Faramir Fiction Archive

Longest Night (NC-17)

Written by Blackbird Song

08 January 2008 | 5132 words

Title: Longest Night
Author: Blackbird Song
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, incest (adult and thoroughly consensual).
Summary: Faramir awaits Boromir, even after he returns from a long sojourn in Rohan.
Author’s Notes: Written for empy in the lotr_sesa exchange of 2007.

I did a bit of research into the clothing worn in Gondor, and although this is primarily a bookverse story, Ngila Dickson’s work is so good that I decided to base my interpretations on hers. For the trousers and layers worn by Faramir, here is a great pictorial reference. For more on the Byzantine era on which she based Gondorian garb, please see this page. It is for this reason that I refer to trousers, rather than leggings. (And lovely trousers they are, too!)

I base Boromir’s horse remarks on what I know of medieval history. The Rohirrim obviously see things differently. ;)

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Faramir occupied the seat at the end of the battlement, looking out over the Pelennor Fields. The chill in the air had changed and was now redolent of snow that had not arrived. Cold though it was, he found a greater welcome and warmth sitting out of doors than he could muster in the House of the Steward, where they were soon to hold the midwinter festivities. It had been a hard year. The Easterlings had been making their presence felt along the borders, and there had been growing unrest between Rohan and Gondor. Orc sightings and skirmishes had become more frequent, and the resources of the Rangers of Ithilien had been stretched thin. Faramir had spent the time honing his battle skills in ways he had hoped to avoid, fleeing to the sanctuary of Minas Tirith’s library whenever he could be spared.

Now, he sat and gazed across the miles, a wave of longing that he’d long forced aside overtaking him. He missed Boromir. He had been gone for nearly a year, off to charm King Théoden into being more reliable about honouring his pledge to Gondor, though few thought that much could come of it. Faramir had warned him of the futility of it at the last midwinter feast, but Boromir had shrugged and smiled, dismissing his brother’s concerns, even as his face betrayed him, showing the worry he’d tried to hide.

Letters from Boromir had told him of progress made not with Théoden, but with Théodred and Éomer, and his last missive, some six months past, had couched an undercurrent of frustration and uncertainty amidst the tales of skirmishes, bawdy nights and derring-do. There had been a wistful note near its closing, which once again struck Faramir to the core as he pulled the parchment from his gambeson and reread the last parts of it:

I miss you, dearest little brother, and worry for your safety. I wish that I might come upon you reading one of your histories or books of lore in the Golden Hall. Of course, they have no library here, so you would be quite miserable! Even I tire of constant battle cries and talk of horsemanship. How I would love to hear you read to me of some potion or sentimental epic! Of course, when I see you again, you shall regale me with such, and I shall, no doubt, be impatient once again for the company of warriors.

I cannot say when I shall be able to write again, or when I might be returning. I had hoped to be home again ere now, but there are things here that must be attended, and mended, and the going is as treacherous as the border between Mordor and Ithilien. I long for your thoughts, the sound of your voice and the touch of your hand. It is hard to be parted from you for so long, and harder still to think of your trials with Father. I would that he thought as highly of you as I do. I still cannot understand why he does not. Of the two of us, though I may best you at swordplay, you are, I think, the better man.

Until I can embrace you again, dearheart, and feel your kisses upon my cheek, I kiss your eyes and remain

Your most loving and devoted brother,

Boromir

‘Dearheart,’ thought Faramir, again. Something must be badly amiss. He thumbed the signature gently, and remembered their parting nearly a year ago, just days after the midwinter feast when the snow had let up enough to make it possible for a rider to travel:

“At least I’ll be here again for Longest Night,” said Boromir, in an attempt to chivvy Faramir out of his glum presentiment. “Father wouldn’t stand for anything less.”

“That is true enough.”

“You know I’d do anything to be away from that dotard Théoden as soon as possible,” said Boromir, as he started to pace. “This seems a task better performed by Father. I cannot imagine that any King of Rohan would be pleased to have him send a deputy to speak of such things.”

“Théoden has not been willing to welcome Father to the Golden Hall, of late,” Faramir reminded him.

Boromir sighed. “Yes, if it weren’t for my friendship with Théodred, I wouldn’t be welcome there, either.” The groom signalled that Boromir’s mount was ready, then. “Come, little brother, let me embrace you and bid you farewell. The sooner I am on my way, the sooner I shall be able to return.”

Their embrace was long and warm, and Faramir did not want to end it.

“Write to me often,” Boromir whispered. “My heart will be glad for news of you.”

“And you do the same,” Faramir replied against his brother’s neck, equally softly. “Your letters, though rare, bring me great joy.”

Boromir gave him a half-hearted snort. “I do not spend my days buried in mouldy books,” he grinned, pulling back to gaze at Faramir.

The horse tossed her head and snorted, and both brothers laughed.

“Think of me, Faramir,” said Boromir, suddenly serious. “Dream good dreams of me. My fortune always seems better when you do.”

Faramir nodded, setting his jaw against telling Boromir that he’d dreamt it would be a long time before he would see him again.

Boromir took Faramir’s face in his hands and kissed his eyes and lips, lingering there a little longer than was customary, and then, without another word, he turned and mounted, riding towards Rohan without a backward glance.

Faramir stirred at the memory of that kiss. He shivered, then, and turned back to the house, the cold driving him towards the fire and physical warmth of his quarters. Catching the first snowflake on his tongue, he would have failed to see the tiny, dark figure riding pell-mell from the northwest, had it not been for the cry from the guards.

He took off at a run, racing through the maze of streets and gates in an effort to reach the Great Gate in time to greet his brother before the press of the crowds would interfere. Unfortunately, the press of the crowds making preparations for midwinter carousing and the slick of new-falling snow made the going slow and messy. By the time he reached the Gate, he was out of breath and bruised from bumps, slips and falls gathered along his mad dash. None of it mattered as he ran out through the gate and saw Boromir’s face catch in recognition, spurring his horse faster towards him before throwing himself off and letting the momentum carry him into Faramir’s arms.

Laughing, panting, tears of joy streaming down his face, Faramir hugged his brother tightly, kissing his cheeks over and over, and feeling warm lips in return. “I thought… I watched… I tried to dream that you would return today,” he said, breathless, laughing between kisses.

Boromir pulled back to look at him, eyes shining. “I couldn’t leave you to spend the Longest Night alone with Father,” he joked, and then his face changed and he pulled Faramir to him far more tightly. “I could not stay there one moment longer,” he whispered fiercely.

Faramir kissed a clump of snow from his cheek. “We will warm your horse, and then see about some food for you.”

Boromir roared with laughter and released one arm to thump his horse. “Quite right! The Rohirrim would never stand for letting her catch a chill,” he said for all to hear, and then he leaned in towards Faramir as he steered them both towards the Great Gate. “Father approaches,” he murmured. “I must speak with you alone, after I have made proper greeting.”

Before Faramir could say anything, Boromir had handed his horse to one of the boys who’d come out to greet him, and was striding to meet Denethor. “Hail, Father, and well met!”

Faramir watched as Denethor kissed his favourite son, and hung back as he followed them inside the dark outer wall of the city. Something in Boromir’s eyes teased at his mind—a sort of withering that haunted him.

Much later, Faramir was sitting in his room, reading by the fire, when a soft knock roused him. He looked up, expecting the entrance of whichever servant had been sent to do whatever duty needed doing, and frowned when nothing happened. He put his book aside and made his way to the door. The knock came again just as Faramir lifted the latch. A loose fist preceded a thick arm through the door and Faramir grasped it and pulled hard, first in, then down, and thus Boromir entered, tumbled as a river stone in a spring torrent.

“Is this the proper way to greet your long-lost brother?” groaned Boromir, lying on the floor and nursing the elbow that Faramir had impinged.

“’Twas always the way you taught me,” grinned Faramir. Then, “Are you truly hurt? I had not realised that something had happened to you to make you writhe so, over so little force as I exerted….” He gave his brother a worried look.

Boromir’s face twisted in pain. “I can’t….”

Faramir cocked his head to one side. “Can’t what?” He pinched his face into an expression of greater worry.

Boromir began to wheeze. “Can’t … breathe….” He reached his hand out to Faramir, eyes pleading.

“Well, then, we shall have to call for the healers right away,” tutted Faramir. “I’m sure that Ioreth will be more than happy to strip you down and give you a poultice. The last one she produced was a masterpiece! It tinged the air on the fifth, sixth and seventh levels for three days. I’m sure it would make you breathe again, forthwith.”

Boromir’s face fell, but he continued to wheeze, this time with laughter. “You’ve learned, little brother!” He held out his hand for Faramir to help him up. “Never stop to help a fallen enemy.”

Faramir looked deeply into Boromir, and then reached out to take his hand, sighing as he landed on the floor, pinned under his brother. “Evidently, I have not yet learnt enough,” he groaned, “though I can, at least, be thankful that you have bathed.” He winced as Boromir moved a knee a bit close to a kidney.

Boromir laughed again and began to shift his weight off his brother. “I’m no orc! And you never could refuse me, however filth—Oof!”

Faramir chose that moment to hook his knee up and lodge it in Boromir’s side, throwing him off balance. Seconds later, he had pinned his brother. “I’ve refused you many times,” he growled, “and will do so from now on, if I am to be thanked thus when I do not.”

Boromir’s eyes flickered and shaded. “I think it best that we not continue this game, just now,” he said.

There was something in his brother’s voice that stopped Faramir from carrying out his plan to flip him over and bind his hands. “A truce, then?”

“Aye, for now,” said Boromir, absently. Then, after a moment, “Get off me, little brother.” There was a twinkle in his voice that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Faramir rose swiftly. “Have you eaten?” he asked, moving toward the table.

“Father plied me with cold viands and drink. I told him he should add it to the servants’ ration, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

“No, of course not,” said Faramir, as he cut himself some bread and cheese. “He’s been waiting for you for so long.”

“So he told me,” said Boromir, dropping an arm around Faramir’s shoulders. “I still don’t understand why he doesn’t think as much of you as he should.”

“It matters not,” said Faramir. “Besides, you’ll have to fast tomorrow for the Longest Night.” He emphasized his point by biting into his refreshment.

Boromir laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Not that you ever managed that,” he chided.

And then, the laughter died away and Faramir could feel a silence falling thickly. He turned toward his brother, searching his eyes. “Something troubles you.”

Boromir held his gaze for a moment, before dropping his eyes. “Aye,” he said, quietly.

“Is it what you mentioned at the Gate?”

Boromir looked up, puzzled.

“You said you had to speak with me,” prompted Faramir.

“Oh. Yes, we must speak of that,” said Boromir, with little conviction.

Faramir sat at the table and poured out two goblets of mead. “Come. Keep me company whilst I eat.”

Boromir hesitated.

“I have never known you to refuse Beregond’s mead,” said Faramir, taking a healthy sip of the drink and savouring it. “I must say, this seems a particularly good making.”

Boromir sighed and sat, taking the other goblet from Faramir. “Is this how you bed so many of the more impressionable lasses of our city?”

Faramir choked on his mead. “I have had my share of lasses,” he spluttered, at last, “none of whom have been impressionable!” He finished coughing and clearing his throat. “Besides,” he retorted, “I wouldn’t waste Beregond’s mead on any of them. I keep it only for you!”

Boromir’s face reshaped, softened, shifted. He lifted his goblet to Faramir. “Well, then,” he said, “I must savour it until you find another worthy of such attention.” With that, he took a slow sip, holding his brother’s gaze over the vessel.

Faramir locked his eyes to Boromir’s and they drank, gaze-to-gaze, until the goblets were empty. And then, there was nothing between them, no goblets to shield them from the questions in each other’s eyes. “Will you not tell me what is troubling you so, Boromir?”

Boromir’s head dropped into his hand as he sighed. “It is difficult,” he said, after a pause.

Faramir reached across the table to take Boromir’s hand, and felt his brother tense. He squeezed the stiff fingers. “If you were to ride now, your mount would rear in protest,” he remarked, gently.

Boromir half-laughed, toyed with the fingers entwining themselves with his own. “I could no more contemplate a journey now than I could conjure a way to save Rohan from itself.”

“Is this the matter of which we must speak?”

“Yes,” said Boromir, wearily. He squeezed Faramir’s hand and rose, releasing it to pace. “There is a great evil there,” he said at last. “Théoden listens only to one whose words poison him against the Rohirrim and Gondor. Théodred calls him Wormtongue and stays away from the Golden Hall longer and longer. Éomer is all but banished from Théoden’s presence. I spent much time trying to help him kill Saruman’s orcs and Uruks, only to be taken back to Meduseld by those loyal to Gríma so that I might listen to the bitter ramblings of a weak dotard.”

“Was there no-one at Théoden’s court whom you could trust?”

“Only the Lady Éowyn, and only then if we could ride together.” Boromir snorted. “My best purpose there was to serve as groom to Théoden’s house, even as I spied upon their doings. I had some of the most useful conversations while picking out hooves!”

Faramir matched his brother’s snort. “Well, at least you learned something more about horse care,” he quipped.

Boromir smiled then, though the pain in it struck Faramir to the marrow. “I heard your voice telling me that, even as I tended them,” he said. “It kept me going through the days that Théoden—Wormtongue—kept me there when all I wanted was to see the White City again, to embrace you…” He trailed off, his eyes downcast.

“There is more,” said Faramir, when he was able to speak.

“Yes,” whispered Boromir.

“Tell me of it,” urged Faramir.

“I … The Lady Éowyn told me of dreams that she had. Horrible dreams in which she found herself enslaved by Wormtongue. That is why she rode every morning, and sought my company when she did.”

Faramir felt an odd twinge of jealousy that he couldn’t quite identify, but then his puzzlement overcame him. “So … you felt sorry for her?”

“Being Wormtongue’s slave is a horrid thing, even in dreams.” Boromir didn’t quite succeed in stifling a shudder.

“You speak as though you know that from experience,” suggested Faramir.

“At first, I thought that Éowyn was rambling on about a nightmare that any would have in that court.”

“And then….”

“And then, I started to dream.” Boromir shuddered.

“What did you dream?” asked Faramir, though he wasn’t entirely certain that he wanted to know.

Boromir looked up at Faramir. “I missed you so….”

“I know,” murmured Faramir. “I read your last letter.”

Boromir moved slightly closer. “The first time, it wasn’t so bad. I dreamt that you and I were together again, wrestling like puppies, and after a time, I had you pinned. Only….” He swallowed. “I’m sorry, Faramir,” he said. “Only then I kissed you and you kissed me, and then we were … well, we were together in a way that brothers usually aren’t.” He blushed, furiously.

“Why are you blushing? It was just a dream, after all.”

“It … was one of those dreams,” said Boromir.

“One of— Oh!” Faramir felt himself flush, in turn. “Still,” he swallowed, “you can’t rule your dreams.” At least, I can’t rule mine, it seems. “I thought that you and Théodred might…?”

Boromir snorted. “We haven’t played at that since he came of age! You know that. Don’t you?”

“I thought that since you stayed away so long, you might have … rekindled your interest in certain … sports?”

“Not with Théodred! Whatever time he doesn’t spend fighting or tending his horse—and why they use stallions for battle, I’ll never know—he spends preparing his food.”

Faramir didn’t quite stifle a laugh at Boromir’s oft-repeated complaint about the Rohirrim penchant for choosing mounts that no sane Gondorian would contemplate. “I hadn’t realised that he was interested in such matters.”

“He wasn’t, until someone tried to poison him.” Boromir rubbed his temples and went to the window. “It was poorly done—his taster detected it as it touched his tongue. He spat it out, of course, but even so, he nearly died. Took him a fortnight to recover properly.”

“Did they make any attempts on your life?”

Boromir nodded slowly, without turning around. “Once.”

Faramir swallowed and forced himself to remain seated.

“The taster seemed nervous,” continued Boromir before Faramir could say anything. “I asked him to taste from a different portion of the food, and he refused, so I forced some into his mouth. He was dead within minutes.”

Before he knew he had moved, Faramir was by his brother’s side. “Why did you not tell me?” Though he knew.

“They watched everything I did, read everything I wrote. Even my diary was disturbed every night.”

“I knew when you called me ‘dearheart’ that something was wrong,” said Faramir, trying to sound a little cheerful.

Boromir huffed, softly. “That was a good little warning, wasn’t it? Though I hadn’t thought of that at the time.”

Faramir inched an arm around Boromir’s back, and squeezed.

“The dreams changed,” said Boromir, at last.

“How?”

Boromir drew an arm around Faramir’s shoulders, as though for support, and kept looking out of the window, eyes fixed far away. “They continued to come, starting out the same way, leading to our … coupling. It was lovely, at first.” He blushed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be telling you that.”

“It’s all right,” said Faramir, as steadily as he could. “Go on.”

“One night, we were in the middle of … well, each other, I suppose—”

Faramir couldn’t suppress a laugh.

Boromir cuffed him on the shoulder. “At any rate,” he continued, emphatically, “just as we were, er, well… Wormtongue was there, egging me on, telling me … things. I awoke, sticky and feeling sick. I found a willing soldier that day, and then I went off with Éomer to kill orcs.”

“I imagine that helped,” said Faramir, dryly.

“Yes, it did,” laughed Boromir, still not looking at Faramir. “While I was gone, the dreams stopped. Well, for the most part. I still dreamt of you, and sometimes we were together as, well, as….”

“Lovers,” supplied Faramir, more impatiently than he’d intended.

Boromir glanced at him, surprised, and then stared back out the window. “Yes. But those dreams were good. You were safe. Happy. When they came for me, and took me back to the Golden Hall, the dreams I had….” He shuddered. “Gríma had you. He threatened you. He made me do things to you that I cannot—will not—repeat to you now. The worst part was waking up every morning, knowing that I had … satisfied myself in my sleep—that what I did in those dreams made me….” He stepped away from Faramir. “I went on as many excursions as I could, after that. I couldn’t bear my feelings for you being twisted around like that.” He stared out, eyes fixed on the falling snow.

Faramir refrained from touching his brother. “You’ll go blind, if you keep staring at the snow like that,” he murmured.

“I don’t know that I’d mind so much. Being blind for a little, I mean.”

Faramir pulled in a deep breath for courage. “Boromir … look at me.”

Boromir took his own breath and stared out the window.

Faramir moved to him and grasped his shoulder.

Boromir tried to slip out of his grip.

Faramir tightened it and wouldn’t let him. “Did you want to resume our game?”

Boromir shook his head.

Faramir felt the tension quivering under his hand. “Look at me, dearheart,” he said, quietly.

Boromir turned, then, a startled smile flickering about his eyes. “Is that a warning?”

Faramir smiled. “I suppose it could be, though I hadn’t thought of it quite that way.” He searched Boromir’s face. “And I generally reserve such endearments for those who are … younger than you.”

“Ha!” laughed Boromir. “And a bit more feminine, I’ll warrant.”

“Not necessarily,” said Faramir. “It’s just that it helps if they’re clinging desperately to a toy at the time.”

Boromir roared with laughter.

Faramir smiled, then. “It is good to see you laugh, so.”

Boromir’s laughter quieted, though his smile remained. “You always make me laugh. It is one of the things I missed most whilst I was away.”

Faramir cupped Boromir’s cheek and gazed into the eyes so like his own and yet…. “Would it be so bad if we felt for each other as we did in your dreams—the ones without Wormtongue, I mean?”

Boromir tensed. “It is not … I do not…. You mean … what do you mean?”

Faramir laughed, hiding his hurt. “Only that you are not the first to have such dreams,” he said, moving away to busy himself with the fire.

“I … but … when … er….”

“I’ve never known you to have such a stutter, brother,” snorted Faramir. “I can’t imagine that it works very well with the guard—Oof!” He found himself on his back, looking into grey eyes lit with fire. “I take it we are resuming our game,” he managed.

And then, Boromir’s mouth was on him and they were kissing—deep, greedy kisses filled with longing and need. Faramir rolled them over so that he was on top, and pulled away just enough to breathe and search Boromir’s face. The naked desire sent flame to his belly, and he felt himself fill so fast that he felt a buzz of dizziness. He bent to kiss him again, longer, deeper, plundering as he became aware of a hardness against his own. Boromir gasped into his mouth. Faramir gasped in turn as fingers crept under his shirt, and he pulled Boromir closer. “Take me,” he panted, “I’ve missed you so much….”

Boromir’s hands stiffened, and he pushed Faramir away enough so that they could look at each other. “Is that why you’re doing this?” he rasped.

“No! No, I’ve wanted you forever, it seems.” He blinked hard. “Please….”

Boromir pulled him down and mouthed away the drop of sweat trickling down his cheek. “Then you must take me,” he said, low in Faramir’s ear.

“But—”

“None of the dreams—none of the bad ones—let us do that.” He took the lobe of Faramir’s ear between his lips, pulling at it before nuzzling behind it.

Faramir gasped and bucked against Boromir. “Then,” he panted, “we’d best be rid of these clothes post-haste or I won’t last long enough.” He began to fumble with the belt of Boromir’s tunic, only to be stymied by trembling fingers, and cursed.

Boromir stayed his brother’s hands. “We’d better undress ourselves, then,” he managed. “It’ll be faster.”

Faramir grunted and moved reluctantly off Boromir, his arousal demanding attention as he fumbled with his own garments.

“Have you oil?” asked Boromir.

“Yes. In my herb box, there is some—” Faramir’s eyes alit on his brother’s bare chest as the setting sun streamed in and caressed it. “You are so hard,” he whispered, dropping his own shirt to the floor.

“Yes, I certainly am,” said Boromir, emphasizing the prominent bulge still trapped in his trousers with a feral glint in his eyes.

Faramir flushed. “Oh, yes, of course, that. But—” He advanced on his brother and reached out to touch the wrought muscles, bare of all excess. “Your year shows.”

Boromir pulled Faramir close and buried his face in his neck, huffing a breath against it. Faramir could feel the eyelids squeezing shut against his skin as he returned the embrace. “Then you must rub it out for me,” said Boromir, after a very long moment. “Please.”

Faramir kissed Boromir’s neck and drew back when he could. “I am yours. But first, there can be nothing between us.” With that, he bore his brother to the ground and pulled off first the well-worn boots and then the fresh trousers, barely giving Boromir the time to undo them first. He avoided looking at the arousal whose contours he had first espied through a keyhole so many years ago, and about which he had dreamt too often since, just long enough to cast aside his own trousers, could he but loose the troublesome catch.

“What’s the matter, little brother? Need a helping hand?” With that, Boromir cupped Faramir’s burning flesh through the straining wool.

With a growl, Faramir pushed his brother’s hand away. “If you’re going to kill me, at least let me die inside you,” he groaned, as he tried to calm himself enough to steady his hand.

“Faramir—let me….” Boromir reached his left hand to undo the catch, and pulled the trousers down, unsheathing the cock that sprang forth as though for air. “I doubt that I can ever call you ‘little brother’ again,” he teased, appreciatively.

“Perhaps not with any truth,” gasped Faramir, as his brother’s hot and wandering hand encircled him. “Boromir! I won’t last if you do that.”

“Then you’d best hurry with your trousers, or I’ll be the one doing the taking.”

Faramir twisted and pushed and pulled, and then they were rolling together, skin to skin, hands groping, devouring, massaging; mouths kissing, exploring, craving—“Oil!” cursed Faramir. He began to pull away.

“Wait,” gasped Boromir, arching against Faramir as he reached for his discarded tunic. From the belt, he pulled a small flask and handed it to Faramir with a grin.

Faramir unstopped it and poured some oil onto his fingers before teasing behind the heavy sac and back, circling, feeling, pushing….

And then Boromir was pushing down onto his hand, writhing, moaning—“More!”

Faramir began to insert another finger.

“No!” Boromir grasped Faramir’s arm. “You. Please. I need you.”

Faramir allowed himself to look at Boromir, to register the naked, raw need in unshielded eyes, to see the empty bleakness that had so nearly claimed him—this man whom he loved more than any other. That was what had been teasing at the edges of his consciousness. He bent and kissed Boromir, hard, and then pushed in in one long stroke, filling him almost brutally, though the pain flickered across his face for but an instant before his cries turned to ecstasy.

“Please! Move! I must feel you.”

“Just—a moment,” managed Faramir through gritted teeth. “If you breathe, I’ll finish…”

Neither moved for what seemed like an eternity, and then Faramir saw the light begin to fill Boromir’s eyes, and he could wait no longer. He moved carefully, at first, thinking to be gentle, but Boromir grasped at his hips and impaled himself. “Please…”

And then Faramir was lost in grey eyes and desperate heat and glorious friction, and suddenly everything went quiet as all he could see-hear-feel-taste was Boromir, in his arms, his hand, his heart, his home: safe, for now, and home. And then, Boromir was spasming around him, spurting into his hand and sending him to the edge. He tumbled over when he looked into those eyes and saw that his brother was back, at last. “Boromir!” he cried, and surrendered.

Afterwards, as they lay before the fire, Faramir stroked Boromir’s brow. “Where is Father sending you next?”

“Nowhere,” said Boromir, with a mischievous grin. “I told him that I was ready to go off again, and then mentioned the need to bring along a taster.”

A slow smile spread across Faramir’s face. “You told him of the poisoning attempt.”

“Yes.”

“And he—”

“Won’t let me go anywhere for at least a year.” He traced his fingers over Faramir’s face and kissed him.

“He’ll expect you to see to it that I pull my weight.”

Boromir rolled on top of his brother. “You pull far more than your weight, as it is,” he said, seriously. “But, if it pleases you to think otherwise, then we could always resume our game.”

Faramir felt a gleam spark in his eyes. “What are the stakes?”

“Name them.”

“If I win, you take me.”

“And if I win, then you have to sit next to Ioreth at the midwinter feast.”

Fifteen seconds later, Faramir won.

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