splix | FIC: Plainsong [1/1]

Title: Plainsong
Author: Alex [

splix]
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir
Summary: Boromir has always been Faramir's protector. Now he has need of Faramir's strength.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to their copyright holders.
Warning: Incest. Violence. References to nonconsensual sex [others/Boromir]
Feedback: Is treasured.
Thanks: To

kimberlite for her friendship and patient beta.

This long stretch of land was once a part of
Osgiliath's botanical gardens, a haven of beauty and
tranquility, sinuous and symmetrical grace. Now it is
a monumental ruin, broken flagstone, rubble, and
weeds, a triumph of chaos over order. It is the domain
of the Orc now, and it is here that Faramir has
discovered the whereabouts of his missing brother.

Five days have passed since Boromir and a small
retinue set out on a patrol of the Anduin's eastern
shore. Faramir, engaged on a patrol of his own in the
Stonewain Valley, returned to Minas Tirith,
discovering his brother absent and his father near
frantic with worry. Grimly, he chose his own company,
men of courage, loyalty, and strength, and set off for
Osgiliath, closing his ears to Denethor's upbraiding.
Surely the Steward's bitter jeers sprang only from his
anxiety for Boromir's safety.

Now Faramir treads with care along the pale stone
wall, half again a man's height, that borders the
wreckage of the garden. The scent of woodsmoke draws
him ever closer to the quarry he has tracked for two
days. His steps come to an abrupt halt as voices echo
through the deserted space -- three Orcs, their crude
bellows and laughter ringing unpleasantly against the
stone, and one human, a brief utterance of sound
choked with pain. As Faramir crouches against the
wall, downwind of the brutal creatures, he hears the
distinct snap of a lash against bare flesh, a soft
whimper, and cringes as if he, not his brother, were
the whip's unfortunate victim.

The lash falls again; there is another muted cry,
another brutish burst of laughter. Faramir's shaking
fingers tighten around his bow. Three Orcs, and
Faramir is alone. He is nineteen, a man by anyone's
reckoning, but at this moment he feels helpless. 'A
child going to do a man's work' is the last insult
Denethor flung at his back. It cut then; it cuts
deeper now, lengthening his paralysis, his hatred of
his foes, his fear for his brother. Many orcs have
fallen to his arrows and sword, but never has one he
loved been a captive at their hands. Deliberation and
speed must now guide him. If only he could move.

Once more the crack of the whip resounds in the night
air. Boromir cries out, provoking shouts and laughter.
"Squeal, little princeling," growls a voice. "Go on,
louder! Your friends are looking for you. Bring 'em
here." There is a thud, followed by a groan.

Faramir can listen no longer. He glides to a gnarled
tree, stunted and sickly looking but strong enough to
support his weight, and climbs. A branch snaps beneath
his boot, but the Orcs, now in his sightline and
illuminated by their meager fire, are occupied with
tormenting their captive, kicking him with abandon,
hurling obscenities at him. Faramir avoids looking
at the huddled form at the Orcs' feet. He anchors
himself in the fork of the tree, nocks an arrow,
squints, and lets it fly.

Success! The arrow lands squarely between the eyes of
one Orc, felling him instantly. Faramir pulls his
knife; a second later it is planted in the throat of
the second Orc. By now the third has spotted Faramir,
and charges to the wall with an ululating howl, his
crude battle-axe slashing the air. Faramir is ready;
taking advantage of the high ground, he springs to the
wall, catlike, then draws his sword and leaps down,
unleashing a roar of his own. The sword lodges in the
Orc's armor, half-severing its swordarm at the
shoulder. A scream of pain replaces the howl, and
Faramir cannot -- indeed, will not deny the hot
surge of joy in his chest at that sound.

But the Orc is not finished; it flings itself at
Faramir, knocking him to the ground and pinning him. A
foul gout of black blood spurts onto Faramir's face,
hot and blinding. Instinctively, he strikes a glancing
blow to the creature's face and feels teeth clamping
on his hand. With a cry of mingled pain and rage, he
pushes his hand deeper into the Orc's maw, his fingers
slipping on blood and slime, pushing back the beast's
tongue. Gasping through excruciating agony -- those
teeth are still driving into his flesh -- he frees his
other hand and plunges his sword into the Orc's neck.

As the Orc lets loose a death cry to chill the heart,
Faramir yanks his hand away and shoves the creature
back. Swiftly, he gains his feet, wiping foulness from
his burning eyes. Black blood spatters the crumbling
flagstone; he slides a little as he retrieves the
knife from the throat of the still-twitching Orc.

There is no time to revel in victory; doubtless more
Orcs are nearby and will find them soon. Faramir
speeds to his brother's side. In a glance, much is
revealed. Never has he seen Boromir so utterly
defenseless. He is curled on his side, naked, his
knees pulled up to his chest. His hands are tied
behind him with crude leather thongs. Another thong
binds his bruised and bleeding mouth. One ankle is
tethered with rope to the stout roots of a dead
lebethron tree. Even in the moonlight, a profusion of
wounds and bruises are all too distressingly evident.
Dark slashes glistening with fresh blood crosshatch
his back. His body is filthy, streaked with mud,
blood, and what looks -- and smells -- like Orc dung.

With the utmost gentleness, Faramir shifts his
brother's body slightly to cut his bonds, and freezes,
his breath caught in his chest. On the backs of
Boromir's thighs -- more blood, in long, drying
streaks. And another substance -- Faramir leans closer
and chokes on a peculiar, foul stench.

"No..." It is clear now what the orcs have done.
Faramir clamps his lips together, willing himself not
to vomit. Anger like white-hot knotted wire burns
behind his eyes. Stilling the trembling of his hands,
he cuts through the thongs around Boromir's wrists.
"Boromir," he calls softly. "Boromir!" A moan is
his only reply; Faramir hastens to slice through the
knot at the back of Boromir's neck, tangled in
blood-caked, dirty hair. He eases the leather from
between Boromir's lips, and sees it now
for what it is: finely tooled with stars and twining
athelas leaves, it is tack, a length from the reins of
his brother's beloved horse, Hallas. The horse is
nowhere in sight. Faramir pushes the image of the poor
creature's probable fate from his mind and tosses the
leather aside with a muttered oath. "Boromir!"

Boromir stirs. His eyes, swollen nearly shut from the
beatings the Orcs have administered, open to slits,
and he struggles to focus. "Brother?" The query is no
more than a croak; Boromir coughs, blood trickling
down his chin.

"Yes." Faramir takes one cold hand and begins to chafe
blood back into it. "Boromir -- Aradreth and Cirion
and Mardil. Are they..."

"Gone," Boromir whispers. "We could not fight them
all."

"Three Orcs are dead. Are there more?"

Boromir nods painfully. "Two. They...they heard you, I
think. Went to search for you."

"Then we must leave at once." No telling how long
their fortune will hold. Faramir doubts he can fend
off two Orcs and defend Boromir at the same time;
flight is now their wisest course of action. He hacks
at the rope fastening Boromir's ankle to the tree. The
rope is long enough to allow for some movement;
Faramir sees the faint tracery of battle in the dusty
earth, evidence of an attempt to fight. Valiant
Boromir. The sting in Faramir's eyes is not entirely
owed to Orcish blood. "Are you too injured to walk?
Have they broken anything?"

"I can manage if you help me up."

Faramir puts an arm around Boromir's waist and helps
him to sit up. "Where are your clothes?"

"Burnt." A strange, gulping laugh issues from
Boromir's throat.

Faramir's heart is rent in two. In an agony of
silence, he strips off his cloak and drapes it around
Boromir's naked, battered body, then assists him to
his feet. Boromir cannot suppress a whimper, and he
half-collapses against Faramir's supporting arm.
Faramir staggers a little beneath his brother's
weight. "What is it?"

"My knee. Something is torn inside."

"Put your weight on me." Faramir grasps Boromir round
his waist. They make halting progress toward the
garden entrance. Faramir, burdened by his brother's
weight, hears his breath harsh and ragged in his own
ears. He notes Boromir's struggles not to cry out and
grits his teeth in fresh determination. Another two
hundred paces or so to the gate; not far at all, he
assures himself.

Boromir emits a choked cry. Faramir glances at him
quickly, then follows his gaze to a pile of bones,
picked nearly clean, next to a pile of discarded
armor. He sees two skulls, then another. It scarcely
seems possible, but it must be. Bones, stripped of
flesh. Hungry Orcs, rapacious and greedy.
Aradreth...Cirion...Mardil. Horror renders him mute,
and he wonders how Boromir escaped his companions'
dreadful end.

"They knew me," Boromir says, seeming to read
Faramir's thoughts. "Or rather knew of me. They knew
Father's name. They were going to kill me, but they
wanted Father to know they'd captured me first." His
voice is layered with emotions almost too complex for
Faramir to disentangle -- anger, fear, shame, relief.
"I had to watch them -- they forced me --"

"Hush -- save your breath." The moon passes behind a
cloud, obscuring the pathetic remains of Boromir's
companions. Faramir is grateful for the reprieve. He
will have to lead a party back here to collect the
bones, to give them proper tribute and entombment, but
not now. Tightening his grasp around Boromir's waist,
he speaks with a firmness he does not feel. "We've
almost reached the gate."

A rustle of foliage, stealthy and deliberate, sounds
in the east. Both brothers freeze.

"Leave me," Boromir whispers.

"No. Be quiet." Faramir draws his knife with one hand.

"You can't defend yourself and protect me as well."
Boromir struggles slightly in agitation.

"I'll knock you over the head and carry you like a
sack of grain if I must. Now hush!" Faramir edges
close to the wall, concealing them both in shadow.
From the east comes another sound -- the whistled
trill of a night lark. Faramir sags in relief.
"Dírhael!" He echoes the sound and turns to Boromir.
"All is well. Dírhael has the horses. Rest a moment."
He gently deposits Boromir on a large ornamental stone
and runs toward his companions. They are safe and
sound -- Dírhael, Beregond, Guthred, Caradoc.

Beregond and Caradoc clap Faramir on the back. "You
have found them?"

Faramir shakes his head. "Boromir only. The rest are
dead."

The men mutter quiet imprecations. "They will pay for
this," Guthred snarls, his hand moving to the hilt of
his sword.

"Indeed they will." Faramir rests a forestalling hand
on Guthred's. "But not this night. We're returning to
Minas Tirith -- save your strength and your anger."

"Can Boromir ride?" Beregond inquires.

It is a valid question, and a difficult one. Faramir
dreads forcing Boromir to sit a horse. With injuries
like his -- but there is no help for it, unless he is
to sling his brother across the horse's saddle --
likely twice as uncomfortable, and twice as apt to
slow the horse's gait. No, Boromir must ride. "He'll
have to."

Beregond pauses. "Hallas?"

Faramir sighs. "Gone. Boromir will ride with me.
Dírhael, Beregond -- ride ahead now and inform my
father that we return with his first-born." He turns
to the huddled form in the shadows. They return with
Denethor's first-born, indeed -- somewhat less than
whole. "Guthred, Caradoc -- flank me. He's badly hurt
and we shall need your protection."

As the men move swiftly to the horses, Faramir makes
his way to his brother's side. The moon gives only the
faintest illumination, but he sees that Boromir's eyes
are open, watching him, and his arms are wrapped
around his knees as if that would shield him from
further harm. Faramir brushes a lank, dirty strand of
hair from Boromir's face and caresses his cheek with
two fingers. "Brother, we must go."

Boromir nods.

"You will have to ride with me," Faramir murmurs. "I
know you are wounded. I am s --"

"I'll manage." The reply is a harsh rasp from
Boromir's throat. He heaves himself from the rock,
staggers, and by some miracle of balance and strength
holds himself upright. "Get the horse."

Faramir recognizes desperation when he sees it. He
takes Gwaihir's reins from Guthred and leads him to
where Boromir stands unsupported, ignoring Guthred and
Caradoc's dismayed, compassionate stares, clinging to
the last tattered shreds of his might and dignity and
pride. As Gwaihir nickers a friendly greeting and
bumps his nose against Boromir's shoulder, he sways,
and is prevented from a fall only by Faramir's quick
reaction.

"Steady, Gwaihir," Faramir scolds gently. Boromir
clings to the horse's bridle and pets his nose, agony
etching lines in his face. Faramir can bear it no
longer. "Up," he instructs, more gruffly than
intended, and grasps Boromir's upper arm. Part of him
longs to gather his brother into his arms, but knows
it for a futile yearning. "Mind your knee."

Boromir mounts, unable to stifle a cry of pain as he
settles astride the beast.

"My lord?" Guthred moves closer anxiously.

"Leave me be!" Boromir hoists himself upright, though
his face is milk-pale in the moonlight, strained
nearly beyond endurance.

Faramir squeezes Guthred's arm as consolation and
caution. "Never mind," he whispers, and mounts Gwaihir
behind Boromir. It is a tight fit in the saddle for
both of them, but perhaps it will reduce further
injury. Faramir shudders and clasps Boromir around the
waist. "It will be a hard ride. I am sorry for it."

Already Boromir's posture has slackened; he leans
heavily against Faramir's chest, but a tired chuckle
escapes him. "Only you, brother, would apologize for
saving my life."

"Aye, because you are so very particular." Smiling,
aching at Boromir's bruised gallantry, he turns to his
friends. "Quickly -- we ride!"

*

A band of deep violet tints the horizon as they
approach the Great Gate. The ride has been long and
arduous because of the darkened road and Faramir's
efforts to curb Gwaihir into a smoother gait. Too, the
journey has more than taken its toll on Boromir; he
has borne his discomfort without complaint, but he
sags forward in the saddle, clinging to Gwaihir's
mane. Twice he has succumbed to a faint, and Faramir's
strength is sapped from controlling the horse and
keeping Boromir in the saddle. But it is over now; the
gate is open, and several men wait with torches,
welcoming them home. As they move closer, a glad cry
rises in the air. Faramir breathes easily for the
first time that night. He eases Boromir upright,
taking care not to cause him further pain. "We're
home, brother," he murmurs in Boromir's ear. "We're
home."

Boromir lifts his head with difficulty.
"Faramir...don't tell Father."

Faramir understands him at once. "He'll want you in
the Houses of Healing. There will be talk."

"Please, brother...."

It is the plea that undoes him. Ever has Boromir been
Faramir's protector, his sword and shield. Faramir
cannot recall a time when Boromir was not beside him
to lend strength and courage and companionship. Now
Boromir needs his brother's strength, for he is near
the end of his own. And he would do anything to
protect his younger brother; Faramir cannot but agree,
though something inside nags at Boromir's
secretiveness, his shame. "Very well," he replies, and
there is no time for more promises, for Denethor
stands waiting in the courtyard, surrounded by
soldiers.

"Boromir!" He rushes forward, arms outstretched. His
hauberk of mail jingles in counterpoint to the sound
of Gwaihir's hooves. "My son." Tears of joy stream
unchecked down his face; his customary frown has been
replaced with a smile so beatific it scarcely seems
the same man. His joy is for Boromir alone; for
Faramir, there is but a cold glance.

"Father," Boromir replies weakly.

Denethor's eyes rake over Boromir's hunched figure.
"Bearers!" he barks.

At once a number of men step forward, a litter in
their midst. Healers stand behind them in an attitude
of expectancy. Nearby, a wagon waits in readiness,
piled with cushions and blankets, every comfort for
the wounded patient.

Boromir sits straight in the saddle. Faramir can see
sweat dampening his cloak, though the night is cool
and dry. "Faramir will accompany me, Father. I only
require one healer."

"Nonsense. You are badly injured!"

"It looks far worse than it is, I assure you."
Boromir's body is trembling with fatigue. "One healer.
And I need rest. I shall see you tomorrow,
Father...and tell you all about my adventure. Come,
Faramir -- let us go."

Denethor glares at Faramir suspiciously. "Does he
speak lightly of his wounds? Dírhael and Beregond said
he could scarce bear himself upright."

"There are wounds," Faramir allows. "But one healer
should suffice. Good night, Father. It was good of you
to wait." He nudges the horse into a walk. Denied
their drama, the waiting soldiers part reluctantly.

"Follow him," Denethor orders. "You -- and you." Two
healers are named. Faramir shrugs inwardly. Two are as
simple to deal with as one.

As they move out of the soldiers' sight, Boromir
collapses again, nearly falling from the horse. "A
little further, Boromir," Faramir urges. "Hold on."

Finally, they are home. Faramir dismounts and helps
Boromir off, staggering under his weight. He
half-drags, half carries his pale, barely conscious
brother up the stairs of his lodgings, into his
bedchamber, and lifts him onto the bed. The room is
warm; a fire has been laid and lit, and the glow of
several lanterns softens the darkness of heavy drawn
curtains and stone walls.

Faramir sinks onto the bed and examines Boromir
closely, his heart wrenched afresh by Boromir's state.
His skin is white, as though the Orcs bled him dry.
His parted lips are blue. His hair, ordinarily deep
wheat-gold, is dark with blood and filth. Three days'
growth of beard covers his chin. The marks on his
body...too many to count. Faramir's hands clench into
fists of helpless rage. That his brother should have
been subjected to such anguish is unbearable.

There is a soft noise at the door. The healers have
arrived, their baskets on their backs. "My lord?"

Faramir rises wearily. "Have a bath fetched for him.
And be sure to examine him carefully. He has extensive
injuries -- tell no one of their nature. No one."

The healers, a man and a woman, exchange an uneasy
glance. "Lord Denethor --" the woman begins.

"Lord Denethor is troubled by urgent matters." Faramir
makes his voice harsh, borrowing his father's icy
inflection. "It would grieve him to know his
first-born has not been properly tended. I cannot
imagine the scope of his rage if you were derelict in
your duties. To disturb him with unpleasant details
would be folly. Only when the news is favorable should
he be told. Am I understood?"

Once more the healers exchange a glance. "And if Lord
Denethor demands to know his son's progress? If he
demands to see him?" the man asks.

"You will tell him the healing is slow, but steady --
naturally. Of course Lord Boromir will require rest
and quiet. Not so?"

The healers nod. Something is amiss, but it is not for
them to question. From Boromir's appearance, their
work is clearly laid before them. Why trammel their
situation with politics? "We understand, my lord."

Never before has Faramir commanded through fear. It is
a new and unpleasant experience to see the cringing
uneasiness in the healers' eyes. "You'll be well
rewarded. I leave him in your care." Faramir moves to
Boromir's side, leans down, and places a tender kiss
on his brother's brow. Boromir does not stir.

Faramir trudges to his own bedchamber. No fire awaits
him, no lanterns are lit, but he cannot bring himself
to care. It is nothing new, and besides, Boromir is
safe; homely comforts pale beside the miracle of this
gift. He strips off his leather jerkin, then drops to
the bed, too tired to remove his filthy boots, the
clothes befouled with the blood of Orcs. In seconds,
he falls into a deep and dreamless slumber.

*

A sullen rain, grey and cold, patters steadily down
as Faramir and Denethor lead a procession along the
Silent Street from the House of the Stewards. Behind
the Steward and his son are the grieving families and
comrades-in-arms of Boromir's unfortunate companions,
Aradreth, Cirion, and Mardil. Denethor has consented
to have the remains laid to rest in the House of the
Stewards as a tribute to their valor.

The door of Fen Hollen opens for the mourners. They
spill into the street, glancing behind them for a last
look at the Silent Street. For most it is the only
time they will see the grim splendor of the tombs;
never again will they be permitted to lay wreaths of
fern and flower upon the graves of their lost sons and
brothers. But it is a great honor to lie beside the
Stewards, and none of the families have denied their
sweet departed this accolade.

Faramir sighs and doffs his helmet, glancing up at the
lowering sky. If only Boromir were beside him,
offering the reassurance of a smile, of a wise, calm
word for the families of the fallen. Alas, Boromir is
still abed, healing from his wounds. The worst of the
fevers have passed, but he is weak and spent. Faramir
has passed the days at his bedside, listening to his
cries of delirium, watching helplessly as he cringes
and strikes out against invisible attackers, bathing
his fevered skin with cool herbal waters. Only twice
has he left his brother: once to return to Osgiliath,
to collect the remains, and now, for the funeral. Now
it is time to return to Boromir's side.

"My lord. Captain."

Startled out of his reverie, Faramir turns and sees
Cirion's father, Aldamir, leading a small boy by the
hand. None of the retreating families have dared to
speak to Faramir, much less Denethor, but Aldamir is
an old soldier, a former guardian of the White Tree,
and has been ever loyal to the Stewards. Aldamir's
armor is battered and old-fashioned, but no speck of
tarnish taints its shining surface, and he bears
himself erect despite his many years. A long scar
draws his mouth downward and one hand is in constant
tremor, mementos of a fearsome battle with Orcs when
Cirion was a mere boy.

"Aldamir." Denethor rests a hand on Aldamir's
shoulder. "Our hearts grieve with you this day."

Aldamir bows, and nudges the child to do the same. "I
thank you for the honor you've conferred upon my son,
my lord."

"It is the least we can do to acclaim the service he
has rendered to Gondor." Denethor's voice is deep,
warm, and soft, his carriage noble, his bearing
compassionate. In this moment he is kingly, and
Faramir yearns to freeze time, to keep his father thus
forever. Denethor turns to Faramir. "Your brother will
be awaiting your return. He seems stronger when you
are by his side. Do not tarry overlong." It is as
close to a compliment as Faramir has received in a
long while, but before he can respond, Denethor pivots
on his heel and departs, his dark robes sweeping
behind him. Faramir is pierced by a familiar thorn of
mingled resentment, longing, and desperate love.

"Captain."

Faramir frowns. "Forgive me, Aldamir." He draws his
hand out of his glove and gently grasps Aldamir's
palsied hand. "I am sorry. It is a great loss to us
all."

"I hear tell you collected his body yourself, sir."

"Aye, and a company of loyal men besides." Faramir
will not tell Cirion's father about the dishonored,
fleshless bones, nor his son's likely end. It is
enough that he himself will never forget it; no point
in inflicting it upon a grieving father.

Tears gleam in Aldamir's eyes. "He was a good lad," he
says roughly. "A good lad."

"None better."

Aldamir nods and collects himself. "I thank you for
bringing him home, sir."

"He was my friend," Faramir replies, then notices the
boy staring up at him. He smiles and tousles the
child's wet hair. "And who is this stout fellow?"

"My grandson, Ragnir. Cirion's child. All I've left to
me now."

The child stares at Faramir with wide, serious eyes.
Faramir sinks into a crouch, eye-level with the boy.
"Your father was a courageous warrior. And he was a
good friend to me, and to my brother Boromir."

"Orcs killed him." The boy's voice trembles. Tears
mingle with rain on his round cheeks.

"Yes. He died saving my brother's life. It was a brave
thing for him to do -- the bravest deed anyone can
do." He hands the boy a wreath of twined flowers. He
had intended to bring it to Boromir, but this child
needs it more. "Someday, when you are a little older,
come to me, and I shall tell you stories about his
courage. Then you can tell your children and
grandchildren tales of Cirion the Bold."

"Promise?" the child asks doubtfully.

"Ragnir!" Aldamir scolds.

Faramir bites back a smile. "I swear by your father's
sword, Ragnir. Off you go now -- and never forget what
a fine man he was." He rises to his feet and briefly
touches the boy's cheek. Aldamir bows, and Ragnir,
filled with a new importance, bows as well. Aldamir
says nothing, but his eyes shine as he grasps
Faramir's shoulder -- a fatherly, strangely
heartrending caress.

The rain is heavier now, the sky darker. Faramir
stands alone outside Fen Hollen. Slowly, he replaces
his helmet and makes his way toward the citadel,
toward Boromir.

*

A week passes; another; then another. The nights grow
cold. On the day Faramir returns from a short and
uneventful riverbank patrol, autumn has already drawn
its chill mantle around Minas Tirith. Throughout the
city, preparations for winter are underway. Faramir
rides through the market street, smiling at the clamor
of vendors with their baskets of winter fruit and
greenery, neat bundles of kindling, tanned skins and
pelts to protect against winter cold, stiff brooms and
brushes for a new season's housecleaning.

Impulsively, he stops at a stand where a man roasts
nuts in honey and butter on a flat iron pan over a
roaring fire. The same man has been on this street
since Faramir was a small child. There was no greater
treat for Boromir and Faramir than the sweets, hot and
delicious, poured into a square of paper twirled into
a cone. Faramir buys three, tucks two into his
saddlebag, and resumes his journey, assuaging his keen
hunger with the sweetened nuts.

He is home at last. Without a pause to seek out his
father, Faramir runs up the staircase to Boromir's
chambers and is admitted at once. He rejoices to see
Boromir fully dressed and eating a meal with what
seems a good appetite. Upon catching
sight of his brother, Boromir leaps to his feet and
opens his arms. "You've been gone far too long,
brother!"

Faramir grins in delight and strides forward,
embracing Boromir tightly. "That may be so, but I'm
glad of it, for time and care have done their work.
You look strong and hearty." He kisses Boromir on the
cheek, then holds him at arm's length. "Perhaps I
have been gone too long. What is this?" he inquires,
swiping at the carefully trimmed beard on Boromir's
face. "I scarcely recognized you. And your hair..."

"Too long for practicality," Boromir laughs. "Does
this not suit me?"

"No -- that is, it does suit you." Faramir considers
Boromir's shorn locks, trimmed to just above his
shoulders. "It suits you very well." And it does.
Boromir looks sterner, somehow more grave and austere,
but his masculine beauty is undiminished. Faramir
turns to the two healers, who stand in an attitude of
patient expectation, baskets on their backs as if they
have only been waiting for Faramir to return before
they take their leave. "He is fully healed?"

The female healer bows slightly. "He is, my lord. We
have instructed him to visit the House of Healing in a
week's time --"

Boromir snorts and waves a dismissive hand.

"For his own health, my lord," the woman continues,
fixing Boromir with a reproachful yet fond glance.

"I shall see to it myself," Faramir replies. "And I
have not forgot my promise. When I bring him, you will
receive your reward. I thank you for your skill and
patience." He clasps each of their hands in turn, then
closes the door behind them. Sighing, he returns to
Boromir's table and slumps into a chair. Unfastening
the buckle of his saddlebag, he retrieves the paper
cones of sweet nuts and places them beside Boromir's
plate. "To crown your dinner."

Boromir's eyes widen. "Not -- is it from old Iorlas on
the market street?"

"The very one."

"I've not had these for years." Boromir opens one of
the paper cones and inhales the scent of its contents.
"Marvelous!" He shakes a generous amount into his
mouth and sighs in pleasure. "No better sweet in all
of Minas Tirith." He trades a quick smile with
Faramir, then tilts his head to one side. "What did
you mean by a reward?"

Faramir glances down at the tooled leather of his
saddlebag. "For their speed...and discretion."

A moment passes before Boromir speaks. "I see." He
returns to his dinner, though with less gusto than
before, and does not meet Faramir's eyes.

"Boromir." Faramir fastens a pleading gaze upon his
brother's face, a plea wasted since Boromir will not
look up. "Brother, we have not had time alone since
before -- for weeks now." His fingers assure
themselves -- needlessly -- that the buckles on his
bag are refastened. "We have not spoken of that
night."

"Is there something to speak of?" Boromir, his averted
face suffused with color, roughly spears a section of
fowl.

"If you wish to...unburden yourself...." Faramir
gropes desperately. Ever have their lives been freely
intertwined, like young green vines. They have no
secrets from one another. But Boromir's captivity, his
wounds, and his sufferings are bound up with shame.
Would recounting his torment diffuse his distress?

A strange laugh hiccups from Boromir's chest.
"Unburden?" He pushes his plate away, gains his feet,
and walks to the window, misted with cold. With the
tip of his finger, he draws a straight line, then a
crooked spiral pattern. "Faramir, listen well. As you
love me, say nothing more of that night. Nothing."

Faramir opens his hands. "Brother --"

"Say nothing!" Boromir's voice breaks, and he pounds
on the stone wall with a fist. "I'll answer no
questions. I'll not speak of it again -- not even to
you."

Sighing, Faramir bows his head. A wall has risen
between them; loneliness fills the cavern of his
chest. "You are certain?" He looks up to see Boromir
nod.

"Please -- go."

Faramir rises and trudges to the door. He casts one
last look over his shoulder to see Boromir's
back. His heart leaden and aching, he exits quietly,
closing the door behind him.

*

Not since that day, weeks ago, has Faramir managed to
see Boromir alone. They are together only in the
presence of others. Boromir surrounds himself with his
lieutenants, his friends -- nothing unusual to an
untutored observer, no extraordinary change worked
upon the son of the Steward despite what was said to
be a most harrowing ordeal. In battle-drill he is
neither harsh nor angry; his thrusts and parries are
controlled, precise, the mark of a consummate warrior.
In moments of leisure he laughs and jests with his
friends, eats and drinks with relish, behaves with
courtly solicitude to ladies of high and low estate.
Only occasionally does he allow his mask of joviality
to slip; it is then that Faramir sees the hollow
exhaustion in his eyes. Once, their gazes meet;
Boromir flushes deeply and turns away. In that moment
Faramir sees that Boromir is trapped, as much a
captive now as when the Orcs held him. And Faramir is
helpless to free him.

*

The southernmost bank of the Anduin at Osgiliath is
drained marshland, once rich with fields of succulent
grain. Now that the city has fallen, it seems nothing
so much as a fetid swamp, its crust of earth thin and
frail, oozing mud and water, never freezing even in
wintertime, its vegetation spindly, faltering. It is a
drowned land, and were he not charged with its
reclamation, Faramir would leave it and never return.

But such is not to be. Faramir leads a small party --
Guthred, Madril, and Boromir -- through the wetlands.
Boromir volunteered for the patrol at once, and any
protest Faramir might have uttered died unvoiced when
he saw Boromir's eyes. Perhaps, he reasoned, Boromir
can purge himself of the pain locked inside, for it is
clear he cannot make visible that which holds him so
firmly.

Gwaihir picks his way through the mud, ears laid back,
as irritably disdainful as any court dandy reluctant
to dirty his shoes. Faramir laughs softly and clucks
to the beast; poor Gwaihir likes this place no better
than he. All at once Gwaihir stills, nostrils flaring
and ears alert to the quiet noises and shifting
shadows of the small copse of trees ahead. Faramir
trusts his steed's superior senses and understands the
warning: the enemy is near.

"Be ready," Faramir instructs the others, and says
nothing when Boromir rides up beside him. He searches
his brother's face anxiously, though, unconvinced by
Boromir's calm mien.

And now, seemingly unaware of the men, two Orcs emerge
from the trees, leading between them a horse burdened
with cargo -- dead deer, lashed to the creature's
back.

"Hallas," Boromir whispers -- the name of his horse,
who he thought lost to ravenous Orc appetites. Before
Faramir can reply, Boromir charges, his voice raised
in a ringing battle cry.

Faramir blinks -- surely it cannot be Hallas -- and
then gathers himself for the charge, kicking Gwaihir
into a startled trot, then a gallop. It is a foolish
thing Boromir has done; there may be several more Orcs
hiding, or several dozen. But he will not leave
Boromir alone; even if he dies in combat, let him die
protecting his beloved brother.

The battle is swift and short -- indeed, nonexistent.
Boromir dispatches both Orcs before either has the
presence of mind to retrieve their crude swords. He
leaps from his horse and with bellows that rend the
dawn, swings his sword again and again, hacking the
Orcs to pieces, fouling the very air with blackish
blood.

Faramir dismounts and moves closer; their companions
hover uncertainly behind him. Lord Boromir is consumed
by rage, by kill-hunger; it is a side never glimpsed
before. Faramir waves a reassuring hand -- how strange
it is that he is so calm -- and speaks softly to his
brother. "Boromir."

Boromir, still caught up in his murderous frenzy, does
not reply.

"Boromir!"

The sword stops in mid-air. Boromir stares at Faramir,
his eyes blank, his entire body spattered with blood.

"They are dead. Both of them. See?"

An uncomprehending blink is Boromir's only reply. He
gazes around in wonder, as if surprised to see the
bodies before him.

"You were right," Faramir says softly. "It is Hallas.
You've saved him." His hand slowed by caution, he
reaches out to scratch Hallas' forehead. The poor
creature looks dreadful: thin, coat dull, old and
fresh whip marks marring his body, a cruel bridle of
coarse rope caught around his nose, but it is Hallas
nonetheless. "He'll be fine. Lost a shoe, it seems."
Hallas whinnies, lowering his head for a deeper
scratch. "Good. Good fellow," Faramir croons.

Boromir sinks to the muddy ground with a tired sigh.
Mute, he holds up a supplicating hand. Deliberately
misunderstanding the gesture, Faramir clasps his
brother's hand and pulls him to his feet, holding him
firmly to still his trembling limbs.

"Come," he murmurs. "Let's go home."

*

A harsh wind beats at the walls of the stable, but
within the horses are undisturbed. Boromir leans
against Hallas' stall, watching him as though the
creature might be swept away again.

"He looks better," Faramir ventures.

Startled, Boromir turns, then nods. "He's had a good
rest and a good meal or two. Oats, water...apples." He
manages a rueful smile. "Too many apples, like as
not."

"I'm sure he was glad of them."

Boromir folds his arms on the stall door and rests his
chin atop them. "I tended his wounds myself."

"There were many. Were they serious?"

"Whip marks, mostly. And he's underfed. But
otherwise..." A moment of silence, broken only by the
howling wind, permeates the stable. It is only when
Faramir moves closer that he sees the tears streaming
down Boromir's cheeks.

"Brother," Faramir whispers, placing a tentative hand
on Boromir's back and stroking it gently.

"What they took, Faramir." Boromir's voice is muffled
in the cloth of his sleeves. "They took what I had
wanted to give you."

Shock stills Faramir's hand. This is a revelation
unexpected -- long-desired, if he is to be entirely
honest with himself -- but unexpected nonetheless.
Many years have passed since they have shared a bed,
and shy touches -- glorious touches, to be sure, but
they ceased as the two grew older, and the mysterious
allure of the White City's population of feminine
beauties increased. In truth, Faramir had believed
that Boromir did not remember the desire that once
surged between them.

And what is there to say, Faramir wonders wildly.
Hush, brother? All is well? Your enemies are dead,
rejoice? I am still yours if you want me? No; to such
anguish there is no reply. Faramir is no speechmaker.
He has no pretty words of comfort. Instead, he wraps
his arms around his brother's waist and leans his head
upon Boromir's shoulder, inhaling the scent of
Boromir's cloak mingled with hay and horse and
crackling embers -- comforting smells that have
sustained him since childhood.

Boromir turns and cups Faramir's cheek in his hand.
Tears still gleam in his eyes, but he smiles. "I never
thanked you for saving me."

"I don't want thanks."

"You've been patient with me."

Faramir shakes his head. Instinct tells him nothing
will be as it was; he knew it the moment he heard
Boromir's plaintive groans, the Orcs' brutal laughter.
It is not patience planted in his heart, but the seeds
of resignation. At this moment, it seems the most
shameful of weaknesses.

A sudden anger burns through him, rage at the foul
beasts who have cast this shadow over them, who stole
what might have been. He holds Boromir away, hands
tight on his arms. He lets his eyes sweep boldly over
the long span of Boromir's body, then meets his gaze.
"Why?" he demands. "Why did you never tell me?"

Boromir looks at the ground, seeming stricken. "I
thought you did not remember...you never spoke of it."

"Because you were busy bedding every maiden within the
city walls."

Their eyes meet again, and all at once the anger is
gone. Laughter erupts from both brothers like a gust
of warm summer breeze. All at once Boromir pulls
Faramir close, twines his hand in his hair, and kisses
him. His lips tremble against Faramir's; his breath is
ragged. "Forgive me."

"You're forgiven." Faramir, half-dizzy with shock and
desire, staggers against the stall door. Hallas shifts
and snorts. "I don't --" He laughs shakily. "You're
forgiven, you halfwit."

Boromir tugs at a lock of Faramir's hair. "Halfwit!"
He spins Faramir around, locks an arm around his neck,
and wrestles him to the floor. "I'll give you
halfwit." They struggle in mock combat, gasping with
laughter. Finally they rest, panting, leaning against
the wall. Hallas, bored with their human idiocies,
wanders deeper into his stall and contentedly munches
hay.

Faramir takes Boromir's long, graceful hand in his.
"Do you still want...."

"Yes."

Faramir speaks the fear that suddenly worms its way
into his heart. "It will not undo what has been done."

"I do not expect it to." Boromir curls his hand around
Faramir's. "But I'll not let that keep me from
living -- on the contrary. Before you found me,
brother, I despaired. Never was death that close, that
cold. Then you rescued me, and I thought...it was as a
dream, a phantom that enshrouded me. And these past
weeks since...I was a fool. That was not living." His
voice broke.

"You needn't --"

"Hush," Boromir replies, resting a finger on Faramir's
mouth. "I don't wish to relive it. I only wish to
explain -- and to ask -- will you, brother?"

Faramir grins and kisses Boromir's finger. "Yes. Yes.
But not here. Hallas has had enough frights."

*

They cross the courtyard in silence. Boromir leads the
way to his chamber, holding tightly to Faramir's hand.
There is affection in his grip, but more, there is the
practical pressure of banked desire. Once inside, the
door firmly bolted against intrusion, the brothers
look at each other in faint bewilderment.

Heat creeps up Faramir's neck, flooding his cheeks. He
peels off his cloak and drapes it over a tufted stool,
then fingers his belt buckle. "I suppose we should..."

A strained laugh escapes Boromir's throat. "Yes -- of
course."

Awkward and uncertain, they begin to undress. Faramir
is stripped down to his tunic, breeches, and boots in
a moment. He looks up to see Boromir still struggling
with his belt. Boromir's face is red, and his hands
tremble, rendering his efforts useless. "Let me help."
Faramir steps closer, bridging the distance between
them, and deftly unknots the tough leather, allowing
it to slither to the floor.

Boromir nods from behind the curtain of his hair, then
pulls his outermost tunic over his head and lets it
fall where it will. "Thank you." Slowly, he looks up
to meet Faramir's eyes, and whatever he sees in them
makes him smile. He leans closer and kisses Faramir.
"I'm sorry. I should have spoken earlier."

"So should I." Faramir tenderly stays Boromir from
removing his hauberk and does it himself, listening to
the soft metallic shiver of mail. That garment, too,
drops to the floor. A dark red undertunic follows.
He kneels to help remove Boromir's boots and
stockings, then, still kneeling, unlaces the
fastenings of Boromir's breeches. Leaving them hanging
loosely at the hip, Faramir wraps his arms around
Boromir's waist and presses a kiss to the warmth of
his brother's belly. He moves down, licking and
sucking at the sensitive skin cupping Boromir's navel,
then further still, moving his lips over Boromir's
sex, straining now at the cloth of his breeches.

Boromir exhales harshly, a long, shuddering gasp, and
tangles his fingers in Faramir's hair. "Ah --
there --" He throws his head back, lips parted, eyes
closed, as though to absorb all sensation from
Faramir's soft, insistent touch.

"Slow, slow," Faramir cautions, rising to his feet. He
presses himself against Boromir, feeling his own
hardness arising. They have waited this long to take
each other; touching is needed now, caresses their
silent path to the inevitable. He slides Boromir's
breeches down and off, then drops to the stool and
holds out one still-booted leg. "Your assistance,
please."

Another laugh passes Boromir's lips, but this one is
deep and genuinely amused. "Yes, sire." He pulls off
one boot, and the other, then finally manages to tug
Faramir's breeches down.

Faramir watches, not helping, his mouth twitching with
soundless laughter. At last he relents and pulls his
own undertunic off, letting it drop to the floor.
"Such a mess we've made, and we've not done a thing
yet."

"You always were untidy."

"Me?" Faramir nudges Boromir's shoulder with his foot,
pushing him off-balance. He stands and moves to the
bed, then draws back the covers. "Take that back."

"Never." Boromir catches Faramir low around the waist
and heaves him to the bed. In seconds they are a
tangle of arms and legs, until Boromir pins Faramir to
the bed. "Surrender."

"Very well. I surrender." Faramir surges up to kiss
Boromir. He has waited long enough. He will not miss
one more glance or breath or moment, slight
compensation for their years apart. Changes have been
wrought on their bodies; no longer boyish, they cling
together, all long, hard-working legs and arms,
muscled chests and abdomens, stubbled chins. Time and
experience have made them men, and they regard each
other's newness in mingled wonder and delight. Both
are scarred from battle; Boromir bears the more recent
marks of his ordeal. Faramir caresses the still-livid
scars with tender respect. When Boromir kisses him
deeply, Faramir yields, allowing his mouth to be
captured and plundered, tossing his head as Boromir's
hand curls around his sex and moves in a rapturous,
agonizing rhythm.

"Take me," Boromir whispers.

Faramir hesitates. "You --"

"Yes." Boromir moves to his belly, sliding his hand
beneath, stroking himself. "Please."

It is what Boromir wants, and Faramir would brand
himself a liar if he said he did not long for the
same. Briefly abandoning the warmth of the bed, he
rummages through his discarded cloak for the jar of
saddle oil he prudently lifted from the stable. It has
no scent, but upon contact with his aroused flesh,
produces a faint tingling that sends shocks of
heightened desire through his veins.

Back on the bed, Boromir lies still and quiet. He is
entirely naked, as on the night Faramir rescued him,
and a vivid flash of remembrance awakens Faramir to
his brother's vulnerability. Disconcerted, he urges
Boromir to turn over. "Brother -- wait. Are you
certain?"

A faint smile curves Boromir's mouth. "Of course. Did
I not say so?"

"It may be too soon...." Faramir falters.

Boromir's eyes narrow. "I am fully healed. And I am no
helpless maiden."

"I know. I know." Faramir traces a fingertip round
Boromir's navel. "But I would not cause you further
pain."

"You will not. Be certain of that, brother." Boromir
takes Faramir's hand and kisses the palm. "You have my
trust." He suckles Faramir's fingers, lingering on
each one, stirring his desire anew. When Faramir is
once more wholly aroused, Boromir lies back and allows
Faramir to push his legs up. He gasps as Faramir
enters, his eyes flaring bright green in the firelight.

"Have I hurt you?"

"No -- no," Boromir chokes out. "Deeper."

Faramir moves slowly, holding himself back, checking
his own need that he might fully appreciate Boromir's
pleasure. Boromir breathes heavily, grasping at the
bedclothes, his body quivering like a drawn bowstring.
Faramir waits as long as he can, slowing his thrusts,
each time driving deeper inside. At last he groans and
pushes himself as far as he can, moving faster,
slipping a hand around Boromir's sex. They writhe
together, harder and harder, until Faramir climaxes
with a moan. Boromir follows in seconds; they fall
over the precipice into a warm, silent sea, and drift
there for a time.

*

Faramir awakens to find the bed empty. Sickened with
sudden disappointment, he sits up, only to see a
shadowed silhouette beside the window. Pushing tangled
hair out of his eyes, Faramir stands and walks naked
to his brother who, wrapped in Faramir's cloak, turns
with a welcoming smile. "Look." He draws Faramir
close, wrapping him in the cloak.

Outside the moon has risen, though veiled by clouds,
and a light snow falls, twinkling in the outside
torchlight. "It is good to be home again," Boromir
says softly.

The crackling of the fire is the only sound in the
room. Faramir leans into Boromir's embrace.

"I am glad you are back."

End.