Faramir Fiction Archive

After a Lifetime (NC-17)

Written by December

07 January 2012 | 46599 words | Work in Progress

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Note: Flowers to Alcardilmё for beta on this chapter.

Previously in ‘After a Lifetime’

Faramir spends his morning in quiet reflexion, observation and discovery – but the beginning of Boromir’s day is far less enjoyable in nature.

Chapter 7. Boys

It was still very early when Boromir left their room, so he headed straight for the army quarters. The men would now be in the middle of breakfast, and he would gladly join, being quite famished after the night’s exertions. The young man still felt the cosy warmth in his veins and his body was filled with such physical happiness that he could be nothing but optimistic about the day ahead, about everything. What could possibly go wrong in a world so full of wonder?

And as he walked briskly in the clear cool air of November, he could not help but inwardly laugh in incredulity at his earlier grim hopelessness, considering it now of no more substance than a nonsensical inconsequential nightmare.

When he had awoken after what must have been not more than an hour’s rest, instantly and quite without thinking Boromir pulled out of their sticky intimate embrace, disentangling his leg from between Faramir’s warm thighs, and rolled out of bed. He had not noticed the cold floor under his feet, nor the way his body protested against being robbed of Faramir’s sleepy mellowing comfort. None of it mattered – nothing mattered, really.

He did not stop for a second to ponder on all the changes in himself, changes in the way his heart worked, in the way his mind worked – changes that had crept over him unnoticed, all brought about by what had been done.

At once he had gone to where he kept his gear by the door. There was, of course, no real need to bring his armour and weapons to the bedroom, he could well leave them in the antechamber of their quarters – but he was a warrior and liked to have his things at hand, to always have an eye on them. And he took his sheathed blade from where it stood leaning against the wall and smoothly drew it out, the familiar metallic hiss sounding grotesque and farcical in the confines of this peaceful room.

His muscles, fit as he was, were a bit sensitive after all the unplanned nightly exercise, some of it done in rather uncomfortable positions, and the weight of the sword felt reassuringly heavy and substantial in his habitual grasp. Yes, his sword always gave him ground and balance, and made everything so blissfully uncomplicated.

There was no need to think at all, for the simplest, most obvious and apparently the only appropriate solution was, of course, death.

He felt no bitterness, no fear, not even regret. What was done was done – and what had to be done had to be done.

He had utterly unmanned and dishonoured a boy, his own younger brother – and Faramir, too, had wanted it, had wanted it each and every time. This somehow seemed the worst part: not only had he satisfied himself with his nearest kin – he had actually pleasured Faramir in the process, introducing him to the joy of lying with another, of having his body touched – of having his body mastered… He had made his little brother consciously ask for what the boy had previously been too innocent to even conceive – and Faramir had asked, oh, he had asked… It had been so raw, so sharp, impossible, unimaginable, like being skinned, like having the vocal cords torn out – this was, certainly, what complete moral downfall feels like. No, they both were far beyond absolution.

Such crimes had no atonement, but that did not cancel out the fact that morality required payment. Was this not what a man who slept with his sister would have had to do? So simple: take his brother’s life, then his own. The logic was indestructible: they had, ultimately, betrayed the very foundation of their society: gone against the law of honour – it was only natural to pay for that with the universal currency of blood.

Natural, yes. The Gondorian code of honour Boromir had long since had engraved into the very flesh of his heart – and he had long since had himself accustomed to the idea of death. He was young and otherwise would not have believed it possible that his life would ever end – only he had seen so many others end that he knew his was no exception. It did not take much to die. Like in one of those strategic games Father amused himself with: make a single wrong move – your opponent won’t miss the opportunity. No fault goes unpunished. Life can be too easily lost to be valued too highly in the first place.

A true death is worth more than a false life.

He had heard this saying countless times, and its logic seemed to him not only unquestionable but brutally beautiful.

Yet a new force, one far stronger than logic, had already taken residence in him. Still running his fingers along the cool uncaring steel, he turned to throw a glance at Faramir’s sleeping form – and knew at once that much as he may entertain the notion of at least partially salvaging their good names with his blade, he would never come to do it, never come to even try.

It was then that he truly understood what it was to be torn, to be lost. He had never felt such complexity of life, such incomprehensibility of his own heart, such weight of his own freedom. The sensation enveloping him… So powerful, so absolute, so unquestionable, so full of meaning – but so strange, he had nowhere to accommodate it on his scale of values, had nothing to anchor it to. Of course he was lost: he had never slept with someone he should have on no account even wanted to touch – had never slept with someone who actually mattered to him.

Was this just the final stage of succumbing to temptation – actually embracing the fall? Or what was it…?

All he knew was that he felt something inside himself shift, change, and settle with a calming finality, like the surface of a pond smoothing out into cut-glass after a thrown rock has sunk to the very bottom and become part of the pond – and Boromir lowered his sword, then quietly went and put it back in its scabbard.

Stupid, he now thought with a smile, tilting his face up and looking into the open mountain sky above, clear and endless, already blue with the arrival of the sun. Everyone else was stupid. Everyone who sneered at such passion, who scorned and feared it. They simply did not know. Fools. Narrow-minded fools. He had feared, too, he had deemed it wicked – now he knew better. Now it was precious to him, and he would like to see someone try and make him part with it.

He felt happy now. He did not like avoiding himself, lying to himself. It wore him out, gnawed at his self-respect, made life seem dull and burdensome. Now at last he could be straight with himself, for there was no longer anything in him that he did not wish to recognise and live out. Faramir was wonderful, and being with Faramir was wonderful. Unusual, yes, but they would get used to it. There were few things a man could not get used to.

Yes, he felt happy – and also very fortunate, although not the humble, grateful sort of fortunate a man of a more modest heart would have felt. No, as the high proud lord that he was, Boromir was accustomed to feeling rightfully special, and he deemed his fortune pretty much his due, something that he not only doubtlessly deserved through personal merit, but what he was entitled to simply as his birthright. One day he would be lord over all of Gondor – certainly fate would not have put an unworthy man in this place? And certainly, seeing as he had been put in this place, he deserved to have the best of the best along the way? Again, it was a little unconventional – but, after all, who could suit him better than Faramir?

He took a deep joyous breath of the frisk autumn air, revelling in the strength of his lungs, in the life coursing through his body. He was young, full of strength and spirit, full of fire, full of the desire to live – and life kept throwing riches at his feet. He had been dealt the most enviable place in society, had been given health, valour and the talent of a warrior, he had good looks and an effortless charismatic authority. Now, to top it all, he had Faramir.

Life could hardly get any better than this.

Only now that it had lifted did he become aware of the merciless pressure he had been carrying in his groin all this time: but now he felt pleasantly light and empty in the balls – unburdened. The sensation spoke a promise of renewal, of new life-force to soon come in the place of that which had been spent, as new sunshine is ever ready to spill on the land after a brief velvety respite of night – and he thought of the evening to come and the night to follow, when they would do it again, just a few hours away. Last night he had set a personal record, reaching that number which he had always considered a hallmark of a man who does not know how to brag credibly – too bad his achievements would have to pass unbeknownst to anyone. Boromir was too content to mind, however – instead he idly wondered if he could perhaps top himself and reach an even more impressive score when darkness fell again.

He did not linger on the thought though, not wishing for the yearning to become uncomfortable, which it surely would if he were only to recall how… He grinned and tossed his head. He no longer had need of fantasies, nay, for the glorious reality was his for the taking, for the prize was not going anywhere and would wait for him always, so long as he lived.

And he wanted to live in the moment, without hurry or tarry, for now that his life was perfect, each moment was, too.

He felt the vibe of his city like never before. He sensed the energy flowing in it with a heightened, sharpened sensitivity, so many things happening at once, so many lives following their course, each little occurrence and action echoing through him, like the fabled seeing-stones of the past channelling countless visions to his mind in uncontradicting simultaneousness. He knew exactly what each circle would be like at this hour – and in two hours’ time, and at noon, and afterwards. He knew by heart, with the very tissues of his body, how his city lived, what unbreakable routine it followed, day after day, century after century.

Right now it was awakening, getting ready and heading to the place of its daily labours, the bottom circles already busy with merchants setting up their stalls and servants hurrying on errands, whereas the wealthier and idler inhabitants of the higher terraces were stealing the last dream from the departing night. Soon the lower streets would be filled with the deep lingering scent of roasting chestnuts, and the hum of all the people going about their business would carry up even to the administrative and military levels of the city. Towards nightfall the smells of food and work would come to be rivalled by those of leisure and entertainment: the heady aroma of hot spiced wine, the faintly bitter tang of the street torches illuminating the way for those on their way to the home hearth – or elsewhere… The sounds would be different, too: no more of the robust, energetic shouting of traders bantering with stingy customers, no more of the shrill piercing cries and giggles of children, no more of the high-pitched female chatter – all the respectable women were out of the streets by this hour, and those few who came to take their place would speak in low sugary murmurs and promising whispers.

He, too, would fit into this ever-repeating pattern, would live out the life befitting a Steward’s heir – only his life would be special, for he was blessed beyond the reckoning of men.

With this thought Boromir turned a corner and came into the vast practice courtyard between the barracks and the dining hall – and saw a dense gathering of soldiers in the middle, with still more coming to join the already threatening crowd. The air was tense and brittle, and people were talking in lowered, agitated voices.

What now?! Can’t anything go as it is expected to – just for a change? he thought in exasperation and headed for the crowd.

He approached, and as the soldiers let him pass to the centre, he heard their gravely excited murmurs and concluded they had actually been expecting him. At twenty he was far from the most experienced or high-ranked officer in the force (by sheer right of birth he could, of course, outweigh the word of any of his superiors save his father, yet he knew that to use this right would only diminish his weight in his men’s eyes), yet no important decision would be made without him. He was usually very proud of that, and reckoned he deserved it anyway, what with his unprecedented rising to a captain at nineteen – but today, when he did not want to have any problems to solve, it only aggravated his annoyance.

“All right! What’s all the commotion?!” Boromir barked with authority and louder than was actually necessary, for he wanted it clear that he was fully in charge and no indiscipline would be tolerated. Coming to the front row he stopped short, for he saw at once that they were preparing to birch someone, the long bench and the barrel for soaking the willow-rods already there. And by the bench, apart from everyone else, stood two young lads, not much older than his own brother. He remembered them well, earnest and jolly lads they were, joined in only the year before. Both were already shirtless in the biting chill of the morning, but neither seemed to notice; and such desolation was in their faces as if they were going to be beheaded, not whipped.

A sturdy balding man in his late fifties, Danrad the Stables Master, rushed to Boromir.

“Oy, Lord Boromir, the’e ye are!” He was a trustworthy fellow, if not particularly coherent or concise. He enjoyed, however, a great weight among the men – he used to be a warrior himself, before an injury to his knee had set him to overseeing more peaceful matters. Having lost his only son to childhood illness long ago, he had since come to take out his unspent paternal sentiments on the horses whom he affectionately addressed as ‘you cheeky ruffians’ – and the soldiers, who to him were all either ‘lads’ or ‘boys’.

A few feet away Boromir noticed a figure rather standing out from the rest of the warriors. It was Gelendor, one of his father’s bailiffs – a man of exceptionally upright posture, lean of body and face, his slick dark hair always neatly tucked behind his ears, light-blue eyes emotionless yet unpleasantly penetrating. As usual, he was wearing his knee-long official robes of black wool, austere and adorned only by a fine belt. Despite the weather, he had no cloak or hood, as though being the mouth of law made him immune to the elements. Boromir remembered that in the scorching sun of summer he would not even break a sweat on his brow. And once again Boromir was reminded of how Faramir had once jokingly referred to the man as ‘the viper’.

The bailiff acknowledged Boromir’s arrival with a curt nod, but did not try to intercept Danrad, who was practically jumping with impatience. It was obvious the two had been engaged in a passionate dispute up to the point of the heir’s arrival, and the idea of it made Boromir grin in spite of his growing unease. Oh, it must have been a scene worth watching…

Much as he usually enjoyed Danrad’s company, what with his good-natured gruff manner and fatherly ways, Boromir raised his brows at Gelendor, knowing his explanation would make much more sense than Danrad’s – but the official made a polite gesture, indicating he relinquished the privilege to his opponent. Gelendor had never made it much of a secret he considered the military men a rather amusing object to observe, what with their arrogant stubbornness and hot foolish tempers. Boromir had never liked him much.

Boromir sighed and turned his eyes to the Stables master. “Well?”

Danrad took a deep breath, as though preparing air for a speech long enough to house all his apparent outrage.

But before he could embark on the monologue, another voice called from behind Boromir, uncertain and humble.

“I am so sorry, your lordship.”

Boromir did not appreciate it when the men spoke without confidence, and so he did not grace the speaker with a full turn and only looked back over his shoulder. His name was Meneldir and he was the one in charge of the two boys, as well as of another ten cadets. With a pang of annoyance, Boromir read in his face the look after seeing which he could never quite respect an officer again – the ‘please, let someone else decide for me’ and the ‘I don’t understand how this could’ve happened’ look. Pity though, Meneldir had seemed like a promising one to him.

“What are you sorry for? What have you done?” Boromir asked not quite kindly. He did not like the degree of distress present in the situation, and least of all did he like it when people began their speech with pleas for forgiveness.

Why are you not even trying to get a word in with the other two? he wanted to demand. Why are you standing shamefaced in the corner when these are your boys? Whatever they’ve done, of all the people you ought to be the last one to withdraw your protection from them. If such is your conduct, what can be expected of the others? But if Meneldir did not understand this already, it was quite pointless to waste breath on trying to enlighten him.

Boromir sighed inwardly. Fine, he would deal with it himself. But, he decided after all, when it was over and done with, he would have a talk with Meneldir, tell him to learn and solve the problems with his cadets without it becoming a national-scale event.

“Well?” the Captain inquired, turning back to Danrad.

“Ye see, yer lo’dship, we bin arguin’ what to do with ’em goblins ove’ he’e,” at this Danrad pointed at the two young men by the bench, as though this much was not yet obvious beyond doubt. Boromir suppressed another sigh. “’Tis outrage, me lord!” Danrad exclaimed, suddenly doubling in volume. “Ooh, them rascals! Now, Meneldir here has sent for Master Gelend’r, and now he say do it by the book, but the boys,” with a wide gesture he indicated all the other soldiers, including Meneldir who did not quite look like he wanted to be included. “Yer lo’dship, we don’ want none of this among us, if ye please! What a disguhrace!” The last word he pronounced with something a sort of twisted gusto. “They dese’ves an ’olesome beating fo’ starte’s, and—”

Boromir raised his hand and the man fell silent. The young captain felt that everyone, even Gelendor who obviously could not care less, had their eyes on him: a new and promising character had just walked on stage and everybody was holding their breath waiting for some spectacular move on his behalf. Much as being the centre of attention was pretty much the default state for a man of his birth, this time Boromir felt unpleasantly aware of all the gazes and the ears. To tell the truth, he had not liked the look of it from the start, what with the hubbub and a bewildered officer and a bailiff present – and now he liked it even less. Yet he fought down the bad feeling rising in his stomach, for worry ought not to show in his face.

“Now, tell me – and to the point – what happened?” he looked at Danrad sternly, already regretting he had chosen to listen to the man in the first place. He could tell Gelendor was going to be popular at the afternoon meal, recounting the show to his colleagues.

“Well, you see, me lord, ’tis like this,” the stables master began. “Not two hours ’go, the’e I am goin’ to look o’er them ’orses befo’ the day. No one’s suppos’d to be the’e at this hour, but then I ’ear queer noises in the back. An’ when I come ove’,” the man spread his arms theatrically, “the’e them are those two cocksuckers on the floor – writhing like worms!! That one on the top,” he pointed, “with his trousers aroun’ the knees, an’ already workin’ it like stuffing a maiden! And the othe’ one, well, he still dressed, but, you’ve got ter hear this, he—” the man trailed off, for Boromir had suddenly gone very grey in the face. The young man reeled, and a nauseous wave rose up in his stomach.

But naturally his reaction was completely misinterpreted, and Danrad launched into apology. “Oy, me old doorknob, sayin’ such foul things to yer lo’dship! Too foul fo’ yer noble ears, I daresay! Nea’ly made yer lo’dship sick all ove’ yer shiny boots!”

Gelendor averted his face, but Boromir noticed an ‘oh, please, when is this comedy going to end?’ expression pass across his features. He had likely just put Boromir in the same category with the flabbergasted Meneldir.

Boromir clenched his teeth and swallowed… Must not lose face. He forced a harsh laugh. “Nay, worry not, it takes more than that to unsettle my stomach. But you paint vivid images with your words, Master Danrad – more vivid than I care to imagine. Pray spare me the delicious details!”

And suddenly, as by a word of magic, the tension was gone. The men behind and around him chuckled with approval, someone actually clapped his hands, even the bailiff grinned to himself drily. Boromir had done just what they all needed: he took the apprehension and uncertainty away and let them laugh, practically as though they had all come here for an entertainment.

But Boromir was genuinely astonished to hear such scorn in his own voice. He had not intended to be cruel, especially not after the previous night, not when he could still see Faramir looking up at him with such adoration and trust in his eyes… And then he was suddenly aware of Faramir’s scent still lingering on his skin. The man had not wanted to wash it off when he woke, and now it was all over him. For a dreadful moment it felt as though instead of the traces of his brother’s sweat, semen and spit (not to mention the dratted lavender oil) he was covered in red paint – and the men would see it any minute now.

His private treasure, his newfound happiness brought along such insufferable vulnerability…

Funny, when he had stood on the cold floor of their bedroom earlier that morning, contemplating – in earnest, as it had seemed to him – taking his own and his brother’s lives, it had never occurred to him to spare a thought for others.

What would people think? What would people think if the two of them were found slain in their own bedchamber, naked and with the proof of what had been done red and raw between Faramir’s legs? What would Father think? How would Father live with it? Would Father live with it?

And how would Father live with it if he actually ever caught them doing it again…?

Involuntarily Boromir looked at the miserable couple in the centre, and now he knew why they looked like they did. Absolutely, completely exposed and at mercy of these hateful men – men who could not possibly understand… ‘I didn’t writhe with him like a worm!’ he wanted to shout. ‘Is that all you can see?! But it is not like that at all…! We’re not mindless randy beasts shagging for fun… You have no idea what it feels like! He alone is worth to me more than this whole city with everything in it! I feel for him like none of you would ever know!!’

But he never said any of it, of course.

“So wha’ d’we do with ’em, me lord?”

He stared down at Danrad. The man was looking at him in hopeful eagerness, obviously counting on Boromir’s solidarity with the soldiers’ position. After all, to everyone in the military, Boromir was first and above all a warrior and a captain, and only then the Steward’s son.

Boromir took a deep breath and announced flatly: “We do what we are supposed to do. The Law was made for a reason. Just do what it says on the point, and no debates. What is this? Why are we wasting so much time on this matter?! These things have happened before, I am sure, and this here is no uncommon case – just do the usual.”

He had no idea what ‘the usual’ was. He had never stopped to wonder. Well, at least as it apparently involved birching, it was not likely anyone would be executed…

“Thank you, your lordship,” Gelendor gave an appreciative little bow, having more class than to show glee at his triumph.

But Danrad, although clearly struggling to stay humble, burst out, “Beggin’ yer gracious pard’n, yer lordship, but this here is uncommon! We all’ve surely heard of the thing – but not once in my living memory, and I’m no boy he’e, have it actually happened! And right ’ere, among the lads, too!”

“Could this little misintelligence, perhaps, be a tribute to the fact of the esteemed Master Danrad being a blissfully unobservant man?” Gelendor suggested conversationally, who now that Boromir had pronounced him the winner seemed more lenient towards an exchange of pleasantries. “Pray kindly tell me I am badly mistaken and you do not actually deem it necessary to see the act in order to know that a man has—?”

“Now look here!” Danrad cut him off, clenching his broad hands into fists, “If you are suggesting any of the boys here – then the Law or no Law…”

“Goodness, why would I want to go to so much trouble?” Gelendor parried in a tone of amused condescension. “Those whom the matter may concern already know who they are, there is no need of finger-pointing on my or anyone else’s behalf. And let us not pretend the situation is not meant to serve not so much as a lesson taught to the party at fault, but rather as a broadly preventative measure – is this not why, my good Master Danrad, you so yearn to have these two demonstratively beaten to pulp?”

Danrad, by then positively purple in the face, opened his mouth to object – and gulped for breath, obviously failing to nail a counter-argument.

“Enough!” Boromir barked furiously, making both men turn to him at once and the rest of the crowd catch their breath. He did not like the look Gelendor cast him, but he cared little, unable to decide which of the two he would have preferred to murder if given the choice. “Unless,” he muttered sternly, “my judgement is to be contested, I would advise you sirs to be done with your bickering and you, Master Gelendor, to kindly do your job and read out the specific measure of punishment. We have plenty of our own work to do and I want this nonsense to be done with!”

Again Gelendor bowed to him respectfully – then turned to the lad whom Danrad had compared to a maiden.

“Did you give voluntary unforced consent for the treatment you were receiving?” he inquired matter-of-factly.

Danrad snorted exasperatedly at this, but the lad, startled to be spoken to, stared back at the bailiff with haunted, uncomprehending eyes. Gelendor sighed and, rephrasing, spoke slowly, as to a dullard, “Were you being forced?”

A visible shiver ran through the cadet’s body and it was clear he understood – both the question and its implications. He could still get out of the worst it, or at least try to – although then the boy he had been caught with would be tried for attempted rape.

A chill crept down Boromir’s spine when the man realised he already knew what the lad was going to say. Boromir had never noticed much of a friendship between the two, let alone anything else – but now, by some strange sense of solidarity, he suddenly knew. It horrified him that he could really see it, how it was between them, what drew one to the other. The boy had always had about him this niceness, this wide-eyed well-meaning eagerness that, although often preventing others from taking him seriously, encouraged many of the older warriors to like him with a warm paternal-like fondness. And Boromir could tell, could really tell, in what way exactly the other lad complemented these qualities in him, how they fitted and matched, how the pull worked.

At this notion another wave of sickness threatened to rise in him, but Boromir fought it down.

Meanwhile the boy closed his eyes, as though pulling himself together, then parted his lips to answer – but his voice cracked and nothing came out. He frowned, swallowed – and on the next try uttered quietly, “No.” The corners of his mouth twitched, but he repeated, “No. I was fully willing.”

A simmering murmur passed through the crowd, and Gelendor raised his brows, as though not quite convinced that something so abhorrent could indeed be true – but the young man said nothing more.

“Very well,” Gelendor then said with emphasis. He inhaled deeply and, clasping his hands behind his back and standing even straighter than usual, he looked before himself and recited in a clear expressionless voice, as though a diligent schoolboy delivering his assignment before a classroom, “For those not having yet taken a full oath of service and below age of manhood, the first-time offense of displaying unambiguous unquestionable carnal interest in a fellow soldier,” he ignored Danrad’s contemptuous snort at the euphemistic phrasing, “the statutory measure of penalty is as follows. Ten-score lashes with willow-rods on the back and thighs – face-down on a bench, undressed and in public. Unless stated specifically otherwise, an adequate period for a reasonable degree of recovery should be allowed at the Wards – followed by a single-cell incarceration for a period of five days, water but no meals – followed in turn by a six-week period of suspension from all official duties with the purpose of providing time to thoroughly ponder on – and hopefully reconsider – one’s conduct.”

Boromir blinked, taken aback. He had never expected the Law to have such a precise point of view on the matter. Valar, someone had actually thought it all through…

Gelendor let his words sink in, then turned to Boromir, waiting for confirmation.

“Yes, carry on,” Boromir said without emotion, only making a little impatient gesture with his hand.

“The Book does not specify whether the flogging should be fully public or limited to the circle of those performing the same service. If your lordship wishes, it can be taken down to the market square,” Gelendor added casually.

“We are not wasting another hour on making a show out of this,” Boromir said drily, too drained to even be angry anymore. “It shall be done right here where everything is already prepared. Now, thank you, Master Gelendor, your service is done.”

Without a word the black-clad bailiff inclined his head and left, and Boromir’s gaze fell on Danrad. The older man’s face was burning with barely contained emotion, yet, meeting the heir’s eyes, he lowered his head respectfully.

“As yer lo’dship says, of course,” he muttered, then could not resist adding, “though I’ope ye do see me point now, Cap’n Boromir. In two months’ time, they’ll be back like it nev’r ’appened.” He shook his head ruefully and spat at his feet. “Right, boys. Could’ve had it ove’ by now… Oh well. Now then, whe’e did that Ned’mir go? ’Tis his duty fo’ them floggins.” And he added in a low grumble, “And he’d bette’ do a good job of it.”

They were going to manage without his first-hand involvement, and Boromir was grateful for that much. But all the same, he could not just up and leave the scene. So he stood and watched, and could not help flinching when the men began to jeer as the first blow was struck.

It was quite an enlightening experience, in fact, letting him learn the full list of nouns, adjectives, verbs and elaborate word constructions possibly applicable to one man who even embarked on bedding another. And Boromir knew that in his particular case the list would be twice as long, for it would have to include all the words for seducing someone as scandalously young and piercingly innocent as Faramir, not to mention the obvious additions for their status and kinship.

The only good thing he could think of was that Faramir was currently elsewhere.

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