Under the inky canopy of sky Boromir laid motionless, completely
still except for his eyes, which were now accustomed to the absence
of the sun. The air in the dell was brisk but solemn, and was laced
with the distinct aroma of decaying honeysuckle flavoring it to sickening
sweetness. The embers left over from the tiny but hot fire he had lit
as the sun set blew around in a quick updraft of wind, dancing indolent,
ashen paths skyward.
Sleep had only just begun to fringe his senses. Like many
nights before he was alone, a solitary man roaming the untamed and long
untrodden paths left to fall into disuse by men and elves alike.
And also like many nights before, and for even more nights
to follow, Boromir found his mind turning back to join the place where
his heart was: in the pearly white turrets and secret terraces of Minas
Tirith, the last bastion of hope and defense for men in the west. The
city was now even dearer to Boromir since the ever-present shadow had
begun to wax in the east, creeping and coiling across shimmering Anduin
and shady, verdant Ithilien. Perhaps his attachment to his home was
magnified because he had not gone on such prolonged errantry before.
Perhaps it was because he was without a vanguard of men under his command.
Or perhaps it was because everything that mattered to him, everything
that his heart kept beating for was still tucked in those clandestine
corridors, now alone and without his older brother.
Up above, dark strands of cloud splashed blueblack by the
midnight sky raced across the face of the waning moon. There was something
desperate and longing about the moon which wrapped its indefinite tentacles
around Boromir's heart, and each night he felt gloom ripen like ivy
creeping over his innards, toughening and strangling. There had been
something akin to nightmarish horror about his despair, and it seemed
that he was not the only one who felt something strong stirring, something
powerful and poised to deliver a hammerstroke swift and fell but with
unknown ramifications. He saw the same terrorized gleam in Faramir's
eyes that day he left, though Faramir had driven himself to conceal
his fear through many languid kisses and soft caresses behind a wall
just outside the city, but whether those lingering touches were meant
to soothe Boromir more than Faramir was uncertain. Despite this, however,
he felt that Faramir was hiding something, something that frightened
him to the point of panic, but being the stalwart soul he was, Faramir
had made it seem like a minor aggravation that would surely dissipate
if given time. Boromir had convinced himself that Faramir was simply
grieved that he was leaving him behind, and so it was more than peculiar
to Boromir that he still could not slough off the slow burning fear
that loomed over him ominously like a mountain peak and chilled him
through to his core. Did Faramir know something he didn't? A premonition?
Boromir sighed as a man in torn in two. Indeed he was that;
to leave the place he loved most and the person he loved most was the
most painful feat he had ever undertaken; to ride out to the hallowed
city of Rivendell in an effort to forge alliances in the quest to push
back the shadow was noble, and his father would have no one else attempt
the journey for Boromir was sure to do great deeds for him and for the
protection of the city. Even still, the thought that he was doing Gondor
great honor was scarcely enough to keep his spirits from falling victim
to vague anxieties of injury, or even death.
High up, above the mist-shrouded clearing, over the stabbing
treetops, the winds raced as an invisible stampede of a thousand wild,
imaginary horses. Boromir wondered idly if Faramir was yet awake, and
if he too felt this unshakable despondency icing keenly into the marrow
of his bones.
Faramir. He was leagues away, and Boromir's destination was
still leagues upon leagues ahead. That notion alone dredged up distinct
longing in Boromir's heart of hearts, a pining for Faramir's bright
sapphire eyes and youthful face and sinewy muscled body sweat slicked
against his own.
Pieces of Faramir remained with Boromir in memory only. He
could feel the smooth, silken skin of Faramir's lips tracing every curve
of his body adoringly, setting chills crackling along his backbone.
He shivered, but not due to the frigid night. He nestled further into
the hollow of earth he had found to sleep in, and pulled his blanket
over him tighter as he closed his eyes and willed himself to recreate
the last time he had spent the night with his brother.
Slowly, like water dripping off of melting icicles on the
first day of spring, snatches of breathless moans and quiet sighs tinted
by Faramir's mellifluous voice reverberated in Boromir's ears as the
breeze rustled the tangled undergrowth hemming him in the dell. Then
he could feel Faramir's oddly soft fingertips etching out a path down
the middle of his abdomen, beginning at his clavicle and skittering
down the center of his chest, stomach, and then stopping just above
the curly, dark hairline before dipping underneath to tickle the firm
swells of muscle and flesh.
As Boromir laid in the dark, he felt himself grow warm, and
his pulse spiked distinctly. Resuming his recollection, Boromir could
still feel Faramir's deft and quick fingers on him, wrapping around
him stiffly yet lovingly as a finger from his other hand sunk itself
between the twin globes of Boromir's buttocks. The sequence of mental
images cut to a picture of Boromir himself, his strong body eclipsing
Faramir's slighter form against the mattress and wool coverlets in his
room. There were candles burning in nooks carved into the walls, and
Faramir's skin tasted like salt and smelled like fresh dew on grass;
Boromir could almost taste it like he was reliving that final night.
He saw Faramir's hair plastered askew over his cheeks and forehead as
he writhed all sinuous and serpentine under Boromir's smooth and langorous
rhythm; Boromir could almost feel it all over again, as if it was really
happening, as if his skin and Faramir's skin was rubbing together as
they both strained towards bliss.
Boromir was burning under his blanket, his entire body on
fire just below the skin's surface and a thin sweat sheen leaked from
his pores. Just then, like out of a cherished dream, Faramir's airy
laughter penetrated Boromir's memory and drove him to exhale raggedly,
his breath materializing as diaphanous crystals that hung in the chill
air.
As his breath passed his lips, Boromir's eyes lazily opened.
He saw the moon roll out proudly from behind an azure cloud bank, all
gleaming and opalescent like polished quartz. It was the same color
as the whites of Faramir's eyes, rolled back in ecstasy.
Boromir sighed into the void of night and wrapped himself
up closer in his blanket, trapping the heat generated by his body made
sensitive from thoughts of Faramir flashing vividly in his mind's eye.
The contentment that accompanied the warmth made Boromir forget, for
at least a little while, about the sharp pangs of dread that infiltrated
further into his heart with each passing league toward Rivendell. Still
stranded in a thick fog of pleasure, sleep finally was able to cast
its spell over Boromir as images of home -- of Faramir -- played like
ghosts in a beloved dream that existed always on consciousness' razor
edge.
He closed his eyes, the last thing he thought being the words
Faramir murmured in his most tender voice into Boromir's ear. Boromir
remembered how his hair had tickled against his ear from the breathy
caress that Faramir's voice delivered as he spoke the words: "Promise
me that you will think of me fondly, so that when you return I can feel
at home and protected in my brother's arms again, as if he never left
me."
And Boromir had said that he would think of him always, and
that he promised to bring home the moon to Faramir, since he couldn't
bring back all the time that they would lose while he wandered lonesome
over the endless miles.
END
