Faramir Fiction Archive

Bequeathed (NC-17)

Written by Alex

18 February 2008 | 1931 words

Title: Bequeathed
Author: Alex [ splix ]
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir
Summary: Consolation springs from great distress.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to their copyright holders.
Warning: Incest. Faramir is underage.
Feedback: Is treasured.
Thanks: To kimberlite for her friendship and patient beta.
Comments: Inspired by this beautiful picture by The Theban Band.

This is my first ever non-Ewan-fandom piece of fanfiction. I know not everyone on my flist will read it, but if you do, and you have an opinion, I would love to hear it. Thank you very much.

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A jubilant silver flourish of trumpets rends the air, heralding the return of Denethor to the White City, but Boromir takes no joy in the triumphant sound as once he did. The fragile peace that has lately settled over the Citadel has fragmented; its customary tangible disquiet has reappeared. The changed mood is clear to all except the Steward himself, who seeks out his son in a fever of homecoming ebullience.

Boromir has ignored his father’s summons, but he knows there will be no punishment forthcoming. There are times when it is expedient to be the golden, shining one, and this is such a time. He quickens his pace and takes the stairs in threes, nodding curtly to the guard at the top of the staircase, and makes his way to the door of Faramir’s chamber. Pressing his ear to the thick wood, he strains for some telltale noise, then taps. “Brother?”

The door creaks open almost immediately, and a flushed, tear-stained face appears from within.

Boromir suppresses a faint grin — Faramir has been waiting for him, it seems — then hearkens to his purpose. “Did he speak to you?”

Faramir’s chin, still childishly rounded, wobbles. New tears gather on his feathery lashes. Then, he visibly shakes himself, squaring his shoulders. His mouth thins into a line too grim and stern for one so young. Feigning indifference, he shrugs, then retreats into his bedchamber, leaving Boromir to stay or depart as he pleases. He steps to the window and takes refuge in the complicated business of disentangling his sword from its belt.

Compassion threads its way around Boromir’s heart as he sees gentle Faramir arrive at the implacable conclusion: a son of Denethor should have little use for tears. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. Slowly, his bootsoles soundless upon the floor, he advances and rests a hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “He has many cares, Faramir. There are stirrings in the East. The mountain burns ceaselessly; it bodes ill for us all. You see how these matters prey upon his mind.”

“I do not know what it is I’ve done to arouse his ire, Boromir. I… he…” He gives up the pretense of unbuckling his sword. His shoulders slump in defeat; his head is bowed forward.

Boromir damns himself for a thousand kinds of fool. Faramir begs for comfort denied, and Boromir has given him a stone. Fell winds from the East, the mountain of fire — familiar woes since before Faramir lay in his cradle. Poor excuses for the lack of a father’s affection toward his child, and only the younger child at that. Boromir knows his father loves him best, but that knowledge no longer brings him the deep and secret pleasure and pride it had when he was a boy. Too often have Faramir’s eyes strayed to Denethor’s hand resting on Boromir’s shoulder. Too often has Faramir’s wounded and longing countenance revealed itself all unbidden.

But Denethor remains impassive, even cruel in his silent indifference to his younger son. He spends more of his waking hours alone — long intervals in the Tower of Ecthelion, days without respite, and when he emerges, his eyes are exhausted and troubled, his temper short. Once tall, handsome, darkly resplendent, he seems now withered and stooped, an old man before his time. And ever does his favor rest upon his elder son.

Thus has it been for years, and perhaps there is no way to change that now. But Boromir understands this: that if he is to blame for Faramir’s woes, then he, too, may be the only one who can shield Faramir from their father’s coldness and inexplicable growing wrath. He can give his brother that little, at least. Not once has Faramir expressed resentment or bitterness about his lesser station; never has he behaved toward Boromir with anything but affection and admiration.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, little brother,” Boromir murmurs, gathering Faramir into an embrace and kissing the top of his head. His sweet, tender-hearted brother, so innocent still. Of love, Boromir vows to bring full measure. “Nothing. Shall I speak to him?”

Faramir turns and flings his arms around Boromir, burying his face in the fine wool of Boromir’s tunic. “No.” His voice is muffled. “Say nothing.” When he turns his face upward, it is damp and still mottled with red, but less miserable than before. “He’ll think me more foolish than he already does.” A faint smile curves his mouth and lights his eyes.

Anxiety and distress dissolve in Boromir’s throat, well up, and pour forth in a peal of laughter. He touches the tip of one gloved finger to Faramir’s freckled nose. “As if you could be foolish. Very well, I hold my tongue.”

“Don’t leave,” Faramir begs as Boromir begins to detach himself from the embrace. “Please.” His fingers, more finely boned than Boromir’s, wind around a strand of his brother’s golden hair. He rests his head against Boromir’s shoulder.

Boromir leans down and presses a kiss to Faramir’s neck. His lips pause against the rapid pulse of a vein beneath smooth skin. Foolishly, helplessly, he kisses the pulse again. How warm, how soft… he pulls his brother closer, listening to the muted clink of mail against velvet and wool, feeling the lean tautness of Faramir’s body. Desire arcs and crests.

He pulls back in shock. But Faramir’s lips find his, and they open like flowers in the sun. His mouth is sweeter than any maiden’s, and as arousing. He meets his brother’s eyes; they are wide and wondering, as if he has been granted a glimpse of some astonishing revelation.

Reeling, Boromir stumbles backward. This, this is his means of protecting his brother — wantonly defiling him, as if he were any common trollop? Remorse and fear become a hod of searing coals in his heart. He turns, fleeing for the door, fumbling for the latch. His fingers will not obey him. Cursing silently, he tears off his glove and wraps his fingers about the handle. All at once, another hand closes over his.

“You will leave me, brother — now?” Pain strikes a hard, bright glitter to the softly spoken words.

Boromir leans his forehead against the heavy wooden door and closes his eyes with a sigh. He cannot deny that he has, at times, desired Faramir, but it is a desire deeply buried and never spoken; now it draws his body and spirit like a bow. He has never consulted his brother’s wishes on the matter, nor has he acknowledged the expression in Faramir’s eyes that so often have reflected his own. “I could not,” he whispers. “I could not take you all unwilling.”

“And if I were not unwilling?” Faramir’s hand brushes a lock of hair behind Boromir’s ear; his fingertips trace its curve.

It is enough to undo him. Boromir pulls the bolt of the door, locking it. He turns to Faramir and embraces him, seeking his lips, reveling in their voluptuous compliance. He kisses him deeply, winding his naked fingers through Faramir’s hair, holding him still. Faramir’s arms are around his neck, their bodies pressed together. Feverishly, he nips at his brother’s jaw, his throat, licking and biting gently, then not so gently.

Faramir returns the kisses, as eager, as heated as Boromir. “The bed,” he whispers. They make their way toward it, shedding layers: gloves, weapons, overtunics. Boots are tugged off and hastily flung aside, shirts and breeches unlaced.

Now they yank bedclothes aside and fall upon the bed, naked. Boromir is astride his brother, his heart thudding unsteadily in his chest. Faramir is revealed to him in all his youthful beauty. His fair skin has the luster of pearl in the wavering sunlight, flushed here and there with pink like the inside of a seashell. He reaches down to touch a finger to Faramir’s mouth. Faramir grasps Boromir’s wrist and pulls the finger deeper, sucking on it. Boromir groans. He is lost; he could not retreat even if he wanted to.

Swiftly they resume their kisses, but it becomes clear that Faramir yearns for more. His thighs are clamped around Boromir’s hips, and he rocks urgently against his brother’s body. “Boromir, please. Please.”

Boromir hesitates, though his sex is hard and straining with impatience. “You have never been taken before.”

“I want you to take me. Please.” Faramir puts his hands on Boromir’s chest and pushes him back, far enough so that Boromir can see his rigid sex, his open thighs.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Even as he speaks, Boromir is pushing Faramir’s legs further apart, then wetting his fingers to thrust them inside Faramir’s body. Need has made him graceless and abrupt, driven too far to be mindful of Faramir’s comfort. Faramir winces, and his face contracts in pain. “I’m sorry,” Boromir cries. “Sorry —”

“No — no. Don’t stop.”

Boromir groans again, then pushes Faramir’s legs up, hooking them over his shoulders. He pushes in, his hands locked on Faramir’s hips, tilting them upward. Faramir writhes beneath him, his expression still pained. Boromir lunges forward, plowing in deeply, burying himself to the hilt. The urgency of his need increases. He pins Faramir to the bed, and in several thrusts stabs his way to release. Collapsing heavily against his brother, he lies still for long moments, drifting in and out of sleep.

A gentle caress shaping the curves of his mouth rouses Boromir to wakefulness. He sees his brother’s wide blue eyes, the red tinge of the hair spread upon the pillow, and a tide of shame and remorse overcomes him. He covers himself with tousled, pungent sheets, shamed anew at the viscid fluid that streaks them both, and buries his face in his hands. Bad enough, he thinks, that he has taken his brother in a storm of heedless passion, but he thought only of his own pleasure; it is clear that Faramir has experienced none. What must Faramir think of him? “Forgive me, little brother. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Faramir replies, then nestles closer to Boromir, pushing tangled and sweating hair from his face. “You would not hurt me for the world. I know this in my heart.”

“But I have hurt you.”

“I do not speak of that.” Faramir takes Boromir’s hand. “Next time it will be better.”

“You — you wish for a next time?”

Faramir simply smiles, the steadfast trust and clearsighted devotion in his eyes answer enough. Boromir holds him fiercely, something immense dawning on him, but faint as faraway music at the end of night, so that he only dares grasp its slightest edge. He will use all that is in his power to keep hurt from the heart of his brother, to love him with his own. Their lives will be taken free and shaped at will, and not even their father’s mysterious anger can change that.

The afternoon sky fades into twilight as the sons of Denethor succumb to sleep, lulled by the singing of the wind.

End.

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