Faramir Fiction Archive

The Secret Widower (NC-17)

Written by Nissi

06 September 2006 | 17983 words

Chapter 7: Return a Husband, Leave a Widower

The brothers spent the following day exploring Amon Hen, and the night exploring each other. The day after, they set off for home, returning the way they arrived—traversing the lake on the simple orc raft, heading south through northern Ithilien along the Great River, crossing the river at Osgiliath, and finally trekking across Pelennor to the White City. Their return trip was made lengthier by frequent stops for intimate activities. They behaved like a honeymooning couple, unable to keep their hands off each other and loving every moment of their newfound romantic and sexual bliss.

But their honeymoon did not last long. They returned to the news that Faramir was to leave on his first expedition of command to southern Ithilien. By the time Faramir made way back to Minas Tirith Boromir was gone on an errand of his own. As difficult and painful as it was to be parted and without release in the stress of long campaigns, both men remained true to their vows. Whenever temptation loomed Boromir need only look to the red star of the Two Brothers to remember what he had promised, and what that promise meant to him.

Fate did allow them all-too-brief times together in their city. When they dared spend nights in Faramir’s or Boromir’s bed, they did. Other rendezvous were arranged in the recesses of the library or the labyrinth of the tombs—anywhere off the beaten path, where they might steal moments for intellectual, emotional, and physical intimacy. To anyone else the brothers seemed as ever they did: close beyond measure and greatly fond of each other’s company. Only together did they share the secret of their love.

Several years passed between their holiday and Boromir’s departure for the council at Rivendell. Faramir bore the older man’s leaving with a brave face, but in private he wept bitterly. He had experienced many terrible dreams and portends. He feared that his brother, his lover, his husband would not live to come to him again. His fears were only worsened by Boromir’s small half-smile, heartbreaking as ever, accompanying the words he uttered as they said farewell: “Remember today, little brother.” The day marked not only victory at Osgiliath, but also the anniversary of the night they made their wedding vows on Amon Hen.

Days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months, until one afternoon Faramir led his rangers through northern Ithilien on a mission to scout what forces answered Mordor’s call. He was lost in happy memories of his thirtieth birthday journey when he heard the unmistakable sound of the horn of Gondor ringing clearly through the air, some distance away. It was torture to bear the knowledge that Boromir was in distress and that he was impotent to find and aide the man he loved.

With their mission accomplished his men, rattled by the horn, requested to turn for home, but Faramir tarried. When he could hear the horn no more he lowered his eyes and made one small sound. His men recognized it as a ranger signal, but could not pinpoint its meaning.

“Keep on guard, just in case. If we are separated and I whistle like this…” Faramir made a curious sound that mimicked the call of a bird, and yet sounded unique to anything Boromir had ever heard. “It means I have encountered something and you are to stay put, firmly, until I find you.”

Yet Faramir knew their course was run. There was nothing he could do.

Faramir watched from the window of his home in Emyn Arnen as dawn crept over the spike of Ecthelion. He turned to glance over his shoulder as Éowyn stirred in their bed, but did not wake. He breathed a little sigh of relief.

He had married the White Lady of Rohan hastily following the War of the Ring. When he met her he was a broken man, trying to act as Steward while recovering from the physical wounds and fever he had sustained in defense of his country. But it was not the pressure of leadership or the sting of orc arrows that shattered him. It was the loss of his beloved older brother, whose death he suspected the day Boromir’s horn, cut in two, washed up on the bank of the Anduin. When the young hobbit Peregrin Took had come to Minas Tirith and given him confirmation, he was nearly inconsolable. Only the understanding that there was still much to be done in Gondor’s defense kept him from completely breaking down.

Outwardly his was the mourning of a man who’d lost his brother, his closest friend and the only buffer between himself and his overtly abusive father. That was the grief he showed, carefully separating it from the devastating emotion that festered within him. Inwardly, he struggled with the loss of not just a brother and a friend—but a love, a lover, and a spouse. He was a secret, silent widower, never again to see the one thing that made him truly happy. The only thing that made him whole.

He had ridden to Osgiliath fully expecting to die and return to Boromir in whatever life beyond death would be. Yet he survived. What would seem to any to be miraculous fortune and cause for celebration was only the assurance of more time to grieve. Éowyn was frosted with sorrow, as well. He connected with her because he related to her pain and the loss of innocence she had endured. In an effort to avoid the intensity of his feelings he poured himself into the act of wooing her, his broken heart ruling his head.

And yet he did not love her. How could he? The partner in his real marriage, his first and truest union, was gone. With every passing day he felt more in betrayal of Boromir and greater a fraud to Éowyn.

He had decided to distract himself with a visit to the wild, alone. He was Prince of Ithilien; it was his territory to do with as he pleased. He planned to travel north along the eastern shore of the Anduin, past the Falls of Rauros, and across Nen Hithoel. He knew his destination well.

He was returning to the foot of Amon Hen, to the small clearing of statues where he and Boromir had made their vows, and made love for the first time.

It was the same place where Boromir had given his life.

Faramir ensured his belt carried his cherished knife, the gift Boromir had commissioned. As he shifted to gaze due north he fingered the wooden sheath thoughtfully.

His journey to Amon Hen was certain. Whether he would return would remain to be seen.

“We will be with each other, one way or another, forever. We are both of the Dúnedain, though admittedly with lesser pedigree than some. Still, we will live long lives, and live them together. I fully expect to have you by my side when I become Steward, and I will never send you from my sight. You will be my most trusted advisor,” Boromir fantasized. “And we’ll spend as much time together as we desire. We’ll walk in your gardens, and you can teach me about your plants. You can read your books to me—I’ll even acquiesce to learning some elvish. The Sons of Gondor shall never be parted, if it is within my power to prevent it,” Boromir concluded.

On to Unexpected Blessings

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