Faramir Fiction Archive

The Sum of all Fears (R)

Written by Wingy

21 June 2008 | 2950 words

Title: The Sum of all Fears
Author: wingy
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir, Faramir/Erestor
Rating: R
Notes: Hope the recipient enjoys!

Written for the 2008 Midsummer Swap.

Request by Kissa: Boromir is 19, Faramir is 14 and adorable. He is the best archer around, even at his age, but he enjoys books and cuddling with his cats more than wrestling in the mud with the soldiers. Boromir comes home from a border mission and after Faramir tells him of some unsettling dreams, they spend a night of comforting closeness (insert fluffy graphic love scene here). However, Boromir has to leave again shortly after and Faramir already knows his brother’s fate. He closes himself out to the world and becomes a fierce warrior. During the war, Captain Faramir rescues an injured elf (Erestor) from a pack of Orcs and while caring for the small, dark-haired elf, he finds he can love again. Please write me a happy ending, in which Faramir can go to the Gray Havens with Erestor, I hate it when the men die!
Note: If the plot I outlined is too complicated or long, you can leave out whatever you want, except for the special love between the brothers, rescuing the elf and the happy end. Thank you so so much!

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The Sum of All Fears

Faramir was quiet, here at dusk on the archery field. All the others had retired to the city, scarred as it was. The visible torment to his city was painful to see, but it was the unseen losses she had sustained that weighed heaviest on his heart. He sighed once, a long and mournful note from the White City’s protector. He had seen her crumble under attack from despicable creatures, withstand the worst of the neverending tide of war, and still shine regally for her king’s coronation and wedding. The smile that he gave was tinted with sadness so thorough it was almost tangible.

Erestor, who watched the lone man wander aimlessly on the flat plain below, mimicked the smile. He knew how much Faramir was giving up to go with him to the Grey Havens. And for no certain gain, to his mind. Men, even learned and compassionate men like his lover, had issue understanding the long journey to an everlasting world; being tied to anything for eternity was intimidating, Erestor knew.

It had been years ago that they had met, and in the worst circumstances the elf thought probable. Then again… the months he had spent with the company of rangers, and especially in the company of their captain, had taught him that nothing ever turned out the way it was planned. He had been out with a party of elves when they were set upon by goblin men and most of the group slain.

The young elf had not been found until the rest had been bludgeoned; the big men carried bastard swords that could rend young trees in two, elves, with their light armor and yielding flesh, had not stood a chance. Erestor himself had escaped with not many injuries but scratches and bruises that colored livid on his pale skin, save for the long gash that scored down his side, staining his tunic dark. The small, slim youth had chosen to hide among the dead for safety, fearing the men would come back and find him alive.

He would be one very surprised elf indeed when he woke from his fitful and restless sleep to find himself at the business end of a very sharp sword.

Faramir dropped from the balcony when he heard the great gates of the citadel creak open on their ancient hinges. Boromir was home! At last, he could see his beloved brother. He jogged around corners and down the echoing stone hallways, lit by torches that caused his raven hair to shine and glow like the colors of an autumn sunset. His face never fell, smile fixed firmly in place as he expected to round the corner and see his ever-proud brother, the future Steward of Gondor, standing in full array at the threshold.

And sure enough, there he was, standing tall and broad-shouldered, silhouetted by the brilliant sun. He smiled, and there was a softness to it, a brightness undimmed by the time spent with no comfort, time spent in battle. Away from Faramir, who, Boromir discovered upon looking at him, had managed the transition from gangly youth to stunning adolescent beautifully. At fourteen years the younger son of the Steward had filled in with taut muscle; his eyes no longer outraced his chin, and his shoulders had broadened incredibly.

“Little brother! It is good to see you well, after so many weeks away.” Boromir clasped his little brother, several years his junior and inches shorter, in a tight embrace. “Come, you must tell me what I have missed in my absence.” He ruffled the young man’s dark hair in a lighthearted manner and slung an arm around the slimmer shoulders, smiling all the while. In his brotherly manner, though, he noticed the slight shadows that hinted around the planes of Faramir’s face. “What troubles you, young one?”

The younger son hugged his brother back fiercely, though the squeezing was cut short as the last, soft question fell on his ears. “I have had troubling dreams of late, brother. They are no concern.” He hoped, but knew the hope was wrong. Since a young age he had been gifted—or cursed—with the limited foresight of the Númenoreans, able to see uncertain glimpses of what might be. At times they are coldly real, and others are naught but useless vapor.

“Ever have your dreams been strange, but true, Faramir. Tell me about them.” As they progressed towards the rooms, their stance changed; they twined into each other, one raven head leaned on a broader shoulder, a thick and muscled arm winding around a slim waist and pulling close. Boromir made no qualms of it, he loved his young brother with all he had in him. “Come, spend the evening in my chamber. It is warmer than your own.” He gave a soft kiss to the top of Faramir’s head as they turned to slide through the iron-bound oak door.

“They are nothing but dreams, Brom. I do not know why they affect me… or why I let them.” He shook his raven head slowly, collar length hair swinging freely as he moved. “I dream that you leave me. That you’re dead when you come back, and…” His and went to his temple, face contorted in a mix of concern and disbelief. “I can’t… I don’t want to believe they’re real. They must be only dreams.”

Boromir enveloped his little brother in strong arms, guiding him further into the room, and squeezing, kissing the top of his head again. “Come. Let us eat, and rest. Your dreams should not trouble your sleep while I am here.”

As the two passed the hours until sunset, they moved progressively closer, until Faramir was sitting on his elder brother’s lap. From there, at least to Faramir’s mind, it was only a short leap to being progressively uncovered, his waistcoat already untied and pushed out of the way, sliding off one shoulder. “Boromir…” His brother’s hands were warm under the thin fabric of his shirt, pushing it up so it bunched at his ribcage.

“Your skin is cool, Faramir. I can feel it sapping the heat from my hands…” Boromir murmured, lips against his brother’s forehead. His hands curved around the slimmer waist, fingertips skimming underneath the belt of his breeches and tickling the cool, smooth skin. At a soft sound from his brother, Boromir lifted Faramir’s chin, revealing a row of white teeth hiding a full bottom lip.

His brother’s mouth was hot and wet on his neck, sucking ever so gently, enough to please without leaving a mark. Faramir, besieged by an intense pleasure, bucked against the firm thighs he was situated on and mewled softly, arching his back in an attempt to relieve some of the ache. It didn’t much help, so when the thready sounds continued, Boromir lifted Faramir up and turned him around so he was presented with the young, willowy boy’s back.

Again his mouth was fastened onto his brother’s neck, his hands pushing the younger’s shirt up and breeches down. He progressively undressed his sibling, till he was limp as a boned fish, lying on Boromir’s lap, legs spread and leaned back, splayed against his brother’s muscled chest. “Dear… mm, Faramir, you excite me beyond reason… and yet…” He murmured against the cool skin that was rapidly heating, making the young archer tremble and writhe. His fingers set about stroking the hillocked spine from its base up, before they journeyed back down.

They parted the fleshy mounds that rounded the young man’s backside, one thick finger, recently slicked with a mixture of spittle and wine stroking the tender bud that held tight and quivering against his assault. When it slipped in, the first droplets fell in what would become a tide of raw pleasure, sweeping both brothers up and carrying them over the crest, leaving them to cling to one another and pant out the last of whatever divine sensation was trapped in them.

The night was far from perfect, in many aspects, but to both sons of Gondor, it glowed to rival the Silmaril jewels of legend, forever spotlit and treasured in their memories.

“Captain. The scouting party has found something.” Mablung nodded curtly to Faramir, as he leaned over a map of Gondor, inky hair loose and flowing down to curtain his face from view. His answer was a short noncommittal sound, which to anyone else might have meant anything; Mablung knew how to read his captain.

“We’ll bring him in then.”

That got a response. “Him?” The word, along with its context, and his situation, brought a vivid memory back to Faramir, of a night spent in fevered throes and restless snatches of sleep, plagued by dreams of death and loss.

“Aye, sir. It’s an elf, by looks. Young one, too, badly hurt. We followed the bloody trail he’s been leaving for three days before we needed to come back for supplies.” The older man was gruff in speech, but the concern was plainly writ on his hard-lined face. His captain, though young, was the best archer in all of Gondor, and shy of him meeting an armed elf, he would have wagered gold to grass in all of Middle Earth.

“I’ll head the party to bring him here.” Faramir left no room for question, merely folding up his map and fitting it back in the leather pouch it had come out of. “I wish to see this elf, and preferably before the men have their fun with him. If he is injured, he will be healed and kept here.” He spoke as he bound his hair back with a simple leather thong, sweeping it cleanly back from his strong, angular face.

The unprompted speech startled Mablung into action, bowing shortly before the already-moving captain and following his quick strides into the main cave-room. “Aye… sir. We head out at dawn.” The sunrise came far too quickly, and feebly when it did, as everything seemed to be tinted with the shadow of the Enemy. The party found Erestor quickly enough, given that everywhere he’d been was spotted with blood, thick and dark.

When Faramir had the opportunity, he closed the ranks around the small and delusional elf, being only moderately scratched by the tiny fruit knife the little thing carried, though he did wield it with surprising accuracy given his condition. The graze did not deter Faramir, however, and he avoided the imminent scuffle by simply picking the elf up and plucking the small knife out of his hand.

It frightened Erestor to be treated thus, roughly handled and tossed about, and it also reopened the finally closing wound on his side, making him cry out in a strangled voice. The cry was unexpected, even from its maker, and nearly resulted in him being dropped in favor of finding a more defensible position than standing in a clearing, holding a body. Erestor clutched at Faramir’s tunic, pale fingers caked with dirt and blood, shaking from pain.

The jarring motion when he stopped wasn’t much better. The gash on his side shrieked at him, which made the little elf shake and turn deathly pale, just before his eyes rolled back and he passed out. He hadn’t made a noise other than a small, stifled moan this time, which made Faramir slip and hold him tighter. “Gods. He is nearly dead, it’s a wonder the elf has survived this long.” Faramir’s bluntness did nothing to hide his concern for the creature in his arms.

As the party made their way back to the hidden waterfall, the elf did not wake. He was a small weight, laid across the captain’s arms, peacefully resting. He was laid down on the first table Faramir came to, his tunic and undershirt carefully peeled away from the sticky wound. A low sound ran through the company as the ragged edges were exposed, pale flesh overcome with the smell and color of blood and infection.

“The wound has mortified, it will have to be cleaned.” After the meticulous process had been done, Faramir took it to himself to bind the small elf’s side, wrapping bandages around his middle from hip to ribs. He talked to the elf as he worked, studying the calm features, as they were relaxed for now in sleep. He had the very strange urge to touch him, rubbing the pad of his thumb over a full lip.

He is so different from Boromir. So fair, and small. His hand reached around to form against the elf’s smooth cheek. He woke with a start, wincing as he moved too fast for his side. “Who are you? Where are we?” A startled captain of Gondor stood quickly, snatching his hand away before he answered.

“I am Faramir. Captain of the Ithilien Guard. And who are you, master elf?” The man’s eyes shone with an intense light, as if a pale fire was lit behind them that made them burn even in the dimmest light. He watched the elf as he realized he was nude save for the blanket Faramir had placed over him, and squirmed uncomfortably, trying to hook it around his slim waist.

“Erestor.” He regarded the captain suspiciously; he was very nearly nude under the man’s discerning gaze, and that wasn’t the most comforting of positions. Added to that, his side burned like someone had sewn a red ember into it and bound it thus. During the interrogation he was maneuvered into, it ached fiercely, until it became so difficult to form a coherent answer he begged to be left alone until morning, to which Faramir surprisingly acquiesced.

The mornings came and went, several months of them, each passing day seeing the elf grow more to ease around the rough men that made up Faramir’s company of Rangers. And likewise it was with Faramir, that he grew more accustomed to seeing the elf about small tasks he had taken upon himself to do. He was excellent at paring down branches into the shafts of feathers for the archers to use, and fletching them by hand as well.

The pale, unearthly color he had faded after a month, though he never colored as the men did, or freckled as some of the younger ones. The shadows that dogged his eyes also did not disappear, though they thinned considerably under the healing touch of the captain, much as Erestor despised being sat on a table and prodded. He winced few times, more preferring to simply close his eyes and grit his jaw until the poking session was concluded. As the weeks passed, Erestor found himself growing oddly attached to the man, following him when he could, and keeping him in eyesight if he couldn’t. It grew embarrassing for the elf, until he was forced to confront it head-on when Faramir questioned his strangely possessive behavior.

“Just why do you follow me, Erestor? You spy upon my every move, even violating the privacy of my bath. Is there something you wish to tell me?” Faramir had a mix of emotions writ across his angular, handsome face, ones that made the elf shy from the imposing man. There was not a little bit of anger at having been followed, but also amusement at the small creature, and something Erestor couldn’t identify readily.

The small elf flinched as if he’d been struck a physical blow at those words, as Faramir knelt down to look him in the eye. “Erestor. Answer me rightly, what is it that makes you follow me?” The elf looked torn between staying where he was and fleeing, indeed even hitching as if the barrel he’d improvised a seat out of were rocking madly. He finally moved towards the captain, and appeared to murmur something indistinguishable into the man’s ear, reddening along his cheekbones and at the tips of his pointed ears.

Faramir, in stark contrast, blinked confusedly for a few moments before he enveloped the smaller frame, tousling the long hair so like his own in coloring. When night fell, he found the elf working again, though he was hidden away in a small alcove. He ushered the small male into the curtained small room he kept for himself, pulling the drape closed behind him. Mablung, acting as sentry and watching carefully for Enemy presence in the Garden of Gondor, smiled as he heard the muffled sounds of an obvious coupling on and off all night.

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