Faramir Fiction Archive

Prison (PG)

Written by Tal

06 December 2010 | 334 words

Title: Prison
Author: Tal
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): Faramir

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Prison

“Lothlórien,” he says. And he says, “Imladris, the place they call Rivendell.”

His brother chuckles. “Always the starry-eyed child, Faramir.”

Faramir smiles along with him, because if anyone is allowed to call him a child, if he is still allowed to be a child with anyone, it is Boromir.

“And you?” he asks.

They’re sitting side-by-side on the battlements of the Tower, and their feet dangle carelessly over the sheer drop.

“My aspirations are much plainer,” Boromir says. “More kindred to a simpler man’s heart.”

Faramir gives him a knowing grin. “His heart?”

“And loins,” his brother consents. “It’s Bertha’s institution for me: music, dancing, wine, and bedding. Show me an equal joy in all your elven realms, and I shall gift you my signet ring.”

“Show me beauty equal to elven poetry in any brothel of Minas Tirith, and I shall gift you—”

“Hush, brother mine. Do not make wagers you cannot win.”

Faramir rolls his eyes because he knows his brother expects him to, and the Lion of Minas Tirith laughs. Tiredness has loosened their tongues; midnight has come and gone long since.

“Will you spend the night there?” Faramir asks him.

“A fortnight, even. I shall relearn the White City house by house. And you?”

Faramir considers. “In truth, I don’t know. Time among elves has foreign ways, I would imagine. I could be gone for years.”

“You will return an elf.”

“Would you love me less for pointed ears?”

“I should not love you less for an orc’s muzzle.”

Boromir ruffles his hair, and Faramir dutifully ducks, then snuggles sideways in the embrasure.

“I would set out on the morrow,” he says into his drawn knees.

“I would go now,” Boromir says, shifting to straddle the ramparts. “The night is still young.”

But they remain there, waiting for Anor in long silence. And when gold chases away the predawn grayness, both rise and descend into the tower, into their rooms, into their uniforms, into the crushing embrace of command.

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