Faramir Fiction Archive

Plainsong (NC-17)

Written by Alex

22 May 2008 | 8065 words

Title: Plainsong
Author: Alex
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir
Summary: Boromir has always been Faramir’s protector. Now he has need of Faramir’s strength.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to their copyright holders.
Warning: Incest. Violence. References to nonconsensual sex (others/Boromir)
Feedback: Is treasured.
Thanks: To kimberlite for her friendship and patient beta.

---

This long stretch of land was once a part of Osgiliath’s botanical gardens, a haven of beauty and tranquility, sinuous and symmetrical grace. Now it is a monumental ruin, broken flagstone, rubble, and weeds, a triumph of chaos over order. It is the domain of the Orc now, and it is here that Faramir has discovered the whereabouts of his missing brother. Five days have passed since Boromir and a small retinue set out on a patrol of the Anduin’s eastern shore. Faramir, engaged on a patrol of his own in the Stonewain Valley, returned to Minas Tirith, discovering his brother absent and his father near frantic with worry. Grimly, he chose his own company, men of courage, loyalty, and strength, and set off for Osgiliath, closing his ears to Denethor’s upbraiding. Surely the Steward’s bitter jeers sprang only from his anxiety for Boromir’s safety.

Now Faramir treads with care along the pale stone wall, half again a man’s height, that borders the wreckage of the garden. The scent of woodsmoke draws him ever closer to the quarry he has tracked for two days. His steps come to an abrupt halt as voices echo through the deserted space — three Orcs, their crude bellows and laughter ringing unpleasantly against the stone, and one human, a brief utterance of sound choked with pain. As Faramir crouches against the wall, downwind of the brutal creatures, he hears the distinct snap of a lash against bare flesh, a soft whimper, and cringes as if he, not his brother, were the whip’s unfortunate victim.

The lash falls again; there is another muted cry, another brutish burst of laughter. Faramir’s shaking fingers tighten around his bow. Three Orcs, and Faramir is alone. He is nineteen, a man by anyone’s reckoning, but at this moment he feels helpless. ‘A child going to do a man’s work’ is the last insult Denethor flung at his back. It cut then; it cuts deeper now, lengthening his paralysis, his hatred of his foes, his fear for his brother. Many orcs have fallen to his arrows and sword, but never has one he loved been a captive at their hands. Deliberation and speed must now guide him. If only he could move.

Once more the crack of the whip resounds in the night air. Boromir cries out, provoking shouts and laughter. “Squeal, little princeling,” growls a voice. “Go on, louder! Your friends are looking for you. Bring ‘em here.” There is a thud, followed by a groan.

Faramir can listen no longer. He glides to a gnarled tree, stunted and sickly looking but strong enough to support his weight, and climbs. A branch snaps beneath his boot, but the Orcs, now in his sightline and illuminated by their meager fire, are occupied with tormenting their captive, kicking him with abandon, hurling obscenities at him. Faramir avoids looking at the huddled form at the Orcs’ feet. He anchors himself in the fork of the tree, nocks an arrow, squints, and lets it fly.

Success! The arrow lands squarely between the eyes of one Orc, felling him instantly. Faramir pulls his knife; a second later it is planted in the throat of the second Orc. By now the third has spotted Faramir, and charges to the wall with an ululating howl, his crude battle-axe slashing the air. Faramir is ready; taking advantage of the high ground, he springs to the wall, catlike, then draws his sword and leaps down, unleashing a roar of his own. The sword lodges in the Orc’s armor, half-severing its swordarm at the shoulder. A scream of pain replaces the howl, and Faramir cannot — indeed, will not deny the hot surge of joy in his chest at that sound.

But the Orc is not finished; it flings itself at Faramir, knocking him to the ground and pinning him. A foul gout of black blood spurts onto Faramir’s face, hot and blinding. Instinctively, he strikes a glancing blow to the creature’s face and feels teeth clamping on his hand. With a cry of mingled pain and rage, he pushes his hand deeper into the Orc’s maw, his fingers slipping on blood and slime, pushing back the beast’s tongue. Gasping through excruciating agony — those teeth are still driving into his flesh — he frees his other hand and plunges his sword into the Orc’s neck.

As the Orc lets loose a death cry to chill the heart, Faramir yanks his hand away and shoves the creature back. Swiftly, he gains his feet, wiping foulness from his burning eyes. Black blood spatters the crumbling flagstone; he slides a little as he retrieves the knife from the throat of the still-twitching Orc.

There is no time to revel in victory; doubtless more Orcs are nearby and will find them soon. Faramir speeds to his brother’s side. In a glance, much is revealed. Never has he seen Boromir so utterly defenseless. He is curled on his side, naked, his knees pulled up to his chest. His hands are tied behind him with crude leather thongs. Another thong binds his bruised and bleeding mouth. One ankle is tethered with rope to the stout roots of a dead lebethron tree. Even in the moonlight, a profusion of wounds and bruises are all too distressingly evident. Dark slashes glistening with fresh blood crosshatch his back. His body is filthy, streaked with mud, blood, and what looks — and smells — like Orc dung.

With the utmost gentleness, Faramir shifts his brother’s body slightly to cut his bonds, and freezes, his breath caught in his chest. On the backs of Boromir’s thighs — more blood, in long, drying streaks. And another substance — Faramir leans closer and chokes on a peculiar, foul stench.

“No…” It is clear now what the orcs have done. Faramir clamps his lips together, willing himself not to vomit. Anger like white-hot knotted wire burns behind his eyes. Stilling the trembling of his hands, he cuts through the thongs around Boromir’s wrists. “Boromir,” he calls softly. “Boromir!” A moan is his only reply; Faramir hastens to slice through the knot at the back of Boromir’s neck, tangled in blood-caked, dirty hair. He eases the leather from between Boromir’s lips, and sees it now for what it is: finely tooled with stars and twining athelas leaves, it is tack, a length from the reins of his brother’s beloved horse, Hallas. The horse is nowhere in sight. Faramir pushes the image of the poor creature’s probable fate from his mind and tosses the leather aside with a muttered oath. “Boromir!”

Boromir stirs. His eyes, swollen nearly shut from the beatings the Orcs have administered, open to slits, and he struggles to focus. “Brother?” The query is no more than a croak; Boromir coughs, blood trickling down his chin.

“Yes.” Faramir takes one cold hand and begins to chafe blood back into it. “Boromir — Aradreth and Cirion and Mardil. Are they…”

“Gone,” Boromir whispers. “We could not fight them all.”

“Three Orcs are dead. Are there more?”

Boromir nods painfully. “Two. They…they heard you, I think. Went to search for you.”

“Then we must leave at once.” No telling how long their fortune will hold. Faramir doubts he can fend off two Orcs and defend Boromir at the same time; flight is now their wisest course of action. He hacks at the rope fastening Boromir’s ankle to the tree. The rope is long enough to allow for some movement; Faramir sees the faint tracery of battle in the dusty earth, evidence of an attempt to fight. Valiant Boromir. The sting in Faramir’s eyes is not entirely owed to Orcish blood. “Are you too injured to walk? Have they broken anything?”

“I can manage if you help me up.”

Faramir puts an arm around Boromir’s waist and helps him to sit up. “Where are your clothes?”

“Burnt.” A strange, gulping laugh issues from Boromir’s throat.

Faramir’s heart is rent in two. In an agony of silence, he strips off his cloak and drapes it around Boromir’s naked, battered body, then assists him to his feet. Boromir cannot suppress a whimper, and he half-collapses against Faramir’s supporting arm. Faramir staggers a little beneath his brother’s weight. “What is it?”

“My knee. Something is torn inside.”

“Put your weight on me.” Faramir grasps Boromir round his waist. They make halting progress toward the garden entrance. Faramir, burdened by his brother’s weight, hears his breath harsh and ragged in his own ears. He notes Boromir’s struggles not to cry out and grits his teeth in fresh determination. Another two hundred paces or so to the gate; not far at all, he assures himself.

Boromir emits a choked cry. Faramir glances at him quickly, then follows his gaze to a pile of bones, picked nearly clean, next to a pile of discarded armor. He sees two skulls, then another. It scarcely seems possible, but it must be. Bones, stripped of flesh. Hungry Orcs, rapacious and greedy. Aradreth…Cirion…Mardil. Horror renders him mute, and he wonders how Boromir escaped his companions’ dreadful end.

“They knew me,” Boromir says, seeming to read Faramir’s thoughts. “Or rather knew of me. They knew Father’s name. They were going to kill me, but they wanted Father to know they’d captured me first.” His voice is layered with emotions almost too complex for Faramir to disentangle — anger, fear, shame, relief. “I had to watch them — they forced me —”

“Hush — save your breath.” The moon passes behind a cloud, obscuring the pathetic remains of Boromir’s companions. Faramir is grateful for the reprieve. He will have to lead a party back here to collect the bones, to give them proper tribute and entombment, but not now. Tightening his grasp around Boromir’s waist, he speaks with a firmness he does not feel. “We’ve almost reached the gate.”

A rustle of foliage, stealthy and deliberate, sounds in the east. Both brothers freeze.

“Leave me,” Boromir whispers.

“No. Be quiet.” Faramir draws his knife with one hand.

“You can’t defend yourself and protect me as well.” Boromir struggles slightly in agitation.

“I’ll knock you over the head and carry you like a sack of grain if I must. Now hush!” Faramir edges close to the wall, concealing them both in shadow. From the east comes another sound — the whistled trill of a night lark. Faramir sags in relief. “Dírhael!” He echoes the sound and turns to Boromir. “All is well. Dírhael has the horses. Rest a moment.” He gently deposits Boromir on a large ornamental stone and runs toward his companions. They are safe and sound — Dírhael, Beregond, Guthred, Caradoc.

Beregond and Caradoc clap Faramir on the back. “You have found them?”

Faramir shakes his head. “Boromir only. The rest are dead.”

The men mutter quiet imprecations. “They will pay for this,” Guthred snarls, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword.

“Indeed they will.” Faramir rests a forestalling hand on Guthred’s. “But not this night. We’re returning to Minas Tirith — save your strength and your anger.”

“Can Boromir ride?” Beregond inquires.

It is a valid question, and a difficult one. Faramir dreads forcing Boromir to sit a horse. With injuries like his — but there is no help for it, unless he is to sling his brother across the horse’s saddle — likely twice as uncomfortable, and twice as apt to slow the horse’s gait. No, Boromir must ride. “He’ll have to.”

Beregond pauses. “Hallas?”

Faramir sighs. “Gone. Boromir will ride with me. Dírhael, Beregond — ride ahead now and inform my father that we return with his first-born.” He turns to the huddled form in the shadows. They return with Denethor’s first-born, indeed — somewhat less than whole. “Guthred, Caradoc — flank me. He’s badly hurt and we shall need your protection.”

As the men move swiftly to the horses, Faramir makes his way to his brother’s side. The moon gives only the faintest illumination, but he sees that Boromir’s eyes are open, watching him, and his arms are wrapped around his knees as if that would shield him from further harm. Faramir brushes a lank, dirty strand of hair from Boromir’s face and caresses his cheek with two fingers. “Brother, we must go.”

Boromir nods.

“You will have to ride with me,” Faramir murmurs. “I know you are wounded. I am s —”

“I’ll manage.” The reply is a harsh rasp from Boromir’s throat. He heaves himself from the rock, staggers, and by some miracle of balance and strength holds himself upright. “Get the horse.”

Faramir recognizes desperation when he sees it. He takes Gwaihir’s reins from Guthred and leads him to where Boromir stands unsupported, ignoring Guthred and Caradoc’s dismayed, compassionate stares, clinging to the last tattered shreds of his might and dignity and pride. As Gwaihir nickers a friendly greeting and bumps his nose against Boromir’s shoulder, he sways, and is prevented from a fall only by Faramir’s quick reaction.

“Steady, Gwaihir,” Faramir scolds gently. Boromir clings to the horse’s bridle and pets his nose, agony etching lines in his face. Faramir can bear it no longer. “Up,” he instructs, more gruffly than intended, and grasps Boromir’s upper arm. Part of him longs to gather his brother into his arms, but knows it for a futile yearning. “Mind your knee.”

Boromir mounts, unable to stifle a cry of pain as he settles astride the beast.

“My lord?” Guthred moves closer anxiously.

“Leave me be!” Boromir hoists himself upright, though his face is milk-pale in the moonlight, strained nearly beyond endurance.

Faramir squeezes Guthred’s arm as consolation and caution. “Never mind,” he whispers, and mounts Gwaihir behind Boromir. It is a tight fit in the saddle for both of them, but perhaps it will reduce further injury. Faramir shudders and clasps Boromir around the waist. “It will be a hard ride. I am sorry for it.”

Already Boromir’s posture has slackened; he leans heavily against Faramir’s chest, but a tired chuckle escapes him. “Only you, brother, would apologize for saving my life.”

“Aye, because you are so very particular.” Smiling, aching at Boromir’s bruised gallantry, he turns to his friends. “Quickly — we ride!”

A band of deep violet tints the horizon as they approach the Great Gate. The ride has been long and arduous because of the darkened road and Faramir’s efforts to curb Gwaihir into a smoother gait. Too, the journey has more than taken its toll on Boromir; he has borne his discomfort without complaint, but he sags forward in the saddle, clinging to Gwaihir’s mane. Twice he has succumbed to a faint, and Faramir’s strength is sapped from controlling the horse and keeping Boromir in the saddle. But it is over now; the gate is open, and several men wait with torches, welcoming them home. As they move closer, a glad cry rises in the air. Faramir breathes easily for the first time that night. He eases Boromir upright, taking care not to cause him further pain. “We’re home, brother,” he murmurs in Boromir’s ear. “We’re home.”

Boromir lifts his head with difficulty. “Faramir…don’t tell Father.”

Faramir understands him at once. “He’ll want you in the Houses of Healing. There will be talk.”

“Please, brother….”

It is the plea that undoes him. Ever has Boromir been Faramir’s protector, his sword and shield. Faramir cannot recall a time when Boromir was not beside him to lend strength and courage and companionship. Now Boromir needs his brother’s strength, for he is near the end of his own. And he would do anything to protect his younger brother; Faramir cannot but agree, though something inside nags at Boromir’s secretiveness, his shame. “Very well,” he replies, and there is no time for more promises, for Denethor stands waiting in the courtyard, surrounded by soldiers.

“Boromir!” He rushes forward, arms outstretched. His hauberk of mail jingles in counterpoint to the sound of Gwaihir’s hooves. “My son.” Tears of joy stream unchecked down his face; his customary frown has been replaced with a smile so beatific it scarcely seems the same man. His joy is for Boromir alone; for Faramir, there is but a cold glance.

“Father,” Boromir replies weakly.

Denethor’s eyes rake over Boromir’s hunched figure. “Bearers!” he barks.

At once a number of men step forward, a litter in their midst. Healers stand behind them in an attitude of expectancy. Nearby, a wagon waits in readiness, piled with cushions and blankets, every comfort for the wounded patient.

Boromir sits straight in the saddle. Faramir can see sweat dampening his cloak, though the night is cool and dry. “Faramir will accompany me, Father. I only require one healer.”

“Nonsense. You are badly injured!”

“It looks far worse than it is, I assure you.” Boromir’s body is trembling with fatigue. “One healer. And I need rest. I shall see you tomorrow, Father…and tell you all about my adventure. Come, Faramir — let us go.”

Denethor glares at Faramir suspiciously. “Does he speak lightly of his wounds? Dírhael and Beregond said he could scarce bear himself upright.”

“There are wounds,” Faramir allows. “But one healer should suffice. Good night, Father. It was good of you to wait.” He nudges the horse into a walk. Denied their drama, the waiting soldiers part reluctantly.

“Follow him,” Denethor orders. “You — and you.” Two healers are named. Faramir shrugs inwardly. Two are as simple to deal with as one.

As they move out of the soldiers’ sight, Boromir collapses again, nearly falling from the horse. “A little further, Boromir,” Faramir urges. “Hold on.”

Finally, they are home. Faramir dismounts and helps Boromir off, staggering under his weight. He half-drags, half carries his pale, barely conscious brother up the stairs of his lodgings, into his bedchamber, and lifts him onto the bed. The room is warm; a fire has been laid and lit, and the glow of several lanterns softens the darkness of heavy drawn curtains and stone walls.

Faramir sinks onto the bed and examines Boromir closely, his heart wrenched afresh by Boromir’s state. His skin is white, as though the Orcs bled him dry. His parted lips are blue. His hair, ordinarily deep wheat-gold, is dark with blood and filth. Three days’ growth of beard covers his chin. The marks on his body…too many to count. Faramir’s hands clench into fists of helpless rage. That his brother should have been subjected to such anguish is unbearable.

There is a soft noise at the door. The healers have arrived, their baskets on their backs. “My lord?”

Faramir rises wearily. “Have a bath fetched for him. And be sure to examine him carefully. He has extensive injuries — tell no one of their nature. No one.”

The healers, a man and a woman, exchange an uneasy glance. “Lord Denethor —” the woman begins.

“Lord Denethor is troubled by urgent matters.” Faramir makes his voice harsh, borrowing his father’s icy inflection. “It would grieve him to know his first-born has not been properly tended. I cannot imagine the scope of his rage if you were derelict in your duties. To disturb him with unpleasant details would be folly. Only when the news is favorable should he be told. Am I understood?”

Once more the healers exchange a glance. “And if Lord Denethor demands to know his son’s progress? If he demands to see him?” the man asks.

“You will tell him the healing is slow, but steady — naturally. Of course Lord Boromir will require rest and quiet. Not so?”

The healers nod. Something is amiss, but it is not for them to question. From Boromir’s appearance, their work is clearly laid before them. Why trammel their situation with politics? “We understand, my lord.”

Never before has Faramir commanded through fear. It is a new and unpleasant experience to see the cringing uneasiness in the healers’ eyes. “You’ll be well rewarded. I leave him in your care.” Faramir moves to Boromir’s side, leans down, and places a tender kiss on his brother’s brow. Boromir does not stir.

Faramir trudges to his own bedchamber. No fire awaits him, no lanterns are lit, but he cannot bring himself to care. It is nothing new, and besides, Boromir is safe; homely comforts pale beside the miracle of this gift. He strips off his leather jerkin, then drops to the bed, too tired to remove his filthy boots, the clothes befouled with the blood of Orcs. In seconds, he falls into a deep and dreamless slumber.

A sullen rain, grey and cold, patters steadily down as Faramir and Denethor lead a procession along the Silent Street from the House of the Stewards. Behind the Steward and his son are the grieving families and comrades-in-arms of Boromir’s unfortunate companions, Aradreth, Cirion, and Mardil. Denethor has consented to have the remains laid to rest in the House of the Stewards as a tribute to their valor.

The door of Fen Hollen opens for the mourners. They spill into the street, glancing behind them for a last look at the Silent Street. For most it is the only time they will see the grim splendor of the tombs; never again will they be permitted to lay wreaths of fern and flower upon the graves of their lost sons and brothers. But it is a great honor to lie beside the Stewards, and none of the families have denied their sweet departed this accolade.

Faramir sighs and doffs his helmet, glancing up at the lowering sky. If only Boromir were beside him, offering the reassurance of a smile, of a wise, calm word for the families of the fallen. Alas, Boromir is still abed, healing from his wounds. The worst of the fevers have passed, but he is weak and spent. Faramir has passed the days at his bedside, listening to his cries of delirium, watching helplessly as he cringes and strikes out against invisible attackers, bathing his fevered skin with cool herbal waters. Only twice has he left his brother: once to return to Osgiliath, to collect the remains, and now, for the funeral. Now it is time to return to Boromir’s side.

“My lord. Captain.”

Startled out of his reverie, Faramir turns and sees Cirion’s father, Aldamir, leading a small boy by the hand. None of the retreating families have dared to speak to Faramir, much less Denethor, but Aldamir is an old soldier, a former guardian of the White Tree, and has been ever loyal to the Stewards. Aldamir’s armor is battered and old-fashioned, but no speck of tarnish taints its shining surface, and he bears himself erect despite his many years. A long scar draws his mouth downward and one hand is in constant tremor, mementos of a fearsome battle with Orcs when Cirion was a mere boy.

“Aldamir.” Denethor rests a hand on Aldamir’s shoulder. “Our hearts grieve with you this day.”

Aldamir bows, and nudges the child to do the same. “I thank you for the honor you’ve conferred upon my son, my lord.”

“It is the least we can do to acclaim the service he has rendered to Gondor.” Denethor’s voice is deep, warm, and soft, his carriage noble, his bearing compassionate. In this moment he is kingly, and Faramir yearns to freeze time, to keep his father thus forever. Denethor turns to Faramir. “Your brother will be awaiting your return. He seems stronger when you are by his side. Do not tarry overlong.” It is as close to a compliment as Faramir has received in a long while, but before he can respond, Denethor pivots on his heel and departs, his dark robes sweeping behind him. Faramir is pierced by a familiar thorn of mingled resentment, longing, and desperate love.

“Captain.”

Faramir frowns. “Forgive me, Aldamir.” He draws his hand out of his glove and gently grasps Aldamir’s palsied hand. “I am sorry. It is a great loss to us all.”

“I hear tell you collected his body yourself, sir.”

“Aye, and a company of loyal men besides.” Faramir will not tell Cirion’s father about the dishonored, fleshless bones, nor his son’s likely end. It is enough that he himself will never forget it; no point in inflicting it upon a grieving father.

Tears gleam in Aldamir’s eyes. “He was a good lad,” he says roughly. “A good lad.”

“None better.”

Aldamir nods and collects himself. “I thank you for bringing him home, sir.”

“He was my friend,” Faramir replies, then notices the boy staring up at him. He smiles and tousles the child’s wet hair. “And who is this stout fellow?”

“My grandson, Ragnir. Cirion’s child. All I’ve left to me now.”

The child stares at Faramir with wide, serious eyes. Faramir sinks into a crouch, eye-level with the boy. “Your father was a courageous warrior. And he was a good friend to me, and to my brother Boromir.”

“Orcs killed him.” The boy’s voice trembles. Tears mingle with rain on his round cheeks.

“Yes. He died saving my brother’s life. It was a brave thing for him to do — the bravest deed anyone can do.” He hands the boy a wreath of twined flowers. He had intended to bring it to Boromir, but this child needs it more. “Someday, when you are a little older, come to me, and I shall tell you stories about his courage. Then you can tell your children and grandchildren tales of Cirion the Bold.”

“Promise?” the child asks doubtfully.

“Ragnir!” Aldamir scolds.

Faramir bites back a smile. “I swear by your father’s sword, Ragnir. Off you go now — and never forget what a fine man he was.” He rises to his feet and briefly touches the boy’s cheek. Aldamir bows, and Ragnir, filled with a new importance, bows as well. Aldamir says nothing, but his eyes shine as he grasps Faramir’s shoulder — a fatherly, strangely heartrending caress.

The rain is heavier now, the sky darker. Faramir stands alone outside Fen Hollen. Slowly, he replaces his helmet and makes his way toward the citadel, toward Boromir.

A week passes; another; then another. The nights grow cold. On the day Faramir returns from a short and uneventful riverbank patrol, autumn has already drawn its chill mantle around Minas Tirith. Throughout the city, preparations for winter are underway. Faramir rides through the market street, smiling at the clamor of vendors with their baskets of winter fruit and greenery, neat bundles of kindling, tanned skins and pelts to protect against winter cold, stiff brooms and brushes for a new season’s housecleaning.

Impulsively, he stops at a stand where a man roasts nuts in honey and butter on a flat iron pan over a roaring fire. The same man has been on this street since Faramir was a small child. There was no greater treat for Boromir and Faramir than the sweets, hot and delicious, poured into a square of paper twirled into a cone. Faramir buys three, tucks two into his saddlebag, and resumes his journey, assuaging his keen hunger with the sweetened nuts.

He is home at last. Without a pause to seek out his father, Faramir runs up the staircase to Boromir’s chambers and is admitted at once. He rejoices to see Boromir fully dressed and eating a meal with what seems a good appetite. Upon catching sight of his brother, Boromir leaps to his feet and opens his arms. “You’ve been gone far too long, brother!”

Faramir grins in delight and strides forward, embracing Boromir tightly. “That may be so, but I’m glad of it, for time and care have done their work. You look strong and hearty.” He kisses Boromir on the cheek, then holds him at arm’s length. “Perhaps I have been gone too long. What is this?” he inquires, swiping at the carefully trimmed beard on Boromir’s face. “I scarcely recognized you. And your hair…”

“Too long for practicality,” Boromir laughs. “Does this not suit me?”

“No — that is, it does suit you.” Faramir considers Boromir’s shorn locks, trimmed to just above his shoulders. “It suits you very well.” And it does. Boromir looks sterner, somehow more grave and austere, but his masculine beauty is undiminished. Faramir turns to the two healers, who stand in an attitude of patient expectation, baskets on their backs as if they have only been waiting for Faramir to return before they take their leave. “He is fully healed?”

The female healer bows slightly. “He is, my lord. We have instructed him to visit the House of Healing in a week’s time —”

Boromir snorts and waves a dismissive hand.

“For his own health, my lord,” the woman continues, fixing Boromir with a reproachful yet fond glance.

“I shall see to it myself,” Faramir replies. “And I have not forgot my promise. When I bring him, you will receive your reward. I thank you for your skill and patience.” He clasps each of their hands in turn, then closes the door behind them. Sighing, he returns to Boromir’s table and slumps into a chair. Unfastening the buckle of his saddlebag, he retrieves the paper cones of sweet nuts and places them beside Boromir’s plate. “To crown your dinner.”

Boromir’s eyes widen. “Not — is it from old Iorlas on the market street?”

“The very one.”

“I’ve not had these for years.” Boromir opens one of the paper cones and inhales the scent of its contents. “Marvelous!” He shakes a generous amount into his mouth and sighs in pleasure. “No better sweet in all of Minas Tirith.” He trades a quick smile with Faramir, then tilts his head to one side. “What did you mean by a reward?”

Faramir glances down at the tooled leather of his saddlebag. “For their speed…and discretion.”

A moment passes before Boromir speaks. “I see.” He returns to his dinner, though with less gusto than before, and does not meet Faramir’s eyes.

“Boromir.” Faramir fastens a pleading gaze upon his brother’s face, a plea wasted since Boromir will not look up. “Brother, we have not had time alone since before — for weeks now.” His fingers assure themselves — needlessly — that the buckles on his bag are refastened. “We have not spoken of that night.”

“Is there something to speak of?” Boromir, his averted face suffused with color, roughly spears a section of fowl.

“If you wish to…unburden yourself….” Faramir gropes desperately. Ever have their lives been freely intertwined, like young green vines. They have no secrets from one another. But Boromir’s captivity, his wounds, and his sufferings are bound up with shame. Would recounting his torment diffuse his distress?

A strange laugh hiccups from Boromir’s chest. “Unburden?” He pushes his plate away, gains his feet, and walks to the window, misted with cold. With the tip of his finger, he draws a straight line, then a crooked spiral pattern. “Faramir, listen well. As you love me, say nothing more of that night. Nothing.”

Faramir opens his hands. “Brother —”

“Say nothing!” Boromir’s voice breaks, and he pounds on the stone wall with a fist. “I’ll answer no questions. I’ll not speak of it again — not even to you.”

Sighing, Faramir bows his head. A wall has risen between them; loneliness fills the cavern of his chest. “You are certain?” He looks up to see Boromir nod.

“Please — go.”

Faramir rises and trudges to the door. He casts one last look over his shoulder to see Boromir’s back. His heart leaden and aching, he exits quietly, closing the door behind him.

Not since that day, weeks ago, has Faramir managed to see Boromir alone. They are together only in the presence of others. Boromir surrounds himself with his lieutenants, his friends — nothing unusual to an untutored observer, no extraordinary change worked upon the son of the Steward despite what was said to be a most harrowing ordeal. In battle-drill he is neither harsh nor angry; his thrusts and parries are controlled, precise, the mark of a consummate warrior. In moments of leisure he laughs and jests with his friends, eats and drinks with relish, behaves with courtly solicitude to ladies of high and low estate. Only occasionally does he allow his mask of joviality to slip; it is then that Faramir sees the hollow exhaustion in his eyes. Once, their gazes meet; Boromir flushes deeply and turns away. In that moment Faramir sees that Boromir is trapped, as much a captive now as when the Orcs held him. And Faramir is helpless to free him.

The southernmost bank of the Anduin at Osgiliath is drained marshland, once rich with fields of succulent grain. Now that the city has fallen, it seems nothing so much as a fetid swamp, its crust of earth thin and frail, oozing mud and water, never freezing even in wintertime, its vegetation spindly, faltering. It is a drowned land, and were he not charged with its reclamation, Faramir would leave it and never return.

But such is not to be. Faramir leads a small party — Guthred, Madril, and Boromir — through the wetlands. Boromir volunteered for the patrol at once, and any protest Faramir might have uttered died unvoiced when he saw Boromir’s eyes. Perhaps, he reasoned, Boromir can purge himself of the pain locked inside, for it is clear he cannot make visible that which holds him so firmly.

Gwaihir picks his way through the mud, ears laid back, as irritably disdainful as any court dandy reluctant to dirty his shoes. Faramir laughs softly and clucks to the beast; poor Gwaihir likes this place no better than he. All at once Gwaihir stills, nostrils flaring and ears alert to the quiet noises and shifting shadows of the small copse of trees ahead. Faramir trusts his steed’s superior senses and understands the warning: the enemy is near.

“Be ready,” Faramir instructs the others, and says nothing when Boromir rides up beside him. He searches his brother’s face anxiously, though, unconvinced by Boromir’s calm mien.

And now, seemingly unaware of the men, two Orcs emerge from the trees, leading between them a horse burdened with cargo — dead deer, lashed to the creature’s back.

“Hallas,” Boromir whispers — the name of his horse, who he thought lost to ravenous Orc appetites. Before Faramir can reply, Boromir charges, his voice raised in a ringing battle cry.

Faramir blinks — surely it cannot be Hallas — and then gathers himself for the charge, kicking Gwaihir into a startled trot, then a gallop. It is a foolish thing Boromir has done; there may be several more Orcs hiding, or several dozen. But he will not leave Boromir alone; even if he dies in combat, let him die protecting his beloved brother.

The battle is swift and short — indeed, nonexistent. Boromir dispatches both Orcs before either has the presence of mind to retrieve their crude swords. He leaps from his horse and with bellows that rend the dawn, swings his sword again and again, hacking the Orcs to pieces, fouling the very air with blackish blood.

Faramir dismounts and moves closer; their companions hover uncertainly behind him. Lord Boromir is consumed by rage, by kill-hunger; it is a side never glimpsed before. Faramir waves a reassuring hand — how strange it is that he is so calm — and speaks softly to his brother. “Boromir.”

Boromir, still caught up in his murderous frenzy, does not reply.

“Boromir!”

The sword stops in mid-air. Boromir stares at Faramir, his eyes blank, his entire body spattered with blood.

“They are dead. Both of them. See?”

An uncomprehending blink is Boromir’s only reply. He gazes around in wonder, as if surprised to see the bodies before him.

“You were right,” Faramir says softly. “It is Hallas. You’ve saved him.” His hand slowed by caution, he reaches out to scratch Hallas’ forehead. The poor creature looks dreadful: thin, coat dull, old and fresh whip marks marring his body, a cruel bridle of coarse rope caught around his nose, but it is Hallas nonetheless. “He’ll be fine. Lost a shoe, it seems.” Hallas whinnies, lowering his head for a deeper scratch. “Good. Good fellow,” Faramir croons.

Boromir sinks to the muddy ground with a tired sigh. Mute, he holds up a supplicating hand. Deliberately misunderstanding the gesture, Faramir clasps his brother’s hand and pulls him to his feet, holding him firmly to still his trembling limbs.

“Come,” he murmurs. “Let’s go home.”

A harsh wind beats at the walls of the stable, but within the horses are undisturbed. Boromir leans against Hallas’ stall, watching him as though the creature might be swept away again.

“He looks better,” Faramir ventures.

Startled, Boromir turns, then nods. “He’s had a good rest and a good meal or two. Oats, water…apples.” He manages a rueful smile. “Too many apples, like as not.”

“I’m sure he was glad of them.”

Boromir folds his arms on the stall door and rests his chin atop them. “I tended his wounds myself.”

“There were many. Were they serious?”

“Whip marks, mostly. And he’s underfed. But otherwise…” A moment of silence, broken only by the howling wind, permeates the stable. It is only when Faramir moves closer that he sees the tears streaming down Boromir’s cheeks.

“Brother,” Faramir whispers, placing a tentative hand on Boromir’s back and stroking it gently.

“What they took, Faramir.” Boromir’s voice is muffled in the cloth of his sleeves. “They took what I had wanted to give you.”

Shock stills Faramir’s hand. This is a revelation unexpected — long-desired, if he is to be entirely honest with himself — but unexpected nonetheless. Many years have passed since they have shared a bed, and shy touches — glorious touches, to be sure, but they ceased as the two grew older, and the mysterious allure of the White City’s population of feminine beauties increased. In truth, Faramir had believed that Boromir did not remember the desire that once surged between them.

And what is there to say, Faramir wonders wildly. Hush, brother? All is well? Your enemies are dead, rejoice? I am still yours if you want me? No; to such anguish there is no reply. Faramir is no speechmaker. He has no pretty words of comfort. Instead, he wraps his arms around his brother’s waist and leans his head upon Boromir’s shoulder, inhaling the scent of Boromir’s cloak mingled with hay and horse and crackling embers — comforting smells that have sustained him since childhood.

Boromir turns and cups Faramir’s cheek in his hand. Tears still gleam in his eyes, but he smiles. “I never thanked you for saving me.”

“I don’t want thanks.”

“You’ve been patient with me.”

Faramir shakes his head. Instinct tells him nothing will be as it was; he knew it the moment he heard Boromir’s plaintive groans, the Orcs’ brutal laughter. It is not patience planted in his heart, but the seeds of resignation. At this moment, it seems the most shameful of weaknesses.

A sudden anger burns through him, rage at the foul beasts who have cast this shadow over them, who stole what might have been. He holds Boromir away, hands tight on his arms. He lets his eyes sweep boldly over the long span of Boromir’s body, then meets his gaze. “Why?” he demands. “Why did you never tell me?”

Boromir looks at the ground, seeming stricken. “I thought you did not remember…you never spoke of it.”

“Because you were busy bedding every maiden within the city walls.”

Their eyes meet again, and all at once the anger is gone. Laughter erupts from both brothers like a gust of warm summer breeze. All at once Boromir pulls Faramir close, twines his hand in his hair, and kisses him. His lips tremble against Faramir’s; his breath is ragged. “Forgive me.”

“You’re forgiven.” Faramir, half-dizzy with shock and desire, staggers against the stall door. Hallas shifts and snorts. “I don’t —” He laughs shakily. “You’re forgiven, you halfwit.”

Boromir tugs at a lock of Faramir’s hair. “Halfwit!” He spins Faramir around, locks an arm around his neck, and wrestles him to the floor. “I’ll give you halfwit.” They struggle in mock combat, gasping with laughter. Finally they rest, panting, leaning against the wall. Hallas, bored with their human idiocies, wanders deeper into his stall and contentedly munches hay.

Faramir takes Boromir’s long, graceful hand in his. “Do you still want….”

“Yes.”

Faramir speaks the fear that suddenly worms its way into his heart. “It will not undo what has been done.”

“I do not expect it to.” Boromir curls his hand around Faramir’s. “But I’ll not let that keep me from living — on the contrary. Before you found me, brother, I despaired. Never was death that close, that cold. Then you rescued me, and I thought…it was as a dream, a phantom that enshrouded me. And these past weeks since…I was a fool. That was not living.” His voice broke.

“You needn’t —”

“Hush,” Boromir replies, resting a finger on Faramir’s mouth. “I don’t wish to relive it. I only wish to explain — and to ask — will you, brother?”

Faramir grins and kisses Boromir’s finger. “Yes. Yes. But not here. Hallas has had enough frights.”

They cross the courtyard in silence. Boromir leads the way to his chamber, holding tightly to Faramir’s hand. There is affection in his grip, but more, there is the practical pressure of banked desire. Once inside, the door firmly bolted against intrusion, the brothers look at each other in faint bewilderment.

Heat creeps up Faramir’s neck, flooding his cheeks. He peels off his cloak and drapes it over a tufted stool, then fingers his belt buckle. “I suppose we should…”

A strained laugh escapes Boromir’s throat. “Yes — of course.”

Awkward and uncertain, they begin to undress. Faramir is stripped down to his tunic, breeches, and boots in a moment. He looks up to see Boromir still struggling with his belt. Boromir’s face is red, and his hands tremble, rendering his efforts useless. “Let me help.” Faramir steps closer, bridging the distance between them, and deftly unknots the tough leather, allowing it to slither to the floor.

Boromir nods from behind the curtain of his hair, then pulls his outermost tunic over his head and lets it fall where it will. “Thank you.” Slowly, he looks up to meet Faramir’s eyes, and whatever he sees in them makes him smile. He leans closer and kisses Faramir. “I’m sorry. I should have spoken earlier.”

“So should I.” Faramir tenderly stays Boromir from removing his hauberk and does it himself, listening to the soft metallic shiver of mail. That garment, too, drops to the floor. A dark red undertunic follows. He kneels to help remove Boromir’s boots and stockings, then, still kneeling, unlaces the fastenings of Boromir’s breeches. Leaving them hanging loosely at the hip, Faramir wraps his arms around Boromir’s waist and presses a kiss to the warmth of his brother’s belly. He moves down, licking and sucking at the sensitive skin cupping Boromir’s navel, then further still, moving his lips over Boromir’s sex, straining now at the cloth of his breeches.

Boromir exhales harshly, a long, shuddering gasp, and tangles his fingers in Faramir’s hair. “Ah — there —” He throws his head back, lips parted, eyes closed, as though to absorb all sensation from Faramir’s soft, insistent touch.

“Slow, slow,” Faramir cautions, rising to his feet. He presses himself against Boromir, feeling his own hardness arising. They have waited this long to take each other; touching is needed now, caresses their silent path to the inevitable. He slides Boromir’s breeches down and off, then drops to the stool and holds out one still-booted leg. “Your assistance, please.”

Another laugh passes Boromir’s lips, but this one is deep and genuinely amused. “Yes, sire.” He pulls off one boot, and the other, then finally manages to tug Faramir’s breeches down.

Faramir watches, not helping, his mouth twitching with soundless laughter. At last he relents and pulls his own undertunic off, letting it drop to the floor. “Such a mess we’ve made, and we’ve not done a thing yet.”

“You always were untidy.”

“Me?” Faramir nudges Boromir’s shoulder with his foot, pushing him off-balance. He stands and moves to the bed, then draws back the covers. “Take that back.”

“Never.” Boromir catches Faramir low around the waist and heaves him to the bed. In seconds they are a tangle of arms and legs, until Boromir pins Faramir to the bed. “Surrender.”

“Very well. I surrender.” Faramir surges up to kiss Boromir. He has waited long enough. He will not miss one more glance or breath or moment, slight compensation for their years apart. Changes have been wrought on their bodies; no longer boyish, they cling together, all long, hard-working legs and arms, muscled chests and abdomens, stubbled chins. Time and experience have made them men, and they regard each other’s newness in mingled wonder and delight. Both are scarred from battle; Boromir bears the more recent marks of his ordeal. Faramir caresses the still-livid scars with tender respect. When Boromir kisses him deeply, Faramir yields, allowing his mouth to be captured and plundered, tossing his head as Boromir’s hand curls around his sex and moves in a rapturous, agonizing rhythm.

“Take me,” Boromir whispers.

Faramir hesitates. “You —”

“Yes.” Boromir moves to his belly, sliding his hand beneath, stroking himself. “Please.”

It is what Boromir wants, and Faramir would brand himself a liar if he said he did not long for the same. Briefly abandoning the warmth of the bed, he rummages through his discarded cloak for the jar of saddle oil he prudently lifted from the stable. It has no scent, but upon contact with his aroused flesh, produces a faint tingling that sends shocks of heightened desire through his veins.

Back on the bed, Boromir lies still and quiet. He is entirely naked, as on the night Faramir rescued him, and a vivid flash of remembrance awakens Faramir to his brother’s vulnerability. Disconcerted, he urges Boromir to turn over. “Brother — wait. Are you certain?”

A faint smile curves Boromir’s mouth. “Of course. Did I not say so?”

“It may be too soon….” Faramir falters.

Boromir’s eyes narrow. “I am fully healed. And I am no helpless maiden.”

“I know. I know.” Faramir traces a fingertip round Boromir’s navel. “But I would not cause you further pain.”

“You will not. Be certain of that, brother.” Boromir takes Faramir’s hand and kisses the palm. “You have my trust.” He suckles Faramir’s fingers, lingering on each one, stirring his desire anew. When Faramir is once more wholly aroused, Boromir lies back and allows Faramir to push his legs up. He gasps as Faramir enters, his eyes flaring bright green in the firelight.

“Have I hurt you?”

“No — no,” Boromir chokes out. “Deeper.”

Faramir moves slowly, holding himself back, checking his own need that he might fully appreciate Boromir’s pleasure. Boromir breathes heavily, grasping at the bedclothes, his body quivering like a drawn bowstring. Faramir waits as long as he can, slowing his thrusts, each time driving deeper inside. At last he groans and pushes himself as far as he can, moving faster, slipping a hand around Boromir’s sex. They writhe together, harder and harder, until Faramir climaxes with a moan. Boromir follows in seconds; they fall over the precipice into a warm, silent sea, and drift there for a time.

Faramir awakens to find the bed empty. Sickened with sudden disappointment, he sits up, only to see a shadowed silhouette beside the window. Pushing tangled hair out of his eyes, Faramir stands and walks naked to his brother who, wrapped in Faramir’s cloak, turns with a welcoming smile. “Look.” He draws Faramir close, wrapping him in the cloak.

Outside the moon has risen, though veiled by clouds, and a light snow falls, twinkling in the outside torchlight. “It is good to be home again,” Boromir says softly.

The crackling of the fire is the only sound in the room. Faramir leans into Boromir’s embrace.

“I am glad you are back.”

End.

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