Faramir Fiction Archive

Ignite (R)

Written by Hurinhouse

01 March 2010 | 8657 words

Chapter 5

There he loitered at the door: Faramir’s cherished past, his never present and what looked to be a torturous future. The brother who never taught him to fish; the lover who never learned to bend. Damn him back to Mandos, Faramir could not connect the two.

“You’ve come to claim your post?”

Boromir recoiled and Faramir rued the bitterness in his own voice. The stewardship had always been a faint and dubious future, until he met the king. Wise and just, Aragorn was the brother Faramir had always imagined and he looked forward to serving under him someday.

Boromir relaxed back against the frame and shrugged. “Wot do I know of diplomacy?”

Fara could see Denethor in him now that he knew to look. The set in his jaw, the way he deflected attention from himself. “Afraid to come near me… Brother?”

“Why? Are you infectious?” Boromir swaggered farther in, the same old carefully careless indifference. Faramir made to rise as the other reached the couch, but a wave of dizziness stayed him; and there was a faint scent.

“Ye needn’t stand.”

“I’ll not have you hover over me.”

Boromir looked at the couch, barely large enough for two men who didn’t have a chasm of tension between them. He sat close to the edge.

“The king will expect you to take up your rightful post.”

“Aragorn expects a lot of things. ‘e can’t ‘ave them all.”

The familiarity in Boromir’s tone brought the source of the scent surging forward. Pipeweed, the spice of the man Faramir had grown to admire over the last few months. In all that time, all those close quarters, he’d never noticed the scent rub off on any of the fellowship.

“Yer mending well.”

That sinful velvet voice tipped the scale. Boromir easily caught Fara’s fist as it made weak contact with his jaw, held his wrist fast. Faramir struggled, anger rising like the Wave within his chest, grief for his father, for the end of Bálin.

“Our father is dead, loyal to his last breath, and you have lounged with the man who wronged him.”

“Wronged ‘im?”

Wronged him. No. Faramir had never fully believed Denethor’s bitter accusations about Thorongil. Perhaps it was not loyalty that drove his thoughts today. An expanding hardness beneath his free hand dealt him a surge of hope. He looked up to eyes wide with shock, darkening with desire.

Fara had kissed dozens of men and women of various skill over the years, none of whom defied him like this; none of whom he needed like this. He rubbed his hand across Boromir’s lap, tried to capture his mouth, and the man pounced, flung off Faramir’s grip and claimed his face with both hands like Fara was a treasure he’d always been afraid to touch.

Boromir’s lips were soft as they pressed cautiously, the precarious feather touch making Faramir light-headed with need. The age-old dream of tying his lover to the white tree sprang forth, where Faramir could map golden skin at his leisure, and show Bálin how to succumb. He scarcely breathed, “Bálin.”

Boromir stilled, eyes squeezing shut, stamping out a barely controlled blaze. His hands fell away as he stepped back. “I would not be able to stop.”

Faramir’s heart sunk. “We can hide it.” Had he actually said that? He was better than this desperation; wiser.

“We would know.”

“Did you not think I should know earlier?”

“Fara. We cannot.”

Where had his whore gone? He stood then, willed his legs not to waver as he limped toward the desk.

“Endahil can inform you of your duties of office.” His tone was polite and firm, a skill his father taught him well. He heard a sigh, then the sound of retreating footsteps, slow and dull within the dead stone chamber.

The walls seemed to close in on Boromir the further down he went, as though a trap were laid, though the tapers looked no closer together than when he’d started down this corridor. The air was heavy and dead, and he hoped he’d not taken a wrong turn and lost himself in this maze that was the citadel.

“Boromir!”

He turned, a group of men in an alcove he’d missed before. His uncle wore a swan upon his breast, his boots outfitted with the shine telling of the prince that he was. Boromir wasn’t even certain if he’d scraped all the gore off his own, now two weeks since Sauron fell. He hadn’t spent more than a few short hours in the lavish room he’d been assigned, so afraid to touch anything that he’d gone down circle and spent the night at an inn.

He couldn’t detect much arrogance in Imrahil’s speech, but the man had no fear of showing his station. The fellows around him quieted as Boromir approached, some looking away, others offering an obligatory smile.

He’d tried to refuse Imrahil’s gifts at Cormallen, but Aragorn had insisted Boromir’s own clothes were in a state to be burned. Old instincts to grab and run crept up then, but he stamped them down to do the “proper” thing, according to Aragorn. The troublesome wretch had not yet returned to the city himself, sending Boromir forth in Imrahil’s party. Uncle and nephew had barely had a chance to talk, thank the Valar, or whoever was in charge.

“You look refreshed.” Imrahil glanced at the clothes.

“Aye.”

Imrahil looked down the corridor from which Boromir had emerged. “I see you’ve had the chance to meet your brother. I suppose that sounds odd to you, ‘your brother.’”

Boromir suspected this was what Faramir had called diplomacy. Perhaps this Imrahil did care; he spoke as if Boromir belonged and he couldn’t think of a reason the man could benefit from him. But accepting compassion was foreign, the sound of it choked off the air around him, the manner in which to react escaping him.

“You must be anxious to settle in.”

“Settle in?” One of Imrahil’s comrades turned his head and coughed, gold embroidery upon his tunic sparkling in the sun. But his uncle smiled warmly.

“To your new capacity. As Steward. Surely Aragorn will share the paperwork once his elf-maid arrives.”

He’d blinked like a fool at the man before smoothing into a quick lie and excusing himself. Relation or no, Boromir didn’t know Imrahil of Dol Amroth and had no desire to. It didn’t take long to collect enough provisions to see himself back toward the south of Gondor, though what he’d do when he got there anyone was free to tell him. He looked down at the roan and caressed her coat, the beast relaxed in canter… alive. He laughed aloud and almost cried at the joy of it.

He remembered crying once. The Tinker had whittled him his own bowl, presented it to him on what they guessed to be the eve of Mettare, complete with an extra slice of bread and a block of cheese. He’d still had memories of his old life that year, the patterns of tapers that lit up the celebrations, running through glittering ribbons with the other children, puppets and fire-breathers dazzling the young crowd. He remembered gifting his mother with a basket he’d woven with the help of the cook, or the nanny, whichever’s wooden teeth had turned green. As he sat in his father’s lap, strong arms keeping him safe, the joy in his mother’s eyes had made up for the wobble of the basket when she sat it next to his brother’s cradle.

Happy thoughts, they were. He wasn’t sure why he’d cried so hard and so long, the Tinker soothing him with awkward pats on his shoulder. The old man shushed nonsense into his ear, promised there was no need to bother with Mettare in the future. Most of the reflections had left him by the following winter, his true name escaping him by then as well.

He shoved the memories aside and spurred his horse further south, passing Cair Andros where he’d crossed with Imrahil after spending an enlightening week at the Field of Cormallen. He’d shaved with a true razor. Legolas had been quietly reintroducing him to letters, and he’d found much of it coming back to him. Aragorn had treated him as an equal, requested his opinion on matters of more import than the troops’ provisions for the journey back to Minas Tirith.

But there had been a question in the ranger’s eyes, a powerful longing in the way he brushed against Boromir needlessly when they pored over maps. Boromir’s body answered in tiny quivers that no one but Aragorn could detect, though he took pains in trying to hide it from the man. Days were filled with feelings he’d never known were real and he’d almost gotten used to being called by a different name.

But back in the city he was still just Bálin, and Bálin and the city were dangerous mix.

The skies had wept all week but the clouds stayed their tears on the day of the ceremony. Théoden still occupied a place of honor within the stone walls, but today belonged to the people of Minas Tirith; a day to let go of the past, to pave the way for new beginnings.

The citizens had had no excessive warmth for the Steward, but a great respect swelled in most of their hearts. The man was stern, cold in fact, but just. He was not given to walking among the people, but his board was free to those who trekked the circles, and his ear was ever open, whether or no he granted one’s request.

Daughters of council members handed out pouches of poppies to as many as they had flowers, though some residents brought their own. The Closed Door opened and the Silent Street was soon red with petals tossed by women, children and the men still in the city. Some children carried cut squares of cloth or flour sacks to represent the Stewards, though very little had the means to bleach them white to match the actual banner.

The Steward’s son walked behind his father’s body, grave and proud, a man who’d grown up in the eyes of the city, who’d been a promising hope for a safer future throughout the years of dread. The citizens’ eyes warred between him and the soon to be king, who had delivered that future. The ranger king walked slightly behind the acting steward out of respect, and there was much discussion among the crowd about whether they were still allowed to call the Lord Faramir a ‘prince.’

But the talk for weeks after was of the son who’d not been present, the prodigal that had come back from the dead to thieve and to terrorize, to save and to defend. Opinions of the man varied from those who claimed that he alone had defeated the Dark Lord and those who thought the man a lowly cutthroat, probably not even the real son of Denethor. The Lord Faramir had refused to take the title of Steward as long as his brother yet lived, though he agreed to act on his brother’s behalf, until the day he should return.

Most who heard this declaration could see the resigned doubt in the young man’s eyes.

The guards chided Faramir during the early walk to the armory, until he threatened a change in assignment. They were right to object – he was still somewhat weak and had no business sparring. But his fellow diversion had been absent from the garden since long before the Host returned, allowing beloved, condemned faces to invade his mind. So he thought he might try his hand at stringing a bow again.

Leaving the guards at the entrance, Faramir turned a corner toward the scraping of metal and stone, curious as to whom else would be here at this hour. He watched from the shadows as Éowyn gripped the hilt of the practice blade, dulled steel a fitting parallel to her recent weakness, even after all these weeks. The tip quivered in the air, barely three inches above the floor, the hilt hovering between her kneeling thighs. Her arm shook, the sling tossed aside, and her cheeks flared a bright pink as she tried to lift the sword from the floor.

A puff of air rushed out of her as the blade fell. It had not been the first time. She swallowed tears anew, and grimaced as she tried to raise the sword once more. Faramir watched the determination in her face, the stubborn, untamed will that refused to surrender control. Her beauty softened the lines of fortitude that she wore like a badge. This time when the blade dropped, she cried out briefly, her voice raw with pain. Her chin dropped to her chest, her arms limp upon her skirt. The thought of defeat tore at Faramir’s heart, but more than that, he was enthralled with her conviction.

When he stepped forward, her eyes shot up, defiance warring with humiliation. He knelt before her and reached out slowly. She was wary, but did not panic nor draw away as Bálin always had; rather, she held her head up boldly as he swiped the tear from her cheek. Faramir smiled before he could prevent it, and he shifted round behind her, waiting for the blow that did not come.

He stretched, placing his arms beneath hers, his strength behind hers. Together they lifted the sword, one meter, two meters, held in threat at their straw enemy. Faramir gripped her forearms harder and they pushed, running the culprit through. The hilt clamored to the floor, the sound not so hollow this time.

A slight constant tremor ran through her body then, and his arms wrapped round her, his chin on her shoulder, moisture mingling on their cheeks. She did not push him away.

Finis.

Continue to Slow Burn

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