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Title: Hope Prevails
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 4760 (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.
~
Faramir slips into the room moments later, while Boromir is readying some things around the bed. He has lit the candelabra on either side of the bed and the fire in the grate, as well as made Faramir’s bed anew; it would not do for their first celebrations in light of Boromir’s promise to be in the dark, amid rumpled sheets. As if their liaisons were something shameful and hurried.
“Have we not had enough drink this day?” Boromir says. He huffs a laugh as he watches Faramir set down two steins of ale, foaming at the brim.
“Rest assured,” Faramir says dryly, as he bolts the door, “that these are likely to be mostly water. What with our city having made its way through most of Gondor’s brewed products by now.” He pauses, a curious smile playing about his lips in the warm glow of the firelight. “I brought these for us,” he adds, meaningful. “That we may share in a private toast of our own.”
The thought of their less-than-private toast on the day they had retaken Osgiliath comes to mind, and Boromir swallows, hard, around the knot of emotion of forming in his throat. Faramir had remembered—the simple, reciprocated desire to raise a toast to each other, to tip their ale steins in each other’s mouths and drink a draught, long and full and deep. Being unable to, having been surrounded by comrades and friends the same.
“Faramir,” he says softly, touched. Hefts a stein in his hand before they move toward each other with equal intent, Faramir gently pressing his stein to Boromir’s lips, and Boromir urging his against Faramir’s.
They drink a draught each before setting their steins down. Chase the taste of ale from each other’s mouths, licking boldly in, tasting with tongue and lips and teeth.
And when a trace of foam is caught above Faramir’s upper lip, Boromir leans in, grasping the collar of Faramir’s robes and touching his tongue to the offending blemish. Laves his tongue over the fullness of Faramir’s lip, even when the foam is gone, before pressing a series of light, breathy kisses to Faramir’s mouth.
“Boromir,” Faramir breathes, a bare whisper. “Boromir, please.”
The desperation and need in his voice drives Boromir into kissing his jaw, his neck, wet and open-mouthed nips that have Faramir arching into his touch.
He tugs the cloak from Faramir’s shoulders, flinging it toward a chair, careless, the midnight-blue cloth settling in a rumpled heap. And when Faramir’s mouth falls open, to reprimand Boromir for his lack of care with their ceremonial robes, Boromir cups Faramir’s face in his hands, taking his mouth in a kiss that is wet and messy and hard. Cups the base of Faramir’s neck to deepen their kiss until Faramir is gasping against him, clawing his back, in need of air.
Just as suddenly, when Faramir has established a foothold in the floor, he grips Boromir by the shoulders, tearing away his crimson cloak and slamming him into the wall.
Boromir barely stifles the indignant squawk of Who is the prude about our robes now? before Faramir seals their mouths together again, his arms closing tight about Boromir’s waist. Presses his tongue deep into Boromir’s mouth, the taste of him sweet and heady, a mixture of the wine and ale he has had.
When Faramir tries to reciprocate, makes to swallow Boromir’s tongue down, to suck it into his throat for the deepest, filthiest kiss, Boromir pulls away, sudden. Takes Faramir’s hand, reassuring, in the face of Faramir’s hurt noise of loss, and leads him toward the bed.
Faramir nods in silent understanding, and together, they make quick work of removing their breastplates. Strip each other of the rest of their finery, before wrenching away underclothes and breeches in a frantic push to touch, to kiss, to find warm skin even as their mouths meet again and again, heated, hard.
Throwing back the covers, Boromir slips into the bed and tugs Faramir in after him, off-balance. Laughs as Faramir cries out, startled, and lands in a rumpled heap on top of him.
“That was not funny—that was childish,” Faramir huffs, catching his breath. But Boromir’s delight is contagious, and in mere moments, he is laughing as well.
Boromir takes advantage of Faramir’s happiness to nudge him into position and roll over top of him, bracing his elbows by Faramir’s shoulders. Faramir looks exquisite in this moment, flushed with drink as he is, and Boromir cups Faramir’s rosy cheeks in his palms. Spends a moment watching him, wondering how his brother, so perfectly lovely and beautiful and brave, could want him.
It seems Faramir has had the same thought, for he strokes careful, reverent fingers over the line of Boromir’s waist. “I had not thought—” he tries, before his voice breaks. “I had not thought we could have this.” The apple of his throat shifts with a hard swallow. “That I could have you.”
Boromir kisses the hollow of Faramir’s throat, his jaw, reassuring. “We have this,” he declares, knowing Faramir can see he means not only this moment, but all that has passed between them, and all that will come to pass. “And now that we do, I shall never let you go.” His hands slide under Faramir’s arms, warm, fingers tightening over the jut over his shoulders.
“Nor I,” says Faramir, equally as fierce. He is clasping hands around Boromir’s neck to draw him down for a kiss, when the sound of passing footsteps and voices makes them fall silent and still by instinct.
Boromir can feel the panicked hummingbird flutter of Faramir’s heart against his chest, and presses airy kisses to his mouth, to soothe. Touches a wisp of a kiss to his brow. “Be calm, Faramir,” he says softly. “They can neither hear nor see us.” And at Faramir’s worried expression, that perhaps they should hurry through this and return to their respective chambers, Boromir adds, “We may take our time now. Our fight is over, and our people look to the king for guidance. There are neither Orcs waiting to break through the Great Gate, nor summons for secret war councils.” He nuzzles into the safe space of Faramir’s neck, feeling content and warm. “We have time at last, Faramir. For each other. For pleasure.”
Relaxing into Boromir’s arms only when the sound of voices passing too near their room has faded, Faramir still returns each kiss, each gentle stroke of his hair with one of his own. And when he is sure they are safe, that they will not be discovered, he loops his arms around Boromir’s neck again. Draws him down for a kiss that is as soft and full as it is slow.
“At last,” Faramir agrees, sighing, With gentle hands, he traces the curve of Boromir’s waist, fingers roving greedily over warm skin. Kneads hungry handfuls of Boromir’s buttocks, urging Boromir’s hips against his, swallowing his tongue down in the filthiest kiss.
When Faramir finally frees him from his grasp, Boromir presses a trail of reverent, worshipful kisses along Faramir’s neck, and across the corded muscle of his shoulders, as if he is something treasured and precious. Sucks the rosy flesh of Faramir’s nipples, worrying them with his teeth, gentle, until they are the same cherry-red as Faramir’s lips. He is pressing tiny, nibbling kisses to the pert nubs when Faramir huffs, irritated, and he remembers then that he has been neglecting Faramir’s mouth. Rises to nip Faramir’s lips, bruising them with soft bites and licks and sucks, until he has returned the same pleasured flush to them, leaving them red and rosy and sweet.
“You look good enough to eat,” Boromir muses, pressing his thumb against Faramir’s lower lip. He revels in how plump and full it feels. Loves the way Faramir gazes at him, his eyes hooded and his cheeks flushed with color as he parts his lips under Boromir’s thumb and takes the digit into his mouth, sucking, gentle. “Perhaps all we need is a little cream from the kitchens, and—”
Faramir swats him playfully. “Another time, Boromir.”
Boromir laughs, tangling fingers into Faramir’s hair, fond. “You are right; right now I wish to taste only you.” He kisses a path over Faramir’s cheekbone. The hollow of his jaw, and the long column of his throat. “I wish to taste you in every way. In every place. In every inch of you I can reach.”
With that, he continues his path of kisses from where he left off, along the line of Faramir’s belly. Laves a tongue over the hard ridge of Faramir’s cock, licking a stripe from sac to crown before flicking his tongue at the head, teasing.
Nestles his face into the delicious curve of Faramir’s thigh, before kissing the circle of his knee.
The bend of his calves.
The tender arch of his foot.
Faramir shivers at the sensation of his toes being circled by Boromir’s tongue, and when he has had enough, pulls Boromir up against him, twining hands in his hair as he rolls them over in the bed. “Enough,” he laughs. “You are not the only one who wishes for a taste of their lover.”
He nuzzles with his nose the line of Boromir’s jaw and his neck. Touches light, breathy kisses to the scars on Boromir’s torso, where arrows had struck deep within him at Amon Hen; they had nearly taken Boromir from him, taken this privilege from them, and he traces now the oblique lines over the crease of Boromir’s brow, to reassure himself that they have this. That Boromir is safe in the cradle of his arms.
His wish to taste every part of Boromir is cut short when Boromir pulls Faramir down against him. Hitches him in until Faramir’s feet are tucked beneath Boromir’s thighs, as he kisses Faramir, soft and sweet and slow. Slips fingers down into the cleft of Faramir’s ass and touches the tips of them to his hole, hooking up and in, until Faramir is gasping against him, jerking forward with a cry.
Boromir slides his tongue into Faramir’s mouth at the sound, sealing their lips together to keep kissing him, swallowing his cries as Faramir ruts against him. Relishes the sweet slide of Faramir’s cock against his, before swirling fingers in the precome that is pooling on his belly and slicking them both as he takes their cocks in his fist. Groans as Faramir’s hand closes around his, stroking, guiding his hand in the motions of pleasure long familiar.
“Wait,” Faramir says suddenly, his voice strangled, as he makes a soft noise of displeasure. He stills Boromir’s hand with his. “I…I do not wish to spend in this way.” The sweetest flush suffuses his face at that, and he shifts himself until he is straddling Boromir’s lower belly. Until his ass can slide teasingly against Boromir’s cock, letting it nudge just the barest inch within, leaving no question of just what it is he wants.
Boromir stills, surprised that Faramir wants to have him, as he has wanted Faramir. He is no stranger to the ways that men may join, having heard from the soldiers in his command of the pleasures to be gained, in secret. But as much as he and Faramir have experimented, he has never dared, never thought—
“Tell me you want this,” Boromir says, an urgent whisper. He lets Faramir lie back against the bed, before daring to brush trembling fingers along the edge of Faramir’s entrance. They have not come this far before, content to revel in the simple pleasures of fingers and lips and tongues. “If you do not, I will cease, I swear it.”
Faramir drags him close, pressing a reassuring kiss to Boromir’s mouth. “I want this,” he says. “I have wanted you. For so long.” The last word catches in his throat, almost a sob.
“As have I,” says Boromir, open, honest, wanting more than anything to dispel how wounded Faramir sounds. Wanting to sink within his brother and be one with him, to bring him the pleasure they have never known. “As have I, Faramir.”
“In the drawer of my desk, then,” Faramir murmurs against Boromir’s lips. “The vial of oil I use to clean my weapons.” He sits himself up on his elbows, chuckling as Boromir fumbles through the contents of his desk, sorting through scattered ink quills and scrolls before seizing the inconspicuous bottle in the corner. “Hurry.”
Kneeling back on the bed, between Faramir’s knees, Boromir uncorks the bottle to dip fingers to the oil. And at Faramir’s consenting nod, he presses fingers to the sweet pucker of Faramir’s flesh, worrying at how easily, how deeply they slip inside. In no time at all, his fingers disappear up to the first knuckle, the second.
“Faramir?” he asks, uncertain. “Are you all right? Am I hurting you?” He kisses Faramir’s brow, his mouth, to distract him from the discomfort below.
“I am fine,” says Faramir, despite his gritted teeth and shallow breaths. And when Boromir curls his fingers, stroking, Faramir arches against him, sudden, keening. “There,” he moans. “That, good, yes—”
Boromir presses his advantage, having found the place inside Faramir that has him writhing and panting, and strokes deliberate fingers over it. Relishes the tiny gasps Faramir makes with each purposeful thrust. The way Faramir urges his hips against Boromir’s, greedy, eager, that have Boromir wanting to throw his brother down and take him immediately.
“Boromir,” Faramir begs, trembling, his hands grasping for purchase, and Boromir obliges, twining his free hand with Faramir’s and touching gentle, roving pecks to Faramir’s mouth and cheeks and brow. His nips turn into wet, filthy kisses, with Boromir pressing his tongue deep into Faramir’s mouth, like the way he wants to be inside him. Thrusting his tongue in before drawing it out, again and again, until Faramir is left gasping and twisting beneath him.
“Want you,” Faramir gasps, when they draw back for air. “Boromir, please.”
Boromir huffs a laugh, a shaky breath of air as he rests his forehead against Faramir’s. “All right.” He removes the stopper from the bottle once more, to slick his length with the oil. Circles Faramir’s puckered flesh with another generous helping of oil; he would not hurt his brother for the sake of a single night’s pleasure.
“Perhaps I should be on my hands and knees for this,” Faramir says, hesitant, as he starts shifting onto his belly, but Boromir stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
“No—I would see your face, Faramir,” he insists. “I would see the pleasure our lovemaking brings you.”
At that, Faramir gives him the brightest, most grateful smile, one that makes Boromir’s heart stutter in his chest and his breath catch in his throat. He snatches a pillow from the head of the bed, positioning it beneath Faramir’s hips as he returns the smile with one of his own, broad and warm. “Here,” Boromir says, “this may ease the way for you, if only a little—”
Faramir laughs and pulls Boromir toward him. “Enough dallying,” he says. He strokes Boromir’s back, gentle, then his hip, soothing the faint tremor. Lets his fingers skim the broadness of Boromir’s chest and circle the muscle of his belly, before wrapping them around Boromir’s cock. “I want you,” Faramir whispers, reassuring. He cups the back of Boromir’s neck with his free hand, pressing small, breathy kisses to Boromir’s lips, his jaw. “I want you.” Widens his hips to let Boromir settle between them, before guiding Boromir inside him.
“Faramir,” Boromir sighs, reverent, as he sinks slowly into Faramir’s hot, wet heat. “Faramir, I…” For his brother to let Boromir have this much of him, to see this side of him, is a gift—one for which he is immensely grateful. But finding the words for this gratitude, this moment, is something that escapes Boromir entirely.
The bed must dip below their weight, or shift suddenly, as Faramir bites back a pained cry. “Slowly—please, ah—” He bites his lip, drawing a tiny pearl of blood as his body tries to accommodate the girth of Boromir’s cock.
Boromir waits for Faramir to adjust to the length inside him. Waits until Faramir’s shallow breaths even out and his brother lets him know with tugs at his hip and touches to his back that he can press in further, deeper. They continue this way until he has bottomed out, his length as deep within Faramir as he can be. Faramir lies too silent and still beneath him, and Boromir smoothes a lock of hair back from Faramir’s brow, gentle.
“Are you all right?” he asks, worried.
“More than all right,” Faramir says, his voice faint. “Perhaps even more so if you move.” He slides his hips against Boromir’s, small, delicious thrusts that have Boromir gasping against his mouth, and he draws back from Faramir before pushing back in—
“There,” Faramir gasps, twisting beneath him, “right there. Again.”
And Boromir drives forward, to impact that spot within him again. Rolls his hips against Faramir until his brother arches off the bed, crying out with each thrust.
“Boro—Boromir—ah,” Faramir pants. He grips Boromir’s wrist where it is braced by his head, his fingers trembling, his grip tightening with each push. Claws at the sheets, the pillow, and whimpers when Boromir hoists Faramir’s left leg over his shoulder, changing the angle of his thrusts.
His eyes are glassy and wide, the sea-blue of his eyes consumed by black, and even as Boromir strokes Faramir’s cock to distract and pleasure both, he takes the opportunity to watch how Faramir’s mouth falls slack at each wave of pleasure. The way his brow knits at a particularly pleasing thrust. And he will not admit it, not even under pain of death, but he finds the little hitch in Faramir’s moan absolutely endearing.
“Harder,” Faramir demands, shaking Boromir from his daze as he digs a heel into Boromir’s back.
Boromir obliges, lunging forward for a thrust that is as deep and brutal and sharp as Faramir wishes. Relishes Faramir’s startled howl and the hiccupping moan following it, before Faramir remembers to stifle his cries with a hand clapped over his mouth. But that will not do, because he wants to hear Faramir, despite how much of a risk it will be, wants to know the sound of his brother as he comes undone, so he lets Faramir’s legs twine around his back. Lets Faramir pull him down and bring their mouths together in a kiss that is sloppy and wet, as he urges Faramir’s hips wider apart.
Then, finding traction on the bed with his knees, he hitches Faramir’s legs in the crook of his elbows and pulls him in, sudden, ramming his length deep within him, deeper than ever before. Revels in the sharp cry of surprise and pleasure, as Faramir writhes beneath him, panting and gasping, the flush on his face spreading down his neck and to his chest.
“Please,” Faramir sobs. “Please.”
It’s not enough, this pleasure, because Boromir wants him, needs him, and his brother’s begging and goading only fuels his desire to own Faramir, to possess him in every way. So he hikes Faramir’s legs high over his shoulders. Shoves in hard, again and again, relishing Faramir’s choked-off gasps and stifled cries, his fingers pressing deep into Faramir’s thighs, bruising, grasping, as he takes Faramir’s mouth, deep and dark and desperate. To sate a hunger primal, insatiable.
Faramir allows it, allows Boromir’s desperation for long moments before he kicks his legs free of Boromir’s shoulders. Knocks Boromir’s elbow out from the inside and flips them over, tackling him to the bed as he had done when they wrestled as children.
“I have the upper hand now,” he hisses, twining his hands into Boromir’s and riding him, hard, hips bucking as Boromir pushes into him from below.
And when Boromir snakes a hand to his waist, greedy, grasping, looking to grip Faramir’s hip to give him better leverage, Faramir catches his wrist in the act. Brings Boromir’s hand to his lips to kiss his wrist, his palm, before slipping the first two fingers of Boromir’s hand into his mouth. Rolls them against his tongue, licking and sucking, his mouth a perfect mime of what his body does below. Then he pins the offending hand to the bed, and the other, his own hands manacles for Boromir’s wrists, as he rides Boromir harder, lifting and plunging himself on Boromir’s cock again and again, as if he cannot get enough of him.
In this, he reminds Boromir of the sea: his brother has always been the more level-headed of them, calm and tranquil, yet other times indomitably fierce when roused, whether it be to battle, to defend what is precious, or to passion.
Boromir wrenches a hand free from the prison of Faramir’s fist. Rakes fingers through Faramir’s hair before tugging him down by those curls, harsh, to kiss him, to drive his tongue deep into Faramir’s throat; Faramir is not the only one who can be roused to such fierceness in his passion.
A hot, wet press of flesh at Boromir’s belly reminds him of Faramir’s cock, bouncing against him with each lift of Faramir’s hips, full and flush and leaking. Boromir presses it flat against the plane of his own belly. Lets each of Faramir’s heaving motions create a natural friction for it, between Boromir’s hand and the hard plane of Boromir’s abdomen, until Faramir is gasping from the dual pleasures of having his length trapped between Boromir’s hand and belly and Boromir driving in deep within him.
“Boromir,” Faramir gasps, his pace slowing with each subsequent arch of his hips, until with a strangled cry, he spills across Boromir’s belly. Streaks Boromir’s chest with a thick line of come as his knees buckle beneath him and he collapses onto Boromir, twitching, panting, his lungs struggling to fill with air.
Boromir twists hands into Faramir’s hair, his fists closing around Faramir’s curls as he drags him up for a filthy kiss. Circles Faramir’s tongue with his, drinking in the taste of him, hot and moist and sweet, as he swallows each of Faramir’s whimpering cries; each cry is louder than the last, each a desperate whine as Boromir pushes up into him, again and again, freeing his hands to heave Faramir forcibly up and down on his cock and fuck him through his orgasm until—with one brutally vicious thrust, two—Boromir spends within him, forceful, wet.
With a sigh, Faramir slumps over him, spent but sated. He looks slightly dazed, his cheeks flushed a wine-dark red, and Boromir slips fingers into Faramir’s hair to undo the tangles characteristic of the thoroughly debauched. It is a good look on him; Boromir cannot help but curl a palm around the base of his neck and bring their mouths together for another kiss.
Faramir kisses back, sweet and soft, his eyes closed as if he revels in the moment. Smiles against Boromir’s mouth and hums, content—at least, until Boromir rolls them onto their sides and strips a pillow of its casing to wipe them down. The motion causes him to slip out of Faramir, his flesh softening but still warm.
“I wish I could keep your issue inside me,” Faramir mumbles sleepily. His eyes flutter open for a halfhearted pout. “That a part of you would remain with me, wherever I go.”
Boromir chuckles at the sentiment, finding it oddly sweet, even as he laments the loss of the view of Faramir’s golden lashes fanning his cheeks. But he finds he cannot complain when Faramir nuzzles into him, his nose warm and his mouth hot as he twines arms around Boromir’s shoulders. Tucks toes in behind Boromir’s calves.
He gazes at Faramir, his brother’s eyes hooded with sleep. Swirls a thumb over Faramir’s temple, gentle, before tracing the path his hair flows along on the pillow. A swell of warmth and love and affection rises unbidden in Boromir’s chest, and he suddenly finds it imperative to let Faramir know how he feels. Before chance or misfortune can rob him of this opportunity again.
“Faramir, I…” Boromir tries. “I—”
He has long been unable to say the words since they discovered their affections lay beyond those of the fraternal; not even after Osgiliath, the night they had last shared affections before Boromir’s journey to Rivendell, or at the tiny fishing village, where they were known to none. But now, now they have peace, or something like it, so there is no reason why telling his brother he loves him should be so immensely difficult.
Faramir blinks, before laying a finger over Boromir’s lips, hushing him. “I know, Boromir,” he says. He cards a hand gently through Boromir’s hair, tucking a wisp of it behind his ear. “I know.”
Seeing that Faramir will not hold it against him, will not force the words he cannot say, even when they are ensconced in their own rooms, safe from prying eyes, Boromir shakes his head. Kisses Faramir’s finger where it rests upon his lips.
“No,” Boromir whispers. “I will not be cowed by fear this day.” He curls his arms behind Faramir’s shoulders, fingers closing gently over the jut of Faramir’s collarbone. “I love you, Faramir, in all the ways there are. As brother, lover, and friend.”
“Oh,” says Faramir, when at last he finds his voice. “I, too…” he tries, and falters.
It was a sentiment easily shared between them, before either of them realized their love had transcended that of brothers, and it seems they will both need time to reacquaint themselves with it.
Boromir laughs, a rumble of genuine pleasure, and touches his lips to Faramir’s nose. “You need not return the sentiment this instant. We have a lifetime for that.”
“A lifetime,” Faramir muses softly, before gripping Boromir’s shoulders, heartened. “Never again,” he says fervently. “Never again shall we be parted.”
From the fevered look in his eyes, Boromir knows he is thinking of the long months they have been apart at a time, in training and on patrols, their last longest parting having been the length of Boromir’s journey to Rivendell and back. He would not be separated from his brother again, either.
“Oh?” Boromir smiles, nuzzling into the warmth of Faramir’s neck before acquiescing. “Is that a threat, little brother?”
“Nay, an oath,” Faramir says firmly.
“In that case, let me not be named oathbreaker, then.” He feels a dull pang of guilt at the oath he broke for the Fellowship, but as Faramir says, the pain of that grows duller every day from all he has done to atone for it. Besides, his scars from each arrow wound are reminder enough of the betrayal; he will not soon forget the lessons he has learned from that ordeal.
Faramir seems to sense his thoughts from his silence, and lays a kiss to each of those scars, three soft presses of lips to flesh of Boromir’s made new. “I know what it is you think of,” he says gently. “But this oath—this oath you will keep. Until the end of your days, and mine.”
“Yes,” breathes Boromir, his eyes glistening with tears unshed, of joy and thankfulness both. He folds Faramir into his arms and seals this new oath, this purpose Faramir has given him, with a kiss both sweet and sincere. “Until the end of our days.”
~
He wakes to find Faramir sitting up in bed, beautiful in the early light of dawn, the sun bathing him in lovely orange gold. Faramir watches him through half-lidded eyes, his fingers threaded through Boromir’s hair. Stroking gently, as if he is a treasure. A miracle.
Boromir reaches out and catches his wrist, pressing soft, sleepy kisses to each of Faramir’s knuckles. Faramir feels like sunlight and warmth and everything good, and Boromir twines their hands together, kisses inching higher, to wrist, to forearm, to elbow. “Still here,” he murmurs. “Still love you.”
“Fool,” Faramir laughs. “I know this.” Boromir’s reassurance seems to put him at ease, however, and he slips beneath the sheets again, winding his arms around Boromir’s waist. Kisses Boromir’s shoulder, gentle. His mouth.
Boromir leans into Faramir’s embrace, weaving his fingers between Faramir’s and pressing their linked hands over his heart; it is a reassurance for them both that they have loved, that they live, and that there is, very surely, laughter to come.
(tbc - Chapter 11)
End Notes:
Notes:
- “…Mirkwood and Erebor—both places having fared better than Gondor, despite the armies Sauron sent to the north…” – Refers to the Battle of Dale, which took place days before the Battle of the Black Gate.
- Boromir and Faramir’s coronation speeches are borrowed/paraphrased from the book passages of The Return of the King.
Art:
- “Bowing to the King” – Art Commissioned from Hvit-Ravn
- “Remember Today” – Art Commissioned from Bunnyxian
- “The Morning After” – Art Commissioned from Bunnyxian
- I’m including these commissions on good faith, so please don’t spread them around Tumblr, or Instagram, or any other such social media. I’d really like to share the work of these amazingly talented artists, but if I find them appearing on Tumblr or the likes, I simply won’t post any more of them. Thanks for understanding!
OST:
- Aragorn’s Coronation: The Return of the King – Various
- Aragorn's Coronation Song, By Itself: Elessar's Oath
- Revelry, at the Merethrond: Fear No Darkness - Adrian von Ziegler
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: 4760 (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.
Faramir slips into the room moments later, while Boromir is readying some things around the bed. He has lit the candelabra on either side of the bed and the fire in the grate, as well as made Faramir’s bed anew; it would not do for their first celebrations in light of Boromir’s promise to be in the dark, amid rumpled sheets. As if their liaisons were something shameful and hurried.
“Have we not had enough drink this day?” Boromir says. He huffs a laugh as he watches Faramir set down two steins of ale, foaming at the brim.
“Rest assured,” Faramir says dryly, as he bolts the door, “that these are likely to be mostly water. What with our city having made its way through most of Gondor’s brewed products by now.” He pauses, a curious smile playing about his lips in the warm glow of the firelight. “I brought these for us,” he adds, meaningful. “That we may share in a private toast of our own.”
The thought of their less-than-private toast on the day they had retaken Osgiliath comes to mind, and Boromir swallows, hard, around the knot of emotion of forming in his throat. Faramir had remembered—the simple, reciprocated desire to raise a toast to each other, to tip their ale steins in each other’s mouths and drink a draught, long and full and deep. Being unable to, having been surrounded by comrades and friends the same.
“Faramir,” he says softly, touched. Hefts a stein in his hand before they move toward each other with equal intent, Faramir gently pressing his stein to Boromir’s lips, and Boromir urging his against Faramir’s.
They drink a draught each before setting their steins down. Chase the taste of ale from each other’s mouths, licking boldly in, tasting with tongue and lips and teeth.
And when a trace of foam is caught above Faramir’s upper lip, Boromir leans in, grasping the collar of Faramir’s robes and touching his tongue to the offending blemish. Laves his tongue over the fullness of Faramir’s lip, even when the foam is gone, before pressing a series of light, breathy kisses to Faramir’s mouth.
“Boromir,” Faramir breathes, a bare whisper. “Boromir, please.”
The desperation and need in his voice drives Boromir into kissing his jaw, his neck, wet and open-mouthed nips that have Faramir arching into his touch.
He tugs the cloak from Faramir’s shoulders, flinging it toward a chair, careless, the midnight-blue cloth settling in a rumpled heap. And when Faramir’s mouth falls open, to reprimand Boromir for his lack of care with their ceremonial robes, Boromir cups Faramir’s face in his hands, taking his mouth in a kiss that is wet and messy and hard. Cups the base of Faramir’s neck to deepen their kiss until Faramir is gasping against him, clawing his back, in need of air.
Just as suddenly, when Faramir has established a foothold in the floor, he grips Boromir by the shoulders, tearing away his crimson cloak and slamming him into the wall.
Boromir barely stifles the indignant squawk of Who is the prude about our robes now? before Faramir seals their mouths together again, his arms closing tight about Boromir’s waist. Presses his tongue deep into Boromir’s mouth, the taste of him sweet and heady, a mixture of the wine and ale he has had.
When Faramir tries to reciprocate, makes to swallow Boromir’s tongue down, to suck it into his throat for the deepest, filthiest kiss, Boromir pulls away, sudden. Takes Faramir’s hand, reassuring, in the face of Faramir’s hurt noise of loss, and leads him toward the bed.
Faramir nods in silent understanding, and together, they make quick work of removing their breastplates. Strip each other of the rest of their finery, before wrenching away underclothes and breeches in a frantic push to touch, to kiss, to find warm skin even as their mouths meet again and again, heated, hard.
Throwing back the covers, Boromir slips into the bed and tugs Faramir in after him, off-balance. Laughs as Faramir cries out, startled, and lands in a rumpled heap on top of him.
“That was not funny—that was childish,” Faramir huffs, catching his breath. But Boromir’s delight is contagious, and in mere moments, he is laughing as well.
Boromir takes advantage of Faramir’s happiness to nudge him into position and roll over top of him, bracing his elbows by Faramir’s shoulders. Faramir looks exquisite in this moment, flushed with drink as he is, and Boromir cups Faramir’s rosy cheeks in his palms. Spends a moment watching him, wondering how his brother, so perfectly lovely and beautiful and brave, could want him.
It seems Faramir has had the same thought, for he strokes careful, reverent fingers over the line of Boromir’s waist. “I had not thought—” he tries, before his voice breaks. “I had not thought we could have this.” The apple of his throat shifts with a hard swallow. “That I could have you.”
Boromir kisses the hollow of Faramir’s throat, his jaw, reassuring. “We have this,” he declares, knowing Faramir can see he means not only this moment, but all that has passed between them, and all that will come to pass. “And now that we do, I shall never let you go.” His hands slide under Faramir’s arms, warm, fingers tightening over the jut over his shoulders.
“Nor I,” says Faramir, equally as fierce. He is clasping hands around Boromir’s neck to draw him down for a kiss, when the sound of passing footsteps and voices makes them fall silent and still by instinct.
Boromir can feel the panicked hummingbird flutter of Faramir’s heart against his chest, and presses airy kisses to his mouth, to soothe. Touches a wisp of a kiss to his brow. “Be calm, Faramir,” he says softly. “They can neither hear nor see us.” And at Faramir’s worried expression, that perhaps they should hurry through this and return to their respective chambers, Boromir adds, “We may take our time now. Our fight is over, and our people look to the king for guidance. There are neither Orcs waiting to break through the Great Gate, nor summons for secret war councils.” He nuzzles into the safe space of Faramir’s neck, feeling content and warm. “We have time at last, Faramir. For each other. For pleasure.”
Relaxing into Boromir’s arms only when the sound of voices passing too near their room has faded, Faramir still returns each kiss, each gentle stroke of his hair with one of his own. And when he is sure they are safe, that they will not be discovered, he loops his arms around Boromir’s neck again. Draws him down for a kiss that is as soft and full as it is slow.
“At last,” Faramir agrees, sighing, With gentle hands, he traces the curve of Boromir’s waist, fingers roving greedily over warm skin. Kneads hungry handfuls of Boromir’s buttocks, urging Boromir’s hips against his, swallowing his tongue down in the filthiest kiss.
When Faramir finally frees him from his grasp, Boromir presses a trail of reverent, worshipful kisses along Faramir’s neck, and across the corded muscle of his shoulders, as if he is something treasured and precious. Sucks the rosy flesh of Faramir’s nipples, worrying them with his teeth, gentle, until they are the same cherry-red as Faramir’s lips. He is pressing tiny, nibbling kisses to the pert nubs when Faramir huffs, irritated, and he remembers then that he has been neglecting Faramir’s mouth. Rises to nip Faramir’s lips, bruising them with soft bites and licks and sucks, until he has returned the same pleasured flush to them, leaving them red and rosy and sweet.
“You look good enough to eat,” Boromir muses, pressing his thumb against Faramir’s lower lip. He revels in how plump and full it feels. Loves the way Faramir gazes at him, his eyes hooded and his cheeks flushed with color as he parts his lips under Boromir’s thumb and takes the digit into his mouth, sucking, gentle. “Perhaps all we need is a little cream from the kitchens, and—”
Faramir swats him playfully. “Another time, Boromir.”
Boromir laughs, tangling fingers into Faramir’s hair, fond. “You are right; right now I wish to taste only you.” He kisses a path over Faramir’s cheekbone. The hollow of his jaw, and the long column of his throat. “I wish to taste you in every way. In every place. In every inch of you I can reach.”
With that, he continues his path of kisses from where he left off, along the line of Faramir’s belly. Laves a tongue over the hard ridge of Faramir’s cock, licking a stripe from sac to crown before flicking his tongue at the head, teasing.
Nestles his face into the delicious curve of Faramir’s thigh, before kissing the circle of his knee.
The bend of his calves.
The tender arch of his foot.
Faramir shivers at the sensation of his toes being circled by Boromir’s tongue, and when he has had enough, pulls Boromir up against him, twining hands in his hair as he rolls them over in the bed. “Enough,” he laughs. “You are not the only one who wishes for a taste of their lover.”
He nuzzles with his nose the line of Boromir’s jaw and his neck. Touches light, breathy kisses to the scars on Boromir’s torso, where arrows had struck deep within him at Amon Hen; they had nearly taken Boromir from him, taken this privilege from them, and he traces now the oblique lines over the crease of Boromir’s brow, to reassure himself that they have this. That Boromir is safe in the cradle of his arms.
His wish to taste every part of Boromir is cut short when Boromir pulls Faramir down against him. Hitches him in until Faramir’s feet are tucked beneath Boromir’s thighs, as he kisses Faramir, soft and sweet and slow. Slips fingers down into the cleft of Faramir’s ass and touches the tips of them to his hole, hooking up and in, until Faramir is gasping against him, jerking forward with a cry.
Boromir slides his tongue into Faramir’s mouth at the sound, sealing their lips together to keep kissing him, swallowing his cries as Faramir ruts against him. Relishes the sweet slide of Faramir’s cock against his, before swirling fingers in the precome that is pooling on his belly and slicking them both as he takes their cocks in his fist. Groans as Faramir’s hand closes around his, stroking, guiding his hand in the motions of pleasure long familiar.
“Wait,” Faramir says suddenly, his voice strangled, as he makes a soft noise of displeasure. He stills Boromir’s hand with his. “I…I do not wish to spend in this way.” The sweetest flush suffuses his face at that, and he shifts himself until he is straddling Boromir’s lower belly. Until his ass can slide teasingly against Boromir’s cock, letting it nudge just the barest inch within, leaving no question of just what it is he wants.
Boromir stills, surprised that Faramir wants to have him, as he has wanted Faramir. He is no stranger to the ways that men may join, having heard from the soldiers in his command of the pleasures to be gained, in secret. But as much as he and Faramir have experimented, he has never dared, never thought—
“Tell me you want this,” Boromir says, an urgent whisper. He lets Faramir lie back against the bed, before daring to brush trembling fingers along the edge of Faramir’s entrance. They have not come this far before, content to revel in the simple pleasures of fingers and lips and tongues. “If you do not, I will cease, I swear it.”
Faramir drags him close, pressing a reassuring kiss to Boromir’s mouth. “I want this,” he says. “I have wanted you. For so long.” The last word catches in his throat, almost a sob.
“As have I,” says Boromir, open, honest, wanting more than anything to dispel how wounded Faramir sounds. Wanting to sink within his brother and be one with him, to bring him the pleasure they have never known. “As have I, Faramir.”
“In the drawer of my desk, then,” Faramir murmurs against Boromir’s lips. “The vial of oil I use to clean my weapons.” He sits himself up on his elbows, chuckling as Boromir fumbles through the contents of his desk, sorting through scattered ink quills and scrolls before seizing the inconspicuous bottle in the corner. “Hurry.”
Kneeling back on the bed, between Faramir’s knees, Boromir uncorks the bottle to dip fingers to the oil. And at Faramir’s consenting nod, he presses fingers to the sweet pucker of Faramir’s flesh, worrying at how easily, how deeply they slip inside. In no time at all, his fingers disappear up to the first knuckle, the second.
“Faramir?” he asks, uncertain. “Are you all right? Am I hurting you?” He kisses Faramir’s brow, his mouth, to distract him from the discomfort below.
“I am fine,” says Faramir, despite his gritted teeth and shallow breaths. And when Boromir curls his fingers, stroking, Faramir arches against him, sudden, keening. “There,” he moans. “That, good, yes—”
Boromir presses his advantage, having found the place inside Faramir that has him writhing and panting, and strokes deliberate fingers over it. Relishes the tiny gasps Faramir makes with each purposeful thrust. The way Faramir urges his hips against Boromir’s, greedy, eager, that have Boromir wanting to throw his brother down and take him immediately.
“Boromir,” Faramir begs, trembling, his hands grasping for purchase, and Boromir obliges, twining his free hand with Faramir’s and touching gentle, roving pecks to Faramir’s mouth and cheeks and brow. His nips turn into wet, filthy kisses, with Boromir pressing his tongue deep into Faramir’s mouth, like the way he wants to be inside him. Thrusting his tongue in before drawing it out, again and again, until Faramir is left gasping and twisting beneath him.
“Want you,” Faramir gasps, when they draw back for air. “Boromir, please.”
Boromir huffs a laugh, a shaky breath of air as he rests his forehead against Faramir’s. “All right.” He removes the stopper from the bottle once more, to slick his length with the oil. Circles Faramir’s puckered flesh with another generous helping of oil; he would not hurt his brother for the sake of a single night’s pleasure.
“Perhaps I should be on my hands and knees for this,” Faramir says, hesitant, as he starts shifting onto his belly, but Boromir stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
“No—I would see your face, Faramir,” he insists. “I would see the pleasure our lovemaking brings you.”
At that, Faramir gives him the brightest, most grateful smile, one that makes Boromir’s heart stutter in his chest and his breath catch in his throat. He snatches a pillow from the head of the bed, positioning it beneath Faramir’s hips as he returns the smile with one of his own, broad and warm. “Here,” Boromir says, “this may ease the way for you, if only a little—”
Faramir laughs and pulls Boromir toward him. “Enough dallying,” he says. He strokes Boromir’s back, gentle, then his hip, soothing the faint tremor. Lets his fingers skim the broadness of Boromir’s chest and circle the muscle of his belly, before wrapping them around Boromir’s cock. “I want you,” Faramir whispers, reassuring. He cups the back of Boromir’s neck with his free hand, pressing small, breathy kisses to Boromir’s lips, his jaw. “I want you.” Widens his hips to let Boromir settle between them, before guiding Boromir inside him.
“Faramir,” Boromir sighs, reverent, as he sinks slowly into Faramir’s hot, wet heat. “Faramir, I…” For his brother to let Boromir have this much of him, to see this side of him, is a gift—one for which he is immensely grateful. But finding the words for this gratitude, this moment, is something that escapes Boromir entirely.
The bed must dip below their weight, or shift suddenly, as Faramir bites back a pained cry. “Slowly—please, ah—” He bites his lip, drawing a tiny pearl of blood as his body tries to accommodate the girth of Boromir’s cock.
Boromir waits for Faramir to adjust to the length inside him. Waits until Faramir’s shallow breaths even out and his brother lets him know with tugs at his hip and touches to his back that he can press in further, deeper. They continue this way until he has bottomed out, his length as deep within Faramir as he can be. Faramir lies too silent and still beneath him, and Boromir smoothes a lock of hair back from Faramir’s brow, gentle.
“Are you all right?” he asks, worried.
“More than all right,” Faramir says, his voice faint. “Perhaps even more so if you move.” He slides his hips against Boromir’s, small, delicious thrusts that have Boromir gasping against his mouth, and he draws back from Faramir before pushing back in—
“There,” Faramir gasps, twisting beneath him, “right there. Again.”
And Boromir drives forward, to impact that spot within him again. Rolls his hips against Faramir until his brother arches off the bed, crying out with each thrust.
“Boro—Boromir—ah,” Faramir pants. He grips Boromir’s wrist where it is braced by his head, his fingers trembling, his grip tightening with each push. Claws at the sheets, the pillow, and whimpers when Boromir hoists Faramir’s left leg over his shoulder, changing the angle of his thrusts.
His eyes are glassy and wide, the sea-blue of his eyes consumed by black, and even as Boromir strokes Faramir’s cock to distract and pleasure both, he takes the opportunity to watch how Faramir’s mouth falls slack at each wave of pleasure. The way his brow knits at a particularly pleasing thrust. And he will not admit it, not even under pain of death, but he finds the little hitch in Faramir’s moan absolutely endearing.
“Harder,” Faramir demands, shaking Boromir from his daze as he digs a heel into Boromir’s back.
Boromir obliges, lunging forward for a thrust that is as deep and brutal and sharp as Faramir wishes. Relishes Faramir’s startled howl and the hiccupping moan following it, before Faramir remembers to stifle his cries with a hand clapped over his mouth. But that will not do, because he wants to hear Faramir, despite how much of a risk it will be, wants to know the sound of his brother as he comes undone, so he lets Faramir’s legs twine around his back. Lets Faramir pull him down and bring their mouths together in a kiss that is sloppy and wet, as he urges Faramir’s hips wider apart.
Then, finding traction on the bed with his knees, he hitches Faramir’s legs in the crook of his elbows and pulls him in, sudden, ramming his length deep within him, deeper than ever before. Revels in the sharp cry of surprise and pleasure, as Faramir writhes beneath him, panting and gasping, the flush on his face spreading down his neck and to his chest.
“Please,” Faramir sobs. “Please.”
It’s not enough, this pleasure, because Boromir wants him, needs him, and his brother’s begging and goading only fuels his desire to own Faramir, to possess him in every way. So he hikes Faramir’s legs high over his shoulders. Shoves in hard, again and again, relishing Faramir’s choked-off gasps and stifled cries, his fingers pressing deep into Faramir’s thighs, bruising, grasping, as he takes Faramir’s mouth, deep and dark and desperate. To sate a hunger primal, insatiable.
Faramir allows it, allows Boromir’s desperation for long moments before he kicks his legs free of Boromir’s shoulders. Knocks Boromir’s elbow out from the inside and flips them over, tackling him to the bed as he had done when they wrestled as children.
“I have the upper hand now,” he hisses, twining his hands into Boromir’s and riding him, hard, hips bucking as Boromir pushes into him from below.
And when Boromir snakes a hand to his waist, greedy, grasping, looking to grip Faramir’s hip to give him better leverage, Faramir catches his wrist in the act. Brings Boromir’s hand to his lips to kiss his wrist, his palm, before slipping the first two fingers of Boromir’s hand into his mouth. Rolls them against his tongue, licking and sucking, his mouth a perfect mime of what his body does below. Then he pins the offending hand to the bed, and the other, his own hands manacles for Boromir’s wrists, as he rides Boromir harder, lifting and plunging himself on Boromir’s cock again and again, as if he cannot get enough of him.
In this, he reminds Boromir of the sea: his brother has always been the more level-headed of them, calm and tranquil, yet other times indomitably fierce when roused, whether it be to battle, to defend what is precious, or to passion.
Boromir wrenches a hand free from the prison of Faramir’s fist. Rakes fingers through Faramir’s hair before tugging him down by those curls, harsh, to kiss him, to drive his tongue deep into Faramir’s throat; Faramir is not the only one who can be roused to such fierceness in his passion.
A hot, wet press of flesh at Boromir’s belly reminds him of Faramir’s cock, bouncing against him with each lift of Faramir’s hips, full and flush and leaking. Boromir presses it flat against the plane of his own belly. Lets each of Faramir’s heaving motions create a natural friction for it, between Boromir’s hand and the hard plane of Boromir’s abdomen, until Faramir is gasping from the dual pleasures of having his length trapped between Boromir’s hand and belly and Boromir driving in deep within him.
“Boromir,” Faramir gasps, his pace slowing with each subsequent arch of his hips, until with a strangled cry, he spills across Boromir’s belly. Streaks Boromir’s chest with a thick line of come as his knees buckle beneath him and he collapses onto Boromir, twitching, panting, his lungs struggling to fill with air.
Boromir twists hands into Faramir’s hair, his fists closing around Faramir’s curls as he drags him up for a filthy kiss. Circles Faramir’s tongue with his, drinking in the taste of him, hot and moist and sweet, as he swallows each of Faramir’s whimpering cries; each cry is louder than the last, each a desperate whine as Boromir pushes up into him, again and again, freeing his hands to heave Faramir forcibly up and down on his cock and fuck him through his orgasm until—with one brutally vicious thrust, two—Boromir spends within him, forceful, wet.
With a sigh, Faramir slumps over him, spent but sated. He looks slightly dazed, his cheeks flushed a wine-dark red, and Boromir slips fingers into Faramir’s hair to undo the tangles characteristic of the thoroughly debauched. It is a good look on him; Boromir cannot help but curl a palm around the base of his neck and bring their mouths together for another kiss.
Faramir kisses back, sweet and soft, his eyes closed as if he revels in the moment. Smiles against Boromir’s mouth and hums, content—at least, until Boromir rolls them onto their sides and strips a pillow of its casing to wipe them down. The motion causes him to slip out of Faramir, his flesh softening but still warm.
“I wish I could keep your issue inside me,” Faramir mumbles sleepily. His eyes flutter open for a halfhearted pout. “That a part of you would remain with me, wherever I go.”
Boromir chuckles at the sentiment, finding it oddly sweet, even as he laments the loss of the view of Faramir’s golden lashes fanning his cheeks. But he finds he cannot complain when Faramir nuzzles into him, his nose warm and his mouth hot as he twines arms around Boromir’s shoulders. Tucks toes in behind Boromir’s calves.
He gazes at Faramir, his brother’s eyes hooded with sleep. Swirls a thumb over Faramir’s temple, gentle, before tracing the path his hair flows along on the pillow. A swell of warmth and love and affection rises unbidden in Boromir’s chest, and he suddenly finds it imperative to let Faramir know how he feels. Before chance or misfortune can rob him of this opportunity again.
“Faramir, I…” Boromir tries. “I—”
He has long been unable to say the words since they discovered their affections lay beyond those of the fraternal; not even after Osgiliath, the night they had last shared affections before Boromir’s journey to Rivendell, or at the tiny fishing village, where they were known to none. But now, now they have peace, or something like it, so there is no reason why telling his brother he loves him should be so immensely difficult.
Faramir blinks, before laying a finger over Boromir’s lips, hushing him. “I know, Boromir,” he says. He cards a hand gently through Boromir’s hair, tucking a wisp of it behind his ear. “I know.”
Seeing that Faramir will not hold it against him, will not force the words he cannot say, even when they are ensconced in their own rooms, safe from prying eyes, Boromir shakes his head. Kisses Faramir’s finger where it rests upon his lips.
“No,” Boromir whispers. “I will not be cowed by fear this day.” He curls his arms behind Faramir’s shoulders, fingers closing gently over the jut of Faramir’s collarbone. “I love you, Faramir, in all the ways there are. As brother, lover, and friend.”
“Oh,” says Faramir, when at last he finds his voice. “I, too…” he tries, and falters.
It was a sentiment easily shared between them, before either of them realized their love had transcended that of brothers, and it seems they will both need time to reacquaint themselves with it.
Boromir laughs, a rumble of genuine pleasure, and touches his lips to Faramir’s nose. “You need not return the sentiment this instant. We have a lifetime for that.”
“A lifetime,” Faramir muses softly, before gripping Boromir’s shoulders, heartened. “Never again,” he says fervently. “Never again shall we be parted.”
From the fevered look in his eyes, Boromir knows he is thinking of the long months they have been apart at a time, in training and on patrols, their last longest parting having been the length of Boromir’s journey to Rivendell and back. He would not be separated from his brother again, either.
“Oh?” Boromir smiles, nuzzling into the warmth of Faramir’s neck before acquiescing. “Is that a threat, little brother?”
“Nay, an oath,” Faramir says firmly.
“In that case, let me not be named oathbreaker, then.” He feels a dull pang of guilt at the oath he broke for the Fellowship, but as Faramir says, the pain of that grows duller every day from all he has done to atone for it. Besides, his scars from each arrow wound are reminder enough of the betrayal; he will not soon forget the lessons he has learned from that ordeal.
Faramir seems to sense his thoughts from his silence, and lays a kiss to each of those scars, three soft presses of lips to flesh of Boromir’s made new. “I know what it is you think of,” he says gently. “But this oath—this oath you will keep. Until the end of your days, and mine.”
“Yes,” breathes Boromir, his eyes glistening with tears unshed, of joy and thankfulness both. He folds Faramir into his arms and seals this new oath, this purpose Faramir has given him, with a kiss both sweet and sincere. “Until the end of our days.”
He wakes to find Faramir sitting up in bed, beautiful in the early light of dawn, the sun bathing him in lovely orange gold. Faramir watches him through half-lidded eyes, his fingers threaded through Boromir’s hair. Stroking gently, as if he is a treasure. A miracle.
Boromir reaches out and catches his wrist, pressing soft, sleepy kisses to each of Faramir’s knuckles. Faramir feels like sunlight and warmth and everything good, and Boromir twines their hands together, kisses inching higher, to wrist, to forearm, to elbow. “Still here,” he murmurs. “Still love you.”
“Fool,” Faramir laughs. “I know this.” Boromir’s reassurance seems to put him at ease, however, and he slips beneath the sheets again, winding his arms around Boromir’s waist. Kisses Boromir’s shoulder, gentle. His mouth.
Boromir leans into Faramir’s embrace, weaving his fingers between Faramir’s and pressing their linked hands over his heart; it is a reassurance for them both that they have loved, that they live, and that there is, very surely, laughter to come.
(tbc - Chapter 11)
End Notes:
Notes:
- “…Mirkwood and Erebor—both places having fared better than Gondor, despite the armies Sauron sent to the north…” – Refers to the Battle of Dale, which took place days before the Battle of the Black Gate.
- Boromir and Faramir’s coronation speeches are borrowed/paraphrased from the book passages of The Return of the King.
Art:
- “Bowing to the King” – Art Commissioned from Hvit-Ravn
- “Remember Today” – Art Commissioned from Bunnyxian
- “The Morning After” – Art Commissioned from Bunnyxian
- I’m including these commissions on good faith, so please don’t spread them around Tumblr, or Instagram, or any other such social media. I’d really like to share the work of these amazingly talented artists, but if I find them appearing on Tumblr or the likes, I simply won’t post any more of them. Thanks for understanding!
OST:
- Aragorn’s Coronation: The Return of the King – Various
- Aragorn's Coronation Song, By Itself: Elessar's Oath
- Revelry, at the Merethrond: Fear No Darkness - Adrian von Ziegler
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!
