Faramir Fiction Archive

After the War (NC-17)

Written by Petrel

01 August 2005 | 6614 words | Work in Progress

Chapter 3

Two days had passed since the fencing match that had so shamed Boromir. He had avoided both his brother and Haldir, unready to face them and the questions their presence posed.

Instead he stalked the practise grounds, drilling the fighters unmercifully, and then retiring to his room to drink far too much wine. It was on the second night, as he picked up the bottle to refill his cup and then with an expression of disgust tossed it away, empty, into a corner, that the wine and the exhaustion failed to keep the questions from slipping into his mind.

//why had Faramir not called out to him, if he knew he was present?//

//why had he stayed? why had he been so aroused, so jealous?//

and hardest to answer still, //which of them was he jealous of?//

It was this last question which sent him to the cabinet to find the brandy, and so to a restless night plagued by dreams from which he woke sweating and aching.

The morning saw him in one of the smaller practise rooms, stripped to the waist and sweating his hangover out of his body unmercifully. An hour had passed and he was drinking from the water jug when Faramir walked in. Boromir spluttered water across himself.

“Good morning Brother,” Faramir said lightly, “the other practise rooms seem to be full of your guard practising diligently. I heard one of them mention something about surprise inspections?” He walked over to the side and began testing the wooden practise blades; “you have been driving them hard the last few days.”

“They need to be kept alert little brother” Boromir returned irritably, “the war is over but our guard cannot falter”

Faramir turned back, his outer tunic stripped off now, “So if their general does not let his guard down neither must the men?”

Boromir licked his suddenly dry lips, “I will leave you to practise” he said curtly.

“Nay brother, would you desert me then?” Faramir’s voice was playful. “Come, we have not sparred together for some time, and you have often said that without practise against a real opponent ones skills grow rusty.”

Boromir hesitated.

“Unless of course the captain of Gondor has better things to do than spend time with his little brother?”

He couldn’t’ say no to that plea however, remembering too many times when he had been the only company Faramir had in the cold citadel. He grunted an assent and moved over to change his heavier sword for the lighter fencing blade.

Faramir smiled to himself, it has been underhand to use the childish plea against his brother but it had worked. He had not taken two hours of searching to find him, go back to his rooms and change into appropriate clothing for an ‘impromptu’ fencing match, just to be put off at the first sign of resistance.

They moved to the centre of the room and began. As always when they sparred Boromir took on the role of a firm but fond tutor, correcting Faramir’s mistakes and commenting approvingly on his form.

Faramir let this go on for a little while, until he saw the lines of tension start to dissolve from his brothers’ face. A particularly hard attack from Boromir nearly slipped past his guard and he laughed as he stepped to one side.

Boromir frowned and stepped back, “you shouldn’t take this so lightly Faramir, these skills are not ones to be neglected whether you are a warrior by calling or not.”

The mini lecture and tone of voice was almost word for word what Boromir had said to him so many times when he was still in his teens and early twenties hating the necessity for hours of weapons practise when he would rather have been in the libraries or out riding free. Faramir shook his head, “brother you are the one who is holding back. That attack should have skewered me, do you forget I am not your little brother but a captain of the ithlian rangers?”
For answer Boromir growled, but he did step up the pace of his attacks. To his surprise Faramir matched him easily. He would never be as strong but he had gained confidence and an economy of movement that made the most of his lightness of foot and agility.

A few more minutes passed and then in a complicated movement Faramir parried one attack, and when Boromir other hand came out to catch his sword hand, he stepped into rather than away from the move, swinging round so that although he was held fast, he was stood behind Boromir, forcing the older man to twist awkwardly to keep hold of his sword arm and prevent the blade from touching his throat. Faramir’s own free hand drifted up to brush aside the sweat damp tangle of hair at his brothers ear.

“Oh I don’t take this lightly at all dear brother” he murmured before freeing himself with a deft twist and stepping away.

Boromir turned round, clenching his fists, using anger and the lingering pain of his hangover to distract himself from the ugly knowledge that his pulse had quickened the minute his brother had stood so close behind him.

They were both tiring now, and the fight became less graceful, less choreographed. Anxious to have this over with, but too proud to call a halt, Boromir pushed his attack harder than he would normally allow in a practise bout. hard enough that when his sword caught Faramir’s wrist, blunted though it was it struck with enough force to bring blood welling to the surface in an ugly bruise. The pain and the forceful attack had the younger man stumbling backwards and down to one knee. Ruled by a mixture of anger and lust Boromir pressed forward. He swept aside the clumsy parry and his sword was at his brothers throat.

Only the harsh sound of panting breath broke the silence, then Faramir let his sword hand go limp, his blade clattering on the floor. He looked up, lips parted for breath, face sweat sheened and eyes bright.

Boromir looked down into his brothers face. The blade fell away as his hands began to tremble.

“you win my brother” said Faramir very softly, “I submit to your skill”

But that wasn’t true, not to Boromir. He felt an ache in his chest, a weakness in his limbs and knew that if Faramir had chosen to strike him at that moment he would be helpless to defend himself, helpless to do anything but drown in his brothers blue eyes.

---

That night Boromir tossed and turned, his dreams as haunted as before. This time not even brandy could prevent the merciless procession of images, Faramir laughing, Faramir pressed back against the cabinet, Haldir’s hand on Faramir’s hip, …… Faramir, his brother, bruised and breathless, submitting to him on his knees.

In another room the younger brother also found little rest.

“Do you think?”

“I am sure of it…. His eyes follow you constantly”

“He is jealous, protective of his brother, nothing more”

“do you say that because you believe it is true or because you wish it to be true?”

“……….. I do nto wish the knowing monster of jealously on any person”

“not even Boromir?”

“no……….. I would have him sharing the joy others are finding now after the war has ended”

“I doubt he will find much happiness now”

“would you change that?”

“yes”

do you want him?”

“do you?”

“…………………….”

“then would it not be selfish for us to hoard our happiness?”

TBC...

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