in which Boromir strains to think of strategies to hold this gate against the onslaught of Orcs sure to come.
“Captain Boromir!” shouts a voice, surprised and all kinds of relieved.
“Rýndaer?” Boromir calls, heartened. He knows not how Rýndaer, a captain stationed usually in the city’s fifth circle, survived the catapult and Nazgûl attacks, but clasps his shoulders in camaraderie, grateful for this miracle.
“We thought you had fallen in Osgiliath,” Rýndaer says in a breathy rush, wiping a mess of grime and blood from his brow. “The foolhardy Rangers who turned back for Captain Faramir said they could not find your body—with good reason, I now see!” Rýndaer beams. “This is good news, indeed! You must let Lord Denethor know immediately; he was told Osgiliath had fallen, that both his sons were—”
“Wait, never mind that; what of Faramir?” Boromir asks desperately. “Have you seen him?” He grips the soldier by the shoulders, nearly shaking Rýndaer in his panic. “Have you seen my brother?”
“Ah—yes, I—Lord Denethor has taken to him to the Houses,” Rýndaer says, suddenly quiet.
“Oh, of Healing,” sighs Boromir, sagging against the soldier in relief. He knew Faramir could not have fallen so easily, knew it in his heart.
Rýndaer brings his arms up to steady Boromir’s shoulders, oddly gentle. “No,” he says, shaking his head, solemn, “the Houses of the Dead.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I hear that Lord Denethor and the pallbearers traversed Rath Dínen not long ago, bearing Lord Faramir’s body.”
No. In an instant, Boromir feels as if the breath has been wrung from his lungs, robbing him of air, and he deflates, crumpling against Rýndaer for support. Not Faramir—it cannot be.
From Rýndaer’s report, they must be taking his brother’s body to be interred with the kings and stewards of old. Something in Boromir’s chest shatters at the thought, a keen blow that slips through the cracks of his cuirass and strikes at his heart, but he has not time enough to sink to his knees, to grieve for his brother properly.
A deeper, darker part of him churns with guilt; tells him that in return for his life being spared at Amon Hen, Faramir’s was taken in exchange.
“Captain Boromir?” Rýndaer tries, hesitant, and it is only then Boromir realizes he has been saying his litany of No, no, no aloud. He looks up, forlorn, his fingers still clutching Rýndaer’s shoulders, useless. Stares unseeing, as Rýndaer offers him empty platitudes, the ones Boromir himself has offered to the wives of his soldiers, widowed too soon from the war.
My condolences, he remembers saying. I am sorry for your loss.
But no matter the number of condolences or apologies, they could not bring back the dead. Could not bring the light back into their eyes. And the thought of Faramir, interred in stone, his lightless gaze forever turned to his lidded tomb, nearly cripples Boromir.
Numbs him until he is rooted firmly in place, clinging to Rýndaer, wordless, hopeless.
Never would Faramir take in the wondrous beauty of Rivendell, with its gently cascading falls and elegant architecture, or the radiance of Caras Galadhon—even the majestic Argonath that marked the border of their home, all of them sights Faramir had long wished for. Vistas Boromir had promised they would visit together, after.
There would be no after, now. No together. The notion of a life without his brother buckles Boromir’s knees from beneath him, and a crushing pain seizes his chest, leaving an aching hollow where his heart once was.
“Gandalf!” A familiar voice, thin and terror-stricken, shakes him from his stupor. “Gandalf!”
Boromir first spots Gandalf—who must have ridden down from the higher circles during the lull, to check the strength of their second circle’s gate—then Pippin, alive and well, dressed puzzlingly in Gondor’s colors, dashing this way and that to duck past the trampling hooves of rearing horses and slipping nearly unseen past the soldiers. Boromir has not the time for a greeting when the scattering of Orcs from higher in the city might continue their onslaught any moment, but he thinks to reach Pippin somehow, to herd the tiny Halfling behind him and protect him, until he hears Pippin shout the words Faramir and burning him alive to Gandalf, as he finds Gandalf in the fray. Sees Gandalf tug Pippin onto his horse and gallop off toward the higher circles of the city.
Alive! Boromir registers suddenly, stunned. He leaps to his feet in an instant, heart pounding double time in his chest. But the gate, he must hold it—
“Go!” Rýndaer says, eyes wide at the realization. He pushes Boromir in the direction of the city’s higher levels. “I will lead the troops gathered here in your stead. Go!”
Spurred by his encouragement, Boromir charges his way forward through the trail leading to the Houses of the Dead. One Orc, then another, thinks to waylay him on his hurried course, but Boromir drives them from his path with a roar, cleaving heads from shoulders, limbs from torsos, one after another, brutal. Seizes a riderless horse to hasten his flight to Faramir.
Please, Boromir begs, racing through level after level of the city, as if the whole legion of Nazgûl dogs his heels. He does not know what he pleads with the Valar for first—that he is not too late, that Faramir still lives, that their father might come to his senses and cease this nonsense—only knows that he must see his brother, safe and alive or no.
When he reaches the House of the Stewards, Boromir finds the great doors slightly ajar and throws them open, groaning with the effort, stumbling into the chamber in time to see a makeshift pyre alight with fire, the flames roaring at oil-soaked wood. He makes out Pippin’s small form in the fire, struggling to roll Faramir off the pyre, and races over himself to help. Forcibly wrenches Faramir from the fire, despite the gruesome pain that lances through his barely-healed shoulder.
“Faramir,” Boromir gasps, his voice hoarse, desperate. He and Pippin hurry to beat the flames from Faramir’s finery, before there are talons set at his shoulders, tearing Pippin away and wrenching Boromir from his brother’s side.
“You will not take my son from me!” Denethor howls, wrestling with Pippin, shaking him, clawing him, as if the Halfling who would not bend to his madness was an obstacle to destroy, to ruin.
“Father!” Boromir snaps. He thinks to throw himself against his father, just as Gandalf’s horse rears up and knocks Denethor into the fire.
“My son?” Denethor says, hesitant, from within the flames. “My son!” he cries again, jubilant. “Boromir, Faramir—”
Boromir spares a moment to be glad their father sees his sons alive, before leaving him to his own devices; surely he will leap out of the flames of his own accord. For now, Boromir must tend to his brother.
That plan changes quickly when Denethor begins screaming, bolting out the doors with his clothes aflame.
Boromir thinks to race after Denethor, to wrestle him to the ground and beat the flames from his body because his father is on fire but instead sinks to his knees by Faramir’s side, his body arranging his priorities for him.
“Faramir?” he whispers. “Faramir, love, please.” Boromir listens desperately at his chest for a heartbeat, and upon finding a weak but steady rhythm, fumbles for his brother’s hand, holding it tight, as if the force with which he clasps it will bring him around. He barely registers his slip in his address of Faramir, because his brother lies unmoving, barely breathing, proper forms of address be damned.
It is just as well that Gandalf elbows him out of the way, laying a hand across Faramir’s brow. He whispers old words, ancient and fey and imbued with power, and within the span of a heartbeat—two—Faramir crinkles his brow, the motion long-familiar and endearing to Boromir. Blinks up at them, his gaze distant and unfocused.
“Faramir,” Boromir breathes in relief. He clasps Faramir’s face in his hands, thinking to kiss him, to pepper his nose and cheeks and brow with kisses soft and light, thankful for Faramir’s life, before remembering himself in the wizard’s presence. Makes the concession to lay a kiss to Faramir’s brow, gentle, then another and another—
“Boromir,” Faramir gasps, eyes flying wide as he clutches at Boromir’s forearms. The effort of it must strain his injury, as he winces, but his grip is no less desperate for it. “I thought you lost to me, I saw you fall—”
Boromir shakes his head, a bubble of relieved laughter welling up inside him. “I took a blow,” he says, cradling Faramir’s upper body, careful. “But it was not so grievous a wound that I could not make my way back to the city.”
“How did you make your way back?” Faramir asks. “The Orcs…” He tries to rise, but his knees buckle beneath him, and Boromir catches him before he slides to the ground. He hefts Faramir’s arm over his shoulder, holds him steady around the waist. It is all he will allow himself to do in front of Gandalf’s keen gaze.
“I shall regale you with the story another time,” Boromir says, as he half-carries, half-tows his brother toward the healing chambers. “For now, though, you must have proper care. And rest. And someone to see to your wounds.”
He stays just long enough to see Faramir settled in a small cot within the healing halls before turning to go. “Rest now, Faramir,” says Boromir. He brushes a dry wisp of a kiss to his brother’s brow. “I would stay longer, but I must join the men in holding the inner defenses of the city.”
Faramir catches his forearm, his grip bruisingly tight. “Stay safe, brother,” he says. “And return to me. Alive.”
“Faramir, I—” Boromir tries, already shaking his head; he cannot promise that. And because no one is watching them, too busy tending to the wounded or engaged in the battle outside, he presses his lips to Faramir’s, once, hard, before tearing himself away. It is all the promise he can offer for now.
Faramir drags him back by the shoulders for another kiss, heated, searing, and just as Boromir makes to move away, he bites Boromir at the base of his throat, marking him.
“Come back before this fades,” Faramir demands. His fingers wind tight in Boromir’s hair, as if the pressure of them can wrest the promise he needs from Boromir. “Come back to me.” His voice is pitched low, forceful, the weight of it showing that this is no mere request, but a command.
Boromir nods, his heart in his throat; with this, Faramir has marked him, has made Boromir his. He swallows hard, glad for the moment of respite the old wizard has given them, having tarried by the entrance with Pippin, but when he turns to leave, Gandalf is right there.
For one awful, panicked moment, Boromir thinks they have been caught out; he watches as Gandalf’s hollow-eyed gaze sweeps over Faramir’s flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. The way it settles on the bruise forming at the base of Boromir’s throat, a damning rose-colored mark, half-hidden by his tunic.
Gandalf sighs and murmurs something inaudible, before gesturing impatiently with his staff. “Come along, then,” he says to Boromir sternly. “Time is not our ally in this war.” At Boromir’s hesitation to leave his brother’s side, Gandalf’s voice gentles for all but a moment. “There will be time for affections and softer emotions later. But right now, your city needs you.”
He stalks away then, his white cloak stained grey with travel and wear billowing behind him. Pippin, for his part, tips a bright nod in the brothers’ direction before hurrying after him.
Gandalf is right; there will be time enough later for affections, reunions, and mourning, but it is not this time.
Both brothers breathe a sigh of relief when Gandalf is out of sight. Neither of them are fool enough to believe the wizard did not see, but whether he keeps his silence out of an old fondness for Faramir, his once-pupil, or sees no reason to disclose their indiscretion due to indifference, the fact remains that Minas Tirith needs him, needs Boromir to rally its disheartened troops and hold the city against the enemy army.
Boromir squeezes Faramir’s hand once, quick, and turns toward the direction Gandalf left in. As he makes his way out to the battlements, his fingers light on the bruise Faramir has left him, and he presses the mark for encouragement, a strange sense of boldness overtaking him; Faramir has given him a decree—to return before the bruise fades—and he intends to honor that, but first Boromir has a city, a home, and precious lives to defend.
Having grown ever hopeful since learning of Pippin’s feat of lighting the first beacon of Gondor, Boromir is immensely glad to find that Rohan, their old allies, have answered their call for aid.
His joy is short-lived, however, when Rohan’s arrival—heralded by the rich, golden tones of war horns bold and clear—is followed by the Haradrim, rampaging through Rohan’s ranks with their mûmakil. Their spiked tusks and wide feet trample through the army of Horse-lords as if they were but mere insects, cutting a swathe through their brave lines.
Then there is no time at all to watch the rest of the battle, as Orcs attempt to charge through the gate Boromir has returned to guard. They try first with their faulty battering rams, confused when the logs tumble clumsily out of their ropes, then enlist in the aid of trolls, tittering as the trolls slam their heavy maces against the wooden gate, splintering it.
Boromir braces himself for another wave of trolls, widening his stance. He knows not how many more of them he and his men can take on, how many more circles of the city they will have to abandon in the effort to protect it. But he squares his shoulders and steels his jaw all the same.
The future of Gondor is up there, he thinks, remembering how the women and children had been herded to safety in the upper levels of the city. And Faramir as well. I cannot let them break through!
As the last of the gate shatters beneath the heavy blows of maces, Boromir takes up the cry, “Fight! Fight for your lives! For your family’s lives!” just in time to see a horde of dead men, a strange, unearthly ghost-army, swarm over the Orcs and trolls.
“For the King!” he makes out from their hoarse rattles, as they leave Orc and troll corpses in their wake. “For the King of Gondor, and our honour!”
Aragorn! Boromir remembers, his spirits lifted. Aragorn had come through after all; had remembered his promise not to let the White City fall, and with this new encouragement, would not let her people fail.
With this thought, Boromir charges into the fray, his hope renewed, cutting down what he can of the enemy. Inspires, with his actions, what hope he can in his own men.
“For Gondor!” Boromir roars between kills, heaving his sword into the air, high, ichor staining his weapon and armor both. He finds himself immensely cheered when his soldiers, his people, take up the cry as their own.
For Gondor!
It is a long and hard-fought battle, but by the end of it, when hundreds of Mordor’s forces lie dead within the city and thousands more on the fields of Pelennor, Boromir picks his way back through fallen soldiers and foul Orc corpses. Makes his way through circle after arduous circle of the city, favouring his right leg too heavily, to stagger into the Houses of Healing—only to find Faramir stumbling his way out to greet him, his hands white-knuckled as they clutch the wall for support.
“You should not be out here,” Boromir says, reproachful, but that Faramir would search for him, would worry for him immediately after the battle, warms his heart, and he opens his arms wide for an embrace.
Faramir pushes him into a darkened corner instead, kissing him again and again, his hands finding their way under Boromir’s armor, under his tunic, to touch, to test, to confirm he is unhurt. “Boromir,” he whispers, his hands wandering higher, warm and lovely as they press against Boromir’s belly, his ribs. “Boromir.”
“The battle is over,” Boromir manages, between urgent, breathy kisses. “The city—the city is safe.”
“And you?” whispers Faramir. His hands wander over Boromir’s shoulders, checking his arms and torso, patting his waist. They are not the carnal caresses of a lover but touches of concern and worry. “Are you hurt?”
Boromir lifts one of Faramir’s hands to his lips, brushing a kiss over roughened knuckles, to reassure. “Nothing time will not heal.” He will have a healer see to his leg later, and the wound in his shoulder that he suspects has reopened, but only after he and his brother have had a moment’s peace to themselves.
Finally assured of his well-being, Faramir notices the few pieces of blood-spattered Orc armor layered beneath Boromir’s Gondorian armor, pulled on hastily during the battle.
“Mmh, clever,” Faramir smiles. “I see how you came back from Osgiliath. Perhaps I should reward your ingenuity with another—” His mouth twists with a moue of disappointment as he tugs Boromir’s tunic down at the neck. “Well. If nothing else, it appears time has healed the mark I left on you.” Faramir laughs. “I shall have to make another.”
“Make haste then,” Boromir grins, folding Faramir into his arms and touching lips, soft, to Faramir’s brow and mouth. “I heard footsteps pass this way not long ago, and know not when they shall be back again. We may be caught, unless you prefer to make the sounds of a fair maiden again, like that time we—ah.”
The threat of being discovered, coupled with Boromir’s easy humour, only makes Faramir bite all the harder, sink his teeth in all the deeper, demonstrating soundly that he is no swooning maiden, as he claims Boromir as his and his alone.
(tbc - Chapter 7)
End Notes:
OST:
- The March to Minas Tirith: Beowulf – Main Theme
- En Route to Rescue Faramir from the Pyre: Helios – Audiomachine
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!