The first time it happened was the day Finduilas died. Faramir had
been the one to witness her death. For hours, he would sit by her side
in the Houses of Healing, sometimes with a story of knights and dragons,
other times with a song of the brighter days, until she drifted off
with her son's sweet voice lingering in even the darkest corners of
her mind. She sometimes imagined Faramir was her little girl, the fair
princess who would grow up to marry a handsome prince, for she always
wished to have a daughter. She would even tie his auburn curls with
lacy white ribbons and rouge his cheeks as if he were her favorite doll.
Her older son, however, could not be tamed. Boromir would stride into
her room with mud dripping from his hair and a full-sized sword hanging
proudly off his belt, too big for his height, but not too big for him
to handle. She did not want to admit it, but she feared this boy, his
strength and recklessness. The clothes she made for him would become
torn and soiled before he outgrew them. His beautiful brown hair would
never grow past his shoulders—he would carelessly cut the locks
off himself with his sword. And he constantly reminded her of the wars
in the east with his talk of becoming a warrior and his morbid list
of ways he might die defending the kingdom of Gondor.
Faramir did not shriek or panic when his mother gently held his hand
in her own and whispered that she was not coming back. He simply kissed
her pale lips and cried silently into her gown. It was at that moment
when Boromir decided to appear at the door, but Finduilas was already
gone. He grabbed his mother's dead body and shook her, begging her to
tell him she loved him one last time. It was no ordinary fit from a
ten-year-old boy. He screamed and broke everything he could find in
the room, and when he had nothing left but his lifeless mother and his
poor little brother, crouched and shivering at the corner of her bed,
he grabbed the younger boy and threw him against the wall, punching
and scratching and biting whatever part of Faramir he could. Faramir
made no attempt to stop him, surrendering himself completely to his
brother's abuse. After what seemed like hours, Boromir finally sank
to his knees and cradled Faramir's limp form to his chest, muttering
useless words of endearment in his ear.
The same thing happened many times that year, several times the next
year, and once the year after that. If their father knew anything of
it, he never bothered to search deeper, always too busy grieving for
his dead wife or fretting over the shadows growing in the east. After
the third year of Finduilas' death, when Boromir turned thirteen, he
decided to give Boromir a room of his own, and Boromir began to grow
less violent. Often, Faramir would visit his brother in the middle of
the night and they would share a bed until the morning came. Boromir
would sometimes hold Faramir's smaller body against the bed and sink
his fingers into the boy's flesh until he cried out with pain, but nothing
more.
Until Faramir's eighteenth birthday.
There had been no celebration. There was never any need for celebration.
Faramir knew he could never become the great Captain of men Boromir
was and no one expected him to. It was simply not his nature. But it
was on that day he decided to cut his long curly hair, the hair his
mother had been so proud of, to his shoulders. His father had been fussing
over his hair of late and he did not want to hear any more of it.
He spent most of the day in the garden of the House of Healing, visiting
the wounded and reflecting on how much he missed having Boromir by his
side. His brother was still at war, but it pleased him to listen to
whatever stories the men who fought alongside Boromir could tell of
the battlefield, and he would ease their hearts with his own comforting
words. It was delightful to hear about the time Boromir defeated a band
of at least thirty Orcs single-handedly and how much the men all loved
him. And he would blush with pride whenever one of the senior soldiers
gripped his shoulder affectionately and told him he looked just like
his brother with his hair cut short.
Faramir was pleasantly surprised to learn that his brother had returned
that evening. His return was so unexpected that their father had not
even begun to plan a feast. "We slew the last Orc leader and surrounded
their army," explained Boromir to their father as his men began
filing into the city behind him. "Those who managed to escape fled
across the river. The Rangers of Ithilien will have dealt with them.
I doubt the Orcs will attack within the next few days, but we plan to
return the day after tomorrow to guard the banks. For now, the men shall
rest." Then, he turned to Faramir and held him at arms distance,
as if about to comment on how much his little brother had grown, or
perhaps his new haircut, but no words came. He embraced Faramir instead,
ruffling his hair playfully, as if getting accustomed to the new length.
"Welcome back," whispered Faramir. He instinctively gave
Boromir a kiss on the cheek before glancing guiltily at his father.
Denethor frowned at this open display of childish affection, and Faramir
quickly pulled away from Boromir's arms.
But Boromir apparently did not notice the expression of disapproval
on Denethor's face. "Go home!" he announced to the men who
hesitated to leave without permission. "There will be no feast
tonight that you are required to attend. Your families are eager to
see you." He gave a satisfied smile as they bowed and quickly left.
"Faramir, go back to the tower and tell the maids to prepare a
bath for Boromir while I speak to him briefly," ordered Denethor.
He gave Faramir a fond little shove. "Off you go. You may speak
to your brother later."
Obediently, Faramir left the gates and made his way to the high tower,
his heart filled with pity for the women whose sons and husbands had
not returned. He comforted some and bowed his head respectfully to others.
He even held one old woman in his arms as she wept for her grandson
because she seemed so lost without a family. "Thank you, dear boy,"
she told him. "Your mother must be proud to have a son as kind
as you."
By the time he reached the tower, he was in no mood to summon a maid.
Instead, he prepared Boromir's bath by himself, making sure the water
was warmer than it should be just in case his father got carried away
in conversation. Then, he sat at the edge of the tub and examined the
reflection of himself in the water, trying to remember his mother's
face, but he could not. Those who knew his mother always told him he
was like a replica of Finduilas and Boromir was more alike to Denethor.
Faramir could never see the resemblance between Boromir and their father.
Boromir was like a breed of his own, more of a warrior than a king,
more emotional than discreet, and gentle in his wild ways.
"What am I?" asked Faramir, as he gazed at his own image.
"You are my most beloved little brother," said a familiar
voice behind him. "I am most glad it is you and not those flippant
maids who prepared my bath. Thank you."
Faramir stood and stepped aside. "I hope the water has not cooled.
Call me if you need more warm water."
Suddenly, he found himself embraced by a pair of strong arms the second
time that day, but more loving, more intimate this time. His arms found
their way around Boromir's broad shoulders and they held each other
for a moment, neither willing to let go. "Stay, Faramir,"
whispered Boromir, giving him a chaste kiss on the lips, the same way
he used to when they were younger. "Bathe with me. We rarely have
such a moment to ourselves."
"I washed earlier today," said Faramir, stepping away as
he felt Boromir's warm hand on his thigh. He was familiar with the sensation
for Boromir often touched him when they were still boys, but it now
sent strange tingles to his groin. "And Father would not allow
it. He would not think we had the same innocence as we once did, and
he would be right."
"It matters not," replied Boromir, twirling one of Faramir's
curls tenderly around his index finger. "There is no limit to the
number of baths one can take in a day and Father is not here. He would
never find out. It would perhaps please you to know I returned only
for you. If I am not mistaken, today is a very special day. Besides,
I have not held you in years."
Faramir turned to the door. "It would be wrong, even if Father
did not know. Since we are both men now, not children—"
"—and men are still capable of showing love, are they not?"
said Boromir. "Stay, I ask the least of you. I fear you are growing
distant."
"Not distant, but cautious," said Faramir. He sighed in defeat.
"I will stay, for you and for the voice in my heart, but my mind
tells me otherwise. Bathe now, ere the water cools." He found a
seat on an overturned bucket and watched in comfortable silence as Boromir
removed his leggings and unfastened his shirt. For a moment, he wondered
if Boromir was right, for he felt nothing but admiration and love as
his brother undressed. But something caught Faramir's attention as the
last layer of cloth was removed: a bloodstained bandage wrapped messily
across Boromir's chest.
"You're wounded." It wasn't a question.
"Aye," said Boromir. "'Tis but a scratch."
Faramir bit his lip, eyeing the dried blood with concern. "Did
you tell father?"
Boromir shrugged and lowered himself into the tub. "I should not
like to disappoint him," he replied.
"You cannot simply bind a wound without medicine," said Faramir,
on his feet again. "Let me clean it for you after your bath. Wait
a moment while I bring herbs from the healer." He swiftly walked
out of the washroom before Boromir could argue.
For a moment, Boromir had the sudden urge to let go and allow whatever
tears he had to come. He was finally alone. But just as he closed his
eyes, his father's grim face appeared before him. He breathed sharply
and his eyes snapped open in alarm. Desperately, he wished Faramir had
not left him with his father's presence looming in his mind. This pain
was much worse than the slight twinge from his wound.
He tried instead to imagine Faramir, his soft face and gentle hands,
his adoring grey eyes. Faramir had always looked up to him as a younger
sibling would, but there was something else. It was the way Faramir
touched him when they were alone in bed, the way they kissed and held
each other in the dark—Boromir knew Faramir would always love
him, even if he were not the fine warrior he was today. He let out a
shaky breath and sank lower into the water as if he could feel Faramir's
childish embrace, his brother's silky curls tickling his face. He could
now admit Faramir had aroused him on those warm nights, in ways a brother
usually could not. But somehow, that arousal did not feel wrong, but
made him more prone to another's love, more human.
"I leave for not more than a few minutes and you've fallen asleep?"
Boromir smiled weakly and reached for the soap, hardly believing the
beautiful young man standing before him was once his shy and adorable
younger brother. He could almost picture the freckles that once adorned
Faramir's fair face, those that slowly faded as he grew older. "Not
asleep," he said. "I was thinking."
"For once?" teased Faramir, taking the soap from him and
scrubbing it through his hair. "It's been nearly twenty-four years
and you still cannot wash your own hair, my careless brother."
"All men are dirty," said Boromir. He wiped a spot of soap
from his cheek, smearing it across his face. "Live with it."
To Boromir's surprise, Faramir leaned forward and kissed him firmly
on the lips, laughing as he pulled away.
"Aye," he said. "I am alive, dear beloved, for I live
to love."
Boromir examined his brother closely, noting the rosy cheeks and the
heart-warming curve of Faramir's eyes when he smiled, and decided to
play along. "My lively brother, why this sudden love to live?"
"There's the reward that makes calamity of so long life (- Hamlet),"
said Faramir lovingly. He grinned at Boromir's confused expression.
"Here is the truth: Father did not question where I was headed
when I met him in the halls. He told me he liked the way my hair danced
about my face now that it is shorter. Perhaps he thought it manlier
to have short hair."
"Manlier?" It was Boromir's turn to laugh. "Manlier
indeed! You sound like a flowering lass thirsting for her beloved's
attention!"
"Perhaps I do so desire Father's attention," said Faramir.
His smile was gone and replaced with a thoughtful frown.
Boromir lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I
did not mean it in such ways."
"I took no offense, if that comforts you."
It was silent as Faramir patiently combed away the knots from Boromir's
dark strands with his fingers, cupping handfuls of water with his other
hand and letting it run over his brother's hair and face. He then proceeded
to wash Boromir's back and underarms, particularly careful not to press
too hard on the fresh cuts and bruises. A familiar masculine scent filled
his nose and he paused, inhaling deeply. He could easily learn to appreciate
this imperfect wonder.
"Brother mine," he murmured softly. From Boromir's slow and
steady breathing, Faramir could tell his brother was truly asleep this
time. "Lift your legs. I still need to clean the rest of you."
Boromir obeyed, muttering something incoherent before drifting off
again as Faramir smoothed the soap down his legs. He could feel Faramir's
gaze upon him like the welcomed morning sun. The hands on his legs were
warm and lenient, and as they left his skin, he had to hold back the
cry of protest rising in his throat.
After the soap was properly rinsed off, Faramir lifted Boromir from
the tub, draping a towel across his wet shoulders. When that wasn't
enough, he took off his own cloak and wrapped his brother in it.
"Must I walk now?" asked Boromir, watching Faramir with half-lidded
eyes.
Faramir smiled affectionately. "Nay, I will bear you. Go to sleep."
He settled Boromir into his arms, a little surprised at his own strength,
and carried the sleeping form of his brother down the dimly lit corridors.
It was unnaturally silent that night. A shadow appeared at the end of
the hall outside his room and Faramir froze in alarm, but it was only
Ioreth, an old nurse from the House of Healing. She lowered her head
as Faramir approached.
"You asked for herbs, my lord," she said quietly. "I
have brought them to your room."
Faramir nodded politely. "I thank you."
The nurse's eyes fell upon Boromir's limp figure. "You did not
say it was the Prince who needed medicine. Is he deeply wounded?"
"Not so deep, but perhaps deeper so than he claims," said
Faramir, unconsciously pressing the large bundle closer to him. "However,
I assure you he remains strong. He is not fainted from pain but merely
asleep after a warm bath."
"Indeed, young Faramir?" said Ioreth. "Then I delay
you no further. Good night!"
"A good night to you, too," said Faramir, bowing in respect
and watching her disappear at the corner.
As he entered his own room, he had to squint to adjust his eyes to
the dark. The only source of light was the single candle on his reading
table in the far side of the room. Ioreth had left the small pile of
herbs and a bowl of clean water on the bedside table. Faramir gently
laid Boromir down on his bed and folded the towel around Boromir's shoulders,
placing it underneath his wet hair on the pillow. The bandage around
his brother's chest had came loose in the bath and Faramir removed it
without difficulty. From what Faramir could see, Boromir was probably
struck with a swinging Orc blade. The wound was certainly more severe
than a light scratch, as Faramir had predicted, but he was relieved
to find it uninfected. He dipped a cloth in the water bowl and wiped
away the remaining dirt and blood stains on Boromir's chest. Then, he
wrapped the herbs in the cloth and pressed out the juices, dabbing them
across the wound.
Boromir stirred, but did not open his eyes. His breathing was shallow
and his eyelashes fluttered in his sleep. He appeared slightly drained
of color and strength to Faramir, who was accustomed to hearing the
usual sound snores. As Faramir held the cloth at Boromir's chest to
stop the bleeding, he reached forward and tenderly brushed the stray
hair from his older brother's face, tracing down the defined jaw. Boromir's
proud face was incredibly handsome, even as he slept. For a long time,
Faramir sat on the edge of the bed, observing Boromir's sleeping form
the same way he did when he was younger. He would wake up early just
to watch his brother, the rare peaceful expression of Boromir's face
he treasured so much, the way the cold twilight would reflect off his
disheveled hair. But now the flickering candlelight shining on Boromir's
hair gave it a light red hue, like a glow not yet kindled.
It did not seem to Faramir he could love his brother any more than
he did at the moment. He cupped Boromir's face in one hand, stroking
the curve of his brother's cheek. His heart skipped a beat and he released
the breath he had been holding unconsciously for so long. He could not
imagine a day when Boromir would no longer be there for him, but somewhere
inside he knew that day would come, whether it was tomorrow or sometime
in the late future. Boromir would throw himself onto an Orc's blade
before he died of old age. His life was destined to end in battle. And
Faramir loved him for it, for the glorious fight that was yet to come.
But there was something else he loved, something beyond the warrior.
Perhaps it was the way Boromir would bite his nails in boredom during
the lengthy lectures they went through together as children, or perhaps
it was the way Boromir carried him on his back in a seemingly careless
manner when actually gripping him tightly to make sure he would not
slide off. Faramir could not remember ever being dropped while Boromir
carried him.
He allowed his fingers to brush across Boromir's parted lips, recalling
the touch of them against his own. Slowly, he reached down and pressed
his palm against the warm hand, spreading his fingers to match his brother's.
Their hands were nearly the same shape and size, but Boromir's were
much more calloused than his own. Their differences—something
else Faramir loved, but even more he cherished what they both had. He
smiled, almost sadly, leaning over to press a kiss on Boromir's forehead,
and allowed his lips to linger a little longer than usual with the same
innocence they once had.
Were they ever truly innocent? Perhaps not, but at least it seemed
so for a while. They both knew the line had long been crossed. Their
mother's death and their father's remoteness had only brought them closer.
The night was growing deeper and the stars gave little light through
the window. It had probably been days since Boromir ate his last proper
meal and Faramir thought of waking his brother for a midnight snack,
but decided against it. The maids were asleep and the kitchen was locked.
Their father was most likely still sitting upon his throne, lost in
thought. Disturbing him would be most unwise.
Faramir could have tried to sleep, but he did not feel the least bit
weary. He undressed, taking as much time as he could, and changed into
his nightgown. Then, he searched through his closet for another one,
even though he knew it was not in his brother's tastes to wear anything
to bed. Boromir often complained about his clothes suffocating him in
his sleep whenever he tossed and turned. Just as Faramir was about to
reach for his leggings, his brother called his name.
"Faramir!" cried Boromir, sitting up abruptly and throwing
the covers aside. "Where are you?"
"I'm here, brother," whispered Faramir. He sat down next
to Boromir and took him into his arms. "What dreams plague you
in your sleep?"
A tear slid down Boromir's cheek and Faramir wiped it away. It always
terrified Faramir to see his brother cry. If Boromir cried, what about
the rest of the Middle Earth? What would their world come to?
Boromir leaned into his touch for a moment before jerking away. "Do
not touch me," he said, eyeing Faramir strangely. It was almost
as if he were looking past Faramir at something behind him. "He's
here. He's watching."
"We are alone," said Faramir, lightly touching Boromir's
shoulder. "Please try not to move. Your wound will start to bleed."
"Nay, keep your hands away," said Boromir. His eyes were
wild. "He is always watching me, watching her. Even know, he watches."
To Faramir, Boromir's voice was like the edge of a dagger. He shivered,
knowing this was the time to leave Boromir to his own mental discord,
but also aware it was when Boromir needed him most. "Speak not
in such ways," he said, leaning into his brother's arms. "You're
frightening me." He felt Boromir's entire body tremble violently
against his. Suddenly, he was thrown back and a harsh slap landed across
his face. He shrunk away, holding his cheek.
"Why do you torture me mercilessly?" hissed Boromir. His
fingers dug into the sheets desperately. "Why do you constantly
push me to the edge with your sweet poison? You know I have not the
restraint."
A faint whimper escaped Faramir's lips. "I did not think it torture,"
he said. "I've only wished you comfort."
"Like how you comforted Mother," said Boromir, his anger
replaced with disgust. "She died because of me, Faramir. I was
not the child she wanted. My presence haunted her, even after all you
did to please her. I delighted in her fear whenever I spoke to her because
I hated her, hated her for not loving me. I could see the dread in her
eyes whenever I walked into the room." His eyes softened for a
split second. "But you, my dearest little brother—as much
as you hurt me, I could not hate you. I could never hate you."
Faramir reached forward and placed a finger over Boromir's lips. "Say
no more, Boromir," he said softly, stroking his brother's hair.
He watched as Boromir's eyes grew wide with horror and alarm. "Do
as you wish, but say no more."
A pair of strong hands clutched his shoulders, pinning him to the bed
and shaking him furiously. "I warn you not to tempt me if you wish
to stay in one piece," rasped Boromir. He released Faramir, clasping
his hands to his chest helplessly. "Father knows! He knows everything!
He knows what you did to me, what you're still doing to me!" Then,
as if he were trying to control the fire burning inside him, he trailed
his fingers down Faramir's neck and stopped at the collar, his breathing
slow and erratic. "Even the Valar cannot save us now—"
"Then take it," breathed Faramir, closing his eyes and running
his hand across Boromir's back. "I give you my unspoiled love."
He gasped as Boromir grabbed his jaw and kissed him feverishly, forcing
his mouth open. Before he could hold it back, he gave a low moan and
buried his fingers into Boromir's hair, wrapping his bare legs around
Boromir's waist. Never had his arousal been so sudden and painful. His
nightgown was lifted and he felt Boromir's hand on his inner thighs
in a tender caress. He shuddered and spread his legs obediently as Boromir's
mouth left his own.
"Oh, Boromir—my dearest, strongest, most valiant brother."
Boromir paused and lifted Faramir's face by the chin, gazing intensely
into the same eyes as his own. "Tell me first: Why do you do this
for me?"
It was warm, and Faramir flushed at the sight of his naked brother
leaning over him. "I love your every flaw, Boromir," he whispered
ardently. "Your lack of direction entices me. You allow your passion
to drive you to the wildest places. I have always desired it, dreamt
of you tearing me apart in your madness, even before I understood my
own emotions. I have not the heart to deny you now." He touched
Boromir's wound, which was bleeding lightly again, smearing the blood
across his brother's chest and down his abdomen, finally dropping his
hand. "Make love to me. Show me what your fury can do."
Unable to hold himself back any longer, Boromir thrusted himself into
his younger brother. Faramir submitted, writhing and gasping in pain
as Boromir filled him. Boromir could now think of nothing else but the
love and sorrow in his brother's eyes, but it was too late to turn back.
Every fervent cry from Faramir's lips like a piercing blade through
his heart. He bent down and kissed Faramir's forehead—an innocent
kiss, had their bodies not been united. Then, he captured Faramir's
lips with his own, kissing him with such ferocity known only to Man.
Their eyes met for a moment before Faramir's release, and Boromir came
shortly after, collapsing onto his brother's chest. Faramir held him
close, pulling the stained covers around them. His torn nightgown had
been carelessly tossed aside and was now lying near his pillow. The
scent of their lovemaking lingered soothingly in the air.
"I should not have hurt you," whispered Boromir, pressing
his lips to Faramir's neck. His voice shook uncontrollably. "A
madness took me, but it has passed (b.2, p.416). I am sorry."
Faramir buried his face into Boromir's hair. "Your hands are violent,"
he said, "but your heart is tender. You could not have hurt me."
He rocked Boromir gently as a mother would to her crying child.
"And your words are sweet. I shall believe them for now."
They lay in silence for a while, savoring the private moment, and the
rhythm of Boromir's breathing gradually steadied. "I can remember
Mother's face now," said Faramir distantly. "She cried often,
whenever she thought I was not looking. Sometimes, she would cradle
her pillow in her arms as if it were another child. 'Denethor would
sacrifice his sons, but he will never take you,' she would say. Then,
she would cry for you, like a mother whose son just died in battle.
But that is all I remember."
"She loved to sing," said Boromir. He sounded weak and broken,
but somewhat relieved. "She sang you to sleep when you were not
more than a year old. I can still hear her voice."
"Was it lively? Or was it full of sorrow?"
"It was distant. The songs were always of her home near the sea."
He paused. "But I don't remember much of them. I saw only you—your
curious eyes and the way your tiny hands would reach for whatever you
saw, whether it was the flower in Mother's hair or the sword I carried.
And you never screamed or wailed like other children. It always seemed
you were deep in your own thoughts, even at such a young age."
Almost smiling, Faramir reached down and tilted his brother's face
to get a better view of him. "Perhaps I was already picturing my
older brother dressed in shining armor, the White Tree proudly embroidered
on his chest."
"Denethor's pride," said Boromir resentfully as their eyes
connected.
"Nay, you are Gondor's pride," said Faramir. "'Tis not
a burden but an honor."
They examined each other—their differences, their similarities,
and everything shared between them. Then, Boromir closed his eyes, resting
his head at the crook of Faramir's neck. "Thank you, Faramir,"
he murmured.
Faramir reached for whatever was left of his nightshirt and tied it
around Boromir's chest, which was now bleeding freely. He thought of
getting out of bed and returning to his room, but changed his mind as
Boromir's pleasant weight surrounded him. Warm arms encircled his waist,
securing him to the bed. For a moment, he could almost catch a glimpse
of the stern glow of their father's all-seeing eyes under the dim candlelight.
He said nothing of it to Boromir, who was already snoring quietly in
his arms.
