Noise echoed around the stone buildings and stone streets and stone statuary. Everywhere Faramir looked, there was stone upon gleaming white stone. His first thought was of a mausoleum or tomb and he thought Denethor was probably as warm as the stones of his city. Faramir immediately chided himself for his uncharitable thoughts. Denethor did not build Minas Tirith. He guarded it. The whole city was alert and moving as they rode through it with the last of the afternoon’s warmth fading from the walls. Preparations for war were well underway and Faramir wondered if the rumors of Denethor’s long sight were true, and if they were, to what did the steward owe his gift. They stopped before the final level and dismounted from their tired horses. Only Faramir and the Gondorian emissary had come; Imrahil had much to do to prepare his knights for what was to come and had little time to spare for escort service. Faramir did not blame Imrahil and looked forward to seeing him again soon. All knew that Gondor would need aid from Dol Amroth and other allies if she were to stand. One of those allies, the Rohirrim, had not been seen, but word had reached Gondor of Théoden’s plight and all quailed with the knowledge that the great riders of the Mark might, for once, fail to answer the summons of their great friend, Gondor.
Faramir’s lips tightened in a grim line as he walked through the double doors and strode between rows of ancient dead kings to the foot of the dais. He had wondered what he would see when he got there and he was neither surprised or disappointed. Denethor reminded him of Boromir in many ways. The eyes were gray and watchful. The mouth was a grim line that once, long ago, might have known mirth, but no longer understood how to smile. His gray hair was swept off his face and in his hands he held a rod of power. Faramir lifted his eyes to the steps leading to the throne and wondered how many times Denethor had contemplated walking up those stairs and taking his place as king rather than steward. Someone cleared their throat and Faramir brought himself around. With a quick glance at the man he’d come to know as his father, he knelt on one knee with his head bowed.
“This is the manners Imrahil taught to you in his court?” Denethor said coldly.
“Forgive me, lord, for I was mesmerized by the beauty of this place and forgot before whom I stood,” Faramir said quietly, disliking the coldness in Denethor’s voice and wondering if it would be long before Boromir returned and release him to return to Dol Amroth.
Denethor harrumphed softly. “Rise. Tell me, Faramir of Dol Amroth, did you see my son, Boromir, while you visited Rivendell?”
Faramir blinked slowly and wondered if he would be known as Denethor’s son or just Faramir of Dol Amroth his entire stay at Minas Tirith. “I did see him, my lord, and there we discovered we had mutual parentage. I know not where he is now.”
“No, of course not. I know where he is. I know what fool’s errand he attends.” Denethor’s sharp gaze stared quietly out of the window for a while and his mouth softened as he considered his eldest son. “I know what awaits us at Minas Tirith if he does not return.”
Faramir kept his rising temper in check. Maybe Denethor did not wish to acknowledge that he had more than one son, but Faramir did not come all the way from Dol Amroth to be insulted and he wasn’t sure, Imrahil’s orders or no, if he would remain if things did not rapidly improve between himself and Denethor. “You sent a messenger requesting my presence, Lord Denethor. I pray you, sir, speak whatever it is you must tell me for our time is short and grows shorter still. Your news seems more recent than mine, so nothing to your council may I add. I am a soldier and would prefer to do my duty as one.”
Denethor’s eyes widened. At first, Faramir had seemed soft, like elves, but he’d showed his mettle quick enough when roused. Maybe there was hope for the youngest son, yet. “Yours will be the charge of Osgiliath. The Men there will be at your command and you will be shown the paths of Ithilien and given troops to you to guard our secret passes and keep a watch over the enemy. Do you think, Captain, that you will be able to perform this duty?”
“Prince Imrahil has never found fault with my ability to lead men, Lord Denethor. I will see that you have no cause to be dissatisfied in my brother’s absence.”
“Go,” said Denethor shortly, as if the mention of Boromir irritated him.
Faramir bowed and walked backwards from the cold, echoing chamber.
*~*
Boromir stood knee deep in snow and stared at Caradhras darkly. Every day, every hour, was a torment that had no end, no peace, and as far as Boromir could see, no resolution. He mulled his situation over in his mind and wondered how his father would take the news that he and Faramir had met in Rivendell. Would Denethor be angry or scoff at the elves? Would he deny Faramir his birthright? He had done so already, and Boromir had no reason to doubt Faramir would continue to be far removed from Denethor’s sight. Try as he might, he could see no reason for it. There was nothing in his knowledge that would be reason for Denethor to hate Faramir. In fact, Boromir wondered if his father had ever seen Faramir. How could you hate what you had never seen? How could you deny love to that which was pure and worthy of love?
Ah, whispered a small corner of his mind. There it is, isn’t it? Love. That word. The one you have been avoiding. How do you meet someone and fall instantly in love? How do you know you did not give your heart foolishly? Do you pine for an image? An ideal? Boromir shook his head negatively without realizing he was physically responding to the mental debate in his head. Nay, I do not love foolishly. For brother or no, he saw in Faramir a pureness and nobleness that was beyond birth or training. At heart, Captain Faramir was an intelligent and honest man and there was no shame in being those things. Nor was there any shame in loving the man who had those same traits.
There was a flutter of activity and a loud cry that caused Boromir to lift his head. Frodo lay huddled in the snow and tracks showed where he’d stumbled and fallen several feet down the mountainside. Glancing down, Boromir saw the ring on its mithril chain and bent down to retrieve it. He held it up in his gloved hand and stared at the ring dangling from his fingers. “Such a little thing,” he mused aloud.
“Boromir, return the ring to Frodo,” Aragorn growled with one hand on Frodo’s shoulder and another on his sword hilt.
Boromir dragged his eyes away from the ring and held it out. “Take it. I care not.” He ruffled Frodo’s hair and then turned away. Such a little thing, wasn’t it? So much trouble for something so small; so insignificant. A name; a birthright. What did it all mean? Was a man less a man because his father did not acknowledge him? Was it wrong to love someone simply because of who they were? Such a little thing. But little things had a will of their own and a way of becoming bigger things. Boromir hitched his great, round shield upon his back and lowered his head as he trudged up the mountain.
*~*
Faramir was given quarters befitting his station, though there was no open acknowledgement of his identity. Every one seemed to know yet no one seemed ready to discuss it. He discovered, as he made his way among the troops assigned to him, that Boromir was a popular and trusted man and he had much to live up to in his brother’s shadow. Immediately Faramir decided he could not compete with the captain general of Gondor’s armies and it would be better not to try. To that end, he decided to treat the Gondorians as he had Prince Imrahil’s knights. With his gentle manner and sometimes-grim humor, he won the men over. His knowledge of tactics and his planning abilities gained their trust. In no time at all, they accepted Captain Faramir as one of their own. And indeed, many of them thought to themselves, he was one of their own. He slept among them, although a room nearer to the absent Boromir’s had been provided. Nor did Faramir spend too much time in the city, preferring to stay out of Minas Tirith with his troops. There he learned all they could teach him of Ithilien and Osgiliath and passes of Morgul Vale.
He was shown Henneth Anun and the secret passages and there, he led the skilled woodland hunters through fen and glade as they stalked and killed any of Mordor’s minions with which they came into contact with. And with each foray, Faramir became more popular with the men under his watchful command until he was loved almost as their Captain-General, Boromir. They came to understand his moods and the grim silence with which he guarded his tongue. They accepted his reserve and came to understand that, as well. And if any heard of the abuse Faramir endured when he was forced to return to Minas Tirith to make reports, they tightened their mouths into grim lines and narrowed their eyes and cleaved more tightly to their captain than ever before; as if making up for Denethor’s coldness.
Behind the Sacred Falls, Faramir dozed on his cot after a particularly long day’s patrol. The number of foul creatures scurrying to and from Mordor had multiplied and the patrols were busy tracking them. Or killing them. Faramir had taken only a light supper before kicking off his boots and tossing his tunic on a chair and falling into his blankets for a few hours of desperate rest. As he lay with his long lashes fanning his cheeks, his thoughts again turned, as they frequently did, to Boromir. None had heard from Denethor’s eldest son since he parted for Rivendell in the autumn. Winter had come and still there was nothing about him. With each day, rumors spread from Minas Tirith about Denethor’s dire predictions for his eldest. Secretly, Faramir hoped Denethor was wrong, but publicly, he kept his thoughts to himself. Whatever mission Lord Elrond sent Boromir on, it was one of great import or the Captain-General of Gondor would not tarry so long.
Turning over, Faramir felt unaccustomed warmth by his side and his eyes flew open in the darkness. A soft chuckled teased his hair and a heavy hand grazed over his lean chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but the hand on his chest quickly moved to his mouth and pressed against the full lips. Faramir stilled and lay on his back staring up into gray eyes lined with years and sorrows that he dared not guess at. Then the face closed the space between them and Faramir reached up and pulled the hand covering his mouth so that he could taste the lips so near his. The bearded chin brushed the corners of his mouth and Faramir moaned softly and his own lips parted in welcome. Breath flowed into him followed quickly by a slick tongue that teased his. He wrapped his arms around hard shoulders and pulled the warm body down to his so that they lay chest to chest and knee to knee. He could feel Boromir’s rigid length against his thigh and arched his hips, rubbing against the engorged flesh until he heard soft moans. His fingers dug into the tender skin as he held Boromir close and twisted his head so that the greedy lips could nip gently at his collarbone and delicate throat.
A hand drifted down lower, tweaking a peaked nipple in passing, before shifting rest lightly over the bulge in Faramir’s breeches and squeezing. Faramir’s hips cleared the cot and he threw one leg around Boromir’s thighs. He kissed exposed shoulder, tasting sweat and sweet growing things. As Boromir slid between his legs, Faramir shuddered. Hands reached between them and pulled roughly at Faramir’s leggings, ripping open the laces and spreading the material wide and releasing Faramir’s hard cock.
“I cannot wait any longer,” breathed Boromir against Faramir’s ear as his hand stroked over dark curls at the base of Faramir’s cock.
For an answer, Faramir arched his hips, forcing his cock into Boromir’s hand even as his own fingers moved to clutch Boromir’s firm buttocks. Teeth scraped his throat and jaw as if Boromir thought to devour him like a feast. The hand holding his cock moved slowly, stroking the length up and down in a deliberate rhythm, coating the shaft with pre-cum from the head. Thoughts fled from Faramir as Boromir’s thumb slid harshly over his slit. He spread his legs as wide as possible, bemoaning the breeches that came between Boromir and him. The hand stroking him stopped for a moment and Faramir opened his eyes and stared deeply in to Boromir’s gray orbs. A silence stretched between them, pregnant with questions and answers. Faramir could hear his heart pounding in his ears and saw a tiny vein on Boromir’s temple tick and he knew his brother felt what he felt, was consumed by the same desire. He felt a fool, for he understood at last what Boromir had tried to explain that day—so many lifetimes ago, it seemed—and he knew he thrown away something more precious than all the gold in Middle Earth or even Isildur’s Bane.
Tears leaked from his eyes and he squeezed them closed. He could feel their warm tracks flowing into the hair at his temples. Smooth lips kissed away the tearstains and Faramir swallowed. “I am yours.”
Their cocks were pressed closely together and the sweet friction nearly drove Faramir crazy as Boromir began to slide slowly up and down. Faramir groaned and his hands clung tightly to Boromir as if fearing to let go. Boromir’s warm lips were everywhere at once, kissing his throat, his closed eyes, nibbling gently on his ear lobes. Faramir felt the tension build inside his body and arched his hips, delaying and accelerating the sweet pain. He longed for it to reach its peak and dreaded the end as his hands dug furrows into Boromir’s naked flesh. Boromir’s breath whistled harshly in his ear and he cried out as teeth sank into the exposed skin of his throat. He was close and his hips lifted and pressed against Boromir’s. His cries were loud and seemed to come from far away. Lips found his and he swallowed Boromir’s own harsh, pleasure-filled cries. His hips jerked and hitched and his seed spilled over his belly and joined with Boromir’s. They lay in the darkness, panting softly, and holding each other tightly, for a long moment. At last Boromir shifted and made to rise from the bed.
Frantic now, Faramir clung desperately to his brother. “Do not leave.”
But Boromir said nothing, only shook his head so that his hair fell loosely over his eyes. His mouth turned up in an enigmatic smile and he leaned down and placed a light kiss on Faramir’s lips. “Farewell,” he breathed.
“Captain?”
Faramir jerked awake with a start and stared around, wondering where he was. The blankets were tangled and slick with sweat and his own seed. He grimaced. What would his men think of him, he wondered. But Mablung said nothing, only waited by the partition. “I am ready,” said Faramir as he tossed aside the blankets and reached for his tunic. As he moved, he caught a familiar scent and paused. For a moment, he could have sworn he smelled Boromir and growing things. Then a great dread spread through his insides and clamped cold hands around his heart and he was frozen and tears swam before his eyes and dropped to the earthen floor and he could not stop them.
*~*
Faramir moved his troops to the ruined city of Osgiliath later in the week. The sense of foreboding had not left him and he longed to be as close to Minas Tirith as possible. He and his troops spend several days reworking the pathetic defenses and Faramir sighed. There was nothing that would make Osgiliath more defensible. Everything that he could do to hold Gondor he had done. All that they lacked were men. And those men would come in the form of allies, if any could be sent as the dark hosts gathered far and wide over Middle Earth. Rumors, dark and full of evil, came from the Mark and Faramir realized that Gondor might fall if Isengard was not defeated. Yet, there was nothing to be done, for he could not abandon his post in Gondor and gather men to ride to the aid of the Rohan. And even so, there were no men to be had. Everywhere one looked, death and destruction stared back.
On the night he was to depart again for Ithilien, Faramir sat by the water’s edge and watched as the moon bathed the river in silver. He thought he might have dozed off, but he was not sure. On the water, a glowing boat bobbed gently, unlike any Faramir had ever seen, and his feet slipped into the water before he even realized he’d moved. He waded closer and the little boat seemed to pause as if waiting for him to draw near. The cold dread that had wrapped its darkling hand around his heart squeezed and Faramir had to screw his courage hard to him and force his legs to move through the water. The boat bobbed with the current and waited for him, as if held still by an invisible hand until Faramir drew up beside it. He stared down and his heart stopped in his chest and the blood in his veins froze.
“O Boromir….”
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