Faramir Fiction Archive

Choose Thy Dreams With Care, O Steward-Mine (NC-17)

Written by J_dav

16 November 2009 | 2463 words

Title: ‘Choose Thy Dreams With Care, O Steward-Mine!’
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir. Faramir’s POV.
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Warned for incest, homosexuality, prostitutes, general depraved goings on… and ghosts! This was written for Halloween.
Characters: Aragorn, Faramir, Boromir.
Author: j_dav (Email)

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Osgilliath,

Ring War.

I had been sitting at night by the waters of Anduin, in the grey dark under the young pale moon, watching the ever-moving stream; and the sad reeds were rustling. So did we ever watch the shores nigh Osgiliath, which our enemies partly held. But that night the world slept. Then I saw, or it seemed that I saw, a boat floating on the water, glimmering grey, a small boat of a strange fashion with a high prow and there was none to row or steer it.

Awe had fallen on me, for a pale light lit the boat. But I rose and went to the bank, and began to walk out into the stream, for I was drawn towards it. Then the boat turned towards me, and stayed its pace, and floated slowly by within my hand’s reach, yet I dared not handle it. It waded deep, as if it were heavily burdened, and it seemed to me as it passed under my gaze that it was almost filled with clear water, from which came the light; and lapped in the water a warrior lay asleep.

A broken sword was on his knee. I saw many wounds on him. It was Boromir, my brother, dead. I knew his gear, his sword, his beloved face. One thing only I missed: his horn. One thing only I knew not: a fair belt, as it were of linked golden leaves, about his waist.

“Boromir!” I had cried.

But he was gone. The boat turned into the stream and passed glimmering on into the night.

Dreamlike it was and yet no dream, for there was no waking.

Gondor,

Post Ring War.

I was weary, so weary of life. A King of Elros’s line ruled in Gondor again. The threat of Mordor was now merely a nightmare of the past. The free people of the world were rebuilding lives amidst joy and revived prosperity.

Was I the only one who craved for the past to return? My fingers clenched and unclenched as I fought off the memories that haunted me.

“Lord!” A husky voice called out from the shadows that the awnings cast over the street. “You need cheering up, come right in!”

Prostitutes…

Dol Amroth,

During the Reign of Denethor.

I had been seventeen. We were in Dol Amroth visiting our uncle, Imrahil. Swimming together in the ocean, sparring and riding together, we had spent all our days of that summer reveling in the joys of idle luxury.

“What say you that tonight we visit the excellent establishment uncle spoke of?” he was asking me as we sparred together once.

I paused to catch my breath; feeling none too pleased because he had defeated me more than a dozen times in that session. In the strong sunlight, he was a handsome specimen of malekind, of glorious sinews and glistening sweat. I lowered my sword and gulped, trying to suppress the dark desire that always threatened to force its way from my careful composure.

“Faramir?” He was asking me, concern playing across his perfectly crafted features that I nearly choked out a confession.

“I don’t like prostitutes. You can visit that place alone,” I said lightly.

“But what would be the enjoyment?” he exclaimed, looking so sulky that I relented and muttered assent to his scheme.

The prostitutes of Dol Amroth had been talented and beautiful. But more than that, they could read the darkest secrets of the men who visited the brothels. They must have seen depravity and desire at every level that nothing was new to them.

We began on the couches, with the women straddling us, our fingers questing and fondling. The beautiful young girl who attended to my brother was plying him with wine, her breasts rubbing against his broad, firm chest enticingly. His eyes were half-lidded, his hands groping her sides with intent and his breeches strained by the force of desire. The last sight made me swallow and stare.

“It is that, then?” the woman who was licking my earlobe whispered heatedly, her voice holding such dark promise that I stiffened and drew back in fear.

“I beg your pardon,” I whispered hoarsely, trying to pull her in for a kiss.

“Too late, laddie!” She laughed and withdrew. “Let me see if I can help such a handsome pair of brothers, hmm?”

Before I could utter a single word, she had called out, “Lord!”

Boromir sat up in concern and looked across at us, the very picture of a responsible elder brother who is always in charge of the younger.

“All right, Faramir?” he asked me, totally oblivious of the play of his abdominal muscles in the firelight.

The women shared meaningful glances and the elder one, who had been my partner, walked over to Boromir. I rose to my feet in horror. When she winked at me and pulled Boromir’s ear down mischievously, weighing her whispers with that husky voice, I knew all was lost. I think I must have rushed out of the brothel, clad only in my undertunic and breeches.

“Faramir!” My brother had called out, but I paid no heed.

Away I fled, my feet gaining speed from my fear. Uncaring of the curious looks of the bypassers, I ran through the narrow, cobbled streets of the seaside town and finally ended up at the long strip of beach that ran along the length of Dol Amroth.

I stopped running and bent forward to clutch my knees, heaving fast and hard because of the exertion. My heart continued to thud madly, still propelled by fear and exercise.

“Damn!” I cursed, shaking my fist at the lazy moon that licked the skies.

“There you are!”

Boromir’s shout was the least welcome thing I had heard in my life, even considering my father’s muttered imprecation of ‘He’s still alive’ after I had a near-fatal drowning incident three years ago.

“Faramir?”

The wind blew with the exact amount of force required to bring the intoxicating, musky, virile scent of him into my nostrils. Fate was conspiring against me, large scale.

“Are you all right?”

His voice, hoarsened by his heavy breathing (he must have run faster than I did), and laden with that mixture of concern and love, brotherly love, did nothing to help the situation.

“I am fine,” I soldiered bravely. “I need to be alo-”

I did never get to finishing the sentence or any other sentence that night, for the next moment, his lips were on my neck, their flesh hot and hard, so unlike that of the woman who had ministered earlier.

All that emerged from me was a squeak. But he turned me around forcefully, and I did not feel inclined to complain when he pushed me flush against his firm, broad chest. His fingers were kneading my ribs, his lips were questing along my jawline, his pelvis grinding against my stomach allowing me not even the slightest respite.

“Ha!” He exulted as he pushed me down onto the sand and fell atop me. “Finally, I have you where I want!”

Before I could register this proclamation, he blew my senses away with a cruel, brutal, perfectly addictive kiss. His tongue forced entry into my mouth and his hands gripped the nape of my neck as he sought to exert his will. I could only push against him, wishing desperately that he continued in the same vein.

He sat back on his haunches and fixed me with that half-lidded gaze, his grey eyes sparkling in the moonlight. Frightened by the sudden shift in his mien, I raised myself onto my elbows and began to speak, though no audible words left my lips.

“Remove your clothes, all of them,” he said quietly, his voice not wavering in the least.

The confidence he had was the same confidence he exhibited on the sparring field, and in my father’s court. A gasp escaped me as my giddy heart reveled in his dominance.

“Now,” he commanded softly.

I could do nothing but comply. My fingers fumbled as they tried to achieve a simple task that they mechanically performed every day. His eyes narrowed in displeasure at my clumsiness and I applied all my concentration to the task, trying my best not to succumb to the temptation of letting my gaze linger on my brother’s sinfully endowed torso.

“Slowly,” he said.

My fingers stilled and I could not bring myself to meet his gaze. He laughed, the sound neither reassuring nor frightening but strangely conducive to increasing my desire.

When his larger bulk, still clad, hovered over me, I arched towards him, imploring him silently to continue this dream. He was all that I had imagined him to be; brutal, hard, ungentle, but careful and in control.

He reached his peak with a grunt that oddly sounded like my name. Then my manhood was encased in his large hand. I screamed as he bit my collar bone and moved upwards along my jugular vein.

“Mine,” he whispered harshly, brooking no remonstrance.

I was nearing the precipice and his efficiently coarse handling was stirring my passion to higher, darker levels.

“Borom-”

“Mine!” he hissed in my ear, his heated breath caressing my skin.

“Yours,” I was begging, “Please!”

And he finished me off, fast and efficient as everything he did was.

“Faramir!” Aragorn hailed me warmly. “Did you have a fast journey?”

“The roads are less perilous and the horses were fresh.” I embraced him, trying my best not to look at the full moon that shone tonight.

“I have had a bath drawn in your chambers,” he said. “I shall see you in the morning at the court. May your dreams be peaceful!”

I wondered if Aragorn knew the truth. He had always been a good friend. But his time with the Elves had given him great skill in perception. But whatever he knew or discerned was of no consequence. It was all in the past.

When I slid into the warm bath, letting the faint aroma of incense and herbs soothe my frayed nerves, such languidness as I had rarely known took hold of me and I drifted into a pleasant hazy state.

“Enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” a familiar voice burst into my thoughts, its commanding tones nearly making me jump out of my skin.

I chided my over-imagination and began to get up from the bath, wondering if I possessed the strength to make it till the bed.

“You were always lazy,” the voice remarked.

“Voices in the head,” I muttered. “I need a sleeping draught!”

“You look as desirable as ever.”

That made me pause and stare at the swaying curtains from behind which the voice seemed to issue from. Picking up my sword, I crept closer. Maybe an assassin from Harad, maybe one of my enemies at court, maybe Sauron himself… but definitely not-

“Brother charming, how I wish that I could touch you,” the whisper was in that hoarse, domineering tone I so well remembered. The sword fell with a dull thud onto the tiles and I stepped back, my body going rigid with a thousand emotions.

“Aren’t you delighted that I returned?”

“You?” I gasped. “You returned?”

A gust of wind blew into the chamber from the high latticed windows that I had been sure I had closed earlier. The cold wind teased my bath-warmed skin, causing goosebumps to erupt.

“So sensitive, as always,” the voice slid over my senses like silk over skin. I shivered and drew back further, wondering if I were dreaming or mad.

“Call me by my name,” I was commanded.

I could not. I had called him by name as he had floated past me into the Sea. He had not answered then. Never again could I utter his name.

“Obey me, as you always do!” Harsh and unforgiving, as I well remembered him.

“Boromir,” I whispered, my voice hitching on that word, as remembered pain and continuing agony ravaged me.

“On your knees,” the voice continued issuing orders in my brother’s damnably assured tones that still resounded in the pathways of my memories.

I had never disobeyed him when he had been alive. My obedience continued even after he had passed the circles of life. Thus it was that I let the voice command me onto my fours, my whole frame shuddering and strained.

“What if I could touch you? I would grip your hips so that bruises would mark the skin for weeks. I would kiss the nape of your neck and bite down on your shoulder, claiming you as mine, claiming every inch of yours as mine… My fingers would probe your nether passage, seeking if you had been touched by any but me, knowing from the tightness and pain that you were untouched and chaste waiting for me…”

“Please!” I begged raggedly, no longer caring if it was madness or delusion.

“Alas!” The voice faded into sombreness. “I cannot.”

“No!” I pleaded, my chest heaving and falling in denied pleasure. “Something, anything-”

“The candle!” The wind blew again, and a candle was extinguished. “Close your eyes and pretend that it is me… that it is my hardness nudging against your prepared passage… that it is my desire plunging in and out of your depths…”

I woke to see myself in my bed. I tried to rise, but was prevented by the sudden jolt from my nether regions. I gasped in pain and slid back onto the bed.

“Careful!” Aragorn’s voice was concerned. Presently, his face hovered into the view.

I blinked at him, trying to remember what had happened after I had taken leave of him last night. There had been a full moon.

Aragorn bestowed a pat on my sweating forehead and bustled about with his potions saying cheerfully, “I am glad that I came to pester you with that granary report. A little latter would have seen you in the healing chambers. I am sure you would have hated that!”

“Yes,” I mumbled. “I am sorry, Aragorn, but-”

“You don’t need to explain,” he said quietly, his eyes shining in wisdom and compassion. “I suspected most of it. I knew him well. I like to think that I know you well too.”

“Was it real?” I rasped, my heart nearly giving out.

He smiled sadly and fixed me with a peculiar look before plying me with his draughts and concoctions.

“Choose thy dreams with care, O Steward-Mine.”

His words were light, and yet filled with meaning.

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