Faramir Fiction Archive

Unexpected Blessings (NC-17)

Written by Nissi

14 November 2006 | 18644 words

Pairing: Boromir/Faramir, Faramir/Legolas
Summary: Sequel to The Secret Widower. Faramir struggles with his inner turmoil regarding Boromir’s death, his vows to him, and the reality of his life after Boromir’s passing. In his battle he discovers unexpected love and unexpected joy. Quite a bit of romantic ramblings, drama (mayhap even melodrama!), explicit sexual content, and angst.
Feedback: nissi@hushmail.com
Disclaimer: Any references to works of Tolkien are property of the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema. This work is not for profit.

— Follows from The Secret Widower —

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Chapter 1: The Journal

His startling blue eyes darted to and fro, scanning the trees for signs of his quarry. For days he had hunted—watching, listening, and following his target’s tracks. He had lost the impressions of boot soles in the ground, but his sight and hearing were keen enough to keep him on course.

He heard the snap of a twig in the distance. Instantly he set off in the direction of the sound, continuing his tireless pursuit.

The first account of Faramir, son of Denethor, Lord and Steward of Gondor:

It is with heavy heart that I pen the words above, attaching to myself the title that signifies the deaths of both my father and my elder brother. It was never my desire to sit upon the lesser throne of the great hall. The honor was meant to be Boromir’s, never mine.

And yet, regardless, I ruled over Gondor for the time between the War of the Ring and Elessar’s coronation. Somewhere in the confusion of war, recovery from illness and injury, governing my country, and coping with desperate grief I betrothed myself to the young shieldmaiden of Rohan. At the time of this writing we are wed and have taken up residence among the hills of Emyn Arnen.

Despite that which most would perceive as many blessings in my life, my heart is heavy and my mind is tormented. I have no love for my wife. It is through no fault of her own; long ago I admitted to myself the wrong I inflicted upon us both in my haste to win her heart. Now I must contend with my dissatisfaction and growing guilt, as I feel I have betrayed her, and betrayed my one true love.

He was everything to me, from the moment I came into this world. He was my brother, my friend, my lover, and my husband. Never will I recover from his loss. Ours were vows of forever; how blithely and naïvely we assumed the count of our years would be many! All the Númenorean blood in Arda’s history could not have slowed his death. He was pierced by no less than three Uruk-Hai arrows; if the repeated punctures did not kill him, the resulting fever would. My husband was doomed from the moment he set on his journey to Rivendell, as my premonitions had forewarned. Having seen his death before it occurred made me no better prepared to cope when it came to pass.

I promised him to ever honor my vows of love, in whatever circumstances and to whatever end. Does his absence absolve me of what I have sworn? I have failed him in our promise of exclusivity. I have taken a wife when I swore to him that I would forsake all others. His passing and my actions pain me more than any injury I have ever sustained. I live with the heartbreak of the knowledge that I shall never again see him. Never again feel his touch or taste his kiss. Never again hear his voice, which was always a source of soothing. Never again feel the solace that only he could provide me. And now I live with the knowledge that I have failed him, and likely harmed the innocent shieldmaiden in the process.

I have taken to the wild. I journey to Amon Hen, where my brother and I became lovers and spouses. I journey to the place of our happiness, which is now also the place of my beloved’s death. My course is set, and my plan is simple. All that stands between me and my goal are forested miles to traverse and a lake to cross.

I camp now beneath the night sky, within clear view of the constellation the Two Brothers. Once this constellation comforted me, for I knew that wherever my husband roamed, it hovered over him as well. The single red star at its join became the symbol of our love. But now I see the pulsing red orb is better suited as a symbol of our parting. It is a heart—a single heart—beating for one body, one life. One brother. The red star to which we both looked during countless nights apart was not the union of two, but the loneliness of one. Someday that star will die—sooner than late, as its hue speaks that it is an ancient star, ready to relinquish its life to the cosmos. When that star blinks out of the sky it will leave the Two Brothers severed, lifeless, and cold.

Penned in the forest of Ithilien, due south of the Morgul Road, on course to Amon Hen.

Faramir rolled the scrolls and parchments tightly and secured them with ribbons. He fed them, along with his quill and ink pot, into a leather tube that had been specially created to hold his papers safely while he journeyed.

He knew that keeping a journal of this nature was incredibly risky. But he felt that he had to express some of the painful thoughts that roiled within him, or he would go entirely mad. He kept the papers within his sight at all times. He guarded them with his life.

Faramir had departed Emyn Arnen without personal word to Éowyn. He left a terse note with her handmaiden, explaining that he was going abroad and could not promise a definite date of return. He gave her no reason, but closed with the cryptic and somewhat foreboding line, “Emyn Arnen is yours, as ever it was in my stead. Live and love and laugh, my wife, for there is still too much sorrow in the land. Make ours a place of happiness.”

Now the prince, clad in his old and familiar ranger garb, tried unsuccessfully to find sleep, lying in the wilderness beneath a darkened sky, beside the crackling embers of a dying fire. He lay with his troubled thoughts, relinquishing the chase and letting sleep find him in its own time.

Faramir had made good time through the forests beyond the Morgul Road, and was already north of Osgiliath before he set camp again. Traveling on his own was a strange treat; with a company of men movement was much slower, however quick and stealthy his rangers were trained to be.

Even with Boromir on their one private journey the travel was slower, but the Steward mused it was for entirely different reasons. He recalled how dearly they both wanted to elongate the time, knowing it was a rare gift that they would likely never receive again.

And the return journey…the return was the focal point of many of Faramir’s sleepless nights. When he could tear his mind away from the obsession of his guilt, grief, and desperation, he thought upon the intimacy he and his then-new husband had shared as they made their way home. Many a night he emptied himself to such remembrances. On the infrequent occasions when he and Éowyn made love, the fleeting pleasure of the act was always laced with his silent memories of sex with Boromir.

As he faced yet another anxious and anguished night he distracted himself with another entry to his journal, written by firelight between thoughtful puffs of his pipe.

The second account of Faramir, son of Denethor, Prince of Ithilien:

The title “prince” does not suit me. I am no royalty. I am not cut of royal cloth. Noble, perhaps some might say, but I see no such value in myself. I can acknowledge the worth of my actions, those that have been sound, but I cannot acknowledge that I possess the fortitude and wisdom for such weighty a title as that of “prince.” The only one who ever had such faith in me is now gone.

I feel awkward in the skin of this titled man—Captain, Steward, Prince, and Lord. Each prefix has come at a tremendous price. That I never wanted any only adds to my dissatisfaction. I was Faramir, “sufficient” but never glorious, easily blending into my surroundings and happily evading the sort of attention my grander brother ever drew.

Now comes to mind the night before we set on our fateful excursion for my thirtieth birthday. I remember clearly every detail of his appearance as he stood amongst the crowd, receiving the praise of his many admirers. It warms me to recall the golden glow of his hair, the glimmer in his mossy eyes, and the majesty of his flawless body as it bore the fine leather, rich velvet, and gold threads that adorned him.

There is no other in Middle Earth who could compare to the glory of my husband.

Least of all, me.

Penned in the forest of Ithilien, due north of Osgiliath, on course to Amon Hen.

Faramir returned his journal to its tube and curled upon his side, too saddened to bother setting his bed roll. He clutched the leather cylinder in his arms, wracked with the simultaneous joy and pain thoughts of Boromir provided. When alone, there was no point in withholding his tears. He cried, as he so often did, for the man he loved. His hero, his husband, his brother, his Boromir.

There was no solace for Faramir. He did not possess the capacity to soothe himself. He had long since given up hope of consolation.

Silently he watched his target at camp, writing, weeping, and fitfully resting. Part of him wanted to make his presence known, to distract the man from his sorrowed thoughts and put an end to the chase. But his heart told him there was a reason for this journey, and its importance would only be made clear with time. Freedom had to be afforded to his quarry. The trek bore a greater purpose.

He observed, followed, and waited in patience.

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.

Chapter 3: The Houses of Healing

WARNING: There is discussion, but not detailed writing, of an encounter between Éowyn and Faramir. You will read that it happened, but not how it happened, etc. Just a het mention, rather than a het encounter.

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Legolas loved Ithilien. The task of helping to rebuild Gondor’s natural beauty was one he undertook with glee. Furthermore, he enjoyed that his new home was close enough to Minas Tirith to visit with Aragorn often.

He had not known Faramir well when he relocated to the prince’s territory, but they soon became fast friends. Legolas was impressed with Faramir’s knowledge of elvish ways, and they shared a love of nature, particularly gardens, forests, and lush meadows. Ithilien was a boundless supplier of the latter two, and Faramir made Emyn Arnen a great example of the former.

But for as long as he’d known the young Steward, Faramir had been suffering the torment of Boromir’s loss and his various internal conflicts. Legolas wished that he could allay some of Faramir’s troubles. He hoped the project of constructing a memorial to Boromir would help.

And it did help. Faramir felt excited about the prospect of having a productive activity that would honor his love; a new goal to achieve, to help distract him from his pain. He was deeply grateful to the elf for affording him the opportunity, and for offering his aid so that the effort could be collaborative.

The companions returned to Emyn Arnen with lighter steps and happier hearts. A tremendous weight had been eased from Faramir by the sharing of his secrets with the trustworthy elf. Along the way they exchanged memories of Boromir, recited poetry, marveled at the scenery, and discussed their experiences in the fight to defeat Sauron. The slight respite Legolas gave to Faramir was a better birthday celebration than he had imagined could be possible, given he had nearly taken his life in despair.

Faramir looked forward to spending more time with Legolas, and Legolas felt precisely the same. A new bond was forming between them, and Faramir was glad for the support. Especially as they strode towards his home and he spied Éowyn running out excitedly to greet them.

He could no longer avoid the decision with which he’d grappled for such a time. Should he tell Éowyn how he felt and allow her the opportunity to extricate herself from their marriage, or remain with her and try to make it work? As she bounded towards him he felt his mouth go dry as a wave of anxiety hit him. Pins and needles worked their way through his body. It was time.

Éowyn threw her arms around Faramir’s neck and hugged him tightly, showering his lightly-bearded face with tiny kisses. She was so happy to see her husband returned that she didn’t acknowledged Legolas’s presence—from no rude impetus, but sheer ignorance. Faramir’s mysterious note had left her terribly worried. She knew well that he was not himself, though she never questioned him. They had both been through a great deal and time had not yet fully healed either of them.

“I am so pleased you’re back,” she whispered, customary tears springing to her eyes. Faramir embraced her, but cast a worried glance over her shoulder to Legolas. Their blue eyes met for one moment, then parted as Legolas slipped silently into Faramir’s house.

“I’m sorry, Éowyn,” Faramir began. He took a deep breath and struggled with how extensive his apology should be. “I shouldn’t have left with just a note,” he sighed, feeling his courage elude him. “I’ve been half mad…”

“Shh,” Éowyn hushed him. “You’re here with me now. That is all that matters,” she smiled lovingly. Faramir was amazed at her ability to forgive and forget. Her thwarted relationship with Aragorn was a prime example of how well Éowyn released a grudge. She rode to battle for sake of their friendship regardless of the fact that he had rejected her advances.

Éowyn released Faramir and took hold of his hand. “Come to our bed,” she whispered, despite that it was broad daylight and such encounters between them were rare even in the conducive dark of night. “Let me show you how dearly I have missed you.”

Faramir gazed into her eyes. He softened, his guilt remaining steadfast. He could not face telling her the truth. The Steward did his best to force thoughts of his husband from his mind as he nodded silently, acquiescing to her desire. He thought perhaps intimacy might kindle some interest in his wife.

But the trick failed. He could not keep his memories of Boromir at bay. He reveled in them as he gave Éowyn what she wanted, however detached he felt. He knew then that there would never be love or passion in his marriage to her. But he could give her partnership, and perhaps that would be enough to prevent her heart from breaking.

His heart felt beyond repair.

The construction of Boromir’s memorial commenced almost immediately, with the elf and the man excitedly sketching and planning. Faramir commissioned the greatest artists and stonecutters in Minas Tirith to capture his love’s image perfectly, their own memories of Boromir still fresh and strong. He anxiously awaited the results while frequently recalling Boromir’s words: “_My lovely one. We will live to see peace. We will yet have time to take chisels to stone and carve out puzzling elements of architecture._” The memory made him laugh. It was a joyful moment in Boromir’s and his history, and Legolas had taught him that he must let the joyful moments carry him through the sorrowful times.

Beyond merely planning, Faramir threw himself into the labor, spending his days busily planting the perfect blend of flowers, grasses, and herbs to achieve both beauty and fragrance. As he turned soil beneath the mid-day sun he watched stonemasons lay the foundation for the statue. Something in the whitewashed color and square cut of the stone brought to mind a random memory from two years past.

He had been in Minas Tirith, a city of countless such stones, en route to the great hall from the library when he heard the commotion. Boromir and his men had returned from Osgiliath sooner than expected. The younger son of Denethor raced down the many levels to the gate as quickly as his legs would carry him. The sight that greeted him was not what he’d expected, and not what he’d hoped.

Everywhere there were injured men lying on stretchers, and others still were limping towards the Houses of Healing, aided by city guards. Those who were not harmed tended to their horses with somber faces. Boromir sat astride his mount, giving orders for the treatment of the wounded.

Faramir rushed to Boromir’s side. “Boromir!” he gasped, thoroughly out of breath. “So many wounded…”

Boromir turned to his little brother and smiled sadly. “We were insufficiently prepared for the forces that assailed us. We won the day, but paid a heavy price.” Seemingly as an afterthought he leaned towards Faramir and said, “And hello, little one,” he winced as he righted himself, tugging on the reins to steady his still-agitated horse.

Faramir reached out and placed his hand upon the saddle near Boromir’s thigh. He allowed two fingers to inconspicuously brush against his secret husband’s leg. “I am so happy you’ve returned, whatever the circumstances…” Faramir’s eyes strayed to Boromir’s chain mail-clad arm. The mail was split near the shoulder and stained brown with a copious amount of dried blood. When the older man moved he could see the unhealed gash beneath. “Boromir, you’re hurt!” he exclaimed.

“It is not dire,” Boromir replied dismissively, but winced once more.

“It is deep enough to concern me. You’ve bled a great deal. I’ll have no arguments, dismount and give your horse to a stable boy. You’re coming with me to the healers,” Faramir replied sternly.

Boromir began to protest but Faramir firmly reminded him, “No arguments!” He held out his hands to his love, offering help. Boromir chuckled. Faramir’s behavior was touching, and lifted his spirits. He swung his leg over his horse and groaned as his shoulder ached sharply in response to the movement of his arm. Faramir grasped Boromir’s sides and helped him to the ground.

“Can you walk the distance, or shall I fetch a stretcher?” Faramir asked, concerned for potential weakness. Boromir had clearly been wounded for some time.

“I can walk,” Boromir replied resolutely. But when beyond immediate earshot of others he whispered, “Stay near me.” Faramir remained the one person with whom he could show vulnerability, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was feeling lightheaded. He was a hardened warrior—it was not his first wound—but it was in a painful place, and he had indeed bled long and hard while he put the safety and well-being of his men before his own.

“I’ll be at your side,” Faramir responded quietly. He was overwhelmed with the need to call Boromir by any of their romantic names, and to tell his spouse how much he loved him. But such sentiments were for private times in private places. Faramir patiently led Boromir up the levels to the Houses of Healing, deflecting busybodies who tried to collar Boromir for conversation along the way.

The healers placed Boromir in a private room apart from the rest of the wounded men, who had overrun the place and thrown the Houses of Healing into near-chaos. Faramir insisted on remaining at Boromir’s side while a young woman cleansed and stitched the nasty cut. Orc swords rarely left a clean edge. Already it looked angry with infection, so she generously applied a salve and bandaged his chest and shoulder tightly.

She gave Faramir the bottle of salve and informed him they were simply too short-handed to cope with all the injured, and asked him if he would apply the salve in evening, night, morning, and noon, making sure to cleanse the wound twice per day. It was not the first time Faramir had helped care for injured soldiers when the number had been too many for the healers to tend well. Faramir had a strong stomach and a well-rounded understanding of medicine. Though he was not a healer himself, he could easily perform healing tasks when given instruction.

Faramir was more than happy to help tend his brother’s shoulder. Beyond the satisfaction of taking care of Boromir, he knew the task would ensure they would be in each other’s company throughout the days it would take for Boromir to fully heal.

As soon as the healer left the room Faramir shut the door securely and knelt at Boromir’s bedside. “My love,” he breathed a sigh of relief at finally having time alone with his husband. He gently took hold of Boromir’s hand and brought it to his lips, showering it with minute kisses. “I have missed you, terribly.”

Boromir smiled adoringly, twisting his hand to trace a small circle upon his lover’s cheek with his thumb. “My beautiful husband. My sweet Faramir. I have missed you too, more than I can express. You were on my mind constantly. When it looked as though we might lose the battle I was overcome with worry. Worry that somehow you’d be unsafe…unreasonable as that concern was, since you were securely in Minas Tirith and the orcs were not plentiful enough to storm the city. But worry that I’d fail you…”

“Fail me, gorgeous one?” Faramir questioned, puzzled.

“Fail you in my promise to come back to you,” Boromir replied.

“But you have not, and you are the strongest, most skillful warrior in Gondor. You will never fail me,” Faramir cooed, bending forward and laying his head in Boromir’s lap.

Boromir ran his fingers through Faramir’s hair, tangling them with the rusty tresses. “And you? Are you well?”

“Aye, perfectly well now that you’re returned, my lovely one. Your time away has seen much of the same for me here in our home city. Training. Reading. Briefings with father and the council. Formal meals. Time in my gardens. And thoughts, Boromir, so many thoughts of you,” Faramir replied.

“You were conjured in my mind as well, little brother. Thoughts of you distracted me from pain and allowed me to continue to lead my men through the peril,” Boromir beamed.

Faramir glanced up to the bandage, through which the wound was weeping. “Does it hurt?” he asked with worry.

Boromir shook his head slowly. “It does not hurt greatly. Hardly at all when I am perfectly still. But it is torture to have you near and to remain still…to refrain from touching you…”

“There will be time,” Faramir whispered. He sighed contentedly, the warmth of Boromir’s groin against his cheek. He felt the stirring of his lover’s cock through the blanket and his breeches. The healer had only required Boromir to undress to the waist.

Faramir looked up and locked eyes with Boromir. He swam in the green pools Boromir presented, shining much like the surface of rippling waters. His breath quickened as the power of Boromir’s presence struck him. He closed his eyes and nuzzled against his brother’s lap, rubbing his cheek against the rapidly-hardening bulge beneath him.

Boromir bit his lip and groaned quietly. “I thought you said there will be time?” he half protested, half joked.

“For you to touch me,” Faramir replied, eyes opening and seeking Boromir’s once more. “The time for me to touch you is nigh.”

Boromir shuddered. “Faramir, I’ve wanted you so badly…”

“And you shall have me, my husband, but not today,” Faramir smiled coyly. “You’re not recovered enough for that sort of activity. But if you promise to remain very, very still…”

“Yes? If I promise to remain still…what?” Boromir asked breathlessly.

Faramir merely grinned mischievously and righted himself, tugging down the blankets. His hands rose to quickly untie Boromir’s breeches. The brothers had long since mastered making short work of unlacing each other’s trousers. So many of their encounters were in stolen moments with no time to leisurely strip one another.

The younger man revealed his lover’s cock and took it lovingly in his hands. “Ohhh…my love,” Boromir moaned and arched against the headboard, immediately regretting the movement as pain shot through his shoulder and radiated down his arm.

“Still!” Faramir hissed. Boromir forced himself to still completely, allowing only his face and hands to express his appreciation for Faramir’s ministrations.

His brother’s lips descended to purse around the head of his cock, suckling tenderly. His beautiful blue eyes trained on Boromir’s and the corners of his lips curled into a slight smile. The juxtaposition of innocence with naughtiness drove the older man wild. He had to pour every ounce of concentration into remaining still as Faramir orally pleasured him expertly.

Faramir had learned well all the tricks that brought Boromir tremendous pleasure, and he employed every one of them. Boromir’s face twisted into various expressions of intense pleasure and desire. He couldn’t restrain his hips entirely and as he drew closer to orgasm he pumped in tiny movements in time with the bobbing of Faramir’s head.

Boromir had no need to warn Faramir when he was on the brink of climax. Faramir never once shied away from swallowing his brother’s offerings and could easily tell when Boromir was close. The older man bunched the bed sheets in his fists, threw his head back and groaned louder than he should have as he exploded into his husband’s mouth, releasing all the tension that had been pent up during his trying time away from home.

Faramir swallowed time and time again, relishing Boromir’s pleasure. When the older man’s orgasm ebbed Faramir pulled his lips from his spent cock, just in time to hear a noise beyond the door, and the creak of the door starting to open. With near panic he jumped to his feet and tugged up the blankets, having no time to lace his brother’s breeches. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and watched as Boromir tried to collect himself enough to greet whoever was entering the room. To Faramir’s dismay it was Denethor, arrived to check on his beloved firstborn.

Faramir took a few steps away from the bed, assuming the role of wallflower as Denethor welcomed Boromir heartily and fussed for the state of his health. “You are flushed and perspiring,” their father observed. “Are you fevered?”

“Perhaps a little,” Boromir lied, covering for his and Faramir’s illicit activities. “But the healers had no worry. They gave Faramir instructions for my care.”

“I would prefer to assign you someone with experience and talent in the ways of healing,” Denethor nearly spat. “Your brother meddles where he has no business.”

“Father, his help here has done much good!” Boromir protested. “I insist on receiving Faramir’s care,” he stated boldly. “The healers are far too busy with my men. Let them be. My men need them far more than I.”

Denethor looked unconvinced but acquiesced. “Very well. But I will be keeping track of your progress, my son. Our need in Osgiliath is great, and though it pains me to order you there so quickly, you must return with reinforcements the moment you are well enough so to do.”

“We were overwhelmed,” Boromir informed the Steward. “There were not enough men the first time…”

“We will marshal more,” Denethor said with a dismissive wave. “I would send Faramir in your stead but I cannot trust his skill as a leader beyond the woodland.” Faramir looked down at the ground. He was accustomed to such abuse, but it never failed to sting him nonetheless.

“I am tired, father,” Boromir said honestly. His orgasm had worn thin the last of his energy.

“Then I will take leave,” Denethor replied with a gentle smile. “Rest well, my son. Faramir, leave your brother to sleep now. Tend to your duties elsewhere,” he barked to his younger son.

Faramir nodded slowly. “Yes, my lord.”

Denethor spun on his heels and exited the room, his heavy robes swishing behind him.

Boromir frowned and reached out his hand to his lover. Faramir stepped forward and gratefully took it. Boromir wasn’t sure what to say—his father’s harsh words always left him feeling awkward.

“It’s alright, my beloved,” Faramir whispered, absolving Boromir of his concern. “I do have responsibilities that I should address. But I will return before nightfall to take care of you.”

“Bring another blanket,” Boromir said softly.

“Are you cold?” Faramir tilted his head. “I can fetch a nightshirt from your chamber…”

“No, brother of mine, lover of mine,” Boromir replied. “I want you to stay with me. Whether with me in bed if we dare it, or in the chair beside, I want you near.”

“Then you shall have me near,” Faramir smiled brightly. “I love you, Boromir.”

“And I love you, Faramir. I will count the moments until you return,” the older man said sweetly.

“No, you will not,” Faramir responded quietly. He bent forward and placed a tender kiss on his love’s brow. “You will sleep.”

Boromir craned his neck to bring his lips to Faramir’s. They engaged in a passionate kiss, nearly more than Faramir could stand, as his own arousal had grown during their encounter—waned in Denethor’s presence—but was swiftly rekindled by the taste of Boromir’s lips and tongue.

The younger man broke the kiss and caressed his brother’s cheek. “Go to sleep,” he whispered. Boromir nodded and settled into the bed, finding exhaustion quickly.

That night Faramir had returned and tended to Boromir’s injury as instructed. He wedged the chair against the door, ensuring privacy; prepared to use the excuse that Boromir desired no interruption in the night should anyone attempt to enter the room. The couple slept together in the small bed, cuddled tightly beneath a bundle of blankets, bare skin against bare skin. It was one of the most peaceful nights Faramir could remember.

He reveled in the opportunity to spend so much time with Boromir during the week that followed. Boromir was recovered enough for them to make love many times. As Faramir now planted simbelmynë in the memorial garden—a plant he had carried back from Rohan after his marriage ceremony in Edoras and since nurtured, seeded, and grew in Ithilien—he felt a single tear slide down his cheek. Legolas was right. The happy memories would sustain him, but ever would they be bittersweet.

But as the simple white flower signified, Faramir would always remember.

Chapter 4: The Terrible Feeling of Freedom

The fourth account of Faramir, son of Denethor, husband of Boromir II:

It has been a cycle of the moon since construction on the memorial began. The stonecutters have informed me the statue of my beloved brother is ready for unveiling. I am anxious to see it, hopeful that they captured him perfectly. Those who saw the creation have told me it is eerily lifelike. I am pleased to have, with invaluable aide from Legolas, brought Boromir some life again.

I remain with my wife, still full of guilt for my dishonesty, and dubious that my union with her is not an infringement upon my vows to my husband—however much Legolas protests the notion. The elf asserts that Boromir would want me to live, not dwell in the darkness of melancholy, but Legolas also does not seem to understand the pain it brings me to be in a loveless partnership with Éowyn. Her love is wasted on me. I am emptying her heart and ruining it for one who might give her what she dearly deserves. She is a beautiful, giving woman. She should be with one who will appreciate her. But I have not the courage to set her free.

I have not lain with her since my return. She does not question this lack of intimacy, as it is normal for us. Yet I see in her eyes the desire to be closer to me than I allow. She was so cold when first I saw her. Now she is warmed, and I am frosted.

On the morrow we shall reveal the memorial in all its glory. Elessar will officiate a simple service in Boromir’s honor. Many have come to pay their respects. My house is full of guests—the king and his consort Arwen, who is heavy with child; Legolas and several of his elves; Gimli and two of his dwarven kin; and a host of men from Gondorian territory, with many arriving from Minas Tirith in the morning.

There is a celebratory mood to the gathering, with a great feast organized by Éowyn in Rohirric tradition. Yet my mood is somber. I have tried to present a pleasant face, but my hurt remains fully intact. I know the intuitive Arwen senses my discomfort, and it is lost on neither Aragorn nor Legolas. I have subtly avoided private time with all but the Silvan, chief among my friends and the only soul with whom I trust my truest thoughts. I cannot face dissection of my emotions with either Arwen or Aragorn, as genuinely fond as I am of them, and as touched as I am by their care.

I will be relieved when the throng has departed and I have time to be alone with my thoughts and memories, walking Boromir’s memorial, and remembering my dearest love—my only love—in peace.

Penned in Emyn Arnen, seat of Ithilien, territory of Gondor.

The ceremony had been an emotional affair, with many weeping openly—men and women alike—but Faramir remained stone-faced, cold, and distant. He was clearly caught in a web of his anguished thoughts, his grief chiseled into his countenance. The unveiling of the statue brought gasps and sobs, as the statue did in fact capture Boromir to the last detail. It was splendid, majestic, and possessed a commanding presence—precisely as Boromir did in life.

Faramir refused to leave the memorial’s gardens to wish his guests well on their journeys. He would not take meals, even when Estel himself brought a platter of fruits and cheese to him. Defeated in his attempts to feed his Steward, the king merely sat beside him silently, watching as Faramir stared tirelessly at his brother’s form.

Night fell, and all retired to their chambers. Faramir eventually trundled to his bed, tired beyond reckoning. He found the room empty and, placed carefully upon the pillow, the leather cylinder containing his most private, desperate thoughts rested beside a folded note.

Instantly Faramir was hit with a wave of fear and panic. He realized that in the haze of his pain he had carelessly left the tube upon the desk, instead of secreted securely away. He walked slowly towards the bed and lifted the note gingerly, as if it was poison.

Swallowing hard he unfolded the parchment and immediately recognized Éowyn’s handwriting. With mounting fear he read:

My dearest husband,

I found this upon the desk this eve, and curious as to its contents, I read what was surely intended to be a dearly private journal. I am sorry for this invasion of your privacy. I am sorrier for what I found in your pained writings.

The changes in you were apparent swiftly after our marriage. It was as though a lever had been pushed inside you, and you changed from the brightly smiling, compassionately supportive, freely loving man who had wooed me to a morose, distant, and puzzling being. I never pressed you to reveal your thoughts to me. I realize now that perhaps I should have so done, as it would have saved me the pain of discovering your true feelings, and the secrets you carry, in this way.

I will keep your secrets with me, Faramir, and never reveal them to another. I am an honorable woman and this you know. I have no wish to further ruin you by sharing with anyone the truth of your relationship to Boromir. That you were not a free man when you wed me, but a husband still tightly bound to his ever-loved spouse. Burn this note when you have read it, my lord, and have a care to keep your journal hidden at all times.

I am returning to Edoras, and I shall stay there. Our marriage is, in my eyes, dissolved. It was never a true union.

My heart yearns for my country and my people. I will live in my brother’s halls, and I will be happy again, Faramir. Mourn not my loss; I free you from your guilt.

But I cannot free you from your pain. I know well you will pine for Boromir forever. I wish your future brighter, but I do not trust such hope. Only you have the power to unlock your heart—to open yourself and accept the light of love from those who would give it to you.

For my part, I go now to find my own bliss. Our lives will go on, husband mine, but they will do so separately.

Farewell, Faramir. May Eru bless you.

Fondly,
Éowyn, daughter of Theodwyn, shieldmaiden of Rohan

Clutching the note in his hand, Faramir collapsed upon the bed and wept bitterly.

He wept not for Éowyn’s departure, but for the feeling that followed its discovery. For the first time since wedding her he felt guiltless and free. And he cried for it. He feared he truly had become a callous, careless monster.

He feared that his heart would never again accept the light of love.

The following day Faramir had no choice but to face Aragorn, Arwen, Legolas, and Gimli, all of who remained at Emyn Arnen and would no doubt notice Éowyn’s absence. And even if they had returned to their homes, word would quickly spread that the White Lady of Rohan was gone.

Faramir could not explain the full reasons for her departure, as they were deeply rooted in his secrets. Legolas knew well the underlying cause, but the rest were informed that Éowyn’s and Faramir’s own distinct grief made in them personalities that were not conducive to a marriage, and that it was decided, for the betterment of both, that they be apart. Faramir guessed that Éowyn would give a similar excuse to her own people. It would be both a betrayal of her promise of discreteness and a humiliating admission for her to say otherwise. Her husband was wedded to his own brother, and could not find love enough in his heart to give her. Even if Faramir had wanted his secret released it was not a declaration she could have possibly made.

When all but Legolas had left his home for their own, he faced Legolas in the privacy of his bed chamber.

“I am sorry for it, mellon nin. It was my hope that you and Éowyn might work through this—that you could find happiness with her, given time,” Legolas sighed softly.

Faramir sat on his bed, staring into space. “It was bound to happen, Legolas. Ours was a marriage that could not last.”

“It sometimes takes more than the life of a man for elves to settle into love. Perhaps my perspective is different,” Legolas admitted. “But…” he added thoughtfully, “sometimes love comes to elves with surprising swiftness. I can see now how, after such a short time, you know that love will ever be absent between you and Éowyn.”

“It matters not, she is gone. She is not coming back,” Faramir said calmly. He looked up at Legolas and mingled stares with the elf. “Is it terrible that I feel…relieved?”

Legolas tilted his head. “Not terrible, Faramir.”

“Is it terrible that I feel almost pleased for the freedom from such guilt? She has left, and I am no longer betraying both her and Boromir. Now I remain what I should always have been: Boromir’s husband. His and his alone,” Faramir replied.

“It is not terrible. Your emotions are complex, Faramir. What you have experienced and what you are would puzzle most in Middle Earth. Your feelings are unique and dependent upon your status as widower to your brother. It is enough a burden to bear without the addition of guilt about failing to provide a wife with what you perceive she needs,” Legolas evaluated.

Faramir nodded slowly and looked to the ground. “I think I will take more time in the gardens, alone with my brother…or at least, his image.”

Legolas smiled sympathetically. “As you wish, Faramir. I will retire to the library. I am enjoying your extensive collection. Please, seek me if you desire company.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Faramir rose and placed his hand on Legolas’s shoulder. The elf returned the gesture. “You have been good to me. Better than I deserve,” Faramir smiled sadly.

“Hush,” Legolas responded. “You deserve happiness, friendship, love.” Legolas’s striking blue eyes shimmered with torch light. “I will give you whatever is within my capacity to give.” Quietly, tentatively, he added, “Anything.”

Faramir studied his friend’s face curiously. It was an unusual statement for the elf, and carried with it an emotion the Steward had never heard in Legolas’s voice. It was a riddle. “Thank you,” Faramir replied simply, extricating himself with a respectful bow and making for the memorial.

“_I will give you whatever is within my capacity to give…anything,_” replayed in Faramir’s mind. He shook his head and stopped in the pantry, collecting bottles of wine in which he might drown his enormous tangle of internal conflict.

Chapter 5: Of Wine and Grief

Three bottles of wine later, Faramir was drunk nearly to the point of staggering. He slumped on the bench facing Boromir’s statue, clawing for pleasant memories to which he might cling should he tumble into the chasm of despair that was ever near.

He rose and stumbled to the statue, which was elevated a few feet from the ground. He was able to reach to trace the long lines of Boromir’s strong legs. The stone was cold beneath his fingers. Chilled and unyielding. A stark contrast to how his lover felt in life.

“I no longer live a lie, my beloved,” he whispered. “I live only with our secret. I love you,” he pressed his cheek to the stone calf, closing his eyes and sighing deeply. “I love you desperately. I miss you desperately. I ache for you, Boromir.”

Faramir lost track of how long he stood that way, his face to the carved boot, attempting to fantasize about what his life would be like if Boromir had survived. Boromir would be Steward, but only in title, as Elessar would still be crowned. Surely he would live in Minas Tirith, but perhaps with persuasion Boromir might depart the White City for Emyn Arnen—for a future of living with his husband, remaining outwardly brothers but privately lovers until the end of their days.

The more detailed his imaginings grew the less he noticed the cold stillness of the stone. He realized, at length, that the feeling against his cheek was not of stone but of leather. The smell of tanned hide was distinct, and the warmth of Boromir’s body beneath his clothing was clear. Faramir opened his eyes and slowly lifted them to his brother’s face. Boromir stood animated with life, lovingly gazing down on him.

Faramir gasped and stepped back, blinking several times to shake the image, however much he wanted it to be real.

“Hello, little brother,” Boromir’s voice rang through the garden. It possessed an ethereal quality but was still fully his own, sonorous and soothing.

“Boromir,” Faramir whispered, his voice strangled in his tight, dry throat.

Boromir looked incredibly beautiful. He was wreathed in the orange light emanating from the torches behind him. “I have missed you, my love,” Boromir said.

“Boromir,” Faramir replied with firmer voice. “I have missed you beyond telling.” He stepped up to the statue and clasped his arms around Boromir’s legs. The feeling was real, warm and soft and replete with every detail he could recall of his husband. The sensations fell perfectly into place.

“I’m sorry to have left you alone, little one. I know I promised to be with you always,” Boromir said regretfully.

“And I am sorry for the madness that was my marriage to Éowyn. Please forgive me for my transgression, Boromir…” Faramir nearly sobbed.

“Shh, beloved. We both transgressed. I did not return. You did not remain only mine. Time apart makes all lovers a little mad, at least,” Boromir replied understandingly. “The past is behind us. You are forgiven…”

“As are you,” Faramir interrupted eagerly.

“Then there is nothing standing between us,” Boromir smiled tenderly. “Nothing blocking us from reveling together in our love.”

Faramir squeezed his eyes shut tightly. “Please be real,” he pleaded. “Please let this be some magic of the Valar, some gift of Eru. Let this be an inexplicable miracle.”

He felt Boromir’s hand descend to caress his hair, twisting and tangling his waved ginger locks. “Come to me,” Boromir whispered.

Faramir opened his eyes, climbing the statue’s base without question, holding tightly to his brother’s waist to prevent himself from slipping and falling. At eye level he was able to gaze intently into the olive green orbs of Boromir’s eyes. “Steward of Gondor,” Boromir mused. “A prince. Lord of your own territory. You have accomplished much, brother of mine.”

“No more than you would have accomplished, my love. Mine is small glory compared to what yours would have been…” Faramir protested the praise. Ever he remained humble, a noble quality, even if it was self-deprecating.

“Accept who you are, Faramir. Accept what you are. I told you once that you would prevail, and you have,” Boromir sweetly rubbed the tip of his nose against his brother’s.

Faramir was overcome with passion and appreciation. He swiftly fastened his lips to his husband’s and slid his tongue between Boromir’s lips. Faramir lost himself in the familiar taste and warmth. Boromir’s arms encircled his waist and they held each other in this same way, two halves of a beautiful, loving whole.

When they broke apart, Faramir gasping for air, Boromir rained little kisses upon Faramir’s face and neck. The Lord of Emyn Arnen writhed in his brother’s arms, feeling the pressure of his arousal within his fitted cotton breeches. There was an unmistakable hardening bulge within Boromir’s, too. Faramir soon began to grind himself against his love, both men panting with desire and moaning softly at the contact.

Faramir’s excitement grew suddenly and terribly. He ached for his husband. He ached for release. But he feared he would not possess the control to stop himself, as the friction of the steady rubbing had his cock throbbing with impending orgasm. It had been so long since he last felt sexual bliss with his love. It had been so long since he was even graced with his presence.

“I love you,” Faramir gasped. His eyes opened wide as his climax hit him. He wanted to stop it, wanted to tear off his breeches and give himself to his lover, to unleash when he felt Boromir’s organ sheathed within him. But there was no stopping. His cock released many spurts of his seed into his trousers, slathered against his thigh and down his leg, and wetting the front.

“I love you, Faramir,” Boromir crooned, holding his spouse tighter. As Faramir’s head fell limply upon his shoulder he sighed. “That’s it, little brother, my love. That’s it…” encouraging him to wring every ounce of pleasure from his anguish-wearied body. They continued to grind gently against one another as Faramir’s orgasm subsided.

In the library, Legolas decided to check on Faramir and see if the young Steward had need of food or sleep. He knew how Faramir had been denying himself basic needs in the distraction of his troubles. Legolas moved silently to the memorial gardens, but stopped short at what he saw there.

Empty wine bottles bespoke of the facilitator to Faramir’s behavior. He had climbed his brother’s statue and clung to it, head resting on its shoulder as his hips ground against the statue’s groin.

“Take your pleasure,” Faramir gasped to Boromir, still fully engulfed in his hallucination. “Take me, my love, my husband, my brother…possess me once more,” he murmured. He nuzzled at Boromir’s neck before lifting his lips to capture them in another desperate kiss. He continued to rub against Boromir’s erection, determined to pleasure his lover.

Legolas watched as Faramir’s lips moved to the statue’s and his mouth twisted against the stone as if he was truly kissing Boromir. The elf realized the extent of Faramir’s hallucination and frowned with the knowledge that it would be heartbreaking for the man to return to reality. Yet Legolas could not leave Faramir in such a state, writhing against the statue of his brother, calling it “husband,” and begging it to make love to him. As Faramir reached down to untie his breeches Legolas paused a moment, finding a perverse allure in the sight before him. He had never before seen Faramir in lust and even intoxicated the Steward was lovely—arching gracefully, moaning enticingly, and speaking sexily.

Legolas had long admired the beauty of Boromir’s brother. Though he was immersed in his grief when Legolas met him, he radiated something that spoke of his nobility, goodness, and giving nature. His face was strikingly handsome, and his slender body was both sleek and powerful. In build he could have been elvish, and yet he possessed enough imperfections to make him distinctly a man.

Legolas knew his feelings for Faramir were more than mere friendship, as he felt a stirring within him whenever the man was near. Now the stir took on a new dimension as he beheld Faramir with his husband’s statue. Legolas forced himself to focus and spoke loud enough to break the spell.

“Faramir. Faramir, listen to me. It is not real, my friend, you must stop…” Legolas had not finished speaking when Faramir broke his kiss, looked stunned, and reeled backwards.

Suddenly Boromir grew stiff and cold. His mouth sealed, forcing out Faramir’s tongue. His arms withdrew from Faramir’s waist. His hardness subsided. He was gone. Faramir felt the loss slam into him devastatingly, mingled with the embarrassing realization that he had been moving upon his brother’s statue the whole time. He had brought himself to climax there in the memorial, clinging to a lifeless idol.

The widower felt his body swing backwards as he hastily parted with the stone. His footing slipped and he tumbled towards the ground. Legolas couldn’t reach Faramir in time to soften his fall; Faramir hit the paved ground first with his buttocks, then his head. The blow was hard, and the man was knocked unconscious. Legolas could not rouse him. Blood pooled from the back of Faramir’s head onto the white stone.

Legolas was faced with a terrible decision. Did he risk calling the healer to the spot—seeing the wine bottles were emptied nearby, Faramir’s breeches were soaked through the front with his pleasure, and the statue bore a tell-tale damp spot where Faramir’s seed had made contact? Or should he carry Faramir to his bed and risk the time it would take to strip him, clean him, dress him in a night shirt, and settle him upon his bed?

Faramir had been fortunate. The guests were gone and his home was relatively empty. None saw his display in the garden. Legolas knew that if anyone even suspected lewd behavior in the memorial Faramir would be mortified. The Steward would rather die than have his secret revealed to his people, in part or whole. The choice became clear. The elf cradled his friend’s limp body in his arms and hefted him to Faramir’s room.

He only hoped Faramir’s injury was not so severe that the precious moments required to make Faramir presentable for the healer would mean the difference between the prince’s life and death.

Faramir blinked his eyes rapidly against the light. His head throbbed with a ceaseless dull ache. He groaned as he came fully to consciousness.

In a heartbeat Legolas was by his side, leaning over the bed. “I have been waiting for you to wake,” he said in a friendly manner, smiling warmly.

“What happened?” Faramir’s memory of the previous night’s events had been clouded by the alcohol. Yet he remembered clearly Boromir’s presence—Boromir’s touch, taste, smell…he looked around the room. “Where’s Boromir? Where is my brother?”

Legolas frowned. He had hoped the blow would shake Faramir back to reality, not leave him with lingering confusion. “He is not here, Faramir.”

“Where is he?” Faramir tilted his head confusedly, then regretted the movement.

“He was never here, Faramir. It was an illusion, brought on by too much drink,” Legolas responded

“But I felt him, Legolas…” Faramir began to counter.

“It was the statue, Faramir,” Legolas said, lowering his voice. “You were…with the statue.”

The memory came flooding back to Faramir. He winced and groaned once more, embarrassment and grief mixing with the pain. “I’m so sorry, Legolas.”

“Please do not apologize,” Legolas reached down and tenderly adjusted the bandage wrapped around Faramir’s head. It had shifted on his brow when the man moved his head.

“I thought it was real. I was praying it was real. What a fool I must have looked,” Faramir sighed. Fright came over him as he had a disturbing thought. “Did anyone see me?”

Legolas shook his head. “No, Faramir. Only me, and you know your secret is safe.”

Faramir exhaled slowly. “I remember every detail, I…oh, Eru, it’s so embarrassing. I was…intimate with it.” He felt like crying. He was reliving fresh mourning and contending with the humiliation of what he’d done.

“Grief and wine do strange things to the mind,” Legolas smiled gently. “In a way,” he ventured, “it was oddly beautiful to see you with it…him. With him. I can imagine now how you must have been together in private times. I can imagine how lovely you must have been as both brothers and as a couple.”

Faramir returned the smile. He was touched by Legolas’s admission. Without much of a conscious decision his hand lifted and the backs of his fingers brushed against the elf’s smooth ivory cheek.

Legolas felt his breath catch in his throat. Faramir had never touched him that way before. There were friendly gestures, but never a spontaneous, loving contact such as Faramir was affording him now. He wasn’t sure how to react. For all his years he was still young by elf standards, and had never been intimate with another.

“You amaze me, Legolas,” Faramir smiled as he continued to caress his friend. “So full of wisdom. Brave, and true. Understanding. Loving. Compassionate. All the best of your race, in one perfect specimen.”

Legolas looked down shyly. Faramir found the reaction amusing and laughter rumbled in his chest. “You are modest. Like me. It used to drive Boromir to distraction,” he grinned.

Legolas smiled brightly, lifting his gaze to meet Faramir’s. “It is good to hear you laugh again, Faramir.”

Faramir’s fingers moved to run through Legolas’s long hair. “Your hair reminds me of his,” he said thoughtfully. “Soft and straight.”

Legolas took the cue and brought his own hand to Faramir’s head, brushing the wisps of his bangs back. “I have no comparison for yours. At least, not to any person I have known. The color is glorious, like autumn leaves, or the rust of a late-summer sunset. Yet at times it is golden as maize, and at others brown as earth.”

The two fell into a comfortable silence, but Faramir tired. “My head. Am I alright?” he asked quietly, the fatigue feeling unnatural.

“You will be. You hit the ground hard, and your skin was split. The healer stitched it and said the jarring would leave you sleepy and pained for a few days,” Legolas explained.

“And the healer, did she see me…soiled?” Faramir asked, concerned for the image he must have presented.

“No. I took the chance of stripping and cleansing you before I summoned her. You were fresh and clad in your night shirt when she arrived,” Legolas said.

“You are indeed good to me, Legolas Thranduilion,” Faramir praised, very moved.

“You are worthy of goodness, Faramir,” Legolas replied. He stood and said, “You are tired. You should rest.”

“Legolas?” Faramir began.

“Yes?” Legolas answered.

“Will you stay with me?” Faramir asked in a small voice. He had never asked the question of anyone but Boromir, and he felt foolish the moment the words left his mouth. But the desire was genuine, and genuinely innocent. He wanted contact. He wanted someone to hold him and make him feel like everything was going to be fine.

“Stay with you?” Legolas repeated, unsure of Faramir’s meaning.

“When I was ill, Boromir would stay with me…lie beside me, and hold me,” Faramir blushed as he spoke, feeling more ridiculous by the minute.

Legolas’s face lit with understanding. “I see.” He contemplated the request, and then said affably, “I will stay with you, Faramir.” He crossed to the opposite side of the bed and gracefully climbed atop, not daring to slip beneath the covering blanket. He stretched out beside the Steward and tried to determine the best way to hold him. He paused a moment, then followed his heart, letting it govern his movements. He rolled on his side to face Faramir and draped his arm across the man’s chest, tightening his grip.

Faramir sighed contentedly and turned his head to face his friend. “Thank you,” he said simply, closing his eyes and drifting to sleep.

Legolas had no want of rest, so he merely lay there, still as a stone. He was happy to observe Faramir from so near. He looked breathtaking in sleep. And Legolas was pleased to touch Faramir—to feel his warmth beneath his arm, chest rising and falling in soft and steady rhythm.

The elf had no idea where, if anywhere, these new developments between his friend and him were leading them. But he eagerly anticipated the discovery.

Chapter 6: The Nature of Spirit

Faramir woke to darkness, only the flicker of a single candle illuminating his room. He felt the pressure of Legolas’s arm around his chest and laughed softly.

“What is it?” Legolas whispered.

“You haven’t moved a muscle, have you?” Faramir chuckled.

“Was that wrong of me?” Legolas frowned.

“Absolutely not,” Faramir smiled tenderly at his friend. “It’s quite touching, really. I hope watching me sleep for…how long has it been?”

“Almost eight hours,” Legolas replied.

Faramir’s eyes widened. “I hope watching me sleep for almost eight hours was not too dull a task.”

“On the contrary. I enjoyed it,” Legolas beamed.

“Did you?” Faramir grinned playfully. “You are easy to entertain.”

Legolas grinned. “I suppose. But it was nice to…hold you. I have not had contact like this since I was a child.”

Faramir tilted his head curiously. “Since you were a child? You’ve had no lovers?”

Legolas looked taken off-guard. He cleared his throat and began to speak.

“I am sorry,” Faramir interrupted him. “That was out of line.”

Legolas smiled warmly. “With all you have entrusted to me it is the least I can do to answer that question. And the answer is ‘no’. As I have told you, it takes a long time for elves to love…”

Faramir nodded. “I understand,” he said softly. He reached up and traced the line of Legolas’s arm as it stretched over him. After a quiet time he asked, “Have you ever desired someone? Even without love?”

Legolas watched Faramir’s fingers pass up and down the length of his arm. Something in Faramir’s touch allowed him to answer the question with absolute honesty. “Yes, Faramir. I have.”

Faramir sighed softly. The angry grumbling of his stomach ended the inquisition. The man shifted and stretched as far as the bed would allow. “My head feels remarkably better,” he observed. “But I seem to be rather hungry.” He withdrew his hand from the elf’s arm and patted his stomach in an exaggerated fashion.

“I am relieved to learn that is the extent of it. I thought perhaps a small feral animal had taken up residence,” Legolas joked. He released Faramir and rose from the bed. “I will bring food.”

“You need not wait on me hand and foot, Legolas,” Faramir said with an appreciative smile. He moved to sit up.

Legolas clucked his tongue behind his teeth. “Stay where you are,” he commanded. Faramir obeyed. “As long as you are ailing, you require care. I am glad for the chance to offer it to you.”

“I hope that I may someday repay you for all your many kindnesses, Legolas,” Faramir said.

“I do not do this with hope of repayment, mellon nin,” Legolas replied softly. “Now rest. I will return shortly.”

Faramir watched as the lithe elf exited his room and strode down the hall towards the kitchen. He marveled at his good fortune in finding a friend who cared for him so deeply. Legolas looked after him much as his husband did.

The more he thought about Legolas’s behavior, the more he realized that his feelings for the elf were growing deeper by the day. He cursed himself to think he could be speeding towards yet another betrayal of his vow of exclusivity to Boromir. Yet somehow the idea of loving Legolas felt a less severe transgression. He fancied that perhaps in a different time and a different situation, sans Boromir’s promise to him, that Boromir himself might have fallen for the beautiful elf. Perhaps Boromir would understand the elf’s pull.

Faramir touched his chest and missed the feeling of Legolas’s arm upon it. He remembered how boldly and naturally he had touched Legolas earlier. He thought about the elf’s hand upon his hair. And he remembered Legolas’s words from the night before. He remembered the riddle of Legolas’s offer to give him anything.

Faramir felt his body respond to the thoughts, tiny tingles of arousal moving through him. In some inexplicable way he knew that Legolas felt something deeper than friendship for him, too.

Legolas returned with a plate of foods and a book tucked under his arm. He took the initiative to amuse Faramir by reading aloud to him while he ate. Faramir was nearly mesmerized by Legolas’s dulcet voice as he read. He felt as though he was noticing new details worth appreciating with every passing moment he spent in Legolas’s company. When he had finished eating and was sleepy with injury, a full belly, and the lullaby of Legolas’s voice, he settled into bed and prepared for sleep.

“Would you like me to stay?” Legolas asked with unmasked hope.

Faramir nodded swiftly. “Very much.”

Legolas beamed, climbing onto the bed and preparing to lie against Faramir, once again on top of the blankets. Faramir shook his head. “No, come. Beneath the blankets, close to me.”

Legolas smiled gently. He did not protest, but swiftly acquiesced. Faramir rolled gingerly onto his side. “Boromir used to nestle along my back…” he said by way of suggestion.

The elf settled into position, locking his front to Faramir’s back. He slid his arm around Faramir’s waist. “Goodnight, Faramir,” he said politely.

“Goodnight, Legolas,” Faramir yawned, and then added, “You need not stay the whole time, if you will not sleep…”

“I want to stay,” Legolas whispered close to the Steward’s ear, so quietly he doubted Faramir would hear it. It was the last of his modesty reining him in; part of him wanted to express to Faramir how he was feeling.

Faramir heard Legolas’s whisper and for the first time since Boromir’s departure for Rivendell he felt a hint of real happiness within him.

Faramir and Legolas grew inseparable in the days and weeks following Faramir’s drunken night in the memorial. They had made no formal declarations of romantic or sensual feelings for one another, and their physical contact was limited to the occasional caress, though they shared a bed almost every night. But both felt on the brink of something that could take hold at any time.

Faramir found himself with business to address in Minas Tirith, and Legolas rode with him to the White City to pay respects to the Evenstar, who was nearly at full term with Aragorn’s firstborn. The two elves walked across the courtyard of the tree, engaging one another in friendly conversation.

“Something is changed about you, Legolas,” she said with a smile.

“I cannot fathom what the change might be, my lady,” Legolas replied.

“The change is not corporeal,” Arwen said thoughtfully. “No…it is deeper. There is lightness to you…” Realization struck her and she declared, “You are in love!”

Legolas looked away. For the first time in his life he rued the intuitive nature of his people.

“Do not deny it, Legolas. It is no reason for shame. It is a reason to celebrate!” Arwen said happily.

“I am not shamed…merely reluctant. It is not an easy thing,” Legolas sighed.

Arwen nodded slowly. “I understand all too well. What is it that makes your love complicated?”

Legolas searched Arwen’s face. He wondered how much he could tell her—if she would keep his words secret even to her husband. “You will not speak of it to another?” he queried.

“I promise I will say nothing of this conversation to anyone,” Arwen replied solemnly.

“He is a mortal,” Legolas replied simply.

“He…a mortal?” Arwen was not sure which to process first—that Legolas loved a male, or that Legolas loved a mortal. Legolas’s situation was complicated indeed. She smiled supportively and said, “Then it seems we have much in common now, Legolas.”

Legolas smiled warmly, despite the fact that the admission had sent him into turmoil. He had not fully admitted his feelings for Faramir to himself, let alone to another. But he could deny them no longer.

Faramir stepped out of the great hall and spied the two elves strolling across the courtyard. As Arwen watched Faramir approach them, she noted the particular smile with which the Steward looked to Legolas, and the bounce in his steps as he walked. She saw Legolas brighten further at the sight of him. It did not take the wisdom of an elf to see that Faramir was the object of Legolas’s affection, and that Faramir felt more than just friendship for Legolas in return.

That night Faramir and Legolas slept in Minas Tirith—Faramir in his old chamber, and Legolas in a guest chamber. As Faramir laid in his familiar bed he thought on the countless nights he had spent there with Boromir. He contrasted them to the relatively few nights he had spent with Legolas, and all the guilt he’d felt about his marriage to Éowyn began anew—morphing into guilt for what was occurring between his friend and him.

Faramir rolled onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut. “I am sorry Boromir, my love. I cannot seem to stop myself from breaking my promise. I cannot refrain from feeling for others what I should feel only for you. But never…never do I feel for any with such intensity. Never will I love another the way that I love you. You must believe that. You know it is true…”

“What if I came to you, Faramir, and gave you permission to be with him…would you stop torturing yourself, my love?” Boromir’s voice was unexpected at the very least. Faramir sat upright and gasped as he saw Boromir, dressed in his fine leathers and gold-embroidered velvet, sitting in the chair beside Faramir’s writing desk.

“Boromir?” Faramir questioned the vision tentatively.

“Has it been so long you’ve forgotten my appearance?” Boromir joked good-naturedly.

“I have had nothing to drink tonight. This cannot be another drunken hallucination…” Faramir tried to understand. He closed his eyes and whispered, “I am dreaming.”

“Then dream,” Boromir said. His voice sounded close, and Faramir opened his eyes to find his brother kneeling by the bedside.

“I don’t want to dream. I want it to be real. This is painful…” Faramir’s eyes filled with tears as his words trailed off.

“You’re wide awake, Faramir. I am here,” Boromir cooed, gently cupping the side of Faramir’s face.

“I do not understand…” Faramir protested, but nuzzled into Boromir’s hand.

“There is much we do not understand about the spirit. Even all your books cannot prepare you for what you will see and experience when it is your time,” Boromir said evenly. “But it is not unheard of for the dead to visit the living. You have read the tales of ghosts walking freely among men.”

“Ghosts?” Faramir gazed into his brother’s eyes. “Boromir, this is…”

“It is possible. Since the moment I breathed my last I have sought to find you again. I knew that you would be devastated by my passing. I remembered my vows, Faramir. I found a way. I can be with you, Faramir, if you want me…” Boromir said.

“If I want you? You’re my brother, my friend, my hero, my lover, my husband…my everything, Boromir, you are my life. I want you. I want you always. Please. Do whatever it is you must do to come like this and stay like this. Stay with me…” Faramir enthused.

Boromir laughed happily. “You sound excited as a little boy,” he grinned. “I do not know what power is in me for this…but I will come to you whenever it is possible, and remain with you as long as is possible. We have been given this gift, Faramir. I would never squander it.” Boromir leaned up and brushed his lips against Faramir’s brow. “But what of the one with whom you said you were breaking your vow?” Boromir tilted his head. “Won’t he mind if suddenly the ghost of your husband appears to occupy your time?” He quirked a brow.

“Nothing is certain with the other…I feel something unspoken there. I feel as though I could love him, and that he could love me, if we opened ourselves to the possibility. You…might even enjoy joining us on that journey,” Faramir wriggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Boromir laughed heartily. “There are not many people who would take kindly to interference from the dead, little brother. We must have a care to meet in private, just as we did when I was living. But I will visit you and when I am away, you will have your other. The rest of our vows hold true, yes?”

“Yes, they hold true, always. My Boromir,” Faramir cooed, lifting his fingers to trace the outline of his brother’s beard. “My beautiful husband, seeing you…seeing you makes life worth living. I came very close to giving it up on Amon Hen,” he admitted shamefully. “I despaired.”

“I despaired before my death, Faramir. We have lived in desperate times. Now there is peace, but there is also grief. There are many who mourn. Many who can find no happiness. You were not alone in your plight,” Boromir’s hand strayed from Faramir’s cheek, his thumb passing over his lover’s full lips. “One way or another, my love, you will never be alone again.”

Faramir’s beautiful face contorted with a sob and he lunged forward, throwing his arms around Boromir and burying his face against his neck as he cried. “I don’t care if this some trick of insanity. If it is a trick that brings us together again and again, I will gladly bear its madness.”

“My darling Faramir,” Boromir whispered, holding the younger man tightly. “I remember the first time I held you in my arms. Mother made such a fuss. She wouldn’t let me hold you without placing you on a pillow atop my lap,” he chuckled lightly and paused with recollection. “You were so small and you seemed so fragile. But you looked at me with your big blue eyes…curled your tiny fist around my finger…and I was yours.”

Faramir’s sobs subsided and he drew away far enough to gaze into his lover’s eyes. Faramir nodded slowly, feeling confidence inspired by his brother’s words and the look of love upon his face. Boromir wiped away Faramir’s tears and smiled adoringly.

“You look so lovely,” Faramir complimented his husband as his eyes drew down to the rich red hue of his brother’s vest. The fingers of one hand rested atop the suede laces at the collar of Boromir’s shirt. “And handsome as ever,” he whispered lowly, placing a brief kiss upon the older man’s lips.

“I wanted to dress my best for you,” Boromir grinned, kissing the tip of Faramir’s nose.

Faramir chuckled softly. “Next time save us the trouble and appear nude,” he quipped cheekily.

Boromir laughed as Faramir leaned back on the bed, tugging Boromir towards him. Boromir settled into Faramir’s arms and sighed as his husband lovingly stroked his back.

“I fell in love with my brother…married my brother…survived orc arrows…survived a funeral pyre…became Steward of Gondor…became Prince of Ithilien,” Faramir recounted slowly. “Somehow holding my brother’s ghost in my arms seems normal for the course of my life.” He grinned good-naturedly.

Boromir brushed Faramir’s hair back from his brow as his eyes met Faramir’s. Green to blue they held the gaze for a silent time, while Faramir’s hands caressed his lover’s body. Soon passion swelled and they clasped each other tightly, sharing bruising and breathless kisses.

As Boromir gently rolled Faramir atop him the younger man marveled at the turn of events. Some odd magic had taken hold—something that made these encounters with Boromir terribly realistic. He had rued his behavior with the statue and dismissed it as the influence of alcohol, but now he had no desire to fight it. Now he would carry the magic and accept Boromir whenever he came to him. Whether it was truly Boromir’s ghost in his bed or merely a disease of the mind, Faramir welcomed the opportunity to be with his husband again.

When Boromir’s hand slid up his thigh and beneath his night shirt Faramir could think no longer. He gave himself to the moment. He gave himself to his brother.

Chapter 7: Milestones

Faramir woke alone in his bed, naked and curled on his side. He could almost feel Boromir’s presence lingering, the warmth of his bare skin pressed tightly against Faramir’s back. Faramir did not mind that Boromir was absent; he knew that it was not the last he’d see of the apparition.

He rode back to Emyn Arnen accompanied by Legolas, an undeniable lift to his spirits—beyond what Legolas had inspired in him during their subtle courtship. When they stopped to water their horses, Legolas broached the subject.

“You seem happier than usual, my friend. It is good to see,” the elf smiled.

“I am happier than usual,” Faramir agreed. “Truly happy. Something unusual and unexplainable happened last night…”

Legolas arched a brow. “What occurred?”

Although they were alone among the lush hills beside the river, Faramir still leaned in and lowered his voice. “Boromir visited me,” he admitted excitedly.

“Had you too much to drink?” Legolas questioned skeptically. He tried not to look as crestfallen as he felt. He had hoped that Faramir’s happiness was somehow because of him.

“No,” Faramir shook his head. “I was sober. It was…real, Legolas, and I don’t know how. It simply was. I think that perhaps it was starting that night with the statue, but last night it was uninterrupted and came to fruition. It was no dream.”

Legolas looked thoughtful, training his eyes upon the ground. “I cannot say that I have heard of such events before, but I do not doubt you. I am glad for your joy.” His tone betrayed that the gladness was laced with a measure of disappointment.

Faramir reached out and cupped his friend’s chin, lifting his face to gaze into his blue eyes, which perfectly matched the cloudless sky. “He gave me permission,” Faramir whispered.

“Permission? Permission for what?” Legolas queried, his heart beating faster at the mere contact with Faramir’s hand, and Faramir’s eyes.

“Permission to do this,” Faramir said lowly as his lips fell upon Legolas’s, boldly kissing him. He slid his hand to the back of the elf’s head, holding him near as he moved his lips in little circles upon his friend’s.

At length he parted, leaving a stunned Legolas staring unbelieving at him. He lifted his fingers to his wet lips and touched them gently. They felt swollen and tingled slightly.

“Was that wrong of me, Legolas?” Faramir frowned at the elf’s reaction. “Was I incorrect about your feelings?”

Legolas merely continued to stare, as if unable to find his voice to speak. Finally his wits returned and he answered Faramir resolutely by pulling him closer and kissing him passionately in return. He silently thanked Boromir for the leave he’d given his husband to do this; to care for him and express his care in such an obvious, intimate way.

It had happened. Despite his assertions that it took many years for elves to fall in love, Legolas realized he was one of the few elves to have taken to another quickly. Arwen was right. Legolas had fallen for Faramir.

Shy of three seasons came and went. Legolas split his time between staying with Faramir in his home, and governing his people in their territory elsewhere in Ithilien. The two shared much, loving each other freely, though in deference to Legolas’s virginity and the slow pace with which the elf found comfort in their physical contact they had not experienced intimacy beyond kisses, caresses, and the occasional enjoyment of oral pleasure. Faramir patiently taught Legolas the ways of sensual touch, showing his friend what pleased him, and learning what pleased Legolas in return.

The wait for deeper intimacy was not a strain upon Faramir, for Boromir visited him frequently. The older man gave to Faramir everything he’d promised he would when he fantasized about life as Steward. Faramir read Boromir poetry, walked with him in the gardens, taught him basic conversation in foreign languages, engaged him in rousing and significant conversation, and spent many blessed intimate moments as married couples do. They made love often and well, taking every opportunity to be close to each other.

Faramir never knew if his experiences with Boromir were madness or some supernatural phenomenon. It didn’t matter. He had progressively emptied his house of servants and guards, constructing dwellings for them elsewhere beyond sight and sound of the property. He allowed himself privacy to be with Legolas, and privacy to be with Boromir. The arrangement worked well for all three.

Legolas knew that Faramir continued to experience the mysterious visits from his dead husband, and he was not given to jealousy. He was genuinely happy for Faramir’s enjoyment of life again. For so long the prince had been lost in grief and self-imposed torment. It uplifted the elf to observe the pleasant changes in Faramir. He was grateful for Faramir’s content, as it allowed them to explore each other and the budding romance between them.

One day there was an unexpected visit to Faramir’s home by two riders from Rohan, bearing a sealed envelope containing a missive from Éowyn. Faramir had not thought to hear from her again, and there was some dread inside him as he tried to imagine what the contents of the letter could be. When the riders had departed Faramir retired to his bed chamber to read the letter in total solitude. The servants were dismissed for the night. Legolas was at his elven home, so Faramir faced the reveal alone.

He sat upon his bed, precisely as he had when he read Éowyn’s goodbye note, and unsealed the letter:

Faramir,

I am writing to inform you that I have bore you a son. At the time of this letter he is one week of age. He is a perfectly healthy boy. He resides with me in Edoras and here he shall remain. I cannot return to Gondor, for reasons that are clear to you, so I shall raise our son as a Rohan. He will know of his Gondorian ancestry, and of his parentage, but it is your choice whether or not he will ever know your presence.

You are welcomed to visit him in Edoras, but do not expect to find my love. I will never withhold our son from you, but I will never see him as evidence of any true bond between us. I have written those words with no bitterness. I am grateful to you for gifting him to me. He is a blessing, Faramir. All of Rohan rejoices at his arrival. The birth of a Rohirric prince has not occurred in many years. Should Éomer remain childless our son will take the throne of Rohan upon Éomer’s and my demise. You can take pride that he lies in the line of kings.

It is difficult to tell at this early stage, but I believe him to look quite like you. Already downy tufts of red hair appear upon his head. He is a gentle child. He cries infrequently and sleeps in surprising peace. I believe that it is your temperament—the temperament you possessed before the grief of loss and the aftermath of war filled your heart.

It is my sincerest hope that you fare better now than you did when last we met.

Éowyn, daughter of Theodwyn, shieldmaiden of Rohan

Postscript: His name is Elboron.

By the time he had finished reading Faramir’s hand shook so violently he could barely see the words. A son. Elboron. Faramir could not process the thought.

He had never expected to have a child, and with his marriage to Boromir he had relinquished any such desire. It failed to occur to him that coupling with Éowyn could result in the conception of a child. It struck him ironic that Elboron was conceived during the final time he acquiesced to Éowyn’s request of intimacy, and that Faramir had spent the bulk of the encounter imagining he was being pleasured by Boromir. In a way, the brothers now possessed a son.

When he regained enough control to stand Faramir rushed to the stable, saddled his horse and galloped away from his home. He rode for Legolas’s dwelling, the letter crumpled in his saddle bag.

He would need the elf’s counsel. He did not know if it would be beneficial for Elboron to have contact with him. Even though Elboron would become Steward of Gondor upon Faramir’s death, he knew that remaining in Rohan was the right course for his son. Faramir was ill-prepared to be a father.

Faramir paced to and fro nervously in Legolas’s chamber as the elf read Éowyn’s letter. Legolas’s blue eyes widened beyond a size Faramir had ever seen them before. Legolas placed the letter aside and seemed to be searching for words.

“Faramir,” he began. “This is such mixed news.”

“Aye,” Faramir replied, switching from pacing to wringing his hands. “What do I do, Legolas? Do I go to my son? My son…so strange a phrase to me.”

Legolas tilted his head thoughtfully. “I think you will regret it if you do not make an effort to take part in the child’s life. You will ever know there is a boy in Rohan who knows not his father, and who will assume responsibilities—namely the stewardship, however much the position has been reduced in importance—without knowing anything of their nature or significance. Elboron will be poorer without your influence, Faramir, even if far removed and infrequently felt.”

Faramir sighed deeply. “You are the voice of reason, Legolas, and yet I cannot help but wish you had absolved me of this responsibility,” he said, including a small sheepish grin.

“I would if I could, dear one,” Legolas stepped to Faramir’s side and brushed his hair away from his face. “I do not wish you any more conflict than you have already experienced in your life. But I think conflict can be avoided if you simply resolve to meet your child, and to do what you can to play some part in his life.”

Faramir took hold of Legolas’s hand and kissed the back of it sweetly. “You are right. And as much as I feel unprepared to be a father, there is some allure in having a child. Some part of me will go on long after I have left this world. Legolas…” Faramir looked to the elf with a blend of adoration and sadness.

“What is it, Faramir?” Legolas asked with concern, sliding his arm around Faramir’s waist.

“I am mortal. I will die, and you will not. Come with me and meet my son. I want you to know him, Legolas. I want you to be part of his life so that when I am gone you will feel my presence through him. He will benefit from your friendship and counsel, as I have,” Faramir said with deep emotion. “Ride with me to Rohan.”

Legolas rested his head on Faramir’s shoulder. “I would be honored, Faramir. I will relish the opportunity to keep you in my life beyond your mortal years.” Legolas did not often think of the fact that someday he would be parted from the man. He preferred not to dwell on what the future would bring, but revel in the happiness the present provided.

Faramir brightened and reached up to stroke Legolas’s long blonde hair. “Thank you. We will leave in the morning, and take this challenge head on.”

“I would go anywhere with you, do anything you wish, and give you whatever you need. You scarcely had to ask,” Legolas kissed Faramir’s neck.

Faramir wrapped his arms around the elf and pulled him around to face him fully. He swiftly unfastened Legolas’s elegant tunic and slid it away from his chest. Faramir’s fingers moved to explore the ivory flesh revealed to him. “So soft,” he marveled. “So supple. Perfection.” There were times when Faramir felt terribly self-conscious beside the gorgeous, graceful creature, and this became one such time. He shifted on his feet and blushed.

Legolas fingered the hem of Faramir’s comparatively plain tunic before sliding his hands up the front and along his lover’s chest. He felt the tufts of chest hair beneath his palms. Legolas had no such hair. His smoothness was uninterrupted. Legolas found Faramir’s anatomy curious and delightful. It was so distinct from his own.

“You are perfection, Faramir. It is only that you do not see it,” Legolas replied appreciatively.

“Boromir often says a very similar thing, and always has,” Faramir responded with a smile. “He believes in me, and his faith never waned throughout our lives. Your belief reminds me much of his. I will never be able to express to you how dear it is to me.”

Legolas brought his lips to Faramir’s and kissed him softly. “If you cannot express it in words, express it in deed,” he whispered. “Make love to me, Faramir.”

Faramir’s mouth opened in surprise and he pulled away just enough to search the elf’s face. “But Legolas…are you certain?”

Legolas nodded slowly. “It is time,” he said simply. In truth he was nervous, but he knew that Faramir was experienced in such things. He knew that Faramir would introduce him to the act gently and with tremendous patience.

Faramir’s entire body came alive with excitement. Making love to Legolas was an incredibly enticing idea. With Legolas he felt dominant—he was the teacher, the leader, the guide—and it was so unlike his feeling with Boromir. His husband inspired delightful submissiveness, the desire to give himself wholly to Boromir’s desires; to offer to his brother his body the way Legolas now offered himself to him. Faramir would give Boromir his very soul if it was asked of him, and he did not doubt that Legolas would do the same.

The pace of Faramir’s breath quickened. “I will make love to you,” he whispered in return. He took Legolas in his arms and kissed him passionately, setting into motion events that marked a milestone in the elf’s life, and a milestone in their relationship. With Legolas he did not need to think of Boromir to find pleasure. Boromir’s blessing gave him the freedom to enjoy the elf’s innocent caresses, passionate kisses, and profound offering.

Faramir left no part of Legolas untouched in his effort to make the experience good for his lover. He brought Legolas to unparalleled orgasm while he gently moved within him, utilizing everything he had learned of lovemaking from his giving husband. When he could stand the intensity of the sensations no further Faramir relinquished himself to his own climax, filling Legolas with his seed.

Afterwards they lay in Legolas’s bed, which only seemed to see use when Faramir was visiting. They held and stroked each other, murmuring tender statements of affection. When Faramir drifted to peaceful sleep Legolas gladly remained close, watching him as he had done for countless quiet hours over the course of their relationship. He could feel the stretch of his body where Faramir had occupied him. It had been an unforgettable coupling, a memory he would cherish forever.

But Legolas was not beyond the need for sleep, as strange as elvish sleeping habits were. He felt warm and safe in Faramir’s presence—as safe as he had felt in the Mirkwood or in the watchful presence of the Fellowship, allowing him to settle his mind sufficiently to welcome restfulness. He closed his eyes and nestled his curves into Faramir’s. Together the lovers slept deeply and peacefully until morning’s light.

Chapter 8: His Lasting Gift

Faramir waited nervously in a small room adjacent to Éowyn’s suite. He looked out the window to the expanse of Rohan below. It was a strange landscape, but inspiring nonetheless. He was glad his son would grow up in such an environment, surrounded by the adoration of his people.

Legolas remained in Meduseld reminiscing with Éomer, whom he had not seen since Elessar’s coronation. He had opted to give Faramir privacy to meet his son alone, as he felt the first moments should be private ones.

Faramir turned towards the door as he heard it open, and a radiant Éowyn stepped into the room. Faramir’s breath was stolen at the sight. She cradled a swathed bundle to her milk-swelled bosom, cooing lovingly as she walked slowly towards her once-husband.

She looked up at Faramir and smiled broadly, her eyes glimmering with emotion. “Elboron,” she whispered to the infant. “This is your father. He is a mighty man from Gondor. A fearless warrior, noble, and true. A captain men followed even under the shadow of black wings,” she said, quoting words she had once heard spoken regarding Faramir. She remembered the nightmarish sight of the fell beasts, having slain the Witch-King’s beast, and she appreciated the sentiment well.

The quality of her voice told Faramir that she genuinely meant every word she chose to describe him. She had forgiven him. Tears welled in Faramir’s eyes as his son was handed to him, both for the beauty of the child he had made, and for the beauty of the woman with whom he had made him. He still regretted what he had done to her, but felt their child bonded them in a way their false marriage never had. Éowyn’s letter had expressed otherwise, but he could not stop himself from perceiving a common thread between them—a memory of the few times in which they were happy—the reckless times when Faramir lost himself in pursuit of her.

Elboron was beautiful beyond Faramir’s possible imaginings. He was yet small and pink, but his power was not diminished by his tender age. “Éowyn,” Faramir said softly, trying to gather himself sufficiently to refrain from crying openly. “He is…breathtaking.”

Éowyn reached over and rubbed the tip of her index finger playfully against the baby’s chin. “He is, isn’t he? We created a breathtaking child,” she said softly. Faramir realized that despite the words in her letter, Éowyn did feel a connection to him through their son. Faramir was relieved, as it meant his visits to Edoras would be pleasant, if not enjoyable. He had taken Legolas’s advice and resolved to play a role in the child’s upbringing.

“I will leave you alone with him. I think it only fair that you have private time to bond with your son,” Éowyn said amiably. She placed her hand on Faramir’s shoulder.

“Éowyn,” Faramir began. “I am sorry. You will never know the extent of my regret.”

Éowyn nodded slowly. “I know you are, Faramir, and I accept your apology. We were both impetuous, and we both carried our own sorrows. Differences that could never be reconciled. I think…that seeing you here, holding our son, you have found my love after all. I could never hold what happened against you, Faramir. Yours has been a troubled and complicated life. I have seen who you are, who you really are, and I know what your husband loved about you. The reasons he loved you were the reasons I loved you when you were my husband. Your quality was masked by grief, but I knew it nonetheless.”

“In some way, Éowyn, I will ever be your husband,” Faramir smiled softly. “And I will always appreciate you as a dear friend, and the mother of my child.”

“And I am glad for it,” Éowyn responded, leaning forward and placing a chaste kiss upon Faramir’s brow. “Our son watches you,” she whispered. “His range of sight is yet limited, but he will study your face, and come to know it.” She looked lovingly upon her son once more before leaving the room, closing the door behind her.

Faramir simply stared at the infant in his arms. He could not tear his eyes from the child. He was utterly taken. For a long time he rocked Elboron gently, listening to the soft cooing emanating from the baby’s lips.

“She was right. He resembles you,” Boromir said softly from behind him, trying not to startle his love while he held the child.

Faramir was not surprised at Boromir’s appearance, but he was happy for it. “I am glad you have come, my love,” he said softly. “Meet my son, Elboron.”

Boromir crossed to Faramir’s side and looked to the child. “He is lovely, Faramir.”

“He is ours,” Faramir whispered. “Yours and mine. As much as he is Éowyn’s son, he is yours as well. You were with me, in some way, when he was conceived.”

Boromir reached out and brushed his fingertips against Elboron’s smooth cheek. “Our child. He is an unexpected joy.” Elboron’s eyes shifted from Faramir’s face to Boromir’s. The child clearly saw his uncle’s form.

“He sees you,” Faramir said with amazement. Boromir laid his hand against Elboron’s chest and the baby caught his finger, holding it in his small fist. Boromir’s words from many moons past resonated in Faramir’s memory. “You looked at me with your big blue eyes…curled your tiny fist around my finger…and I was yours.”

Boromir’s arm stretched around Faramir’s back and he held his husband close, nuzzling his lips in his hair. “I am yours, always,” Boromir said quietly. “I love you, Faramir. And I love this child.”

Faramir’s tears renewed and spilled unchecked down his cheeks. “I love you, Boromir. Always.”

The three remained this way for some time—Boromir beside Faramir, his arm encircling him as his lips rested against his temple; Faramir leaning into Boromir as he cradled his son in his arms; and Elboron gazing contentedly upon the two until sleep crept upon him.

Faramir no longer felt ill-prepared to be a father. He realized that with the support of Éowyn, Legolas, and Boromir, he could give his son all that he deserved.

When a soft knocking on the door pulled the husbands from their reverie, Boromir placed one more kiss upon Faramir’s soft skin. “I will see you again soon, my brother, my love. The time has come for him to meet your child. He will cherish him,” Boromir said quietly. “And that will be your lasting gift.”

“I will look forward to your return, my husband, beloved Boromir,” Faramir whispered. He knew to whom Boromir referred even before the door opened. His brother disappeared as the elf peeked into the room.

“I do not wish to bother…” Legolas began.

“Come,” Faramir whispered, careful not to wake the baby. “Come and see my son.” His smile bespoke the overwhelming love that Faramir felt—for Elboron, Boromir, Legolas, and even, at last, for Éowyn.

For the Steward, there was nothing but happiness. He had mastered his anguish. He had found his peace, and he looked forward to what the future might bring. His had been a strange and complex journey, and there were bound to be many twists yet in his path—but no obstacles, for Faramir knew that nothing would ever overpower him again.

On to In His Gardens

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