Faramir Fiction Archive

The Bridge is Broken (NC-17)

Written by Ithiliana

07 January 2008 | 2808 words | Work in Progress

Title: ‘The Bridge is Broken’
By: Ithiliana
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir
Rating: Adult
Warning: incest, dark, rape
Disclaimer: Tolkien’s work remains his own despite what fans do in their idle games and fancies!.
Feedback: Always appreciated!
AN: A Belated Birthday Pressie for savageseraph, BFF, The Queen of Darkness, and Goddess of all She Surveys!”

Um, continuing as a belated solstice pressie….and who knows how much more? I blame Boromir, totally.

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Cold bit through flesh and bone. He kicked through the agony in his chest. Water pressed him, more dangerous than flying stone or sharp metal. His head finally broke the surface, and he fought to shore. He dragged himself onto mud, stones cutting hands and legs, and collapsed, coughing water.

He lay hearing the roar of battle. His eyes stung, and he wondered dully if he was on the eastern or western shore. He and his brother had sent their company away, staying behind with two others to cast down the bridge. He had set aside weapons before leaping into the River.

He pushed himself up, stood swaying, and turned. Across the expanse of water, upstream, fires and torches burned. The swarming Easterlings and Orcs shouted, weapons gleaming. The broken bridge loomed black against the flames of Mordor.

They had lost Osgiliath. The taste of blood and failure sour, he trudged along the shore, moving downstream around a bend, before starting to climb.

He had lost his boots but his feet numbed from cold as he climbed the steep bank. He grasped woody stems, ignoring the bite of thorns, and pulled himself up the slope. He was nearly to the top when he heard something.

Trying to ignore the harsh rasp of his breath, he stilled, listening. Racking coughs.

The sounds came from below him to his right. Were the wind not blowing from the South he could not have heard it.

He stumbled, slipping and falling, along uneven ground, squinting. The moon was new, and the flames on the eastern shore cast shadows to deceive the eye.

His foot hit a still shape. He dropped to his knees, fumbling in the dark, turning the still body over. Long hair, beard, slick leather. He ripped at the slick ties, yanking the jerkin open, sliding his hand under. Cold skin and a faint beat.

He wrapped his arms around the fallen man, dragging him. The wind cut through his wet clothing when they crested the hill, but he stumbled on. Gondor’s forces were in retreat. He would have to find shelter.

The tree’s branches swept the ground and in that shelter last season’s leaves lay thick on dry grass. He’d stripped them both, layered their clothes between leaves and grass. He was wrapped around the still body, skin to skin, covered with more leaves. Slowly, they began to warm. He could not relax enough to sleep, feared what dreams would come. Dark hours passed slowly.

The warm body wrapped in his arms twisted against him, calling his name. Hardness pressed against his belly.

Fires burned out the cold of the River, and he took the soft mouth, stopping his cries. He pressed his brother onto his back, holding him down, one hand wrapped in redgold hair, the other pressing between his legs, pushing them apart. His lips and tongue muffled the cries, leisurely exploring the other’s mouth until both were breathless.

Legs and arms intertwined as if they were wrestling as they often did for sport. This was no sport as he used his weight and skill to take what he wanted. Flipping his brother’s body over, he scissored flailing legs apart, spat on his hand, rubbed warm spittle over his hard cock. One arm wrapped around his chest and throat, he fumbled, searching, then pressed his fingers deep inside. The cry under him made him harder, and he shifted, teeth clenched in a hard grin, groaning deep in his chest as he pushed in.

It was slow, agonizing, gaining a little ground, then having to withdraw, pushing in farther, the thrashing body under him fighting to escape. The warm channel was tight around him, almost painful but he welcomed the pain, thrusting harder, punishing him punishing them, for failure. He sank balls deep, feeling his opponent surrender, body opening, fight draining away, leaving him braced above the warm body, leisurely swyving, savoring this victory

Boromir walked the dark halls of the Citadel.

Faramir had been silent when the two of them woke in the full light of day, hearing horses and men. A patrol, searching for lost horses and men, had brought them back to Minas Tirith. They had hardly time to eat and dress before being called to Council with the commanders. Denethor’s anger had filled the room, hot, palpable.

Their forces had been cast out of Ithilien, those not making it across the River were dead. Cair Andros was under attack. Osgiliath, lost.

The talk had gone on for hours, some arguing the need to call for Rohan’s aid, to send for the Outland Companies; others, despite the growing flames and smoke from Orodruin, argued for falling back, safe within the City walls. Faramir had said little, so too Denethor.

Boromir had argued till his voice was hoarse, knowing Gondor had to fight.

When Denethor had finally stirred to speak in the waning light of day, he urged Faramir to speak, to tell the commanders of some riddle from a dream he’d had on the eve of the first assault from Mordor. Childish nonsense, Boromir had thought, watching as his brother recited a verse that spoke of Imladris, Halflings, Isildur’s sword.

Faramir had refused to look at Boromir, had look at their father or at the table. The Council had ended with no decision, no plan.

Now, Boromir walked the halls hours after daymeal, unable to sleep.

Faramir was not in his room, not in any of the public rooms. They had to talk. When Boromir had opened his eyes this morning, Faramir was sitting, dressed, his back to the tree that had sheltered them. He had neither looked at nor spoken to Boromir then or later.

Now, gazing down the deserted passage that led to their mother’s rooms, locked after her death by Denethor, Boromir remembered a small room near hers, where they had slept when ill to be closer to her. He walked as softly as he could to the door, seeing the sliver of light underneath. He laid his hand on the latch, took a breath, and then opened the door. He was surprised at the oiled and silent ease with which it gave under his hand.

The room was smaller than he remembered, but clean and swept. It no longer held a child’s bed, and the fireplace was bare. A narrow window was open to the night sky.

Faramir slept in an old chair, stuffing leaking from the seams. A table nearby held a lamp burning low, a half-empty decanter, a pile of books and scrolls. A bench pushed against the other wall held a lute, a carved box, and a blue and silver scarf.

Boromir stood, feeling heat rise within, the rhythm of his heart matching Faramir’s heavy breathing. His head was tipped back, mouth slightly open. His tunic was sloppily laced, the white skin of his chest shading to golden tan on his throat. One arm trailed over the arm of the chair, fingers clasping an empty glass; the other lay on his thigh. His legs were spread; the chair was so low that his knees would be above his shoulders if he sat normally, but his boneless sprawl showed how familiar this refuge was. His green tunic and leggings were old and patched, and Boromir knew how soft the worn cloth would be against his palms.

Stepping softly, Boromir entered the room, took three paces across the room to drop to his knees between Faramir’s legs, gripping his arms. Spasming under Boromir’s hands, Faramir woke, eyes dark and knowing, already fighting, but Boromir leaned down, prisoning him with hands and his weight, and took that open mouth, kissing, deep and hard. Faramir half-voiced his protest, Boromir’s mouth muffling the words, and fought.

He twisted, forcing an arm between their bodies to push him back a space, then pulling in his legs, kicking out. Boromir fell sideways across the chair arm, and Faramir eeled free. Twisting, Boromir grabbed for him, but missed, then kicked, tripping him, rolling over to pin him against the hard floor.

Neither spoke, their breathing loud in the room, as they fought. Boromir knew he would have bruises on arms, legs, and body in the morning, knew he was giving worse than he received, but did not stop until he was on top, Faramir pinned beneath him, tense and not moving, both knowing certain movements would cause injury.

Faramir’s eyes were closed, his breath hot against Boromir’s face.

Boromir tried to slow his own breathing, but the warm body under his which matched him in length of leg, breadth of shoulder, was testing him, small movements stoking the heat inside, his cock hardening at the twisting, teasing motions. He thrust forward, tensing and relaxing, wanting more.

“Talk to me,” he said, low-voiced, urgent. “Tell me what you want.”

Blue eyes opened, and Faramir bucked against him. “Let go!”

Boromir shook his head, easily controlling him. “No.”

As Faramir subsided, panting, Boromir shifted his grip, slid one hand down Faramir’s side, and then over his thigh, pushing between their bodies. His own cock ached deliciously at the touch, but he lifted his hips enough to slide the hand between Faramir’s legs.

“No!” Faramir twisted, but could not shake free of Boromir’s grip.

He smiled, feeling hardness under the soft cloth. He could not risk giving Faramir any chance to escape, so did not try to open the tight leggings. Instead, he ran his fingers up and down, stroking delicately, again and again. He had all night, did not need to rush. He felt the quiver in Faramir’s legs, tight muscles loosening, and cupped his hand as much as he could, squeezing gently, over and over, then pausing.

Their bodies were so close that he could feel the slightest change in Faramir’s, and when he finally moaned, Boromir lowered his head, kissing, moving his hand and lips and tongue, patient as a warrior in ambush, waiting the long night away until the darkest hour before dawn when most sleep and it’s safe to strike.

When Faramir’s body spasmed, wetness spreading out from Boromir’s hand, he exulted, holding his brother’s cock until it softened. He only had to turn his wrist slightly to wrap around his own, so hard and hot that it took only a few strokes before he spent himself, thrusting against his brother’s body, collapsing loose and warm on top of the still form.

After some uncounted time, a cock crowed. Boromir opened his eyes, seeing the paling of the sky outside. He wished they were lying in a soft bed where they could sleep, skin to skin, beside each other, instead of on this hard floor. He rose, leaning on an elbow, to look at his brother’s face.

Faramir lay, eyes closed, unmoving.

Wiping his hand against his tunic, Boromir gripped Faramir’s chin, shaking his head.

“We have to talk,” he said.

Faramir’s eyes opened. His face was still, seemed pale in the dim light. “What is there to say, brother?”

He ignored the tone, settling his hand around Faramir’s throat to hold him for a slow kiss.

“I’ll come to your room tonight,” he said.

Boromir slept well that morning, woke easily when the page came to call him to the Council. More reports of forces massing on the eastern Shore, of movements of men and Orcs in Ithilien, crossing the River. Denethor did not seem surprised at the news, eyes dark and hollow, and another time, Boromir would have pressed him for a decision.

Instead, he watched Faramir who, against all habit, was sitting by their father, urging him to give permission for Faramir to leave Minas Tirith, travel to Imladris, to seek the meaning behind the riddling dream.

Boromir relaxed when Denethor shook his head.

“We will wait, we will watch,” he said. “This could be some ploy of the Nameless Enemy, desiring to draw us out. There is still time.”

The complaints of the commanders sounded stale in Boromir’s ears. They had nothing new to offer. He watched Faramir, wearing blue and gold, but could not follow him at the end of the Council. Denethor pulled him back, wished to speak of Imladris, of Isildur’s Bane.

Later that night, Boromir searched rooms and passages but could not find Faramir in the Citadel. He slept little, and that little only because of wine.

The next morning, he found a page, gave him a silver piece and asked him to watch where Faramir, who was suffering ill effects from the battle and the destruction of the bridge, went. He also visited Faramir’s room, leaving a pack with supplies under the large bed.

That night, as Boromir stood in the Great Hall, watching the lords and commanders circle around the black seat where Denethor sat, speaking to none, the page tugged on his tunic. Boromir bent to hear what he said then rewarded him.

He left the child and moved through the entrance, past the dead Tree that was a dark shadow in the courtyard. He moved easily through the streets, the air cool against his face, stars above bright.

The stables in the Sixth Circle were small, housing only a few swift horses for the errand-riders. When he pushed open the door, the dim light of a shielded lantern greeted him, as did a sleepy face, one of the grooms, looking down from the hayloft.

“My lord?”

Boromir waved him back to his bed, took the lantern, and moved down the row of stalls. At the end was an empty box stall.

Cautious, Boromir looked over the low door. In a far corner, huddled in straw under his cloak, lay Faramir, back to the door. Boromir pushed the door open and moved across the small space to kneel, a hand on Faramir’s shoulder.

Before Boromir could speak, Faramir spun up and around, his blade gleaming, slicing across Boromir’s arm as he fell back. It took him a moment to gain his feet, but in that moment Faramir had run from the stall. Boromir followed, ignoring the calls from above, leaving doors open, in his haste to catch his brother.

As he ran into the street, he saw movement to his right. The sound of running, the flash of motion, were the only signs of his prey. He ran quickly. The stones of the city took no prints, but Boromir’s senses were so keen he could taste Faramir’s fear. They ran into the night, Faramir dodging and doubling, but Boromir gaining, until he turned a corner to find Faramir trapped. The passage ended in a small square filled with shadows, a public fountain in the center, high walls surrounding it.

The only sounds were the falling water and their harsh breathing. Slowly, Boromir approached, hands out and low. Faramir backed away, knife ready, until he could move no further.

Boromir stood and watched stance and movement, took a chance and stepped forward until he felt the point of the knife against his belly.

He waited.

“Leave me,” Faramir said, voice hoarse. “Let me pass.”

“No.”

A heartbeat, then two more he waited, and then struck, just as Faramir pulled back the knife. Boromir knocked the knife from his hand, seizing his wrist with both hands and pulling his arm out, the motion twisting Faramir around. Boromir pushed him against the bulk of the fountain, gripping his arm and pulling it up against his back.

Faramir struggled, but Boromir had enough leverage to hold him, grapping his other arm and pulling it behind his back, holding him and tying his wrists. Faramir twisted, trying to pull free, but Boromir wrapped his arms around the struggling body, holding him tight. He could feel the blood from his wound soaking through his clothing into his brother’s.

“You should be in bed,” he murmured, words that caused Faramir to kick back, nearly falling.

Boromir winced, tightened one arm around Faramir’s waist, brought the other hand up to Faramir’s throat, tightened his grip. Faramir coughed, gasped, but finally relaxed against Boromir who let him breathe.

Boromir stepped back, pulling Faramir with him, turned, and pushed him toward the street. They had gone most of the way around the Sixth Circle and would have to backtrack to the tunnel that would take them up to the Citadel. From there it was a short climb to the Courtyard and into the King’s House.

To Be Continued

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