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Unexpected Blessings (NC-17) Print

Written by Nissi

14 November 2006 | 18644 words

[ all pages ]

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

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.

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