Faramir Fiction Archive

The Secret Widower (NC-17)

Written by Nissi

06 September 2006 | 17983 words

Chapter 2: From a Feast into the Wild

Reluctantly, Faramir joined his brother and father for the feast in Boromir’s honor. He’d spent much of the day eagerly preparing for their trip. He packed foodstuffs, cookware, bedding, and a book. To be ready for any eventuality he sharpened his sword and restrung his bow. He’d seen little of his brother since Boromir snuck away from his bed just before dawn. Boromir was occupied with debriefings but Faramir did not mind being parted, for soon they would have a stretch of time together, far from their father’s troublesome presence and the unending business of the city.

He sat at his father’s table, nursing another cup of ale. He’d had several since dinner, and a couple glasses of spiced wine with the meal. He was feeling the effects. Everything had a pleasant, fuzzy glow and his mind felt remarkably numb. Faramir had fulfilled his duty to be talkative during the feast; now his father was content to leave him alone, and Faramir was happy for the opportunity to sit quietly and observe his brother basking in the attention of countless admirers.

Faramir couldn’t help but think how beautiful his brother had become. Boromir had always possessed a different physical presence. He was slim but well-muscled. Faramir was a touch taller and thinner; Boromir called him “lithe” and “willowy.” Faramir called his older brother “powerful” and “commanding.”

Faramir loved Boromir’s golden hair, which shone like a sunlit crown as it captured the light of the hall’s myriad candelabras and sconces. His own hair was quite different. At times it appeared of a similar hue, but in truth it was threaded of darker strands, more rust than gold. His hair fell in chaotic waves, whereas Boromir’s was blade-straight. Although Denethor’s hair was grayed with age, Faramir bore his father’s tresses. It was the only thing that made him feel physically tied with the cold-hearted Steward.

Boromir’s and Faramir’s eyes sometimes looked strikingly similar, but as in most ways, Boromir took after his father. His eyes were mossy green and rarely abandoned sharp-edged intensity. Faramir had his mother’s eyes, down to the last detail: stunning blue that shifted shades with mood and light, deeply expressive, and softly shaped.

Faramir’s beard was spread about his face and neck, close-clipped to little more than a healthy growth of stubble, save for around the mouth and chin. The thicker gathering of ruddy hair there accentuated his graceful, full lips. Boromir’s beard was restricted to his chin and lip, framing a rosy but thin-lined mouth.

Often the younger man had pondered the ways in which he and his brother were physically different, and physically similar. His thoughts also strayed to the differences and similarities in their personalities. Faramir had few solid memories of his mother, but from what he was told throughout his life, he knew that he favored her strongly. Sometimes Faramir wondered if Boromir’s deep love for him was not in part due to the fact that he looked at him and saw Finduilas. There were unpleasant times when Faramir had evoked Boromir’s ire, and he saw the worst traits of his father in his beloved brother’s countenance. Thankfully, those times had been few and far between.

Now Faramir drew his eyes slowly up and down his brother’s figure. Boromir was dressed in the finest velvet and leather, embroidered richly with gold threads. He looked awe-inspiring, like a Vala among lowly men. Women crowded ‘round him, tittering unabashedly. Men clapped his back. Snippets of exclamations reached Faramir’s ears. “Well done, our hero!” and “Leaving so soon? Our city is poorer without you!” struck him, and he smiled. He felt neither jealousy nor resentment towards his brother’s treatment by both their father and by their people. He was as worshipful as any—perhaps moreso, for his brother belonged to him.

Belonged to him…the thought whirled through Faramir’s drink-addled brain. He felt unusually possessive of Boromir in that moment. He wanted to consume him, to wrap his arms around his broad chest and hold him desperately close. If there was a way to pull Boromir into his very being, he would. He would devour Boromir and keep him forever, forever his solace, never to leave him again.

Faramir blinked slowly and swayed in his seat. He had no idea what prompted his intense thoughts and feelings, and though he always wanted to have Boromir near, he had never been filled with such a strange and powerful desire. The pangs of it seemed to gnaw at his stomach, and he began to feel unwell. Without excusing himself, he stood and walked unsteadily to the door. Boromir was so engrossed in the task of occupying the limelight that he didn’t notice when his little brother slipped from the hall and retreated to his room.

But it was not long before Boromir tired of the attention. Though he enjoyed the admiration of his people, he could only smile so long or laugh so much before he felt worn. He scanned the crowd for his brother, intending to join him for another drink. When he failed to find him, he worried. Boromir knew Faramir had no love of their father’s feasts. The older man began to politely extricate himself from the throng and explained to Denethor that he had grown weary. The hour was late, and the Steward gave Boromir permission to retire for the night.

Slyly Boromir turned for Faramir’s chamber, which resided in the opposite wing from his own. His eyes darted to and fro to detect the presence of observers, but thankfully, upper level guards were given leave to join in the festivities. Only the sentinels of the White Tree remained on guard, and while their eyes were sharp, Boromir would not have to pass their way to reach his target.

In his room, Faramir lie curled on his side upon his bed, feeling terribly poor. He chastised himself for drinking so much, but also knew that it sometimes required too much ale and wine to make his father’s feasts bearable. This was not the first time he’d felt ill after such an event. But now he also fought to make sense of the way he’d wanted his brother. The simultaneous physical and emotional unease brought him to the edge of his tolerance. He clawed for the chamber pot and leaned over the edge of the bed.

As Boromir reached the door he heard the unmistakable sound of his brother being sick. He hastily entered the room and climbed onto the bed, pulling his little brother’s hair from his face. His other hand reached around to gently stroke Faramir’s belly. “It’s alright, little one,” he cooed, watching his brother’s pained face in the candlelight.

Faramir felt relief wash over him and lowered the chamber pot, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. A sheen of perspiration blossomed upon his brow, which Boromir lovingly swiped with his palm. Faramir sighed. “I’m sorry, Boromir…drank too much…”

“Shh. It’s okay. No apology necessary. Come,” he guided his brother with his strong hands, “lie on your back, and I’ll pour you water.” Boromir positioned Faramir thusly, elevating his head with pillows and procuring a goblet of water. He brought the receptacle to the younger man’s lips, encouraging him to sip slowly. “Drink up, or you’ll suffer too much in the morning. I want us to make an early start.”

Faramir nodded weakly and drank until the glass was dry, careful to go slowly, lest he upset his stomach again. “Thank you,” he murmured. The corner of his lips twisted upward into a small smile. Boromir had always loved that expression. It was so gentle, so unassuming. Little did he know that he possessed a similar smile that only appeared in troubled times. It was his half-smile that, when seen, broke Faramir’s heart.

“You’re welcome, little one,” Boromir responded, reaching down to undo the clasps that held Faramir’s own velvet vest in place. “Let’s get you undressed. You won’t sleep well in this lot.”

Faramir summoned the strength to sit up, shrugging off his vest and raising his arms as Boromir pulled off his tunic. He was very happy to be cared for. In Boromir’s absence, there was no-one to look after him in such a way. As a grown man he didn’t require such care, but when he received it he realized how dearly he missed being loved.

Boromir hadn’t seen his brother bare-chested in some time. He noted that Faramir sported more hair than he, and he felt overcome with the strongest desire to reach out and touch it. To feel such a clear manifestation of his brother’s masculinity. Boromir swallowed hard, fighting the thought. Perhaps he had consumed too much drink himself. He couldn’t imagine any other reason why he’d let himself feel something so sexual towards his little brother, when he had succeeded in squelching such thoughts and feelings in the past. And yet, there was an innocent impetus, nothing lewd in it. He knew the difference. As a soldier away from home for long stretches of time, he’d experienced purely lustful desires towards other men. This want was born of love.

Faramir’s head began to spin and his stomach lurched. He groaned and grimaced, and Boromir quickly brought his focus back to caring for his ailing brother. He turned him on his side and procured the chamber pot, once again holding back Faramir’s hair as the younger man was ill. After it ended, Boromir repeated the process with water, before settling into the task of removing Faramir’s breeches. Boromir felt sure that, given his reaction to Faramir only half nude, touching his little brother in such an intimate place would be his undoing. Still he persevered, as Faramir’s comfort was more important than his own concerns.

He began by removing Faramir’s boots. The younger man had begun to shiver in the cold night air, and Boromir responded by making shorter work of the job. He took a deep breath and brought his hands to the laces at the front of Faramir’s breeches. He felt his own begin to constrict as he reacted with his predicted arousal to the heat of Faramir’s member warming the leather against it.

Faramir’s eyes were closed and he alternated between fuzzy consciousness and fitful sleep. He moaned softly as Boromir’s fingers deftly loosened his breeches, tugging them down his hips. Boromir was unsure whether it was an utterance of illness or an utterance of desire. In truth, Faramir himself did not know. He was passing aware of Boromir’s hands so close to his cock—which had not been touched by another in a shockingly long time. He had little desire for sexual contact, but something in Boromir’s touch stirred a need.

Faramir flitted in and out of thoughts and physical sensations. He felt his body stir, but was not able to stay awake long enough for arousal to take hold. His last coherent thought was gratefulness that his drunken state would serve as an excuse for the undeniable, if weakened bodily response. He would not be able to face Boromir if his brother thought that he somehow desired him. It made clear to the younger man, however, that the intense want he had experienced in the great hall had in fact been sensual in nature. The realization was hardly a comfort.

Boromir shuddered as he freed Faramir’s half-erect cock. It was quite similar to his own—perhaps a touch more slender, with a less pronounced head. But he could tell, even in its state, that it was of good length, and he grinned to think how the Steward’s boys both possessed cocks that many men would envy. He pulled Faramir’s breeches off entirely and took a moment to absorb the sight of his brother’s naked body. The entire package was beautiful—finely sculpted and elegant. Only the worsening of Faramir’s shivers prompted Boromir to cut short his evaluation. He tugged the blankets around his brother, wrapping him as in a cocoon.

He wanted to stay, to hold Faramir close and take advantage of his unconsciousness to whisper to his little brother all the feelings he had inspired; to divest himself of the burden of bearing such thoughts. He even had a fleeting idea to relieve his physical desire there at his brother’s side, feeling the younger man’s warmth and drowning in the subtle scent that Faramir possessed. With that idea Boromir realized his desires were crossing over to abject lust, and he couldn’t allow himself to take advantage of Faramir in such a way. He didn’t want to frighten or disgust his brother, even though he suspected the lissome ranger had likely already experienced a soldier’s want in the wilderness. It was one thing to find release in a detached manner with random men in the wake of battle. It was quite another to seek such release in the quiet of home, with one’s own brother.

Boromir silently rose and cast one last lingering glance at his brother’s angelic face before slipping out of the room, closing the door behind him. In the privacy of his own chamber he writhed against his bed, stroking his cock slowly at first, then feverishly as he poured every ounce of his desire into his gratification. He wanted to free it from his system before he left Minas Tirith with his brother in the morning. Boromir was determined: nothing would get in the way of the enjoyment of their time together. If he had to summon every ounce of strength to avoid those needs, he would gladly tire himself with the effort.

Faramir regretted the previous night’s binge as he strode with Boromir towards the north. Horses were impractical where they were going, and Faramir was glad not to have the fuss of caring for them. But every step of his boots on the ground was thunder, and each bounce of his body as he walked was a jolt that sent shockwaves through his pounding head. He had told Boromir he was fine when his brother roused him for departure, but the truth was that he felt very ragged, and looked forward to setting up camp somewhere peaceful. Still, he maintained occasional conversation as they traveled, his enthusiasm for the trip never once ebbing.

Boromir knew well that his brother was suffering, but since Faramir insisted he was well enough, they left as scheduled. He guided his brother in the direction of the hilled forest, finding a suitable place for rest before the sun fell. After arranging their bedrolls and assembling the needs for a fire, the two brothers walked to the edge of the woods, finding patches of moss to cushion them as they sat and watched the sunset in silence.

As twilight descended the cold set in. Boromir was dressed more warmly than Faramir, as his customary attire was heavy with leathers, quilting, chainmail, and fur. Faramir wore his usual linen, quilted cloth, and leathers, embossed with the Tree of the King. His cloak was thin, and he shivered slightly.

“I suppose I ought to have taken into account the cold of night and brought my warmer cloak,” Faramir confessed.

“It never even crossed my mind to suggest it. Are you very cold?” Boromir inquired.

“No, not very. Just a little chilled. This amour is warmer than it appears, though not so warm as yours, I’d wager,” Faramir responded.

“It suits you. Though I’m glad the days are still mild enough that we can remove a few layers in the heat of the sun…seems less formal,” Boromir said with a smile.

“A fire would help. Shall we return to camp?” Faramir suggested.

“Yes, let’s. I’m hungry anyway. Aren’t you?” Boromir marveled at how little his brother could eat and still maintain energy.

“A bit. I’ll sort the food if you sort the fire,” Faramir offered cooperatively as they walked back to their temporary encampment.

“Deal,” Boromir responded. The brothers set about their tasks. Soon they sat in the glow of a healthy fire, consuming a plate of dried sausage, hard cheese, and apples. Above, the stars glittered like jewels through the spindly web of tree branches.

Boromir eyed their bedrolls, which were separated on either side of the fire. He glanced at his brother, who was gazing skyward. He cleared his throat and asked, “Would you like me to move my bedding…closer to yours? You know,” he added quickly, “Just how we used to do.”

Faramir shifted his gaze to Boromir’s face. He smiled lovingly. “I’d like that, yes,” he answered softly.

Boromir beamed brightly and rearranged his bedroll, lining it up perfectly with Faramir’s. “This way we can keep each other warm, too,” Boromir explained.

“Precisely. And…” Faramir glanced down and blushed softly. “I always sleep better with you near. I’ve never grown out of that…”

Faramir lifted his eyes, looking at his brother through his tangle of long lashes. Boromir’s heart melted, and warmth spread through him. Inspired and seizing the whim of the moment, he reached out for Faramir’s hand. Capturing it, he clasped it between his own and tugged his brother sharply towards him.

Faramir bore an expression of total surprise as he tumbled with Boromir to the ground. Soon both men were laughing merrily as they rolled and tussled, roughhousing as they did when they were young. When they tired, Boromir stilled, Faramir resting fully atop him as he caught his breath. His little brother’s smile soon faded as his face rested teasingly close. Boromir felt Faramir’s breaths play upon his lips.

Desire hit the older man like a bolt of lightning. His arms tightened around Faramir’s chest. He wasn’t sure what to do. Did he dare risk revealing his feelings? Was this merely a lull in the brotherly play, or was it something more? He tried desperately to will himself to relax as Faramir shifted, and he felt his cock stir slightly against the younger man’s thigh. He hoped that he wore enough layers of clothing to hide his body’s betrayal.

Faramir held himself steadily, not moving a muscle as he fixed his eyes on Boromir’s, mingling stares. He felt Boromir’s breaths too, and the sensation made his lips tingle softly with need. He opened his mouth to speak, but could not find the words to fit the moment. He was very afraid of saying too much, going too far, and revolting his brother. As he altered his position he thought he felt a stirring in Boromir’s groin. He held his breath, tensed to detect more, but failed to feel further movement. It was so small a flutter that Faramir reasoned it was all in his mind. Before he could cross a line he’d regret he pushed himself off of his brother, falling gently onto his back beside the older man.

For some time neither spoke. They were both lost in their own thoughts, doubts, and unfulfilled desires. At length Faramir said softly, “We should get some sleep.”

Boromir nodded, sitting up and fixing his bedding, which had been mussed in the play. “Good idea,” he responded simply.

Faramir curled on his side and pulled his cloak tightly around himself. He fumbled for the wool blanket that had been cast aside. Boromir reached over his brother and handed it to Faramir before he settled onto his side facing the younger man. He spread his thick cloak out to cover as much of the younger man as he could, bringing them together beneath the warmth of the material. Faramir cast his blanket across them and sighed sleepily. He snuck his arm under Boromir’s cloak and draped it over his brother’s side. Faramir’s eyes fluttered closed as Boromir angled his head to rest his brow against his brother’s.

“Goodnight, little brother,” Boromir whispered.

“Sleep well,” Faramir replied.

“With you by my side, how could I not?” came Boromir’s response, so quietly it was nearly impossible to hear.

But Faramir, with his keen ranger senses trained to remain sharp even in sleep, had heard it. His heart turned a somersault. He recognized that his feelings for his brother had truly moved beyond brotherly, and beyond lustful. Faramir knew without any question: he was in love with his brother.

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