Faramir Fiction Archive

After a Lifetime (NC-17)

Written by December

07 January 2012 | 46599 words | Work in Progress

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Thanks:

To balrog and Alcardilmë for beta on this chapter.
To iris for her patient help with this story and general artistic encouragement.

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Chapter 2. On the Contradictory Nature of Love

‘They wrote in the old days that it is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.’

Ernest Hemmingway

A month had passed since Faramir and the group of soldiers left the high walls of Minas Tirith.

Grave and serious men as they were, they took to him warmly and listened with earnest respect whenever he spoke – which he tried to do as little as necessary. Not an eyebrow had been lifted when he came to ride out with their company (a Steward’s decisions were not questioned), but Faramir suspected he was a burden, young and of precious lineage, no more than a hindrance on the road. Moreover, he could, had he so wished, turn the next few months to living hell for them, for no matter how young, he was a lord, and they would not have been able to just wave him aside had he started to make trouble.

The men’s genuine acceptance should have gladdened him, but in his present state few things could bring comfort.

Being useful to the Rangers was his only consolation. One day, Boromir would be general of Gondor’s armies and Faramir his lieutenant (however that was supposed to work after what had happened). When that time came, everything would be done for him by others – he would only oversee and give lordly nods of approval. But for now he was still a beardless youth and before long the men grew used to him wishing to carry his own load and perform all the chores on a par with the others.

Much as he was a lover of things of the mind and imagination, like story and song, Faramir soon found profound pleasure in how material life was out here. He liked the tiredness in his muscles, the soreness in the soles of his feet, how intense were the smells, how hard and uncomfortable the ground he slept on. The jaw-wrenching cold of the water he drank from the creeks, the belly-twisting aroma of game roasting over fire, fat dripping onto the coals.

None of this was new in itself, for his training had of course included numerous practice expeditions into the wilderness. Yet all such previous travels had had an air of child’s play, for they always took place safely away from any area where a real foe could be found.

Now even gathering wood for a campfire seemed important and full of meaning, for it was a campfire to warm up the warriors on duty, keeping the lands and people of Gondor protected. Even when resting in the evening, talking freely and smiling, the men were ever on guard. This state of constant semi-vigilance, his ears gathering up the smallest sounds, eyes ever ready to notice something out of place, was becoming so habitual to him that soon he could hardly imagine existing in any other mode.

Faramir awaited impatiently their first encounter with Orcs or whatever other enemy.

Months and months could go by without any sign of activity from over the dark ridges of Ephel Duath, making it tempting to believe no evil would ever walk in this beautiful place. Yet ever a dark threatening presence remained, and inevitably there would come a day when a marauding party would spill forth from the mountains. Faramir hoped the day would arrive before his assignment ended. Perhaps, like Boromir, he would find pleasure in fighting, in killing. Perhaps, the void inside him would be filled, or at least numbed.

When a sizeable group of Orcs was finally espied heading towards the River, confident in their numbers, and the Rangers ambushed them, pleasure was absent from his heart. His blood went hot, but his mind remained cold and clear. Only great revulsion filled him as he threw aside his bow, parried one blow of a charging enemy, then another, then drove his sword into the Orc’s abdomen. Oblivious to the fetid blood splattering all over his front, Faramir shoved the sagging body aside and took on the next one.

Once all was finished, the men collected their arrows, quickly retreated further into the woods, and sought a robust creek to wash off the combat’s blood and dirt, to prevent marking their trail for unwelcome company to follow.

They took turns, only two entering the current at a time, the others standing by, ready for a new assault.

The ground was freezing to step onto with bare feet, and the icy water bit harshly at naked skin. The soldiers joked they were lucky winter had not come yet. By right of birth Faramir was among the first to bathe, and he did so eagerly, burning to cleanse himself of the sticky Orkish blood that had seeped through his garments to his very skin and was giving him a terrible itch.

Then he stood aside watching the other men from the corner of his eye.

The boy had not yet had chance to see any man unclothed after that time. He had wondered whether the look of their strong muscular bodies would summon in him the incongruous toxic desire of that unfortunate night. Nothing happened. They were but naked people, not particularly handsome or graceful, with numerous scars and plenty of hair on their bodies.

Yet whenever he recalled, however involuntarily, the feel of his brother’s lips on his own, the way that warm hand had groped in his most intimate places, instantly he grew hot all over, and a briefest bliss enveloped him before shame and bitterness took over.

He was thoughtful and quiet throughout the rest of that day. Late in the evening gloom, when a damp mist had gathered in the gullies, he sat huddled in his cloak by the dying campfire.

It was nice to have something other than Boromir to worry about. He knew something in him had been changed by the experience with the Orcs, and he strained to understand what exactly. Too much seemed to be changing lately.

On the surface Faramir felt only a dry grim satisfaction, as after performing any unpleasant but necessary task. Deeper down, however, there was something else: a strong passion, hot and fierce This was strange. He had thought love was a soft and tender thing. He had thought love for one’s country was best expressed through persistent gentle care, through hard diligent labour: tending the woods, growing crops, building neat comely villages and so forth. Yet now he felt that this brutal, violent thing he had done, the thing that had made his heart beat faster and sweat break on his brow from the sheer physical exertion, this thing that had filled his chest with defiant fire – this thing was the ultimate proof of his love, of the bone-deep bond between him and the land he belonged to.

It felt so very right, so very fitting, to be pledging allegiance with his very blood and flesh.

He had never fully understood this before that day. He had seen what this service might eventually lead to: slain men were brought to the City far too often, and also those heavily injured, groaning quietly, some deathly pale, others flushed with fever. His father was always very particular about coming to the Wards to personally thank each such soldier for his service – and never failed to take his sons along, inuring them to this side of a lord’s duty, to the reality of life, to the price of their very existence.

Faramir had seen many a ghastly torn wound, obviously incompatible with life. He had always been twisted by an excruciating mixture of pity, horror and guilt as he looked in the faces of the men bearing such marks of loyalty. It had seemed nothing but a tragedy that they should suffer so, that they should die. The stern acceptance in his father’s face, one with a faint trace of approval, had always bewildered him – how could the Steward be so calm, how could he earnestly honour their fate? Faramir could only weep at it.

But now… He moved his shoulders against the chill and stared ahead of himself into the murky grey darkness between the disheveled trees, their moist bark black in the gloom.

Had he been the one creating this world, he would have made it differently – but no one had taken care to ask for his opinion. And in the life he had been dealt, the supreme expression of a highest and cleanest love apparently had a beastly in nature. The beastliness, by some twisted logic, was what made it powerful and real.

Of course, he would have loved Gondor in peace, in glorious majesty. He was born with devotion to her in his veins, he would have loved her regardless. And he wished her peace, with all his heart he did. And yet… There would have been pride for her power in his love, and tenderness for her beauty – yes, only that love would not have been… He sighed uneasily, for it felt akin to treason to be even admitting this to himself. No, it would not have been as guttingly complete as it was now. He would have loved her from a distance, unable to fully feel her with his very bones, unable to feel the kinship between her soil and his flesh. Whereas when there was this deep simmering passion he had just found, this visceral need to protect her, to serve her and claim her as his own through the service, this desire to risk everything for her – his love became fierce, and left him no doubt, no fear.

This love had little in common with the exalted, soaring, almost romantic sentiment that he felt when looking in admiration at the white Tower of Guard in the pink glory of sunrise, when walking through the grand albeit cheerless ancient halls of the palace, when listening to melodious ballads about Gondor’s royal splendour in the ages past.

There was no place for romance in this love, it was too tragic for that. He knew well enough that at some point he would have to hold a slain friend dying in his arms. He knew well enough that not all those who were with him that evening would be around in a year’s time. He knew well enough that one day he might have to fight against not only the beastly progeny of darkness like Orcs and Trolls, but also Men not entirely unlike himself – men whose blood ran red, not black. He had read of the kin-slaying wars of the past, and the very idea of it had shaken his heart. Admittedly, these men would be not his kin, but the enemy’s servants from some distant realm – but he reckoned not all who served the Dark Lord did so out of the unconditionally evil nature of their heart. Some must be driven simply by force or fear…

To murder a man who, just like him, loved the blazing white of the sun in the blue of the sky, and the sound of wind in the trees, who could smile and laugh, who thought of someone dear when lying in camp at night… Something like this he could never rejoice in, no matter the cause. Yet he knew, with frightening certainty, that he would carry it through without wincing, if the fate of his people depended on it.

Yes, this was, for better or worse, how life worked.

Not that it made a particularly pleasant world to live in, though.

He wondered suddenly where Boromir was. Was he also somewhere out in the wilderness, sitting at a campfire, gloomy and lonely, thinking? Was it possible he was thinking of Faramir…?

Faramir frowned sternly. Not likely.

What did he care anyway?

It was time to grow up. How could he count on his father’s love when it was so hard to earn? How could he even wish for his brother’s love when it had been so easy to lose? He would have to learn to live with his own strength and not rely on what others thought of him. He would harden, and become a man, and be his own support and solace.

With the passage of days he gained further respect from his comrades, who complimented him openly on his courage and level-headedness in combat, and amongst themselves spoke of the strangely heartening effect this boy’s calm presence had on them. They would no longer restrain him or try to keep him behind when they fought. Although he had only just turned fifteen, his lack of a grown man’s strength was made up for by agility and swift judgement.

But as chilly winds tore the last leaves off the trees and a thin shroud of snow fell upon the higher foothills, there came a time when his skills did not help him. It was an inhospitable bitter time of the year, and the Orcs seemed to be getting hungry. Too many were the Rangers’ foes and too suddenly they struck. Faramir answered the attack fearless and steady as ever and came out of it alive, but several wounds were set in his body. On their own neither one of them was severe enough to claim his life, but together the cuts drained him of much blood and strength.

His men would hear no objection and at once arranged a small convoy to deliver him safely to the City, where his injuries could be properly tended and healed.

Along the journey he grew feverish and reached Minas Tirith in a half-unconscious state.

That night he slept fitfully, though the healers’ potions and clever hands had set him on the course for recovery.

As he awoke not long before noon, he found the Steward by his bedside. Had Faramir opened his eyes a minute earlier, he might have noticed a vague sadness in his father’s eyes, a softness almost akin to tenderness. But Denethor had noticed his son stirring to wake and had had time to arrange his features according to his reasons. And, with just a right measure of disappointment showing on his pale face, the lord nodded to Faramir with dry approval.

“You have endeavoured to serve Gondor properly, son, even though you had to be carried back in the arms of our men. But nevertheless I give heed to your efforts. You may show some worth after all.”

This was not the way Father usually greeted his wounded warriors. Yet such was the nature of Faramir’s heart, that he took no offence at this cynical judgement of his achievements. In fact, his father’s words seemed almost like praise to him, and he smiled.

“But my lord, the young prince is sleeping, he needs rest!” a healer’s indignant voice carried past the closed doors of the ward.

Faramir half sat up and strained his ears to hear clearer. But there was no need to listen in as another voice bellowed: “Out of my way, you dimwit! I wish to see my brother!”

The heavy wooden doors flung open and Boromir burst in. Next instant he was by Faramir’s bed, clutching the boy’s hand, his gaze jumping between Faramir’s clear grey eyes.

“Please, little one, tell me all is well with you! I would not bear it if any real harm had come to you!” He was short of breath, having apparently sprinted up all the way from the city gates. Still dressed in his traveling gear, he looked worn and disheveled, his beard unkempt and over-grown. A strong smell of horse sweat and long road hung around him. “I came as soon as I heard of what befell you, but I could not come fast enough…”

Faramir was pierced by the desperate worry in his brother’s eyes, and what a joy it was to see Boromir again. But he jerked his chin up and snatched his hand away.

“Nothing befell me that should concern you.”

Boromir stared at him aghast.

“But how could it not concern me? We are brothers, you are more precious to me than anyone!”

“Yet little precious to you I was when you were leaving on that so-called mission, Boromir.”

The young man groaned tiredly and slumped on the chair by the bed.

“I was harsh to you, little brother, but I had to go. Would you oppose Father’s will?”

“Father’s will had nothing to do with it. He told me… he told me you came to him and begged to send you away! That’s what he said, that you begged.” All the pain, all the confusion, all the anger Faramir had been harbouring for these past months were bursting forth. He could see his words were stinging Boromir, but could not contain the accusations.

Boromir suddenly looked small, all colour drained from his face except for two bright spots on his cheeks. He lowered his face and uttered quietly: “Aye, that I did, I begged.”

“And I reasoned –” Faramir felt a lump in his throat, but went on nonetheless, for he knew that otherwise he would never say it. “I reasoned it was because of me, because you did not wish to see me any longer.”

Boromir studied his hands in his lap for a long time.

“Aye, you speak the truth once more.”

“Then why…?”

Boromir covered his eyes with his hand, his head bending ever lower. “You had scared me, little brother. What… what you did to me… and what I had nearly done to you… I had never known such madness to hide within me. I fled – but only to protect you, from myself. Such a torment your presence would’ve become! Within reach day and night. Not myself, I was not myself, Faramir! I would have… You came to me in my sleep!”

He peered up at Faramir pleadingly, as though making Faramir understand the depth of his torment would somehow set everything right.

The boy sat very upright and very still, his face pale and eyes wide as he stared at Boromir. Faramir had never seen his brother look so miserable, so… endearingly vulnerable, had never heard him speak with such pain. And although the realisation that Boromir had never scorned or hated him had seared his heart with joy, the light and warmth of that knowledge were already extinguished by the cool waters of numbing ache for the young warrior before him, stripped of all his pride.

Then came Farmair’s shame, bitter and twisted.Shame that in his indignation he had judged Boromir, and judged him so unfairly, so unkindly.

Thus Faramir decided to keep to himself that he had also had all sorts of thoughts and dreams – dreams whose illusive bliss disappeared as soon as he woke, taunting him with an only too material muggy stickiness at the front of his breeches. Not to mention that those dreams had not been wholly unwelcome. That knowledge would only add to Boromir’s suffering.

“I am sorry,” Faramir said. “None of what you say had been known to me. I am sorry I was bitter with you just now, and I am sorry I had doubted you. I thought you despised me, Boromir, for what I had done… You were as though lost to me forever.”

It had not taken Boromir long to regain his self-control – and with it his usual slightly condescending derisiveness. He snorted. “And I would have been lost to you indeed, had the lads not got you to the City in time. What’s all this heroic shit about? Going to Ithilien and all, when everyone knows it’s crawling with Orc and what not, especially at this time of year.”

Faramir sighed uneasily. “Like I said, I thought I would never get to be your friend again. ’Tis… You don’t know what that means to me, brother.” He had quite forgotten his earlier resolve to harden and not care about anyone’s love for him. “I wished at least to make Father happy, to prove my worth. But no harm was done, and –”

“No harm?! Just look at yourself… Ah, and these wounds are my fault, too! Had I been here, none of this would have happened… And Father… stupidly risking your life at his bidding he sees as a proof of loyalty! Damn it, how can this be?! You were only fourteen when you were given that assignment, you were not ready to do such things!” Boromir did not overlook the fact that he himself had been fourteen also when he started going on forays – it merely did not occur to him to apply the same standards to his brother. “We have enough grown blokes, you should not have had to –”

“But brother, you risk your life rather foolishly all the time, too – and do not speak harshly of our father,” Faramir interrupted tiredly, leaning back onto his pillows. The conversation had exhausted him, and he closed his eyes.

There were footsteps behind the door and then the healer’s head popped in. He spoke in a hushed voice: “Lord Boromir, His Lordship has heard of your arrival and wishes to speak with you. Besides…” he looked pointedly at Faramir.

Boromir sighed wearily and stood up. He made to leave, but then returned and pressed his lips hastily to Faramir’s brow. Only the boy was already asleep.

Boromir came to visit every day, but they spoke no more of what had passed between them.

Instead Faramir told Boromir of his first military experiences, while the older brother shared his own tidings. They were more on a par in this than ever before, for now it was not a boy adoringly drinking in every word of a dashing young captain, believing even the most outrageous cock and bull stories, but a young warrior who had his own tales to tell – one who nodded with serious understanding as he listened to his brother, now quite able to imagine some of the situations Boromir described.

Faramir often saw pride for him light up his brother’s face, and knew that without him ever having spoken of it directly, Boromir had, perhaps unconsciously, sensed the transformation that had taken place in him after his first battle.

At first, however, the boy had been reluctant to mention that encounter. The older brother had often talked of how Faramir’s first time would be with him, how they would be fighting side by side when Faramir’s virginal blade was washed in real blood, when his first Orc was slain. Boromir had so looked forward to witnessing and sharing the strain and glory of that moment, to seeing his little brother step over the threshold to manhood – to Boromir it was one of the most, if not the one most important milestone in a warrior’s life.

And now he had missed it.

It had happened – without him, and Faramir knew his brother must be bitter. Not only that: he probably felt guilty as well, for not having been there to save his little brother should something go awry.

But if that were so, Boromir never let on as much.

To Faramir, after the intensity of the foray, it felt strange and unnatural to be idling his days away in the quiet airy rooms with nothing to do, with hardly anyone to talk to. In fact, as the healers had pled with him not to go outside to the garden lest he catch a cold in his weakened state, and all other visitors were turned away on the grounds of him needing rest, his brother was his only entertainment in those days. And Boromir, as Faramir suspected, was stealing time away from his duties, lingering for hours at the boy’s bedside, never running out of things to talk of and joke about.

Boromir, now that his face was cleared of the outmost anxiety of their reunion, beard neatly trimmed and hair put in order, once more presented a lordly sight.

Against his better judgement, Faramir would wonder now and again whether his brother was still subject to the temptation he had spoken of with such feeling. To see Boromir so nonchalant and relaxed in his presence after that desperate confession gave Faramir mixed feelings. Maybe the power of his repentance had broken the spell. Or it had simply worn off, like the boy had heard these things sometimes do.

He did not dare ask himself whether he wished this to be the case.

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