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 Alcardilmë and balrog for the beta.

Chapter 3. Lavender

On the fourteenth evening after Boromir’s return, when Faramir was beginning to fear in earnest that he would go mad in the confines of his private ward, the healers finally released Denethor’s younger son. Faramir was certain it would have been done much earlier, had he been an ordinary soldier and not the Steward’s offspring – but said Steward had not made another visit since his son’s awakening, so the head of the Houses, uncertain of the lord’s viewpoint on the matter, had obviously chosen to play it safe.

Faramir would not have been horribly surprised if in a couple more days he had actually started looking forward to the visits of the warden who brought him meals, the talkative elderly lady Ioreth, and her endless monologues about this and that. After serving him, she would always hover around, sighing about how he was too skinny and persistently protesting a young man like him, especially one recovering from battle wounds, should eat thrice as much – which was not unfair, for he was indeed having some serious trouble with his appetite as of late.

It was not that he had not thought of some productive way to divert himself – he had had one of the pages fetch him a whole stack of reading material from the Library. Faramir understood that if he wanted to indulge his passion for reading, he would have to learn how to find time for it from then on. The day a young man began his military service, his formal education was considered finished, all the book-learning hours in his schedule replaced with tasks that were ‘actually important’. Boromir had hardly managed to sound appropriately regretful when saying his final thanks and goodbye to their tutors, and had even entertained himself voicing half-joking plans about setting a little pyre in the main courtyard for his torturously numerous, rightfully loathed and thankfully no longer needed text-books and scrolls – just imagine, ash would fly everywhere, it would be so grand – until Father had given him the look.

But, much as Faramir did not share his brother’s views on this subject, he found he could not concentrate on his reading – his thought was like a dragonfly, pausing for a few moments in one place, but just as he thought he had it cornered, it would whizz off in some seemingly random direction. He had soon abandoned the history volume he had been begun studying shortly before setting off on his first mission – he could hardly get through half a paragraph before finding himself staring out of the window absent-mindedly. The same fate had befallen all the other serious works awaiting his attention.

With a sigh, he gave up, leaving them alone to try something else: the page had also brought a thin book Faramir had not requested. Since the lad could hardly be all that involved in literature, Faramir concluded it had been added by the librarian as an extra little something, apparently in an attempt to balance out all the intellectually demanding texts the young lord had asked for. It turned out to be a fictional novel, and one with a strong romantic line at that. Faramir had been somewhat skeptical at first, but before long had to admit it sported both wit and eloquence and, on the whole, was quite a pleasure to read. However, just as he came to the part where the main character was left alone with the object of his infatuation, and a confession – or something – was about to take place – Faramir’s hands, acting seemingly off their own accord, firmly shut the book and put it aside.

The speed and relentlessness of his sudden reaction had startled him: he would have never expected such a harmless topic to cause him this degree of unease and annoyance, not to mention embarrassment so strong it made his face tingle. At first he had laughed at himself, deeming it nothing but childishness to be shy to even read of such things, yet when he picked the book up to continue, he very clearly realised that, inexplicable as it seemed, he simply did not want to.

Thus he had neatly stacked the various volumes on the bedside table and did not return to them, therefore effectively leaving himself with nothing to do. Given how rare it was that he should have too much free time on his hands, it had seemed strange to him that his thought refused to make use of it and dwell on anything remotely important, instead jumping and skipping nonchalantly all over the place.

Before, he would sometimes lie in bed at night, physically exhausted, yet nevertheless fighting sleep: his packed schedule left him no private time to think his own personal thoughts, driving him to derive this time from his rest hours. But during his recovery, the dark part of the day had been even more tedious than the light, and felt veritably endless, for, much as Faramir would have liked to sleep, he simply could not. He would try all the usual techniques over and over again, but – his heart beating agitatedly – his awareness seemed maliciously obstinate to remain sharp and clear, refusing to leave him in spite of all his efforts.

Only Boromir’s visits had been a splash of vivid colour in the dull greyness of the boy’s days – and long after his brother would depart, Faramir would feel astir with excitement and optimism, and his blood would keep on running just a little faster.

But now that he was finally set free, instead of being relieved, Faramir felt strangely uncertain and wary, like he did back in childhood when playing one of those games where he had to get through a room blindfolded, constantly expecting to painfully bump into something or trip and sprawl on his front. He told himself to be a man and get a hold of himself. Boromir always disapproved of people who worried overmuch – and to worry about one’s unmotivated anxiety, was this not outright ridiculous?

Really, he had no actual cause for alarm, everything in his life was well and safe – which he knew to appreciate and not take for granted, given it was for the first time in months he had nothing to fear or obsess about.

Ah, perhaps this was the reason: his nervousness was simply long-suppressed stress finally coming out. Much as he had lost no dignity in any of his military encounters, it was an undeniable fact that these things did leave at least a temporary mark on the heart – the resulting anxiety was only natural. Why did soldiers drink like they did, after all? Or dice, or women… People had to let it out somehow. And he had not cried once, had not had as much as an itsy-bitsy little nightmare, had not yelled at or smacked anyone (not that he ever did, but still, this was a sadly common method for men to unwind…), so all of his tension was obviously still inside.

Yet, paradoxically, the idea of returning to the borders in the nearest future to face yet more peril caused him no aversion at all. In fact, he wished to do it, to be back in the open where he did not have to dwell on things overmuch. Not merely because that sort of life was addictively uncomplicated in its own way, but, he realised with a sinking feeling, because he earnestly, with his very heart wanted to do what he had previously done: watch and fight. Not that he enjoyed it in any way – he merely wanted to be of some practical, real use. What good did it do anybody that he could read and write in Elvish and recite a good several dozen poems by heart? What good would all Gondorian lore be if Gondor were to come to ruin, overrun by a throng of illiterate Orcs, Trolls and what not?

He held still for a while, struck and unnerved by this strange notion. He had always known what path lay ahead for him, had known it with such uncompromising certainty that he had never even stopped to ponder on it. Things operated according to the natural laws established by the Valar themselves, everyone knew that. An apple-seed could only grow into an apple-tree. Autumn would always follow summer. The first son always fared as the father had fared – the second son got what he managed to deserve for himself. And in the case of a noble man’s second son, there was really only one way to deserve anything.

Now that his misgivings had brought him to analyse the workings of the society, Faramir saw that the aristocracy had, in fact, as little freedom as only the very lowest class.

A peasant’s children would be peasants. Period. They would all live in the patriarchal house, bringing in their wives in due time, adding new annexes as the family extended. The craftsmen actually had much more liberty: a miller’s first-born inherited the mill and became a miller, while all others could choose a trade that beckoned to them, and go enroll as apprentices wherever they liked, even as soldiers – and of course they could stay as helping hands at the mill, too. The sons of a wealthy tradesman – now, they had a whole variety of options, including the finer ones like arts, medicine and even minor administrative positions. But a noble man’s sons could not work as cobblers, apothecaries or minstrels: a lord’s firstborn became the landlord over the father’s estate, all others were to seek fortune becoming warlords one day. That was the end of it. And had Boromir not been so insatiably eager about all things military, and had the circumstances of their time not called for all capable hands to hold a sword, Faramir’s brother would have been spending far more hours of his day helping the Steward with all the governmental tasks – whereas Faramir, regardless of any circumstances or his own preferences, would have been trained for a warrior.

Faramir had always taken this as self-evident and thus had never even asked himself what he would have actually liked to dedicate his days to, had he been given the choice. He was not going to be given the choice, so what was the point of dwelling on it?

But now he realised that, yes, he would have gone to be a warrior.

He grinned to himself sadly. So much for culture and education – what mattered above all, apparently, was the ability to be a good fighter, a good leader. There was a reason it was what people respected – because it was what people needed, and he deemed it only just. Boromir for one, despite his annoyingly frequent usage of obscene physiological terminology and a rather brutal sense of humour, did much more for the preservation of Gondor’s cultural heritage than all her artists and scholars put together and multiplied by three.

Well, there was at least one invention of civilisation Faramir would miss when out on a mission – or, more accurately, two: hot water and a bath tub.

Before he departed, the boy used the Houses’ spacious bathing facilities one last time. Done in creamy marble and brass, they outmatched even the ones accessible from the brothers’ own quarters – and, what was especially sweet, he could enjoy them better, taking all the time he liked. Boromir never left it uncommented when Faramir took ‘too long’ putting himself in order – and in Boromir’s opinion, a sequence of hygienic procedures surpassing five minutes in total was already too long. Not that Boromir never lay soaking himself in steaming water for a good hour or so, shouting to Faramir not to open the door lest he let in a vicious draft – but in Boromir’s case it was classified as badly needed rest, not washing: he only did it because it helped his ‘overworked muscles relax’. Faramir was never granted such leeway… Getting ready for a date, are we? Valar blast me, what are you doing in there – curling your hair or something?!

Leaving behind the nameless linen robes and pulling on his own things, Faramir rubbed a dab of lavender oil onto his temples, behind the ears and in between the collar bones. Cool and a little bitter, it was a skin-tingling scent, bringing to his mind images of wide open fields under cool skies. He looked at the small phial for a while and decided to apply some more and take the whole thing along. These perfumes were intended for all the patients, but, judging by the way the bottles stood covered in dust, nobody would miss out.

Ere long Faramir discovered it had been a decision of highly questionable prudence.

To start with, he had noticed Boromir giving him curious sidelong glances at supper – but when he caught the young man’s eye and raised his brows in question, Boromir had only stifled his budding grin and made his ‘what, I didn’t say anything’ sort of face. That expression never bode anything pleasant for Faramir.

Faramir had sighed inwardly. He knew he ought to not take any of it to heart – if anything, his brother meant his many ridiculing comments as an expression of affection, even though Boromir often underestimated the stinging power his words could have. This was the communication style the man had been used to from very early on: the soldiers he so adored and always tried to imitate never showed their fondness of each other directly, but only wrapped in teasing remarks. And so did their father, too – Faramir strongly suspected that Denethor’s habit of wrapping his rare endearments in the form of reproach or criticism also had something to do with Boromir’s manner.

Ah, the boy understood they all wished him well, namely for him to grow up into a proper, manly man, the ideal embodied to perfection by his older brother – and they all were earnestly trying to assist him. Father – through being stern and demanding, and sending him on perilous assignments, Boromir – through picking on him for being shy with girls and over-dainty. Yet Faramir, being a rather observant boy, was also self-observant, and well knew that he would never quite hit the mark, for his looks and bearing, no matter what he may achieve, would always render him softer and gentler in people’s eyes. He could go and slay a thousand Orcs with his right arm tied behind his back – yet still it would be interpreted and judged according to some other logic, than had one of the older ‘manlier’ warriors done it.

Take, for instance, that librarian: he had not sent Faramir one of the numerous anthologies of ancient warlords’ recklessly perilous adventures (often resulting in pointless albeit heroic deaths), nor a blood-curdling suspense story full of treason and murders – not even a traveller’s humorous essay about foreign peoples’ funny customs.

No, what did Faramir receive from him? Right, a romantic novel…

This was exactly how people saw him.

And thus, of course, his family’s efforts to ‘make him into a man’ were double those had he been an appropriately gruff and laddish kind of youth – bonus points would have been accrued for being sulky and smelly at times. Yet, despite all his renowned intelligence, Faramir lacked the cynical everyday pragmatism necessary to play along with such expectations and, well, once in a while forgetfully wipe his mouth on the back of his sleeve, or make a rude knowing joke about things he had never even tried. For all that he would have been reprimanded just as much, of course, yet it would have been an entirely different matter – Father’s remarks oftentimes implied he found Boromir’s conduct too raw, unrefined and imposing for a man of gentle descent, yet in a way it was almost like a compliment. Better by far to be too much of a man, than not enough.

No, Faramir did not try to put up any act: for his part, he was rather comfortable with himself – relatively comfortable, of course, only as much as a person of his age and status could actually be. Comfortable at least to the point of not suffering from a burning need to prove everyone wrong in their opinion of him – besides, much as he generally admired his older brother, he suspected that Boromir’s ‘I absolutely have to be better than everybody’ attitude did not make for a particularly pleasant life, either. And the boy sensed, too, although he did not like to acknowledge the notion consciously, that for their friendship it was better that he would never be able to rival Boromir’s utter perfection in the eyes of others…

No, seriously, Boromir merely cared for him – and if the man could never simply say as much, unless something horrible happened and robbed him of his usual irony – well, that was just the way Boromir was. But, all his rationalising notwithstanding, Faramir had never learnt to enjoy Boromir treating him thus, even though he had well learnt to respond in kind. Boromir could always appreciate a good jest, even one aimed at his impeccable self, and laughed heartily, even if putting on a show of being scandalised – and he clearly assumed Faramir felt the same, which, of course, Faramir did not. Worst of all, while the boy was in the Houses, Boromir had become noticeably gentler with him, whether it be because of Faramir’s ‘convalescent soldier’ status, or because of some residual guilt the older brother still carried – and Faramir preferred him gentler by far, even though he knew it was soon bound to end.

So that night at supper he braced himself, expecting to receive a full measure of his brother’s raillery once they were out of earshot.

Indeed, no sooner had the two entered their fire-lit bedchamber, than Boromir took to picking on him mercilessly. Faramir may have become a fellow warrior and gained the elder’s esteem in that respect, yet he remained, above all, the little brother – with everything usually implied by the notion.

“Is there a bridal party hiding in this room? I am sure I smell flowers! Come out, lassies, we won’t hurt you!” Boromir strode to the window and jerked aside the heavy curtains to peer behind, as though truly expecting to discover a maiden.

“Very funny, brother,” grumbled Faramir, stopping by his bed and kicking off his soft indoor shoes. Inexplicably, he felt extremely nervous, all his previous anxiety having grown like on yeast. He was intent on getting under the blankets at once. “Just because you are too rough and tough for a bath, and never smell of anything but your own sweat…”

Divesting himself even quicker than usual, Faramir had already dragged his tunic together with the undershirt off over his head, and now stepped out of his breeches and paused only to neatly fold his things on a chair by the bed. He decided to forgo donning his nightshirt – as soon as he put his things down, he would slip under the warm blankets.

Boromir laughed incredulously and exclaimed in mock outrage, “That is most utterly not true! I washed only today and –” He turned around – and nearly choked on his own words.

Even though he had never consciously ruled out the possibility of Faramir getting undressed at some point in the evening, the young man had by no means expected it to happen in the first minute upon their entering the room. Thus the sight of his little brother in complete and splendid nakedness struck Boromir all the more overpoweringly for having caught him stupidly, inexcusably unawares.

Only it was hardly his little brother he saw as he gaped at the youth before him.

The lines of that body were the same he had always known, the taut slender curves of one who, since early childhood, had been spending hours each day practicing, wearing tens of pounds of weighty gear meant to ensure his muscles would be moulded to perfection when he reached manhood. He may not have reached it yet, but there was already unconcealable strength in him, and sure signs of yet more strength to come.

Which should be fine, because strength was a practical, functional thing, and although women admired it, it should have no sway over a warrior like Boromir. But Faramir’s strength was agile and graceful, manly but at once beautiful.

Every part of his body seemed to acquire some special meaning, some special power. He was as though filled with magic, enthused with sweet promises, and everything about him spoke of pleasure.

The flawless creaminess of his neck, momentarily revealed at the nape when the shiny anthracite tresses parted as Faramir bowed to lay his clothes down. The shape of his shoulders, his back, his waist… Valar, his buttocks. So firm and pert, yet so ripely, roundly fleshed, made as though for the sole purpose of being cradled by a strong pair of hands, Boromir’s fingers already twitching with yearning. These buttocks – so pale, a coy intimate shadow in between – what a promise they held…

Boromir felt himself filling up and clouding over with a heavy darkness, with blackness, with scorching heat, the tendons in his jaws going stiff.

When Faramir’s innocent kind eyes were turned away, the force of his appeal slammed into Boromir like a heat wave. He knew he was cornered, trapped. He had managed to avoid admitting the obvious for a very long time. His voluntary blindness had only led him to being utterly, unforgivably unprepared when the inevitable came, vanquishing him with the ease of a Dragon falling from the cloudless sky upon a fatuous unsuspecting prey.

I want him.

My little brother, who nearly got himself killed because of my reckless stupidity and utter lack of self-control – let me be damned, but oh, how I want him.

Boromir stood struck speechless, motionless. That he should see such unabashed feral sexuality in another male, in a boy of fifteen, in a brother… That he should hear its call and feel it resonate with a boom in his very loins… But had it not been for the upsurge of guttural horror at his own reaction, he would have likely spent his seed there and then.

What more, he saw now with invincible clarity that, had this been another young lad before him, even if equally handsome (although could anyone match Faramir’s beauty?), it would not have worked like this. No, it was not just the body – it was, twistedly, precisely the unspoilt pureness of Faramir’s starry eyes, his trusting openness that made the carnal side of him so bewitchingly fascinating.

And only then it occurred to Boromir that maybe they should have finally moved to separate bedrooms.

How could have he so completely failed to think of this? Had he truly, honestly believed that he would remain unmoved, unenthralled?

Had he not seen the lightning, the first lightning of the storm, when his lips had touched his brother’s chaste but unresisting mouth? Such lightnings may often be followed by an unending moment of deafening silence, when nothing, inexplicably, seems to be happening, not even a breath of wind to brush against one’s cheek – but that does mean the storm is not going to unfold. He had stood like a dolt in the middle of a field, gaping at the basalt sky above, dumbly waiting for the thunder to follow the flash. Now he had nowhere to seek cover.

I should have left, should have left that very day. When I blurted out all those things to him – and he had forgiven me so easily, had not even winced, had not been a bit revolted. He had, most likely, simply not understood any of it, he is so pure – but I, how could have I not understood…?!

In his whirlwind of emotions and revelations, Boromir had not registered that Faramir had hung his tunic and breeches on the chair – but, instead of proceeding to don his nightgown and lie down, now stood straight and still, not moving, as though in suspicious apprehension or uncertain anticipation.

Indeed, the catch in Boromir’s voice had not escaped the boy’s attention.

“Yes? You washed only today – and…? What is it?” Faramir asked a tad bit playfully, and threw Boromir a curious glance over the shoulder. The younger brother kept a cool demeanour, as if being unclothed before the older did not unsettle him in the least, as if everything was as before. He sensed that to acknowledge otherwise would be… Would be what? His intuition was whispering they were both hovering on the brink… Of what? Disaster…?

Yet even if it was indeed disaster, and even if he dreaded it, like he knew he ought to, the dread was of a strangely spellbinding variety…

“Um, you… you have such a terrible scar on your leg!” Boromir uttered with great feeling, and breathed out in reprieve at having managed, or so he thought, to mask the real reason of his undoing.

All right, get a hold of yourself. Panicking never helps. Your bad, yes, admittedly – but surely you can still set everything right. You’ve been through worse than this – you just have to hold for an hour or so. Get in bed, and when he falls asleep, just get up quietly and leave. Spend the night at the barracks, and first thing in the morning go and get yourself a permanent placement as far away from here as only you can. You’ll never see him again, and it shall be all right. Just an hour, not that much, certainly you can endure.

Now, following that plan, walk to your bed, change your attire and lie down. It’s not hard, just take a step. The right leg, then the left, nothing difficult.

But he could not. Could not make the slightest move. Could not unlock his gaze from Faramir’s. Could not break the spell.

He just stood there, staring.

Faramir knew he ought to get in bed this very instant, pull the covers up to his chin and turn to face the wall. The bedspreads had been taken away for cleaning, it would take him only a second to lift the blanket and slip underneath. But he remained standing as he was, and felt the faintest of grins coming to curve his lips.

He was acutely, painfully aware of his nakedness, and a novel shame was striving to get him to cover himself, or at least to abstain from turning around – but he shrugged it away. This was his brother, he had every right to stand before him in the buff.

So Boromir was worried about his scar – very well…

“Aye, I gained it in battle,” self-conscious to the extreme, but not taking his gaze from Boromir’s face, Faramir ran his fingers along the pale pink mark on the back of his thigh. Boromir his brother would have made some clever remark about only cowardly soldiers getting a wound on the back of their leg – Boromir who was watching him said nothing.

The man’s lips only parted soundlessly as his eyes followed the gesture of Faramir’s hand, and Boromir felt something in himself tangibly unhinge. He knew he ought to make some sort of civilised reaction, say something – but thankfully, Faramir forestalled any of his pathetic attempts.

“But do not change the topic so, brother!” the boy exclaimed, his eyes shining. “For it is rude and unbecoming of a Steward’s son!” Faramir laughed merrily, a great gaiety overcoming him all of a sudden, even as something in the pit of his stomach was fluttering, making him feel lightheaded and weightless. “It is not scars we were talking of. Speaking of washing – here,” he took the glass bottle out of his folded clothes and walked up to his brother. “It smells nice and keeps you fresh.”

Boromir stared at him uncomprehendingly, for it was as though a mischievous spirit had taken the form of his younger sibling and came now to torment him, displaying all his beauty before Boromir’s deprived eyes. Look him in the eye, keep looking him in the eye, let not your gaze slide down – but, oh, was not the peril in his eye by far the deadliest…?

Seeing the young man so powerlessly stunned, Faramir threw his head back and laughed again, but his cheeks flushed and his pulse quickened. I shouldn’t be doing this, he thought vaguely.

“Don’t fret, Boromir, there is nothing difficult to it. I can show,” at this he undid the cap and took a little of the slick fragrant liquid onto his fingers, before neatly closing the bottle again, as though he actually cared not to spill the substance. As though he actually cared about anything in that moment. His hand trembled, but he paid no attention. He felt strangely detached, as if he had no control over his actions and was only watching.

“Just a little here, and here…” he marked Boromir’s temples with the lavender oil, not looking the man in the face, but keeping his gaze on his own hand instead. Had Faramir looked, he would have seen helpless resignation and weary surrender coming to extinguish all light of reason in his brother’s darkening eyes: for in that moment Boromir’s wandering thought had come to a terrifying conclusion.

He had known for a while now where I stand on this whole thing… And yet he had not shunned me, had not tried to avoid me – has even let me stay alone with him.

He actually wants this…

Faramir’s mouth opened slightly as he applied the perfume to the base of the man’s neck, then behind his ear. The boy’s hand lingered on the hot skin of Boromir’s throat, unable to withdraw from the touch. He knew he ought to draw it away, yet still it lingered.

A strange sound escaped Boromir’s lips, like a quiet sob of helpless desperation – and the next instant Faramir was slammed full force against Boromir’s chest, the warrior’s powerful arms crushing him in a steely embrace so tight the boy could hardly breathe, broad warm hands clutching at his bare back. Immediately Faramir clung to him and curled up against his body, going perfectly still and shutting his eyes, all his agitation and merriment dissolving without a trace.

He felt Boromir trembling against him, shaking almost convulsively – felt his brother’s parted hot lips pressed firmly against his temple, his nose buried in Faramir’s hair. Boromir’s breathing was so strained and ragged, as though he was pierced by a dozen arrows and each inhalation pained him and was a feat of great labour.

Yet the turmoil his older brother was obviously in did not pass over to Faramir, who was in a state of complete, unperturbed peace.

Boromir may have washed earlier that day, and Faramir had been generous with the perfume on him – yet nothing could suppress or outshine the man’s own distinct personal scent, strong and masculine – so familiar and reassuring, so warm and pleasant. And Faramir breathed on it alone, and it enveloped him, and he basked in it like one basks in heady sunshine after a month-long imprisonment in a gloomy cell.

There was, however, a new note to the fragrance now – a note the boy had caught only once before, on the night Boromir had last held him… It worked on him with unimaginable speed and efficacy, poisoning him sweetly, enchanting and entrancing him, and soon he grew dumb and mellow, and would not have been able to understand anything had he tried to strain his thought.

He felt neither happy nor afraid. There was no distinct emotion in him at all – all his entity was overtaken by a state of enormous, immeasurable need. This need was so overbearing that he did not even fear it, for along with reason it had robbed him of the ability to fear. Nor could he break it down into components to comprehend its nature and origin: whether it came of affection, or kinship, or lust, or even simple loneliness. His need had but one name: Boromir.

And it was because of this need that he held still and could not even think of making some move, for it had immersed him in a state so primeval, so devoid of human consciousness, that he forgot what it was to think of what would happen next, what would happen afterwards. The concept of ‘future’ no longer made any sense – he was suspended in the now, there was only this one magnificent instant, containing all his existence in itself. He needed Boromir. It was as simple as that. He did not think what it was he needed of Boromir – just him.

But the need had been growing on Faramir, and reached a certain point of irreversibility – and then something changed, and his body awoke. It awoke to the sensation of the heat of Boromir’s desire for him, strapped across the older brother’s lower abdomen and hip by the tight constraints of the man’s leggings, separated from Faramir’s naked skin only by two thin layers of finely made fabric.

In that moment Faramir’s need acquired a direction – and a purpose. All of him, all of his entity, all of his body, much as it was already squashed against his brother’s, now strained and arched upwards and forth, reaching for Boromir as though, no matter how close, they could never be close enough. Very slowly, as if he was drugged and had hardly any rule over himself, Faramir lifted his face – then his gaze was drawn up, seeking Boromir’s.

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