Warning
This story is rated «NC-17».
Since you have switched on the adult content filter, this story is hidden. To read this story, you have to switch off the adult content filter. [what's this?]
Remember that whether you have the adult content filter switched on or off, this is always an adults only site.
Family Games (NC-17)
Written by December19 December 2010 | 65301 words
Chapter 8. Innocence
The room was sultry and misty with steam. They were sitting in the bathtub – or rather they were crammed into it, for it had definitely not been designed to house both a tall youth and a lanky boy. Boromir’s sharply bent knees rose high above the water, as did his well-sculpted shoulders.
Yet all the same Faramir felt perfectly comfortable, cosily cradled between Boromir’s legs, his back resting against his brother’s front. Boromir had just finished washing the boy’s hair, and Faramir was still a little dreamy, for the way Boromir’s fingertips massaged his scalp always made him melt, and yawn, and almost fall asleep right there in the water. Now his brother had moved down and was lathering his upper back, scrubbing in earnest so that Faramir even swayed back and forth a little.
Faramir always enjoyed these shared baths. He loved being so close to his adored older brother, and also relished the opportunity to look at him without clothes. Boromir had bloomed early, and in his image Faramir saw all the promises of manhood embodied – and also one particular promise that if he worked hard enough, he too would one day grow into a strong mighty man like this. Of course, Boromir was hardly yet a man – to someone else’s eyes but Faramir’s. Faramir was awed by the height and breadth of his frame, fascinated by the round rippling muscles of Boromir’s shoulders and arms, and positively envious of the ample black curls proudly sprouting in all the right places. He was equally envious of the coarse stubble on his brother’s face – not as dense as it would become in a few more years, but already enough to make Faramir gasp and laugh whenever Boromir suddenly leant in to rub his prickly cheek against the boy’s smooth one.
Faramir sighed contentedly and bowed his head to the side to let Boromir wash the curve of his neck.
The rubbery stiffness of Boromir’s erection was warmly prodding against the boy’s slim lower back.
The young man had long since explained that at his age the prick would bone up randomly at all times, and Faramir should not be unnerved by that. It would happen to him too. And Faramir was not unnerved. In fact, he felt a little smug about being all suave and grown-up about it, and acting like he did not even notice anything. ‘It’s a man’s thing, and I’m a man, so there’s nothing about this to make me bat an eye’, his conduct was saying.
It did indeed happen quite frequently. They often washed together, and sometimes slept in the same bed too, and nearly always Boromir would grow hard. Once Faramir had decided to be even more grown-up about it, and suggested in a most casual manner, “Would you like to work it off? I can leave for a while.”
Boromir chuckled appreciatively, but shook his head no. “‘Tis all right, don’t bother. It’ll go away on its own.”
And it did – it always did. Admittedly, while his arousal lasted, Boromir would oftentimes become unusually affectionate, and look at Faramir in uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, and touch him on the face, and even stroke his hair – but always took care to keep his engorged member out of contact with the boy’s body, unless it was unavoidable like when he was washing Faramir’s back.
Faramir tilted his head to the other side – and saw their father standing motionless in the doorway. The Steward’s floor-long robes of black wool looked so out of place in the hot humid bathing quarters that Faramir, even though the unexpected visit startled him a little, could not help but smile.
Denethor’s lean pale face bore an absent look as he took in his flushed wet-haired younger son, but then the man’s eyes moved just a notch – to Boromir, and a strange expression came over the Steward’s proud features.
“Father…?” Faramir asked anxiously, for some reason deeply alarmed all of a sudden.
“Father…?” Boromir echoed him, now also becoming aware of the lord’s presence – and Faramir felt his brother grow strangely tense behind him.
“Yes, Boromir,” Denethor said softly, stepping inside and pulling the door shut behind himself. “I was meaning to speak to you of something, but I see you are rather preoccupied at the moment.”
“Father, I –” Boromir began hastily, but Denethor did not let him finish.
Speaking in the same mild even tone, he addressed his younger son. “You are done with your washing, Faramir, and may get out now. You certainly aren’t going to get any cleaner in that tub,” he gave a curt nod of the head to indicate the boy should do as told at once.
As Faramir climbed out, heavily splashing the floor, he cast his older brother a perplexed searching glance, but Boromir would not meet his eyes, and altogether turned his face away. Denethor, on the other hand, looked him up and down so pointedly and so probingly, that Faramir instantly felt self-conscious to the extreme about his nakedness, which in turn rendered him inexplicably embarrassed, and the boy hastened to wrap a towel around his body.
“Take your things,” his father ordered with another nod, “you can put them on in your room: I should like to have a word with your brother.”
“Yes, Father,” Faramir inclined his head obediently and, holding his clothes in a pile, hurried to leave.
As he struggled to pull the close-fitting leggings up his damp legs in the adjacent chamber, Faramir felt his cheeks burn with shame and self-disgust. The boy could not understand the origins of these sentiments much as he could not understand Father’s conduct, but he knew without doubt something improper and unacceptable had just taken place.
And then he heard a shout.
The boy froze, his eyes round with fear and shock. Their father never shouted, and least of all at Boromir…
Faramir’s heart beat madly as he turned to look at the closed door to the bathroom. He was seized by an urge to run back and take the blame that was rightfully his – even though he had no notion what he was to blame for. But Boromir could not be guilty, Boromir was never at fault, he was by default always an example to follow…
Nevertheless another shout came, and Faramir sensed he should stay out of it, that interfering would only make things worse.
So he busied himself with his garments – fingers shaking, buttons and cords escaping his grasp – and shivered involuntarily every time he heard their father’s raised voice.
Not much reached the boy’s ear though, only some ambiguous, unconnected bits and phrases.
“…shan’t tolerate… …own house…
“…lie to me, I saw how you…
“Just take a… yourself! …exactly is it you tell him to explain…?
“That does it!
“…the sooner the…
“…the Valar your… live to… her son…
“So what?! I would remind… Lord Baraldir’s daughter… only twelve when…
“Never again shall…”
And, last of all, “Unfair? Damn sure it is. But seeing as I am now forced to part with one of you, I would rather it be him.”
Then in a flurry of robes Denethor stormed out and banged the door shut behind himself, his face black with thunder clouds. The man stopped short, however, when his eyes fell on his bewildered eleven-year-old son standing before him – and with a supreme effort of will he collected himself immediately, as though simply swallowing his fury down.
“Oh, good, you are dressed,” the Steward observed briskly, and were it not for the straining tendons in his neck, he would have appeared entirely at peace with himself. “Come with me now, Faramir, I have news for you.”
It would be nearly ten years before Faramir would see his older brother again.
There was no telling how long it would be before Faramir would chance to touch him again.
“Pray tell Lord Steward I am come to request to speak with him,” Captain Faramir told Denethor’s esquire, and heavily leant against the cool stone wall of the corridor when the young man bowed and went inside to report to his lord. The warrior closed his eyes, willing the memories – and the sentiments they aroused – to retreat and leave his mind clear.
The esquire soon reappeared, bowing again and inviting Faramir in, and the young captain braced himself.
The Lord of Minas Tirith was sitting in his private drawing room, his face tired and stern as he scanned some letter in his hand.
“Father…?” Faramir heard the strain in his own voice, and did not try to conceal it.
“Yes, yes,” Denethor nodded, rising from his armchair and walking over to the tall narrow window overlooking the City. “I was expecting you would come to see me – eventually,” he said with a sigh.Striding over to the older man’s side, Faramir took a sharp breath, his cheeks already on fire.
“Please,” Denethor said wearily, “contain yourself. I have little tolerance for drama.”
“Father, must it go on like this?” Faramir exclaimed loudly, his tone a mixture of pleading and indignation. “You know there is reason to ground my dismay, for it is humiliating, and embarrassing, and nothing has been done to warrant such treatment!”
“Oh, yes, I fully understand your frustration, and that is the one and only reason why you are getting away with all this cheek. Indeed, nothing has been done,” Denethor agreed evenly, inclining his head. “But something will, unless I continue to take the measures that I do.”
“But why?” Faramir appealed desperately. “Do you have no trust in us?”
Denethor’s brows went up as he turned his face to study his younger son for a long moment – then the Steward let out a curt dismissive laugh.
“Trust! Ha! I have been Steward for twenty-seven years, my son. How much trust in the moral excellence of mankind can I possibly have left, do you think?”
Faramir shook his head in disbelief. “But we are your children! Do we deserve no credence? Can we not even see one another?”
“Children, so you are. And that only means I know you even better than I know others under my responsibility – although what I know about you is not so much different from the general truth about men.”
Faramir took a deep breath and pursed his lips in resignation. “And if I may, what truth would that be, Father?” he asked in a noticeably more collected manner.
Denethor folded his arms and looked ahead of himself. “Men, my son, are weak – and foolish,” he said slowly. “And the more foolish they are, the less they realise their weakness. Oh yes, do not look surprised, each of you two is quite a fool, in his own way. Your brother, Faramir, cannot possibly deny himself anything he desires, nor does he think that he ought. And as for you – ah, you have always been prone to these,” the older man winced and waved his hand vaguely, “theatrical romanticised gestures of self-effacing righteousness. Oh yes, I am well informed about all those incidents you had in Dol Amroth: you may have been away, but I was watching you from afar, so don’t think I don’t know you, Faramir.” The Steward exhaled heavily and recrossed his arms. “On its own none of this is necessarily catastrophic – but put together, my boy, yields a fail-proof recipe for disaster. Truly, I shan’t be much surprised if one day your and your brother’s brilliant double-act would see me to my grave.”
Faramir stared at him aghast. “Father, you cannot possibly insinuate –”
Denethor grinned with one side of his mouth. “Oh, by the Valar! Faramir, please, I am a little too old to play the insinuation game, I can allow myself the luxury to speak plainly. He would ask – and you would consent, that is all there is to it. Maybe not at once, but what does it matter? You would take pity on him, or convince yourself that you are doing ‘the right thing’, or whatever – but you would not reject him: trust me, you have no notion of your own capacity for foolishness. Hence it is all merely a question of time.”
Faramir flinched as though with pain and spread his hands incredulously. “But Father… What I do not understand is this conviction that he would ask. I have never seen any testimony to the very existence of this desire you are taking such precautions against.”
“Ah, you have not? Truly? Well, perhaps that is because whenever a situation can be interpreted in a variety of ways – and most situations can – you ever choose the one that conforms to your naïve assumption that people, first, are prone to virtue and, second, their idea of virtue coincides with yours. Well, at least when it comes to you and I, our ideas clearly do not coincide, for I, as opposed to you, prefer not to leave anything to chance, and avoid risk whenever it only can be avoided – and if the path to doing so is not exactly strewn with rose petals, then so be it, I would not lose any sleep over that. My Boromir is the heir of Gondor, and I shan’t stand for his good name to be ruined.”
Seeing the stubborn look on his son’s face, he shook his head in exasperation and heaved a tired sigh.
“I am sorry if my attitude angers you, Father,” Faramir said quietly.
Denethor waved his hand irritably. “It does not, for it is of little importance: you flatter yourself if you think much depends on your actual point of view. You are not the lord here, Faramir – I am, and whatever your opinion, I shall make my decisions as I see fit. I hope that is clear?”
“Of course, Father.”
Denethor nodded. “Besides, I ought to give you a little latitude: you are only twenty, ‘tis common for young men such as yourself to be unreasonably optimistic and impractical. After all, you have not seen much of life yet. But all this had better change as you grow into full manhood, Faramir, for, sorry as I am to say this, time is taking its toll on me, and I shan’t be turning blithe and cheerful with the passage of years, and my leniency for self-assured fatuousness shall ever only decrease. So consider yourself advised. Now,” he clapped his hands, “returning to the subject of proof – I could give you any amount of proof you like. You would disagree with all of it, of course. You would say that Boromir’s reaction when he saw you sitting at my side was naught more but one brother’s joy at meeting the other after nine years of separation. You would say the fact he avoids female company proves nothing. You would say his resentment for your new blond friend is based on nothing but the humiliation Boromir had had to suffer for publicly making our guest into an indestructible monster while in truth he was but a thieving Elf. But I trust deep down you realise I do have a point.”
Faramir stood quiet and grave for a long while, then spoke very quietly, “If this is the light you see us in, my father, then may I ask why I was called to return to the City?”
Denethor grinned ruefully. “Certainly not because my heart desired it, which it did not; but dire times are approaching, and I need you here: don’t think I would have appointed you Captain if I didn’t think you had it in you to be one. Now then, I have dedicated quite a bit of my time – and patience – to this matter already; you should get going, I have other business awaiting my attention. And mind you, we are not having this conversation again.”
Without a word, Faramir bowed and left, the young man’s jaws clenched so hard his teeth hurt.
NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]
Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/family-games. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!
Filter
Adult content is shown. [what's this?]
Adult content is hidden.
NB: This site is still for adults only, even with the adult content filter on! [what's this?]
Wow, December, I did hope that my request would go to you, I know you write so well… but I never expected to get an eighteen-chapter story! And how will I find the time to read it all, now?
Well, thank you so much, I’m sure I’ll love it, and I’ll start reading at once; but you might have to wait a bit for a full commentary…
— Nerey Camille Sunday 19 December 2010, 13:50 #