The afternoon sunlight poured in the open window and bathed him in
its warmth. Faramir turned his face to the light, eyes closed, and let
it play over him, smiling faintly. He lay curled up on his side, one
arm flung carelessly across the bed. If he opened his eyes and looked
out the window, he knew he would see only the pure blue of the sky,
scudded by clouds whiter than the White Tower itself.
But he kept his eyes closed, and breathed in the fresh smell of the
straw in the mattress on which he lay, and did not move. Instead, he
relished the heat of the bare body behind him, the slide of skin on
skin as they breathed, just out of rhythm, the weight of the arm that
was curled around him.
He sighed in contentment, and settled more firmly against his lover.
The arm tightened in response, and the face that had been buried in
his hair moved. There was a burst of air against the back of his neck,
a soft kiss, and he made a sound remarkably like a purr.
“Faramir,” and a thrill ran though him as he felt the rumble
of his name through the broad chest pressed to his back. His name was
accompanied by more kisses against his shoulder, lazy and deliberate.
He opened his eyes into the dazzle of sunlight and would have turned
to face the man behind him, but his lover leaned into his back, pinning
him in place with his weight. He shifted, grumbling wordless discontent,
but stilled again when the other’s hand, callused from long hours
of swordplay, ran heavily down his side, over his hip.
“Not just yet,” he heard, and the breath against his ear
sent another shiver along his nerves. Then there was the reverberation
of a chuckle, and an open-mouthed kiss against his neck. “As eager
as you are, you’ll wear me out.” The sting of teeth against
his shoulder, quickly laved by a swipe of tongue. “You’d
think you hadn’t seen me in years.”
Faramir closed his eyes again. The gentle lassitude that had stolen
over him in the aftermath of their lovemaking was melting slowly away,
replaced by the sweet ache of growing passion, and it was becoming a
bit difficult to summon the words he wanted to speak. “Ah, but
didn’t you know that every day you are gone from Minas Tirith
is as a year to me? So indeed, years have passed since I’ve seen
you, brother.” He caught Boromir’s hand then, as it drifted
back up his side, and laced their fingers tightly together.
Boromir laughed softly, pulling him closer yet, until he could feel
the shape of Boromir’s chest muscles against his back, the pebbled
nubs of his nipples, the growing heat of his manhood. For a moment,
he was able to hold the other’s hand in his, then Boromir worked
it free, sliding it across his body.
“How I’ve missed you, little brother,” Boromir whispered,
running his hands over Faramir’s chest. He chuckled as the stroke
of his hands wrung a groan from his brother’s lips, then returned
to nibbling on the back of his neck and shoulder, letting his hands
roam where they would. “Perhaps it has been years for me as well.”
Faramir quivered as the words hushed over his skin. And though they
were as close as two men could be—brothers as well as lovers—he
longed to become closer still; wished, at times, that he could curl
himself up inside his brother’s chest and never be parted from
him.
The very idea—that he might never see Boromir again—froze
him to the core, and he clutched involuntarily at his brother’s
arms, trying to hold him, to keep him with him always.
Boromir’s hands stopped their wanderings, and he halted his tasting
of Faramir’s shoulder blade. “Are you . . .”
“No, it was but a passing chill.” When he felt Boromir’s
hesitation, he continued, “Help me drive such thoughts away.”
He shifted slightly in Boromir’s embrace, pressing his rear back
against the other’s sex, and was rewarded with a sharp intake
of breath in his ear, and a shudder through the solid frame behind him.
“I ought to stop until you tell me,” Boromir muttered,
but his voice was shaking now with desire, and one of his hands wound
itself around Faramir’s manhood, standing tall and proud from
its nest of curls. With a soft cry, Faramir arched into the touch.
“But see how obedient I am to your request,” he felt his
brother murmur against his neck, and the vibration of lips against his
skin fanned his need higher. His hips worked against Boromir’s
hand, thrusting wantonly into his grip, the ridges of callus stroking
along his shaft causing sparks of excitement in him.
“More,” he panted, then groaned in disappointment as the
warm hand released him.
In an instant, he found himself on his back, Boromir straddling him,
pinning his arms to the bed. His brother’s eyes glowed in the
sunshine, warmer than the sky, and when he smiled, they crinkled at
the edges. His hair, now streaked gold from long hours in the sun, fell
limply just over his wide shoulders.
When Boromir leaned down to kiss him, the movement startled Faramir
from his appraisal. But he accepted the kiss eagerly, hungry for the
taste of the other’s mouth.
When Boromir pulled back again, it was too soon for him, and he strove
to free one of his hands, to keep their mouths locked together. Wrenching
it from Boromir’s grip, he threaded it into his hair, and drew
him back down.
This time, the kiss only ended when they were both desperate for air.
Slowly, as they gasped for breath in each other’s ears, Faramir
eased his grip on his brother’s hair, letting it rest instead
on his shoulder.
Boromir was grinning down at him when he opened his eyes again. “Oh,
to never get a welcome like this again!”
Faramir felt a frown quirk his brows. “What?”
Straightening away, Boromir brushed his fingers over Faramir’s
cheek, disturbing the lay of his whiskers then smoothing them into place
again. “That was my last journey, little brother,” he said,
and his eyes were bright. “I will not be leaving you again. I
have come home to stay.”
For a long moment, Faramir could only gape up at him in astonishment,
and Boromir’s grin faded slightly. “Does that not please
you?”
Shaking his head to clear away his confusion, Faramir replied, “But
. . .what about the safety of Gondor? Do we not need to . . .”
“Gondor is safe now. The King has returned.”
The tone in which Boromir spoke—firm and confident—laid
all of Faramir’s fears to rest immediately, and he relaxed against
the bed. “Then yes, I am well pleased that you will never leave
me again.”
The return of Boromir’s smile was blinding. “Show me, then,
how pleased you are, and give me the gift of your smile.”
Doing as his brother bid was easy at last. He ran his hand lightly
over Boromir’s stubbled beard, through his long dark gold hair.
“How is it that, despite being gone for so long, you haven’t
aged a day since you left?” he asked in wonder, and let his fingers
trail over Boromir’s lips.
Boromir grinned down at him and nipped at his fingers. “You were
always too studious and serious by half, little brother,” he teased,
then left off playing with Faramir’s hand and dived down to taste
his throat instead. “’Tis no wonder you’ve aged beyond
your years.”
Faramir wound his free arm around his brother, and his smile grew.
“Teach me, then,” he said, and was surprised at how husky
his voice sounded. “Teach me how to be so carefree and young .
. .”
When Boromir’s arms crushed them together, he arched up against
his brother’s body, and met him passion for passion.
And in that moment, he realized he held all he had ever desired.
Aragorn stood in the open door of Faramir’s chamber, just in front
of Eowyn, his hand on his dagger. He thought it unlikely that the man
would become violent—he wasn’t even sure that he would even
notice they were there—but he had long since learned that sometimes
it was better to take no chances.
Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Eowyn. She stared sadly
at her husband, her face careworn. She looks far too old for her years,
Aragorn thought, and could not shake away the somber words.
Faramir lay curled on his side, his face in the sunlight streaming
in through the window, his back to the door; a shape swathed in shadows
and crowned with red-gold hair. He was hunched somewhat awkwardly, for
the arm of the side on which he lay was still drawn up and tied with
a length of rope to one of the pillars of the bed. The other arm, though,
rested against his side; he had managed to break the rope that had bound
him.
Aragorn had been present when it had happened, had seen Faramir thrashing
on the bed, muscles straining, and had prayed that the rope would give
before his heart burst or he tore his hand from his wrist. Only seconds
later, it had frayed and broken, and though he was nearly free, Faramir
had quieted instantly, rolling onto his side.
“He does not know we are here, does he?”
Eowyn’s voice, soft as it was, rang clearly through the silence,
and Aragorn flicked his eyes to the man on the bed. There was no change
in Faramir’s position, and he relaxed slightly.
“No,” he replied in the same tone, though it had been more
a statement than a question. “I fear he does not.”
She let out a breath then, long and shuddering, and he kept his eyes
locked on Faramir’s back, to leave her some semblance of her self-respect.
He suspected that the madness that had overcome Faramir had been growing
for some time, that Denethor’s cold scorn and neglect had damaged
him more greatly than any knew. And the pity and pride he’d felt
for his distant kinsman had swelled within him: pride in his strength
that had allowed him to resist for so long, and pity that he’d
had to endure such a loveless upbringing, that his strength had failed
him at last.
Aragorn had watched over Faramir the previous night, after his derangement
had overtaken him. After freeing his hand, Faramir had lain still for
a while, and Aragorn had dared to hope that the madness had passed,
that it was but a brief episode after all.
Then the other had begun to writhe on the bed, as if caught in the
throes of some nightmare, and he had stepped forward, to soothe him
back to calmness if possible.
“Boromir . . .”
The name had pulled him up short. No, he reflected, studying Faramir’s
back once more, feeling the flame-flicker presence of Eowyn next to
him. No, not the name, for he said it often, but the way he had said
it. Not full of sorrow, nor as a plea for aid, but . . .as a lover would.
At first, he thought he had imagined it, for it was little more than
a breath. Then, it had come again, louder, and there could be no doubt.
Unbidden, he had remembered Boromir, and the words he had spoken in
Lothlorien. He had recalled how, after extolling the beauty and strength
of Minas Tirith, he had drifted to the subject of his younger brother,
the bravest and best of the Captains of Gondor.
Aragorn had believed he’d heard more than brotherly pride in
the words then, and had discovered their truth last night.
Voice low and now choked with tears she could not shed, Eowyn asked,
“Will he ever return?”
To spare her further pain, Aragorn took her arm and turned her away,
gently drawing her from the room. “I do not know,” he replied
at last, closing the door and sliding the bolt home. Because the look
she gave him at that was filled with emotion—hope and despair
and longing—he added, “It may well be that he will find
his way back, but I cannot say.”
Eowyn stood straight and tall before him, but he could see in her eyes
that she was crumbling. Every man she had loved had left her—claimed
by death or duty or another woman, and now, by madness. “Eowyn,”
he said, careful to betray no hint of pity, “’tis not that
he cares not for you. Indeed, your love and strength are what has allowed
him to fight so long against this. But even a strength as great as that
must come to an end, and when he could fight no more, it simply . .
. took him.”
Slowly, she nodded, and though tears still swam in her slate eyes,
he saw that she took some comfort from his words.
“Come,” and he gave her a small smile. “Your children
will have need of you now, and you of them.”
She nodded and held her head high as she strode back down the corridor,
hair snapping behind her in a golden wave.
Before following her, Aragorn spared a glance at the room in which
they’d confined Faramir. The delusion the Steward had suffered
the previous day was now easily explained. He and Faramir had been on
the balcony in the company of their wives, sitting in the sunshine,
when quite suddenly, he had leapt up, calling Boromir’s name and
smiling hugely. When Aragorn had tried to stay him, to ask what was
wrong, Faramir had struggled against him, crying out for his brother
to wait, and asking why Aragorn could not see him.
There had been nothing but sunlight and stone where Faramir had pointed,
not even a shadow.
He had become violent when Aragorn and the others had attempted to
convince him that Boromir was dead and had been for many years, and
with great reluctance, Aragorn had decided that it would be best if
he was restrained until the fit had passed.
But now, despite his words to Eowyn, he was certain that it would not.
Aragorn rested one hand lightly on the door, feeling the wood smoothed
from centuries of use. “Farewell,” he murmured. “Farewell,
Prince of Ithilien, Steward of Gondor, dear friend. I hope you have
found what you sought.” Then, walking quickly, he trailed Eowyn
down the hall.
For, as one man’s medicine might be another’s poison, so
one man’s madness might be another’s delight and fondest
desire.
