Faramir Fiction Archive

Shadows (R)

Written by Minx

12 December 2012 | 29219 words

Chapter 1

Interlude

Aragorn smiled as Boromir slid a hand around his waist and blew a soft breath on his neck.

“You look very happy,” he said leaning back. Boromir’s hand quested through his robe, and began working at the ties of his shirt.

“The meeting with Ethelred is over, we will get fine new Rohirric horses by next month and I’m free for the day now.”

Aragorn moaned softly as roughened fingers brushed over his nipples.

“I thought you said Húrin wanted you to read a report that was…wait, eighty pages long and full of inconsequential details!”

“It was about cultivating Hardric figs in Pelargir. I thought I’d fall asleep reading it. But then, Mardil, he’s one of father’s old scribes, reminded me that Faramir is supposed to be assisting me with my work. So I pulled him away from his mystery novel in the archives and asked him to read the report for me and let me know if it was anything very urgent,” Boromir said, his hands now stroking the flat planes of Aragorn’s bare stomach.

“I was in the archives as well,” Aragorn said trying not to squirm as the fingers moved to work at his pants.

“Really?”

“They have new books in the restricted section – from Khand. They are most educational.” The pants slipped lower.

“Hmm,” Boromir said.

Later they lay sated on Aragorn’s bed, their naked bodies entwined around each other, Aragorn tracing a vague pattern idly on his lover’s bare shoulder.

“That was – very nice. We should try that again,” Boromir murmured. He stretched out a long leg. A soft cushion flew off the bed.

“I would try it now, but I fear I have no energy left,” Aragorn said, “But I could spend the rest of the evening just being with you.”

“That would be an equally fine prospect.”

Bright sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, imparting a warm, golden hue to Boromir’s bare body. Aragorn thought he looked beautiful. A soft breeze wafted in, bringing the fragrance of the roses growing outside.

“I should thank Faramir,” Aragorn said lazily.

“Why?” Boromir asked yawning.

“For freeing this afternoon for you. Would he not have minded though?”

“Oh, you know Faramir. He’s quite the busy little worker.“’

“Oh yes he is, isn’t he? Remember at the picnic by the river last week, he sat and read that book on Hardaric dining customs.”

“Oh dear…yes! For the envoy’s visit! Now you see why he doesn’t even have a lover!”

Aragorn snorted.

“The two of you are so different.”

“Mmm…,” Boromir rolled over to curl against Aragorn.

“You share similar looks and colouring, but else you vary so much,” the king continued.

He ran his hand along Boromir’s side, lingering over the soft, smooth surface.

“Although, you do look so much more handsome. And your skin is so fine and inviting, I think perhaps I should feel it with my tongue.”

“I’m sure Faramir could be fine and inviting if you asked him to,” Boromir said laughing, “He’s very intelligent. He speaks other languages too!”

“I think you are far more desirable.”

Boromir laughed again. Aragorn moved to exploring Boromir’s front. He gently stroked a long, thin, fading scar on his stomach, and his eyes clouded briefly, as he took in the familiar mark. They had almost lost Boromir to his injuries in the quest.

“It’s completely healed now,” Boromir said softly, “It should be gone in some weeks.”

“Aye,” Aragorn said, a little gruffly, but continued to stroke the mark.

“Poor Faramir’s shoulder is still healing,” Boromir said.

“He’s got a lot more marks on him than you have,” Aragorn commented, recollecting the sight of the younger man, his spare frame littered with bruises and cuts all over. He’d taken an arrow to his shoulder, and perhaps been dragged someway by his horse as well, for his back to had been covered with wounds.

“Oh yes,” Boromir said thoughtfully, entwining his fingers around Aragorn’s, “He has quite a few nasty scars on him. He was injured more than a few times in skirmishes in Ithilien. I used to worry for him, but I realised later he could manage well enough on his own.”

“Poor lad. He should heal well soon enough though.”

Some weeks later…

Faramir rearranged the food on his plate disinterestedly, as the conversation around him moved to a reminiscence of some event that had happened while his brother and his friends had been in Lothlorien during the ring quest. Boromir had invited everyone for a small supper gathering in his rooms.

His brother had continued to use his old apartments, which were in the same wing as the king’s apartments. The rooms were large, decorated sparingly but very tastefully – consisting of a huge bedchamber, a study, two meeting rooms, a large sitting room, and a small, cosy supper room where they now sat. Wide windows opened out to the fine streets of the sixth level below, letting in the pale evening light, and the fragrance of the climbing roses growing outside.

They were having rabbit stew yet again and Faramir did not care much for the dish. He wondered why the kitchens served it so often nowadays, his thoughts beginning to wander.

He’d had a long day, much like most of his days now were.

There had been a fractious council meeting in the morning, and then myriad meetings with various troop commanders, guild leaders and city councillors throughout the day. He’d spent the last few hours at a meeting of the craftsmen’s guild leaders in Boromir’s stead – his brother had declared the subject of the meeting inconsequential, and the attendees a bunch of withering old nincompoops.

The proceedings had lived up to Boromir’ s estimation – the aging leader of the weaver’s guild had held up proceedings first by vehemently protesting the Steward’s absence, and then stubbornly opposing any points raised by Faramir, varying aided or rebutted by the other leaders depending on their mutual alliances, causing it to extend till late evening.

Boromir was now asking for a third helping of stew and Faramir recollected suddenly that he was uncommonly fond of the dish. No wonder the kitchens routinely served it up, he thought. Boromir was a favourite with the kitchen staff. Much as he was with everyone else, he thought, as Legolas promptly passed him his own bowl of stew.

The conversation had moved to a discussion of the follies of various Gondorian councillors now; he wasn’t sure how. Boromir was being quite vocal in his disapproval. If Boromir had been at the guild meeting they’d have finished in half the time. The older men would have listened to the Steward without argument, and certainly with more politeness than they’d accorded to Faramir. Even though Faramir himself had shown far more restraint and good naturedness than his brother would have.

Boromir however had had work with the king at that time. They worked very closely together. And also spent most much of their free time together. Boromir had informed Faramir many months ago that they were lovers.

Faramir sighed silently and moved the food around his plate morosely; the stew had cooled down to an ugly looking coagulated mass that looked even more unappetising than usual.

He wished Boromir would spend some more time with him too! He supposed he might be a little unfair about wanting more time with his brother; they were after all both grown men now with many more duties, but he really did miss the companionship. They had been close as children, as their father had grown more distant, and even in all the years that they had spent soldiering, they had made a little time for each other – short occasions where they did little but sit together over a quick meal or wine and talk. He had thought, now after the war, in a time of peace, they would have more such occasions.

But Boromir had responsibilities as the captain general and the king’s steward and chief advisor. And he had new friends in Legolas and Gimli, and a very fond lover in the king.

Faramir was off active duty for some time; his injuries in the war had been severe enough to keep him away from his ranger duties for many months to come. He now acted as an aide for Boromir, a job that involved going through countless councillors’ meetings and reports and taking decisions on myriad little details that were deemed too insignificant, and often condensing everything for the steward and king’s perusal.

It was a role he was largely unfamiliar with. Boromir as the heir to the stewardship had always worked closely with their but Denethor had made little effort to involve Faramir in duties related to statecraft. He had on the contrary stated that Faramir would be incapable of such tasks, and would probably be better off in the training grounds, improving his weaponry skills.

And so it happened that Faramir was now still learning his way around, trying to read and understand all the reports he received daily, and trying to decipher all the undercurrents that existed within the council, between guild masters, between the council and the army. It was all often terribly confusing for him, particularly dealing with all those people – they knew he was new to what he was doing, and they were used to treating him with disdain and at times, scorn.

He heard his name mentioned, scattering his thoughts, and looked up. Boromir had moved on from complaining about the councillors to reciting embarrassing stories about many of them much to the amusement of their dinner companions, including the king, Lord Legolas and Lord Gimli. And now to Faramir’s mortification, he had moved onto an embarrassing incident involving Faramir tripping over his feet while dancing with a councillor’s wife at a midwinter feast.

“She refused to dance with him after that of course, and then so did all the other women!” Boromir said laughing quite loudly.

Faramir felt his face burning in embarrassment, as the others chuckled, and ducked his head.

He preferred not to recollect that incident. The woman had refused to continue dancing because he had not responded to her flirtation and then she had deliberately tripped him! She had pulled him aside to a dimly lit portion of the dance floor, and tried first to tug his hand down from her shoulder to her extremely large, very well-endowed chest, barely covered by her low cut gown. She had then leaned forward, and in a breathy whisper invited him to her chambers that night, while her hands had slipped between his legs, and fondled his crotch through his pants. He had been barely sixteen, still unfamiliar with any touch other than his own and had reacted in shock and mortification as her long, bony fingers had worked his trousers. She had tripped him to cover up for her act.

“It didn’t help either that Faramir’s always been a shy sort around women,” Boromir continued, smiling fondly at him, “Hmm, men too.”

Faramir bit his lip, uncomfortably. It wasn’t as if he’d never tried. But with his father’s low opinion of him being no secret, he was no prize catch. He could hardly expect that the young women of their acquaintance would be encouraged to approach him. And few men saw any reason to appease his tastes, for he could hardly help them advance their military or administrative careers as Boromir could. He had been left to himself or to the discreet brothels in the third circle to sate his needs.

“Do you remember that feast, Faramir? You ran off to your rooms after that and didn’t even join us at the taverns later?” Boromir was continuing cheerfully.

Faramir poked at a lump of mashed cabbage, and let out a non-committal sound in response. He did remember that night very well. He hadn’t joined Boromir and his friends for their usual post feast festivity because he had been summoned by his father to answer for his behaviour with Lady Maredhil.

He’d had to spend a half hour listening to Denethor coldly list out all his faults and inadequacies – he’d called him boorish, uncouth, rude and incompetent. And then he’d berated him yet again for his continual failure to do even the little that was expected him. Faramir had listened quietly, and then accepted his punishment – a thrashing with a riding crop that left him in far too much pain to do anything but slump into his bed, crying himself to sleep.

Boromir had never realised he’d been beaten. Faramir had by then, developed plenty of practice in ensuring very few people learnt of his ineptitude.

Faramir shook away the memory. The talk around him moved onto other matters. He should not think of the past, he told himself strictly.

Reaching for a goblet of wine, he wondered if he should leave – he had so much work to finish for the day! But then, dinner finally came to a close. They dispersed after that; Boromir leaving with the king, one arm slung over his shoulder, the other clutching a jug of wine. Legolas and Gimli decided to visit an old tavern for a nightcap.

Faramir returned to his study.

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