Faramir Fiction Archive

Irreplaceable (PG)

09 April 2008 | 538 words

Title: Irreplacable
Author: Minx
Characters: Faramir, Boromir, Aragorn
Rating: PG
Warnings: None, really
Feedback: Would be loved:)
Author’s Notes: Written for the ‘Never’ prompt on the 50Darkfics LJ community
Thanks to Iris for reading through!

“You will never take his stead!” The voice is soft and full of anguish and something tears Faramir from inside each time he hears those words.

He clenches his fists against the hard floor, his eyes scrunched closed, trying to take his mind away from here.

He had once in a moment of misplaced, wild hope begged for a chance to try being all that Boromir was.

“It is too late for you to take his stead!” The reply had been quick to come, unhappy and despairing, “You should have replaced him for the journey. It should have been you in his stead. He should be here, not you.”

As a child he had never wished to take Boromir’s stead. His brother was not a man anyone could replace. Boromir was everything he could never be and more. He had reconciled himself to that long ago and had repeatedly reminded himself of that as they grew older and others too reminded him of the fact. Ever was he reminded to look to his brother as an example. And ever was he told he fell short.

Now the war is over and yet the words he has heard all his life continue to be repeated. He is weak, inadequate and he is not Boromir. He is the usurper, the one who doesn’t deserve to be here.

Yet, this is the one time he has wished to replace Boromir, in the heart of one he loves unrequited.

“You can never be all he was,” There is anger now in the voice that interrupts his thoughts, and the accompanying pain that runs through Faramir’s body as he is thrust into, is not just physical.

He can smell the wine in the other man’s breath, and he knows the words of rejection are heartfelt, unlike the flat insipid words that are offered in sobriety. He tries not to ache at the thought.

And then it is over. The stabbing pain in his lower body gives way to a dull throb.

Faramir bites back the moan that comes to his lips as he rises slowly off the floor. By the time he manages to stagger up onto his knees, Aragorn has already pulled up his pants. He stands by the grate now, tying the bindings of his tunic, fingers stumbling with the knots.

When he woke to the king’s touch in the houses of healing, and gazed into the grey eyes, deep with unsaid sorrow, Faramir sought no more than to be the one the king could turn to for all he desired. The king does turn to him for desires he would be only too happy to quench, but he never fails to make it clear that Faramir is not the one he desires; he is not even adequate for his needs.

By the time Faramir has managed to rise to his feet, clutching the wall to steady himself, the king has left the room, his boots ringing against the hard stone floor as he walks away.

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