Faramir Fiction Archive

So Small a Thing

Written by Ithiliana

04 April 2004 | 66841 words

Boromir stood on the wall above the broken Gate as the morning passed, Pippin by his side, and felt a small green shoot of hope growing within. The Sun shone bright among fleeing clouds, the first he had seen of it in days, and, beyond all hope, the Rohirrim had come when he had least expected them, horns bravely blowing, at dawn. Fires burned and the Gate lay in shards, but no enemy had entered the City. Their horns and cries still sounded across the land.

A great wind blew from the South, sending rain sheeting off to the north. Boromir drew in long breaths, relishing the cleanness. He had slept little last night, eaten little when he rose before dawn. He had been sure that the City would fall this day, having felt and seen the impact of the despair brought by the Black Riders, having seen the countless hordes of orcs and men on the Field of Pelennor. He had not seen Mithrandir all the night, until seeing him and Snowman, small against the foe they faced, standing firm in the ruin of the Gate.

Now the Rohirrim hunted the foe at will in the northern half of the Pelennor. The siege was not yet overthrown, nor the Gate won. Many still fought on the field, even the evil beasts swooping down had been brought into warfare although one had been defeated earlier, from what Boromir could see. Little news had come from the field, and Boromir fretted at not being able to leave the City. He had donned mail and armed himself in the dark room, but Imrahil had forbidden him to lead the sortie.

‘Your father lies in the Houses of Healing, perhaps near death, and Faramir is wounded, if not as severely. Gondor cannot lose its ruling Stewards. You must not fight.’

But now, the fortune of the day looked to have turned. The Nameless Enemy would not be defeated easily, Boromir thought, closing his eyes, and raising his face to relish the warmth of the Sun. But if Minas Tirith still stood at the end of the day, if Frodo had the chance to continue his quest, then Boromir would count today a rare victory.

“Boromir, look,” Pippin’s voice sounded small against the clamour of the battle but held a disturbing note as he pulled at Boromir’s hand.

Opening his eyes, Boromir looked down to see Pippin, shading his, looking south, not over the Pelennor where many foe still stood unfought but to the River.

“What?” Boromir squinted but could see nothing against the dazzle of light on mail and on water.

Suddenly, the watchmen on the walls above rang their bells. “The Corsairs! Cosairs of Umbar! The black fleet! Back to the walls!”

Hope withered and blackness grew unchecked within as Boromir heard the cry running through the city like wildfire on the plains. All was lost.

Umbar had long been Gondor’s enemy, and if the black fleet had sailed this far north, that meant that all the lands between the Sea and the City had fallen. When the more far-sighted among the watchmen began to call out the numbers of ships, Boromir sighed and turned away. He knew what he had to do. Perhaps he had always known.

“Boromir, where are you going?” Pippin’s voice, high with fear, halted Boromir only a moment. He turned.

“Go back to the Citadel, Pippin. Or find Mithrandir.”

Even the look on Pippin’s face could not keep Boromir now. This betrayal was just one and not the largest of those he had committed. Only saving the City for once and all would redeem him.

He started up the steep and winding streets. The Houses of Healing were on the Sixth Level. He had some way to go through, and the people fleeing through the streets would not make his journey easier.

Frodo and Faramir stood together on the Sixth Wall, marveling at what they saw unfolding before them. They were standing as close to each other as they could, Frodo leaning against Faramir’s right leg and side, Faramir’s arm around Frodo’s shoulders.

Frodo had been jolted awake earlier by a cry unlike any other he had heard since the City had been besieged. The harrowing shriek had been like the earlier cries of the Nazgûl, had pulled him from uneasy sleep and bad dreams. But this cry had dwindled, dying away to a wailing, thin and bodiless, that faded on the wind.

Frodo had felt sudden unexpected joy and had hugged and kissed Faramir until he woke. They had washed, and Faramir had dressed in his green tunic and leggings, ignoring the bloodstain on the shoulder. Then he had walked with Frodo back to his room to find his pack so Frodo could dress. Seeing sunlight outside the door of Frodo’s room had cheered them even more.

The Houses seemed quiet, resting in the wake of the battle, so they ate lembas from Frodo’s pack. Too restless to wait for anyone to come to them with news, they had left the room, finding a door in the courtyard wall led out into a larger courtyard which opened to the street.

Faramir had led Frodo through the courtyard and down the street to climb a narrow stair which took them to the top of the wall. Here, they stood high above the rest of the City, only the Seventh level and the Citadel looming above their heads, looking down to the Field of the Pelennor hundreds of feet below.

The mass of bodies moving over the green grass had confused Frodo, but Faramir had pointed out the various forces, explained the movements. Even Frodo could tell where the Rohirrim were, the hooves of their mounts sounding like thunder in the mountains, sweeping the enemy before them. Yet the giant shapes of the oliphaunts gave the orcs and Easterlings refuge, and the tide of Rohan broke and eddied against the islands of resistance. Fires still burned in the First and Second circle, and Frodo could hear great shouting and ringing of bells in the City.

But the sun was warm against Frodo’s face. He could see that there was rain falling only in the North. And the fumes and smokes of past days had been swept away in the wind from the South. Surely it was only a matter of time.

“Frodo.”

Turning, Frodo smiled to see Boromir standing in the street below, hair glowing in the sun, clad in gleaming mail over dark blue silk embroidered with gold thread. The first thought Frodo had was how glad he was to see Boromir looking well. Then, looking again at Boromir’s face, Frodo saw how white and drawn it was, how his eyes were shadowed.

Frodo tensed, feeling Faramir turning.

“Boromir! What news?”

Boromir nodded to Faramir but did not smile, began to climb the stairs that ran to the top of the wall.

“Boromir?”

Faramir moved suddenly, pushing Frodo behind to stand in front of him, legs braced, to block the narrow way.

“Give me the Ring.”

Frodo gasped, trembling, hand flying to his chest, wrapping around the Ring. Not again.

He backed away.

Boromir reached the top of the stairs but stopped before he reached Faramir.

“You must, Frodo.” Boromir extended his hand. “The black ships on the River, they bring corsairs from Umbar. The Rohirrim are outnumbered. They will take the city. We cannot win without the Ring.”

“No.”

Faramir stepped forward, struck Boromir’s hand down. “Brother, Boromir, you cannot. You must fight this.”

“We have fought,” Boromir said, his voice quiet, reasonable, chilling Frodo. “All that has been done is in vain. Frodo must give me the Ring. If I do not take it, the enemy will.”

“You cannot know what will happen,” Faramir said, unmoving, standing slim and unarmed but fearless in front of Boromir.

Frodo halted, back against cold stone. He realized the walkway stopped at a building that was part of the wall. He could go no further.

“Any fool can see what will come. The Rohirrim are outnumbered, our forces falling back. The enemy has not even been fully engaged, and more will soon come from the ships. If you love Gondor, aid me.”

“No.”

Eyes, narrow, Boromir shifted to learn forward. “You will betray our City. You are as weak as father always said.”

“You are the betrayer, if you take the Ring.”

Boromir swung, open-handed, and struck Faramir who fell back a step. “Coward! You would give in without a fight! Why, brother? Is it for love of the Halfling? Has he seduced you so quickly? What has he offered you? Did he cry when you swyved him, beg you to hurt him? I know what he is, what he can do.”

Boromir gripped Faramir’s injured shoulder, forcing him to his knees, bending over him, drawing his knife. “You have a choice, my brother. Help me, and you can have him in your bed nightly, do whatever you will with him, after this war. You will be my Steward when I am King. Work with me now, as we have before. Or die here.”

Crying out, Faramir seemed to fall forward, crumpling at Boromir’s feet.

Boromir smiled, looking at Frodo.

“No!” Frodo cried, running to help then stopping, shocked, as Faramir’s arm swept out and around behind Boromir’s calves, knocking him off his feet.

Frodo watched, horrified, as the two men tumbled over each other, crashing down the stairs, arms and legs flailing. He could not tell if they were fighting or trying to balance themselves, they seemed to be falling out of control. If it was a fight, neither was winning.

Moving to the top of the stairs, cautious, Frodo looked down to the street below, holding his breath.

Boromir was sprawled on his back, lying under Faramir who lay face-down. Blood trickled down Boromir’s face which was white and still.

Neither moved. Boromir’s knife lay near his hand, gems glittering in the sunlight as if in mockery.

Frodo swayed, feeling the Ring, burning and triumphant, against his hand even through the cloth of his shirt. He released it, hand aching from the pressure, stepped forward. He had to do something. He climbed down the steps, cautious, clinging to the wall next to him, afraid of falling because of the dizziness. Finally reaching the street, Frodo knelt.

No movement.

Brushing back Faramir’s hair, Frodo felt for a pulse, his hand shaking. Faramir’s skin felt warm against Frodo’s hand, and, finally, he gasped in relief feeling the steady beat. More cautiously, he moved closer to Boromir. The high collar, stiff with gold embroidery, covered Boromir’s throat and made it difficult to slide a hand under. Frodo bit his lip. He could feel nothing.

Dully, he heard shouts and clanging from the streets below but he could see nobody in this street that ran beside the Houses of Healing. He did not wish to leave the injured men, but he had to go for help. He stood, moving as quickly as he could over the cold stone, into the shadow of the high buildings, through the street to the gate, into the courtyard.

There, he stopped, panting.

Denethor stood in the doorway of the Houses of Healing, leaning to one side.

His hair was matted and lank, his long black robe wrinkled and half hanging off one shoulder as if he had simply shrugged it on over his nightrobe which showed underneath. When he saw Frodo he smiled, but something seemed off, as if half the muscles in his face were not working. When he spoke, the deep voice was slurred.

“It’s you, is it? I’ve not seen you without one or more of my sons to wait on you. Where are they, Halfling?”

There was no way to pass him, no way to enter the House without touching him, without coming in reach of him. If there were back or side entrances that would allow Frodo to bypass the threat, he did not know of them and could not spare the time to search and perhaps lose himself in the winding streets again.

“They are injured. In the street beyond.” Perhaps Denethor would go for help himself, Frodo thought, if he knew his sons were hurt.

“Take me to them.”

“My lord, they need a Healer. I was—”

“Now, Halfling.” Denethor moved forward, quickly but awkwardly, almost dragging one leg, through the courtyard.

Fearful Frodo backed away, then turned and led the Steward back to where his sons lay. The tall man’s arms were so long and he could move so quickly that Frodo dared not try to pass him and enter the House.

Perhaps when Denethor saw how what had happened, he would let Frodo fetch a Healer.

Taking care to stay far away from the claw-like hands, Frodo led Denethor through the courtyard and around the corner of the wall to the street. From there, Boromir and Faramir could be seen easily, the dark green of Faramir’s clothing dull against the bright mail and rich blue Boromir wore.

Hearing the heavy breathing and the halting steps behind him, Frodo turned and stepped aside to let Denethor pass him and stand by the still forms. Then, instead of returning to the Houses as he had planned, Frodo stood, horrified, as Denethor fell to his knees, pulling roughly at Faramir’s body, turning him over, pulling him up.

“What are you doing?

Ignoring him, Denethor ripped Faramir’s tunic open, snarled a curse, then let Faramir fall to the stone street, turning to Boromir.

Frodo moved closer, frantic, when he heard Faramir moan, saw his eyes open.

Denethor was clawing at the high neck of Boromir’s tunic, fumbling over the metal clasps, finally pulling it open to grope inside. “Nothing!”

Lurching to his feet, Denethor turned to Frodo, reaching for him. “Give me that precious thing, Halfling. You are not fit to bear it. It should be mine.”

“No.”

Frodo stepped sideways, moving back slightly but moving to his right, unwilling to leave Faramir, fearing what Denethor might do in his rage, feeling caught, leashed, helpless.

Denethor turned, the black robe sweeping with the force of his movement over Faramir’s body and face, stepped forward, then halted, face twisting into a snarl.

“Father, stop.”

Faramir’s voice was weak, halting, but Frodo rejoiced to hear it.

“So you live.” Denethor’s voice was cold. “Release me.”

Frodo could see Faramir’s legs move, then saw the robe fall away as Faramir sat, gripping Denethor’s robe, half holding him, half pulling himself up.

“No. I will not let you fall further into evil. Frodo, leave. Now.”

Unwilling to turn his back on Denethor, Frodo stepped back as quickly as he could. Denethor strained against Faramir’s hold, pulling him half-over, then spun around to grip him by the throat.

Choking, Faramir tried to pull his father’s hands away, but could not. Frodo felt his breath stop, tried to run forward but could not move quickly enough, fell, stumbling, crawling forward. He was behind Denethor, could no longer see Faramir.

Pain flashed through his hand and he looked down, saw Boromir’s knife under his palm. Frodo picked it up. The hilt was large, the knife nearly as long as Sting, and he grasped it in both hands.

“Let him go.” He heard his voice thin and wavering, was not surprised when Denethor ignored him.

Rising to his knees, Frodo struck, feeling the blade pierce cloth and flesh, pulled back, and held the knife ready to strike again.

Denethor screamed, flung himself around, arm swinging, to strike his foe. The blow passed well over Frodo’s head, and, thrown off balance by the force, hampered by the long robe twisted around his legs, Denethor fell.

Frodo flung up his arms to ward off the large form that descended upon him, was crushed to the ground, smothering in the musty cloth, soaked by a warm gush. He welcomed the blackness that took him.

His body burned, his head aching in time to his breathing, the pain growing for an eternity.

He moaned, lost in the dark.

Coolness stroked over his forehead providing ease for a moment. He sighed and slept.

Boromir sat in the warm sunlight at Imladris, Rivendell they called it here, looking in wonder at the many brightly clothed and armed figures he had thought walked only in old tales and children’s stories.

Elves, tall and slim, beautiful but deadly, sat at ease across the circle from him. To his right, stocky Dwarves muttered among themselves, heavily bearded, wearing chain mail, armour, and carrying deadly axes as if they were hatchets. They watched the Elves sidelong.

By Mithrandir’s side, a Halfling sat, looking like a child but with beauty no human child could claim.

Shifting on the hard wood, Boromir ordered himself not to look again at the man who sat to his left. A Ranger wearing dark green, brown hair shining, eyes keen. He had refused to speak his name the night before when Boromir felt that he had met a mystery walking in the night beneath the stars of Middle-earth.

Boromir made himself listen as Lord Elrond welcomed everyone, determined to speak as soon as he could.

They had to hear the news he brought from Gondor. They did not understand. It was his duty to make them see how wrong they were about the Ring. “It is a gift. A gift to the foes of Mordor.” He stood. “Why not use this Ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe! Give Gondor the weapon of the enemy. Let us use it against him!”

The strange man spoke, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the wind and water. “You cannot wield it.”

Boromir frowned, turned, and was caught.

Aragorn stood in turn, facing Boromir, and waved his hand contemptuously. Like the colours of a child’s painting left in the rain, the sunlit circle disappeared, colours smearing into greyness and shadow. Elf, Dwarf, Halfling, and Men twisted, rotting, and sank into the earth, crying out in thin piping voices.

Boromir stood in a dark room, naked, chained against a stone wall, his hands stretched above his head and to each side, far enough to force shoulder blades out of alignment, to send pain radiating down his spine. His ankles were chained together, leaving him little chance to balance or shift his weight to relieve the pain.

The only light came from two torches in wall brackets. Aragorn walked toward him, smiling, clad in black, the only colour on his body the Ring glinting on his left hand. He laid the back of that hand against Boromir’s face, the Ring burning like a branding iron.

Clenching his teeth, Boromir endured.

“You were too weak to wield it, Boromir. You could never master the Ring, and so you are mastered by it. And by a mere Ranger.”

Fire burned down Boromir’s body as Aragorn, turning his hand to set his palm against Boromir’s skin, stroked down over throat and chest, moving slowly. Muscles contracting, he pushed back against the damp wall behind him as the hand and burning Ring rested against his belly. There was no escape, and Boromir felt agony pierce him, burning through skin and muscle and gut until he screamed.

The hand lifted, and Boromir sagged in relief, feeling sweat on face and body. A hand slid under his chin, and he flinched, heard a low laugh.

“Look, my friend.”

Boromir opened his eyes, reluctant, and saw that Aragorn was touching him with his right hand, felt only the warmth of skin against skin, the caress against his face.

“What?” He coughed as he spoke, his voice cracking.

“Look here,” the hand released him, dropped to touch him, caressing.

Unbelieving, Boromir craned his neck, looked down, could see no mark on his skin to show what he had felt.

“How—”

“This small thing,” Aragorn said, laughing, and moved forward, placing a hand on either side of Boromir’s head to hold him still. As Aragorn’s body pressed against him and he pressed his mouth against Boromir’s, he tried to pull back, was easily held. The warm tongue pushed between his lips and Boromir felt the hardness pressed against him until enraged, he bit.

Pulling back, Aragorn cursed, wiping his mouth, smearing blood across his face, looked at his hand, then swung.

Smiling, Boromir felt pain explode in his head, escaped into darkness.

He convulsed, gut burning, hot bitter liquid flooding his mouth. He choked, spewed, helpless. Firm hands held his head, wiped his face with a damp cloth. When he finally relaxed, aching, a hand slid under his head to raise it enough to allow him to drink cool liquid. He shivered, suddenly cold, sweat chilling on his skin.

Boromir shivered, cold even in the bright sunlight that shone blindingly on the snows of Caradhras. The wind blew chill in his face, and he looked down at the Ring resting at his feet. Below him, Aragorn helped Frodo stand, dusting snow off him.

Frodo had fallen, rolling down the hill, and had lost the Ring.

The wind shifted, the shrill whistling of air over sharp rock modulating to golden notes, a sweet singing that hovered on the edge of hearing. Slowly, easily, Boromir bent, picking up the Ring which loomed so large when he looked at it yet felt so small when he held it up in the light, dangling from the thin chain clasped in his right hand.

It was so small, he marveled.

“It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing. Such a little thing.”

Boromir reached out with his left hand, longing to hold it, warm, safe.

Aragorn spoke sharply. “Boromir! Give the Ring to Frodo.”

The wind died, the voices fading into silence. Dizzy, Boromir caught himself, feeling as if had nearly slipped and fallen, the snow and rock treacherous under his feet. He walked slowly, stiffly, down the slope to where Frodo stood, Aragorn behind him. “As you wish.” Boromir held out the Ring. “I care not.”

Aragorn wrapped his hand around the small gleaming thing, ripped it from Boromir’s hand, threw his head back and laughed. Frodo, one hand at his throat, swayed and fell at Aragorn’s feet, curling up small in his green cloak.

The white and blue and grey of the mountain pass blew away, snow and ice and rock stinging Boromir’s face and skin. He fell to his knees, blinded.

“You cared nothing for it, and it left you. You cared nothing for Frodo!”

Boromir shook his head, gasping. He was on his knees, arms bound behind his back, naked as before, a heavy chain around his neck. Before him stood Aragorn, Frodo at his feet, wearing only a thin shirt, shivering as he crouched on the floor, face pressed against Aragorn’s boot.

Boromir shouted a wordless denial, lunged forward, trying to stand, fell heavily to his side. His ankles were bound, and as the dazzle before his eyes cleared, he could see the heavy chain went from his neck to the post behind him. He choked in the tightening noose around his neck, then gasped as he was lifted enough to relieve the pressure.

For a few moments he focused on simply breathing, eyes closed, until he realized he was lying on his back, his head cushioned on Aragorn’s thigh. Awkward, Boromir tried to roll away, but Aragorn’s hands on his chest easily controlled him.

Remembering the burning pain, Boromir lay still.

“You did not care enough to take the burden from him.”

Boromir opened his eyes, frowning, looked up into blueness. “I did,” he said, uncertainly. He remembered. Parth Galen. Helping Frodo with the Ring.

Aragorn smiled at him. “Bearing it a short time was no real help,” he said. “One who truly cared would have claimed it, taken it from Frodo, relieved him of the burden for all time. Is that not true, Frodo?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Boromir could barely hear the soft answer, could not see where Frodo was, but he knew beyond all doubt that Frodo dared not speak the truth.

“No.” All he could do was deny what Aragorn said. Boromir flinched as the hand moved down his chest again, felt the puff of breath against his face as Aragorn laughed.

“You are strong, my love, and resist taming. It will take both pain and pleasure.”

Boromir set his teeth, then gasped as the warm hand slid down his belly, wrapping around his member, rubbing, fingers teasing up and down. Boromir could not help arching up, hardening.

“But I think I am the one to take you in hand,” Aragorn said, sliding fingers down between Boromir’s legs, pressing against him, laughing as his hips hitched up.

Then the hand stopped moving, kept holding Boromir firmly.

Holding his breath, Boromir waited for the pain he was sure would come but was shocked when molten pleasure ran under his skin, circling around his member, clenching and releasing, spreading throughout the rest of his body, gold and red pulsing in time to the beat of his heart. No lover, no victory in battle, no moment of happiness in the daily movement of life had ever given him such joy, could ever thrill through skin and bone and blood and heart, lifting him out of self and body, pulling him into endless cascade of light.

Perhaps he slept. Perhaps he died. For some uncounted time, he floated, held only by two warm hands. When they lifted away from him, he kept his eyes closed, did not wish to acknowledge his disappointment.

“Will you accept my kingship, Steward of Gondor?”

Jolted, Boromir tensed, remembering.

“No.”

He waited for the punishment, felt nothing for a moment, then only the light touch at his throat.

He opened his eyes, saw the knife Aragorn held.

“You stand upon the edge of a knife.”

He tossed, restless, at one moment fiery hot, burning, unable to bear any touch of cloth on his skin, the next, shivering, cold, seeking for warmth. The ache had centered in head and back, solid, no relief gained from movement. He was alone.

Boromir sat alone in Lothlorien, staring unseeing into the night. Her keen eyes, like blades gleaming in starlight, had not left him as she spoke to the Company.

“The quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little, and it will fail to the ruin of all.”

Her words played over and over in his mind. He would not be able to sleep. He had not wished to come to this land, would have preferred any road but the one that led into the trap of the Golden Wood.

“Take some rest. These borders are well protected.” Stripped of leathers and weapons, sleeves rolled high on strong arms, Aragorn stood to one side, smiling at him.

Boromir shook his head. “I will find no rest here. I heard her voice inside my head. She spoke of my father and the fall of Gondor. She said to me, ‘Even now there is hope left.’ But I cannot see it. It is long since we had any hope.”

Even as he spoke, Boromir felt the danger in his words, would have called them back if he could.

Aragorn moved to sit beside him, head tilted, listening.

Moved suddenly by an impulse he did not understand, Boromir turned to him. “My father is a noble man, but his rule is failing. And our people lose faith. He looks to me to make things right, and I, I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored. Have you ever seen it, Aragorn? The white tower of Ecthelion glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver, its banners caught high in the morning breeze. Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?”

A pause, and Boromir wondered what Aragorn’s expression meant.

“I have seen the White City. Long ago.”

Ignoring the reluctance he heard in Aragorn’s voice, Boromir smiled at him. “One day, our paths will lead us there. And the tower guard shall take up the call: ‘The Lords of Gondor have returned.’”

“The Lords of Gondor never expected the King to return, did they, Steward?”

Boromir blinked, dazed by the blaze of light. His eyes watered.

He was naked, tied over what he slowly came to realize was a heavy wooden bench. He lay on his belly, tilted far enough over so each wrist was attached to a solid leg and his knees did not touch the ground. Ropes looped around each thigh were tied to the legs and then secured his wrists as well. He could do little more than twitch, and breathing was difficult, especially with his head dangling down. His neck and back ached, the pain a solid bar.

The stone floor was within a few inches of his face, and the light let him see the fine graining in the grey rock, the dirt in the cracks between the irregularly shaped flagstones, crumbs of food left untouched by any scavenging rat.

Closing his eyes, he resolved not to answer Aragorn. Boromir did not understand his sense that the only hope lay in refusing anything that was said or offered. But it was all he had. It is long since we had any hope. Boromir regretted his words, began to see dimly the necessity of hope only here and now at the end of all things.

“No, my king. We did not. We were wrong.”

Biting his cheek until it bled, Boromir kept himself from responding to Faramir’s voice. What was he doing here?

Aragorn’s voice was warmly approving when he said, “But you have submitted to me, admitted your fault and accepted your punishment. Your brother, however—”

A pause before Faramir spoke slowly. “He always was proud of our family, proud of his own strength.”

Something smooth rested against Boromir’s back, neither hot nor cold.

“Will you submit to me, my Lord of Gondor?”

Never. Boromir’s denial was absolute.

The touch left his back.

“Ah. Faramir, will you do this small thing for me?”

“Please, my king, do not ask me—” Faramir’s voice broke off in a gasp. Boromir heard the scuffle, the ringing slap of flesh against flesh, the short harsh gasping of breath, nearly moaning.

“If you do not, I will, and I will not use this.”

“Yes, my king.” Faramir’s voice was dull.

“Start here.” A large hand, calloused, stroked down Boromir’s ass, patted him as he tried to jerk away. “As hard as you can until I order you to stop.”

His senses heightened, his skin tingling, Boromir heard the slow scrape of boot leather over stone, felt the currents of air shift, heard the soft despairing whisper that was hardly voiced, Forgive me, before the first crack of leather against his skin came.

He almost laughed. He had expected much more pain, a heavier whip. The blows came slowly at first, showing Boromir the reluctance behind him, until Aragorn ordered more speed. Pain grew and spread until Boromir struggled to control his breathing. He strained uselessly against the heavy ropes, sweat streaking his skin, felt the hard bench cutting into his chest and thighs, spasmed not only against the pain of the whipping but against cramped muscles.

But each blow was echoed by his refusal, as steady as the pounding of his heart.

“Stop.”

In the silence, Boromir could hear Faramir’s panting almost sobbing breaths, but dared not relax.

“So strong, my love,” Aragorn’s voice purred, low and close to Boromir, as cool hands pressed against his burning flesh, stroking him. “So very very strong.” Boromir could feel the leather and velvet pressing against the skin of his thighs, felt the warmth of the body leaning over him.

A slick finger pressed against him, and he tensed, clenching muscles against this obscenity. The only response was a breath of laughter as Aragorn pressed in, steady, patient, moving in slightly, waiting, then pushing again, his other arm pressing down on Boromir’s back.

“So very very tight.” The satisfaction in Aragorn’s voice burned through Boromir who made a huge wrenching effort, resulting only in the bench rocking slightly under their weight.

“And so very reluctant. You will need much more lessoning, I see. I may need to call upon your brother again.”

Boromir refused to hear, refused to think what that threat might be, focused all his will.

A second finger breached him, pushing further in, and Boromir screamed, convulsing, as he felt the burning metal touch him.

“Much better.”

The hand withdrew, and Boromir had barely a chance to breathe before he was split, agony spiking through him as Aragorn positioned himself and thrust in brutally, quickly, sheathing himself deep in Boromir’s shaking body.

A small moan of satisfaction came as Aragorn slid his hands around Boromir’s thighs, wrenching them even further apart, sliding further in, resting.

“Will you beg me, love?”

Teeth clenched, Boromir grunted a half-voiced denial, body tense, resisting.

“Well, perhaps before the end,” Aragorn said, pulling back, thrusting in slowly, deeply, luxuriously. “Which will not be for some time.”

“I will not let you end here, Son of Gondor!”

The strong voice called him, but he nearly turned and fled.

But then the plea came, almost too soft to hear. “Do not leave me, I beg you.”

Boromir drew in a final breath to voice his last warning. “And you will beg for death before the end!”

The Halfling turned and walked away, and red rage washed through Boromir.

He had tried to reason with the stubborn fool, and look what it had gained him.

“You fool! It is not yours save by unhappy chance.” That was true, Boromir realized, striding forward, quickening his pace as the fool began to run. “It could have been mine. It should be mine!” He lunged toward Frodo, “Give it to me! Give me the Ring!”

Aragorn blocked him, sword gleaming in the darkness of the forest, the Ring gleaming on his hand.

Boromir stopped, panting, shuddered as he realized what had happened. “You will take the Ring to Sauron! You will betray us!”

Tense, aching, Boromir tried to close his mind to the hardness moving deep within him, the hands stroking over his body. He would not feel, would not respond.

Finally, jerking against him, groaning, Aragorn spent himself, lying a few moments heavy and lax on Boromir. A deep sigh came as Aragorn pulled free, then tangled his hand in Boromir’s hair, pulling his head up.

“What say you now, my love?”

Throat dry, eyes burning, Boromir spoke the only truth he knew. “You betrayed us. You betrayed all of Middle-earth. No.”

The hand tightened, pulling up and Boromir hoped for death as his breath was halted, light sparking in front of his eyes. But too soon, Aragorn released him and Boromir could not stop himself from gasping for air, sucking in the damp mustiness.

“Faramir!”

“No!”

“Come here.”

Boromir heard soft sounds, scuffles and a bump, behind him, forced himself not to strain uselessly at his bonds.

“Here, stand, yes, here.”

“No, I beg you.”

“You have submitted to me, sworn to do my will in all things, have you not?”

Silence broken only by a choked sob.

“And thus you earned Frodo’s life from me. As a gift. Shall I reclaim that gift?”

“Please. I cannot.”

“What I ask is so small a thing. Would you deny me to see your lover and your brother die?”

“No, my king.”

“Here, then, I will help you.”

Faramir tried to muffle his cry.

“Now.”

Boromir said, “Leave him. Kill me.”

Soft laughter as Aragorn settled on the bench next to Boromir, leg pressing against his side, Aragorn’s hand settling on his back, the Ring cold against him.

“You do not give orders here any longer. I do. Faramir. Now. Or watch them die.”

Trembling hands gripped Boromir’s hips. Faramir was shaking so hard it took him a long agonizing time to position himself. When he finally thrust in, Aragorn’s laughter rang golden through the echoing chamber, rising over Faramir’s plea.

“Brother, Boromir, awake!”

Wetness fell on Boromir’s face and he tried to turn away, cursing. He tried to raise his hand to wipe it dry, but he could not move. He opened his eyes, saw Faramir bending over him on his right, Aragorn on his left, smiling at him. With his last desperate strength, Boromir struck at Aragorn.

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/so-small-a-thing. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!