Faramir Fiction Archive

A Mere Bowman (PG-13)

Written by Empy

14 April 2005 | 972 words

Title: A Mere Bowman
Author: Empy [Email]
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the Tolkien estate. No infringement is intended and no money made.
Warning(s): mentions of consensual sibcest.
Summary: Interlude in Osgiliath.
Feedback: Yes, please.
A/N: Thanks to Darkie and Kia for the beta.

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“Close your eyes,” Faramir said, his voice nearly drowned out by the clamour of the troops nearby. “Please do as I say.”

Boromir complied, yet fought the urge to open his eyes as he felt Faramir’s bare hand touch his face, brushing away dust and ashes. Blinded, all he could trust to aid him was his hearing and his sense of touch. He felt strangely isolated, as though the army was leagues away, and as though the both of them were in a chamber alone, not huddled in a half-collapsed hallway perched on the ruins of a crumbled tower.

“Why will you not let me look at you?” he asked, flinching as a drop of rainwater, leaking from the crumbling archway above them, spattered against his forehead.

“I have not the time to explain it now.” Faramir was so close Boromir could feel every word on his skin. “I must do this. Let that answer content you now.”

“A kiss will content me,” Boromir smiled, leaning in to collect the promised bounty.

A kiss in the dark, not unlike so many others. A kiss that could have been bestowed upon him by nigh anyone. Any soldier in the light armour reserved for bowmen. Any soldier of the thousands that in vain tried to take back Osgiliath.

Yet so many things in this kiss told him who it was. Only one could be so fierce and so gentle all at once, and only one knew him so well and played him so ruthlessly. And only this one was forbidden to him.

Faramir shifted, pinning Boromir more firmly against the wall. The younger man tasted of ale and rainwater, and the kiss was harsh and demanding.

Giving an impatient little groan in the back of his throat, Boromir slid his hand down Faramir’s side, his knuckles skidding over the hilt of Faramir’s sword. This was a path he knew, one he had taken before. The thought made him smile as he slid his hand slowly further down. He would have gone far further, had not Faramir bitten his lip in rebuke. Blood welled up in Boromir’s mouth, the taste hot and coppery, and he loosened his hold.

“You cannot,” Faramir breathed, the tone of his voice so regretful the rebuke sounded like a lament. “Do not tempt me to this here and in this moment.”

Opening his eyes, Boromir warily glanced at his brother. Faramir was blushed, his lips stained a slight crimson with Boromir’s blood. He gave a sorrowed shake of his head, reaching up to wipe his stained mouth.

“Forget this,” Faramir said, stepping back. “You must forget this happened. Block it from your mind if you must, lie to yourself, but please do not carry this memory with you.”

The words cut sharp like daggers. “When can we cease this game?” Boromir asked. “Does it not pain you to be forced to warp your memories?”

“Father knows,” Faramir said. The statement loomed between them, a sure doom held in those two words.

“Nay. You lie,” Boromir protested. “You lie to dissuade me!”

“Were it that I was,” Faramir sighed. “It is not to torment you that I do this, brother mine,” he went on, his voice hoarse with unvoiced anger. “It is to save you. There is your answer.” He strode away without looking back, the arrows in the quiver strapped along his back jangling steadily.

“What is that mark on your nether lip?” Denethor asked, leaning in close, supporting himself with a hand laid on Boromir’s shoulder. “You are not one to get into scraps. Unless they be of a more lustful sort,” he added after a moment, the slate-grey gaze sharp and humourless. “The sort you find time for even among men, it seems. It should have been a woman who made those marks, so that you would have something to show for yourself. It is not well that I should have to hear tales of your dalliances with soldiers.”

“They are my concern, not yours, Father,” Boromir said, risking defiance.

“I would not hear that tone from you again.” The grip tightened minutely. “You forget who is Steward and who is but Captain-General.” Relinquishing the hold, Denethor regarded his elder son for a short moment, then gave a sneer and turned away.

“Doorways are for passage, not love-games,” Denethor added as he gazed out of the broken arch at the darkening sky. “Here they are for shelter. Tell that to your soldier.”

Fear cut its jagged tracks through Boromir. He could never be certain of how much of his mind his father could read, and now he was drowning in images he had been told to forget. His heartbeats seemed like thunder in his ears; so loud he was certain his father could hear them.

“My soldier, Father?” he forced out, the words leaden.

Denethor gave a snort. “I may not have seen it, but your mind is awash with it. Others may seek courage in this way, but you should not, my son. Even so,” and here he paused, “you would do well in taking someone who is closer to you than a mere bowman.”

With this, he strode away, the black cape moving like wings of shadow. The soldiers in his path shrank back, bowing their heads in respect.

Boromir slumped back against the crumbling wall. He would have laughed had not the truth been so bitter.

If you only knew, Father. If you only knew who this mere bowman is.

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