Faramir Fiction Archive

Unexpected Blessings (NC-17)

Written by Nissi

14 November 2006 | 18644 words

Chapter 2: The Decision on Amon Hen

Halfway to Amon Hen. Faramir had journeyed hard, careful to avoid the specific sites that harbored his brother and him years before. They were sacred to him. He refused to taint them. He had come to see himself as a sort of monster—a hardened, cold creature who had managed to violate the most important bond he’d ever possessed, and ever would. He had harmed an innocent in his own selfish attempt to avoid the inevitable despair Boromir’s death created.

In another day he reached the point where he had led Boromir to the warm pool east of the Anduin. The place where first he and Boromir expressed their love. The place where first he touched his brother in unbridled passion. The place where his brother’s touch, for the first time, came sensuously. He recalled their encounter in the water. He could almost hear the depth of Boromir’s voice as he spoke.

“Tell me you are mine.”

“Tell me you love me.”

“Tell me you love me only.”

“Tell me you will be mine and mine alone, forever.”

That night the Steward collapsed with exhaustion, the endurance of the bittersweet memories conspiring with the pace of his travel to wear him to the point of unconsciousness.

Unbeknownst to him a figure observed him from afar, his focus never once straying as he watched Faramir recuperate in a deep, long sleep.

The third account of Faramir, son of Denethor, Lord of Emyn Arnen:

Parth Galen. My deep rest afforded me energy enough to make good time to Nen Hithoel. I expected to find no trace of the orc raft that carried my husband and me this way, and my expectations proved correct. For the eventuality, I brought twine and lashed together my own craft, which took less time than anticipated due to the fact that I have little care for its durability. It is not a vessel intended to last.

From where I am camped on the lush green I see clearly the Falls of Rauros. I wonder if my husband’s remains lie at the bottom of the river below? I cannot shake my macabre thoughts. I prefer to imagine him upon a far green country, as Mithrandir described. But it is difficult to think such positive things when I am so tortured.

I dreamed last night of the creature Gollum. I woke to the feeling that I was similarly twisted and deformed in my anguish, deceit, and despair. His eyes have haunted my steps. I fear for what I have become, what I will become—so stark a contrast to the man I was when I was younger. When Boromir was present to love me.

Éowyn loves me. But somehow, that matters not.

I am malformed. I am a horrid creature.

At dawn’s light I shall climb the hill and return to the place of my marriage. The seat of our union, my husband’s and mine. And I will do what needs to be done.

Penned on Parth Galen in Emyn Muil, along the border of Rohan, on course to Amon Hen.

He would have to be cunning and quick about his method of crossing the water that separated him from Faramir. He knew the Steward would reach Amon Hen the following morning. Under cover of night the stalker employed all his ingenuity to follow in the man’s steps, tracking him along the slope of the hill until he found him kneeling amongst the trees and statues that created the small clearing where his brother had died. It was littered with fallen leaves and bleached Uruk bones.

The hunter wrestled with his own memories.

“Curse them all,” Faramir cried as he pounded his fist against the ground. “This was a holy place!” He flung the Uruk-Hai remains as far as his strength would allow, until he had removed every last bone, hair, rusted armor and weapon, and disintegrating piece of cloth from the vicinity. The task took him half the day, as Boromir had slain many in his fight to protect the two young hobbits.

When he had finished the ground was upturned. The scent of moist soil permeated the air. He felt somewhat placated, as if he had purified the site. As evening fell he built a small fire and sat beside it, a row of full wine skins ready to be consumed. As he drank he spoke aloud.

“Did you think of this place, and of me, when all your thoughts drew to an end? Did you remember how our lives began anew here? Could you recall the feeling of my body beneath yours as I accepted you, possessed you…as you possessed me?” He paused as if waiting for a response, filling the time with several more hefty drafts.

“Did you think of me making my vows to you, my beloved? Did you remember the words, the sentiment, and the emotion? I am your husband, as you were mine… Boromir… my brother,” he began to weep, taking his tears as a cue to force more wine down his burning throat.

“I have broken my vows, Boromir. Forgive me! I betrayed you. I betrayed our marriage. Nothing, not even death, should have come between us. I took a wife, and soon after your passing, for I was too weak to weather the storm alone. I was too weak a man to face my pain… the pain, Boromir, you will never know such pain. Thank Eru,” the Steward said, tossing an empty skin aside.

High above, perched upon the branch of a large tree, the silent hunter observed the display. His stomach churned at what he heard. His mind reeled with the revelations. With Faramir’s words so much fell into place; so many questions were answered. But these were not the answers he was expecting.

“Your Faramir, your little brother, a thoughtful and gentle soul, would never have behaved in such a way. I would never have risked hurting you, and hurting the woman I professed…professed to love. But never loved. How could I love her, my husband? I am yours—my heart has always been yours—everything I am I gave to you. I’m a fraud, a despicable pretender. You, my love, you are my truth. My secret truth,” he murmured, tossing the second empty skin aside. “And I will bear you unto my grave.”

“But you left me!” Faramir shouted brazenly, as the wine coursed through him. “You promised to return to me. You threw away your promise for the sake of two… two Halflings!” Faramir spat the words, but in reality, they were the utterances of a grieving man whose bitterness was not truly aimed at Merry and Pippin. On the contrary, he loved the Hobbits dearly. For one thing, Boromir had loved them, and that alone was good enough reason for his affection. But for another, Pippin had saved him from the funeral pyre. Although Faramir rued the fact that he lived, he admired the boy’s courage, and could not help but feel bound to him. He was a wholly likeable character, trundling in Faramir’s hand-me-down armor, trying his best to serve Faramir’s beloved country.

“No, that is not fair,” Faramir sighed, his tears falling freely. “What you did was the honorable thing. It was the right choice. I am sorry…so sorry for everything that’s happened since your demise. I became a stranger even unto myself…but no more, Boromir. No more.” The Steward wiped his tears with the back of his hand. “I feel my old self returning. Just being here, in this place, I feel some of the happiness we shared. I can remember it, my beloved. I feel you here, in your life and your death. I wish never to leave…”

Faramir closed his eyes and drew the knife his brother had given him in one sudden, sharp movement. He slowly swiveled it, bringing the point to bear against his chest, flush to the White Tree that embossed his leather armor. “Guide me, my love. Steady my hand so I might be with you again,” he whispered, digging the tip of the knife into the leather.

His senses were dulled with the madness of grief and the numbness of alcohol, so he did not immediately react when a rush of air moved before him, followed closely by the sound of feet landing on the ground nearby. “Faramir, stop!” a familiar voice called out as a hand knocked the knife from his grasp.

It took a few moments for everything to register in the drunken, despondent man. “Legolas?” he asked softly, trying to focus his eyes through the haze.

“You cannot do this, Faramir!” Legolas exclaimed.

“Why not?” Faramir countered. “Why can I not sacrifice myself for my love?”

“It is no sacrifice, Faramir, it is foolish waste,” Legolas responded sternly. He knelt down beside his friend and placed his hand on his shoulder.

“Legolas,” Faramir whispered, closing his eyes. “Why have you come?”

“I have come to save you,” Legolas replied.

“Would it that others would stop saving me. I do not wish to live!” Faramir barked.

“Then live for us, your friends and others who love you. If you cannot live for your own sake, live for ours,” Legolas said softly.

Faramir sighed deeply. “I cannot go back to Emyn Arnen to face Éowyn. I have wronged her, Legolas.”

Legolas shook his head slowly. “Mistakes are made in love and passion. And many a poor decision has come to pass in heartbreak. You had common ground, and in your mutual desire to avoid the loneliness that threatened to consume you, you came together. It is not a sinister thing, Faramir…”

“But if you knew, Legolas, if you knew…” Faramir’s voice trailed off as a sudden thought sent shivers along his spine. “How long have you been watching me?”

“Long enough,” the elf responded with a sympathetic smile.

Faramir groaned and hung his head. “You shouldn’t have heard. I wish you had not followed me,” he whimpered, biting his lip.

“So long you have carried your secrets, Faramir. Let me help you bear their burden. I will not tell another soul; you have my solemn word,” Legolas supportively stroked Faramir’s back.

“Have two male elves ever wed?” Faramir asked in a small voice, remembering the questions that prompted his brother and himself to make their vows.

“It has been known, yes,” Legolas replied matter-of-factly.

“And what of two elven brothers? Has it been known for them to wed?” Faramir questioned with a hint of unfounded bitterness in his voice.

“If it has happened, I am unaware of it. But that does not mean it is an impossibility…” Legolas ventured.

“Boromir and I were wedded here, years ago. Two men. Two brothers. Husbands…do I now disgust you?” Faramir queried, tilting his head. He knew the wisdom of the elves made them far more tolerant than men, but he could not imagine his secret would be met with acceptance by even the most enlightened elf.

“You do not disgust me, mellon nin,” Legolas said genuinely. “Nor does Boromir, or what you two were to each other. I pass no judgment. Who am I to dictate love?”

“Have you ever loved another, Legolas?” Faramir inquired.

Legolas looked away briefly. “It takes a very long time for elves to fall in love. We are timeless; there is no need to rush.”

“That did not answer my question,” Faramir protested. “But the question was none of my business to ask. Forgive me.”

Legolas smiled tenderly. “There is no need for apology, Faramir.”

“You are yet young,” Faramir said. “Ancient by my standard, but young by yours. You will find love. You will know the bliss it brings,” he smiled sadly. “May you never know its sorrows.”

Legolas brushed a strand of hair from Faramir’s cheek. “You must eat something, Faramir. You’ve been practically starving yourself the whole journey.”

“How long have you been tracking me?” Faramir asked incredulously.

“Since you left Emyn Arnen,” Legolas replied.

“Did Éowyn send for you?” Faramir questioned.

“No, Faramir. I saw you leave as I arrived. I had come to see you to celebrate your birthday,” Legolas said warmly.

“My birthday? I’d forgotten,” the Steward admitted. “It was furthest from my mind.”

“It passed yesterday,” Legolas informed him.

“Then today is…” Faramir looked down at the ground and toyed with a clod of dirt.

“Today is?” Legolas queried.

“Today is my anniversary,” Faramir frowned.

“But you and Éowyn were…” Legolas stopped himself, realizing what Faramir meant. “Oh, Faramir,” he sighed, slinging his arm around the man’s shoulders. “You said you felt Boromir here. You said you felt some of the happiness you two shared. You said you felt something of your old self returning. Have those feelings held?”

Faramir shrugged, silent tears trailing down his cheeks. “Perhaps a little.”

“A little is enough, for now. It is movement in the right direction. Boromir would not want you to suffer, Faramir. Do not allow your good, generous heart to wither. It is your anniversary,” the elf smiled broadly. “Revel in the happy memories of your husband.”

Faramir managed a thin smile. “I will try.”

“Remember his broad shoulders, his strong brow, his intense eyes, his powerful hands,” Legolas recited a litany to entice Faramir away from grief. “Remember his laughter, his voice, the sound of his even breath in sleep. Recall his bravery, his goodness, and the depth of his love. But do not let these memories dismay you. Let them uplift you, Faramir.”

Faramir closed his eyes while Legolas ran through the list of some of Boromir’s many virtues. Another smile came more easily. He opened his eyes to catch Legolas’s in a meaningful gaze.

“Tomorrow we will go back to Emyn Arnen,” Legolas spoke softly. “When we return we will commission a memorial as befits your brother. A towering statue,” Legolas said imaginatively, “and a garden of fragrant plants. It can be a place of respite for you. A place where you can always remember your lover—your husband in tranquility.”

Faramir nodded. “I’d very much like that, Legolas. Very much indeed.”

“Come, then,” Legolas stood and rummaged through Faramir’s pack. “Let us settle you with some food and some sleep. Perchance you will even dream of Boromir tonight,” the elf suggested encouragingly.

“With luck,” Faramir replied with a brighter tone. He set his bed roll and prepared for the night. Somehow he knew that with Legolas standing guard, he would rest well in the small clearing. He knew only good remembrances would carry him to sleep.

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