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This story is rated «R», and carries the warnings «INCEST. Want me to say it again? INCEST. (Shit, I love that word.) Also some hints of the Oedipus complex.».
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Everything We Share (R) Print

Written by Anliya

02 February 2005 | 3363 words

Title: Everything We Share
Author: Anliya (whimsicalpiglet@yahoo.com)
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir
Rating: R
Summary: Strength and courage. Those are the words assigned to Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, and it is his duty to fulfill them. Neither Faramir nor his father went insane after Finduilas death. Instead, it was Boromir, despite how distant she was to him. Even Faramir finds it hard to understand his mother's fear, his father's shadow, and his brother's madness. However, he grew up well aware that his brother carried the weight of Gondor on one shoulder and the will of his father upon the other. And he will anything to relieve Boromir of his load, even if it means sacrificing himself.
Warnings: INCEST. Want me to say it again? INCEST. (Shit, I love that word.) Also some hints of the Oedipus complex.

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.

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