Faramir Fiction Archive

The Secret Widower (NC-17)

Written by Nissi

06 September 2006 | 17983 words

Chapter 5: A Journey to Amon Hen

“I could eat a mumakil,” Boromir grinned as he dug into a hearty breakfast of cheese, smoked meats, apples, and a helping of herbed potatoes that Faramir had expertly prepared in the skittle.

Faramir chuckled, reclining against a fallen tree with his lit pipe sending wisps of smoke into the morning air. He picked at his breakfast. He often had little interest in food, but he was relaxed and felt good. He was with his love, his brother, and he was enveloped in the beauty of the wild. As Boromir encouraged him to eat he acquiesced, allowing an unusually healthy appetite to overtake him.

“I think we should head to the river. There must be a place for feasible crossing,” Boromir mused.

Faramir’s eyebrow arched. “Into Rohan?” he queried.

Boromir nodded. “But not far in, just far enough to say we’d holidayed outside of Gondor,” he grinned.

Faramir looked thoughtful. “On the fringe of Rohan, then. Amon Hen. If we can find a way to cross Nen Hithoel north of the falls, those woods are beautiful, as is the green of Parth Galen. The slopes of the hill bear remnants of Gondor and the horse lords do not patrol those shores. They are too heavily wooded for their mounts.”

Boromir smiled brightly. “Sounds perfect to me. If I recall we’re not far from the shore opposite that hill. Just west and north along the Great River. I only have some worry for Mordor orcs. My men and I did not travel that far north when on our hunt.”

Faramir waved his hand dismissively. “I have been there with the rangers, and there are few orcs in the vicinity. Sauron always marshals forces behind the Black Gate, but he would have little reason to send his rabble along the Anduin.”

Boromir looked thoughtful. “We’ll be vigilant nonetheless. I’ve no intention of losing my life on Amon Hen, not when I’ve just found you, my fated lover.”

Faramir beamed at the sentiment. “This journey…means so much to me, Boromir. I can’t recall the last time I felt so carefree. My duties and father’s presence weigh heavily on me. As much as I love the White City, as readily as I would fight and die for her, I find little peace within her walls. Only when I can sneak time in the library, my chamber, or in the gardens can I feel some semblance of serenity. There are times when I wish I could live elsewhere. Perhaps somewhere where Ecthelion may readily be seen, but here in the wild, amongst the trees and flowers and gentle creatures.”

Boromir smiled softly, reaching out to place his hand on his brother’s knee as Faramir spoke. “But when I am Steward the White City’s glory will be restored. You will feel free there. You will find happiness as easily as you did when we were children, before responsibilities kept us apart. You’ll see, little brother,” he assured Faramir.

Faramir nodded, but inwardly cursed himself for steering the conversation towards another temptation of fate. He couldn’t help but feel uneasy about Boromir’s words. What Boromir described would be bliss, but the concept seemed so foreign…so far away…and so dangerous to discuss prematurely.

“Father loves you, in his own way,” Boromir said softly.

“No, he does not, Boromir. You are away too much. You do not see…” Faramir protested.

Boromir frowned. “He must…he was not always as he is now. He has ever been hard on you, but perhaps he simply wants to challenge you to achieve your full potential.”

“Or to break me,” Faramir shrugged. “It matters not. I love him, as much as I am loath to admit it. He is my father. But he is not a source of love or comfort. No…for those I turn to you, my brother, my best friend. My lover.” Faramir accentuated the last word by drawing it out and purring on the trailing “r.”

Boromir grinned playfully. “Careful, little one, or I’ll have to ravish you here and we’ll never set off on our journey!”

“There are worse ways to spend our time,” Faramir winked. But teasingly he stood, gathering what food he’d left untouched for later grazing. “However, if we wish to make the lake by nightfall we’d best be going.” He gave a little wiggle of his slender hips as he walked away to pack up for travel.

Boromir laughed, but the display was effective. Their initial encounter had been wonderful, but he wanted more. Much more. And he knew that Faramir would give him anything he desired.

The two men traveled northwest until they encountered the majestic Anduin river. From there it was north to the Falls of Rauros, which they stopped to admire. The beauty and power of the falls struck them both. It was such a different sight than any most Gondorians saw. The river ran through Osgiliath, but was hardly appreciated amongst the ruins of stone and pollution of war. Faramir commented there was some strange pull in the falls, something magnetic that nearly dared him to swim to the waters at its base. Of course he had no intention of so doing, and Boromir had no intention of allowing him so to do, but the sentiment haunted the younger man all the same.

They made Nen Hithoel by dusk, having strode swiftly and paused infrequently along the way. Boromir gazed across the oval-shaped lake. Amon Lhaw, the Hill of Hearing, stood before them. Parth Galen, the green upon the western shore, seemed tantalizingly close and yet was so far, for the two men lacked a boat to cross.

“Welcome to Emyn Muil,” Faramir commented as he looked up and scanned the jagged peaks.

Boromir hmm’ed thoughtfully. “If we don’t find some way of crossing soon we’ll have to make camp here. Too close to the Mordor border for my comfort.”

“Chin up,” Faramir said cheerily. “We’re resourceful. We’ll find a way. Come, let’s explore while light permits. But,” he added as an afterthought, “Keep on guard, just in case. If we are separated and I whistle like this…” Faramir made a curious sound that mimicked the call of a bird, and yet sounded unique to anything Boromir had ever heard. “…it means I have encountered something and you are to stay put, firmly, until I find you.”

“Little brother,” Boromir laughed incredulously. “You treat me as if I have no experience in war.”

“You have no experience fighting in so dense a wood, amongst the shards of Emyn Muil and the maze of ruins. You are a formidable fighter, Boromir—far moreso than me in your sheer power—but I have an edge here. This is my element, as a ranger. Should we ever be together in the field, astride mounts and charging our foes, or battling in the confines of Osgiliath, you can coddle me. Deal?” Faramir grinned good-naturedly.

“Lead on, my Captain,” Boromir said with a bow. Faramir smirked and set their path along the shore, his eyes and ears ever alert for danger.

Boromir spied an unnatural shape further along the lake, resting on the ashen beach. “There,” he pointed. “What is that?”

Faramir led them closer. “It’s an orc raft,” he said quietly. Both men tensed and carefully peered around them, scrutinizing the forest for movement.

“I think it abandoned,” Boromir mused. “For all my…inexperience in this environment, I still possess a keen sense of danger. And I feel none. Do you?”

Faramir shook his head. “I do not. I think we are alone. I wonder if it holds…” Faramir said, gently kicking the raft with his foot. As with most orc craftsmanship it appeared shoddy, but sufficient. It was little more than roughly-hewn pieces of wood strung together with dirty twine.

“Here’s one way to find out,” Boromir lifted the raft and launched it into the water. He took a few steps into the cold lake water, holding the raft’s edge and eyeing it curiously. “Holds with no weight. Now let’s see…” Boromir boldly turned with his back to the raft and hopped on. The raft wobbled but held fast. “Aha!” he exclaimed.

But he had failed to realize the movement would launch the raft into motion. Slowly it drifted south, towards the falls, and Boromir had no paddle with which to bring it back.

“Boromir!” Faramir exclaimed. Wildly he looked around for the paddle that must have accompanied the raft at one time, but there was none to be found.

Boromir chuckled at the situation. He felt as if they were children again, getting themselves into trouble that was just enough to set their hearts beating quickly, but not enough to genuinely threaten them. “Relax, Faramir,” he said as he took a deep breath and slid off the raft, waist-high in the water. He cringed with the cold. “Chilled, this water,” he complained as he took hold of the craft and waded to shore.

Faramir helped him pull the raft ashore and hit Boromir’s chest playfully. “Don’t do things like that. The falls seem sinister from this perspective.”

Boromir leaned in and placed a small kiss upon the younger man’s brow. “You worry too much, my love.”

Faramir pouted. “Perhaps, but…now I’m being practical. We need a way to paddle this thing across the lake. Let’s see if we can find a suitably wide, flat piece of wood or rock.”

Boromir nodded. “Alright, little one,” he said as he began to search the area. Twilight descended before Boromir found a branch that, if split, would do the job. Together they used a sharp shard of stone to hew it in two, producing one paddle each.

“See?” Faramir said proudly. “Resourceful.”

“Indeed,” Boromir agreed. “Now let’s cross. Darkness falls.”

Faramir gathered their things and launched the raft to shallow water. He knelt upon it, holding it steadily with his paddle to the lake bottom as Boromir pulled himself up, similarly kneeling on the opposite side. With little difficulty they made it to the opposite shore.

Light rapidly faded as they secreted the raft as best they could, crossed Parth Galen, and climbed the hill. The steep portions were made easier by the presence of stone stairs, carved by the men of Gondor ages ago. After a slight descent on another side of the hill they found a pleasant place for camp. It was a rather flat piece of land, flanked on all sides by trees, dotted on the perimeter by the remnants of statues. It felt insulated and comfortable. There was no danger near.

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