The door to Faramir’s sitting room burst open and Boromir bounded
in, scattering bits of snow and the seemingly infinite energy of a twenty-one
year old body.
“Faramir, what are you doing hunched in a chair? There’s
two feet of new snow on Holy Man’s Hill, and fresh ice on Dead
Man’s Curve! Let’s go!”
Faramir looked up from his reading and regarded his elder brother wryly.
“You’re melting on my book, Boromir.”
The tall blonde relieved his brother of the dampening book, tossed
it on the desk behind him, shoved his face close to Faramir’s.
Long hair darkened and disheveled with slush, he was flushed rosy with
crisp winter, green eyes gleaming into his brother’s grey. “Come
on! You can’t sit in here huddled by the fire all day. It’s
glorious outside!”
“And you want me to join you sledding the Hill? You’re
trying to kill me.”
“I’ll be on the same sled, right behind you! It works better
with two. Better control.”
“Last time we took Dead Man’s Curve we crashed spectacularly.”
“Walked away from it.”
“You broke your arm.”
“What are you complaining about? My broken arm, not yours, and
I’m ready to tackle it again!”
“You see, exactly. It’s my turn to be mangled this time.
There’s a good reason they call it Holy Man’s…”
“I know, I know, because you should pray at the top of it before
you go down! Come on!” Boromir pulled his brother out of the chair,
shoved him toward the wardrobe.
Making a great show of protest, Faramir groaned in a manner clearly
proclaiming his impending doom. “Alright, alright, alright!”
Boromir flung open the doors of the wardrobe, plundered it for warm
clothes, flung them at his brother, who caught them, just, laughing.
They courted disaster a hundred times. More. Part of a raucous gaggle
of youth of varying ages, ignorant of rank, swarming the Hill, seething
over merrily into the surrounding streets. They paused at a noisy pub
for mid- day’s dinner only when their bellies were empty, their
coats and shirts full of snow, and just long enough to restore themselves,
then back at it again, everyone racing all challengers, tempting folly,
being wildly, whoopingly, gloriously young and stupid, until it was
full dark and the youthful crowd, happily exhausted, broke apart, its
various pieces scattering to their homes for warm supper and well-earned
beds. Tally for the day: one fractured wrist, two dislocated shoulders,
one twisted knee, three slight concussions - none of these belonging
to either of the gallant sons of Denethor - and a generous and even-handed
disbursement of bruises and ice-burns. All in all, a triumphant day
for the reckless youth of Minas Tirith.
The brothers took the stairs two at a time, Cook shouting up after
them that supper and a hot bath waited in Boromir’s chambers.
They clattered in, shedding caked snow in chunks and avalanches from
their backs and shoulders, shaking their clothes out into the roaring
fireplace, where the melting ice hissed and popped.
Half-naked, they snapped ravenously at cheese, bread and apples, washed
them down with diluted wine.
Grinning with a sense of general satisfaction Boromir dabbled a bare
toe into the bath water. “Oo. Hot, but not too,” he told
his brother, shedding what was left of his clothes and sinking carefully
into the great tub. He ducked his head, surfaced smooth and steaming.
Faramir flung his undergarments onto the damp, settling heap in the
middle of the floor and followed, yipped at the heat on his cold skin,
easing himself into the water.
“Where’s the soap?” he asked Boromir. “I’ll
get your back.”
His elder cast about for it, sighted it on the hearth with two wash
cloths. He rose, dripping, and reached for them.
Faramir watched the water run off his brother’s skin, glistening
in the firelight, smoothly marking the lean muscle underneath.
Boromir settled down, turning his back, and Faramir lathered the pale
skin, rubbing with strong, smooth strokes that soon had his brother
rumbling with quiet pleasure.
He hesitated to break the mood, but his mind would not be quiet. “If
Father finds out we still bathe together, he’ll sack Cook and
skin us both.”
“Father is in Dol Amroth.”
“You know what I mean. We’re asking for trouble every time
we’re together like this.”
“I understand that,” Boromir assured his younger brother
calmly. “He’s not going to skin us.”
“Wouldn’t be angry?”
“Of course he’d be angry. But he’d never sack Cook.
She’s irreplaceable. Faramir, don’t fret over it. Enjoy
the time while we can. We get little enough time together on our own.”
“I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to get into trouble.
You’ll take the brunt of it, you always do.”
Boromir shrugged. “I’m older. That’s my job.”
“I can’t hide behind you forever.”
“You’re almost seventeen, coming into your own strength.
And you have never hidden. It’s not your way.”
“The result is the same. Father shouting, you standing there
and taking it like a good soldier.”
Boromir sighed heavily and turned, sloshing water, wriggling to untangle
his long legs from his brother’s. “Faramir. You’re
good with a sword. Better with a bow. The rangers in Ithilien have said
you show promise. That is a compliment worth keeping!”
He took his brother’s solemn face in his callused hands, spoke
firmly but gently, meeting troubled grey eyes. “You are your own
man. Always have been. One of these days Father will appreciate that.”
He grinned, imagining. “It will come to him of a sudden, some
red dawn rising, watching you sitting easy in the saddle the way you
do, while rangers follow you into the field. They will follow you, Faramir.
They already see in you what I see, and one day so will Father.”
Faramir leaned forward and kissed his brother then, first his forehead,
each corner of his smile, now turning to soft laughter, kissed him deeply,
tasting wine and apples, and Boromir let his arms slip about his brother’s
broadening shoulders, pulled him close, one hand tangled in dark hair.
Faramir slid his mouth away, murmured into Boromir’s jawline.
“You’re right. This is worth it.”
His brother’s eyes were half-closed, and Faramir felt the hum
of his voice in his throat, “Mmmm?”
He smiled into the curve of Boromir’s shoulder, feeling the warm
skin of his brother’s back beneath his hands, hearing his breathing
deepen, knowing his beloved elder was already losing himself in their
private world.
“This,” he repeated softly, slipping his fingers into his
brother’s damp blonde hair as Boromir kissed the side of his neck,
“is worth the risk.”
Out in the cold night fresh snow fell, covering the tattered slush
on Holy Man’s Hill, making it whole and smooth again, while below,
new ice layered slickly into Dead Man’s Curve.
-finis-
