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To Learn You All Over Again (NC-17) Print

Written by Faramir_Boromir

16 September 2004 | 45422 words | Work in Progress

[ all pages ]

Title: To Learn You All Over Again: Exploring Unknown Territory
By: Faramir_boromir
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir, Faramir/OMC (Dorig)
Part: 4/?? Of To Learn You All Over Again
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: Brotherly incest. If this bothers you, read no further.
Archive: Just ask, I’ll probably say yes.
Disclaimer: If I owned the characters, my name would be Tolkien. It isn’t. They’re not. All homage to JRRT, but I’m sure he’d be spinning in his grave if he read this. Sorry.
Synopsis: Faramir discovers how little he knows about himself or his brother, now that they are lovers.


Exploring Unknown Territory

Having attended to my duties this morning, I have earned part of the afternoon for myself. I take a much loved book of ancient history from my room and walk outside, seeking solace in a remote corner of the back garden, a refuge for reading and thinking I have used many times.

One passes through the Steward’s garden by a slender gravel path, winding between high walls, past blooming flowers of many kinds. The variety of flowers always astonishes visitors, though few are invited to the garden these days. A few rare blossoms come from my mother’s home in Dol Amroth. As I stop to take in the fragrance of a particular bloom, I think for a moment of her loving face. Mother.

Releasing a sigh, I resume walking toward my destination, the section of the garden that faces west. People rarely go so far into the garden, and I have frequently taken advantage of that fact, as I do now. The absence of passersby grants this place the silence I welcome.

I slide onto the bench that looks out over the White City, toward Mindolluin1 and the White Mountains. A faint smile starts, as I think of a few hours in solitude. The space granted me this afternoon is uncommon, and I look forward to the small reprieve from work.

It has been many months since I read any portion of this volume, and I flip the pages to find one of my favorite parts. Stories of the Second Age captivated me as a youth, and I return to the tale I remember well, expecting to lose myself in it as I have often done before.

Today, however, my mind will not focus on the words. I am reading and not reading all at once, eyes skimming lines though taking in nothing. After scanning the same page for the third time and seeing none of it, I admit defeat: this will not be an afternoon in the company of books.

Boromir, it is not just you I must learn again. I think I do not know myself any longer.

Rare, that my mind rejects reading. Only when I am troubled with pain behind my eyes will I lay aside a book willingly, and I have been spared any such aches this day. If I can no longer concentrate enough to read, then…then at least I may enjoy an afternoon nap. Time spent with Boromir has meant little or no sleep for many nights in a row. This bench is a comfortable one, and the afternoon sky is filled with a warm sun that brings no rain. Sleep will find me here as well as in my bed.

I close my eyes, safe in a soldier’s knowledge that with fatigue like mine, I should be asleep in five minutes, sitting, standing, or lying down. But time slides by and sleep evades me, for my thoughts are restless. No nap either. What ails me?

Eyes open once more, I look at some of the nearby plants, a tree on my left, as I consider the week gone past. The preceding week, with Boromir, has had the quality of a dream to it. A good dream, but a dream nonetheless.

So much has changed in the last seven days, and the greatest change is one I can scarcely believe: within myself. I love, and am loved in return. I, Faramir.

I am not unkind, or unhandsome, if others are to be believed. Do I not merit such happiness in life? Yet somehow, the notion that I love and am loved in return is astonishing to me. I find my thoughts drifting across things I have not considered for years.

Lovers approached me in younger days, men and women both, but always I found it hard to give myself to another. I shared few evenings with others in hunting passion, probably many fewer than men of my years. Seldom have I stopped to consider why. But in light of this week, I find my mind drawn to this puzzle.

Have I held myself back from loving others?

Was I afraid to love?

Did some part of me want only Boromir?

I slow these thoughts, and try to unravel each in turn.

“Have I held myself back from loving others?” Saying the words aloud like this makes the notion real. Perhaps I had. As a youth, I certainly knew little about pleasure-seeking.

My first taste of passion came at a time when most men would already be well-experienced. On patrol, in Ithilien for the third or fourth year, I began to learn a little. A dark-haired man, bearded, older by some years—Dorig—sat beside me during one evening meal, looking speculatively at every mouthful I ate. Eventually he spoke. “Captain, you are troubled. Would you ease your cares by…walking with me? I could listen.”

In truth, I was troubled that night. News of two men dead, scouts I had sent in search of the enemy, made the meal a difficult one. I welcomed the chance to leave our gathering, to be captain no longer, a mere man once more.

We walked beneath the trees, never far from the safety of our camp. Its fire remained the fixed point we circled at a distance, watching it wink between trees. Darkness falling, I spoke of my concern for the men now gone, my remorse, my failure to foresee the danger I placed them in. Dorig listened to all, and as I returned again to the men who had died, he caught one of my hands with his own, squeezed it. In sympathy, I believed. How unlearned I was!

Slowly as we walked, I became aware that his kind feelings and soft glances to me were not for my comfort alone. He conveyed more by not speaking than most I have met since. But his intent was clear. His desire. And I did not trust my voice to speak my mind. Even troubled, I found something in him that made me curious to know more. So I returned his touch, hesitantly at first. Another brushing of hands, a glance, a nod was enough to signal willingness. Within moments, our mutual needs found expression, though not in many words.

Dorig was kind to me, even as I made clear that I knew not what to do. His hands and eyes showed me what I should learn; his mouth helped me better know what I wanted. Always wanted. Our steps never took us nearer the fire that night, as we lay beneath the trees finding quiet paths to ecstasy.

That evening remains engraved in memory, but the days that followed were instructive in ways I cannot forget either. I had to discipline my thoughts, show no favoritism, reveal nothing to the other men who might consider this a weakness in their captain. And though necessary, those actions hurt Dorig. He knew well why I distanced myself from his side, yet he could not help wanting more. As did I.

And I could find no middle ground. Could I command someone I desired? Hardly. With two dead scouts still before my eyes, how could I not think on what would happen if I sent Dorig to his death, or sent others because I tried to shield him? My mind groped in the dark for solutions.

Eventually, I spoke with him, explained in halting words my concern, my decision. Either he must move to another company, or I must. My voice sounded strange in my ears as I made clear the choice we faced, and Dorig made it for us both. “I will go. You are right, though I do not like saying so.” A few days later, he went. And I felt as if a great weight had been lifted from me, even as my heart mourned to see him go.

After that, I knew no men of my own company as I had known Dorig. Always I remained mindful of what would happen if I repeated my mistake. Wiser now, I struggled not to let the same error occur again, and reserved any baser thoughts I had for men beyond our band. In the wild for months at a time with only my men, I suffered a self-imposed exile from my own desire.

The question returns: did I hold myself back? Yes. I was always a quick learner, and the lesson of Dorig was one I did not need to study twice.

A western gust stirs the garden, flipping a few pages of the book I still hold. The wind lifts younger branches of the tree, leaves rustling as the breeze floats by. Warm sunlight of this summer’s afternoon is chilled for a moment, then returns to heat the skin of my face and hands. Shutting the book, I stare into the middle distance, questions demanding to be answered, if only for myself.

Was I afraid to love? One might well ask, what did love mean, in a family such as mine? Beloved mother—dead before I might know her well. My father—a man who would not weep if he learned I died in Gondor’s defense. And how did Denethor love Finduilas, or she him? From childhood, I had no parents to teach how others should care about me, or how they might love each other. Empty, the storehouse of parental love.

My youth taught me little better. “A Steward’s son must never forget his position,” Father drummed into me, again and again. Reserve, formality became second nature to me in younger days. Where my age-mates most likely saw this as arrogance or disdain, I simply behaved as Father instructed. Forsaking closeness to any below my rank, seeking my father’s approval, a love never granted. And in truth, my devotion to reading made any lost companionship seem small; books and scrolls were companions who cheered days and nights, never leaving my side.

As a young man, though, I began to comprehend how narrow a world my father would have me live in. Cut off from friendship and fellow-feeling, something no living being should endure. Rank and reserve might be his cloak against the world, but they did not suit my temper as I aged. Slowly, slowly I reached for something more. A tutor, a weaponsmaster, another ranger in training—I took the wall of my own reserve apart, one man at a time.

Afraid to love? Perhaps, as it was unknown until so late in life. And fear renewed itself once I left Minas Tirith behind. Even had I never met Dorig, Ithilien taught me the risks of love. So many dead. Men I fought with who died protecting our frontier. Having few intimates, the loss of even one was a blow to the spirit, and I lost more than one in that land.

One further question: “Did some part of me want only Boromir?” Even in a whisper, the words are an answer in themselves. Yes.

Boromir is the exception to every question I ask of myself. The one I have never held myself back from, the one I have never been afraid to love. The one who has loved me without limit and told me so, though not in words as often as by his steadfast care. My brother’s love, of infinite value.

For a lifetime, his love has meant security, safety. What had I to fear, when he wrapped me in strong arms and called me little brother? Nothing. Until this week, nothing. Always he stood between me and harm when he could, when Father would let him.

Silently, my mind instructs. You compared all with him, and none could stand the comparison. This truth brooks no denial. Who could match Boromir? Lone childhood companion. Fearless ally. Comforter in times of sorrow. No other could best him, when love hung in the balance.

So few lovers for Captain Faramir—and Boromir himself the answer to the question ‘why?’ And why lie, when confronted with the wealth of what I have learned about myself this week? It was not ‘some part of me’ that wanted him: I want him with my all, my entire being.

But until seven days ago, I had not realized.

A new puzzle rises up to snare my troubled mind. Why was I so slow to realize this truth about Boromir? Why did my mind admit it only now? The same question, in truth.

It is not as if Boromir has undergone some transformation that opened my eyes to his nature. My brother’s character, his very being is unchanged, the same now as it was ten years ago, or twenty. I love him all the more for his unaltered goodness and strength. So this change has come from within me. I was slow to awaken.

Slow to awareness, perhaps, because I rejected the possibility of romantic love even in my youth, though not by my own choice. I might be only second-born but I knew I did not command the future of my love. Father expected to make political matches with us both, and we were told this from an early age. The freedom to give my heart, save in dalliance, was never present, and I deliberately put away thoughts of that kind.

And Boromir? Twenty years and more have passed since he told Father he had no wish to marry, though he would do so if his lord commanded it. Well I remember the day he spoke those words—sun streaming through the high windows of the council room, vacant but for the three of us after all others had taken their leave. Boromir’s reluctance that afternoon earned him one of the few frowns I have ever seen Father give him. The moment passed quickly enough, for Boromir shifted the discussion to war and maneuvers; his worth as a soldier so obviously outshone any value he had as a bridegroom that Father’s displeasure faded as quickly as it came.

My mind could not see the truth about Boromir for other reasons, though. I have concealed my preference for the company of men since I became a youth. At all costs, Father could not learn of my secret desires, or it might bring even greater wrath down upon me. So I went to courtesans while in Minas Tirith, as my brother did, to shield myself from any barbed comments Father might make. In this, I did not know Boromir any better than he knew me. Each thought the other taken with the charms of women: how well we guarded our true selves from one another!

What else delayed self-knowledge, that I desired my brother? Another reason forces its way into this hall of crowded thoughts: duty. Since Boromir became a man, duty has taken one or both of us away from Minas Tirith for months at a time, even for a year at a time. Rarely have we been together so much as we used to be in days of our childhood—and I have to force my mind away from sorrow, remembering Boromir will leave in ten days for yet another patrol on our frontiers.

I reconsider these reasons, though: neither obedience to Father, the façade of willing women, nor duty would have stopped me from recognizing the depth of my emotions where Boromir is concerned. These could not be enough.

Something more kept me in darkness this long. Something else was at work here.

It was, I think, his nearness. His nearness to me obscured him from view, as when one comes too close to an object and it fills one’s vision to the edge; stepping back, one regains true perspective. Even as a boy, Boromir’s closeness filled my sight so completely that there was no one else.

And distance, the distance of being away from Minas Tirith and not seeing Boromir day after day, finally permitted me to recognize him for what he is. I nod my head, acknowledging the truth at last. Though I cherish the days we spent together as children, would our feelings have become more than brotherly if we had been constantly in each other’s presence as we grew older? Perhaps I could only realize Boromir’s rightness after long absences from him. If that is true, my debt to Ithilien is greater than I can repay, for I take his measure at last.

No longer brother only. Lover and brother both. Boromir, what you have done to me…

My mind hurtles backwards over the week gone by, to mind-drugging kisses, the wildness of feeling Boromir’s body within mine or mine within his. The book drops to the bench, unnoticed. Here, now, heat swirls near the pit of my stomach, gathering force, speeding my breath, to think of seven nights spent exploring my brother’s passion. Eru, such a week… I close my eyes for a moment, as my groin begins to tighten and flex, though Boromir is nowhere near me. In thought, I relive our nights, the invisible ties binding me tightly to my brother.

Four nights ago. To think about that evening makes my mouth go dry in an instant. That night, I first used my hand to encircle his blood-gorged shaft, to drag that silken flesh between my fingers until Boromir could last no longer. Eyes open, I look down at my lap, my right hand there. I pick it up, turn it over and back, stretch the fingers, slightly amazed that they are here. This hand.

It was this hand, four nights past, that Boromir covered with surging liquid, this palm that sensed his skin shaking lightly as the last of his juices sprayed between us. These fingers that spread Boromir’s seed on both our chests, brought the taste of it to both our mouths. I could not tear my eyes away from this very hand, as Boromir stretched out his tongue to wash its surface, to watch as he took each finger in his mouth to lick it clean. My own body, somehow new even to me.

Three nights past. An evening we spent before the fire in Boromir’s room, lying on pillows, talking as we used to do, up until the sun’s rising. But new gaps appeared in our familiar conversation, brief bursts of quick kisses and quicker takings. And special for another reason: it was the night Boromir asked—with a shyness, almost, I did not expect—that we stay in his room rather than mine. He said he wanted to experience our pleasure in the place he remembered second-most when he thought of Minas Tirith, and I readily agreed.

I considered it strange that his own room was not first when he thought on the White City, then reckoned he might dwell more often on the Great Hall or the White Tree when absent from our home. Eager to have his thoughts, I asked him what place was first, that he remembered most when far away. His cheeks flushed slightly as he blurted out, “Where I think you are happiest: absorbed by a book in our garden.” I smiled at this admission, filled with its silent acknowledgement of love for me.

Glancing at my surroundings, I think How well you know me, Boromir. But no longer, perhaps: here I sit in the garden, book discarded, eyes looking past the blooms and trees into vacant space. Your description of the place where I am happiest is no longer accurate, brother. I would exchange every garden in Minas Tirith for a night spent with you.

Two nights ago. Two nights before, when Boromir placed me beneath him, concern marking every part of his face as he slowly entered and stretched me for the first time since my injuries. In his eyes, I saw an odd mixture of fear and surrender: fear he would harm me when he loved me that way again, surrender to the hunger compelling him to act despite his fear. Our need for each other required no less.

I knew this was his strongest desire, to be within me, though he had not said so. His whole body spoke it for him nonetheless. For myself, I hungered to have him inside me again, to see him face to face this time, as we had not in our first coupling. Perhaps he saw fear in my eyes when he came near to enter me. He said he did not, called me brave, which I denied. “Impatient,” I teased.

My brother swallowed hard, as he placed the tip of his stiff flesh at my opening; the restraint on his needs a battle he waged only with himself. Crossing this last threshold, fighting not to harm me as he had done before, Boromir moved cautiously, eyes never straying from mine as he slowly inserted his thickened shaft into me.

Watching for the least sign of pain—thank the Valar, there was none this time—when he realized I wanted more, wanted him, slowly he began to slide his weight forward and back. After only a few strokes, I could sense my brother’s desire begin to overwhelm him. His waking mind lost control as instinctive need claimed all. Boromir’s speed increased, the fullness of him within me swelled. When his eyes gradually shut, removing him from me, he began to drive his weight into my body with a frightening intensity. Never before had a lover been so single-minded in demanding that my body yield to his—and my chest tightens, recalling the feel of Boromir’s total possession.

His beard shook droplets of sweat onto my chest as the ferocity of his love pushed me further and further into the mattress, imprinting his body on mine over and over and over. The quickness of Boromir’s thrusts, the force and length of my brother inside me were intoxicating, overpowering, and I felt the base of my own erection beginning to tingle, the slight contraction, close to release yet not quite ready. Two more furious, strong plunges and Boromir arrived there before me, half exhausted from the passion of his own body pounding against mine. Collapsing on my chest I heard him gasp out, “Mine. Mine.”

The surge from my arousal covered both our stomachs a few instants afterward, but I could think of little else save wrapping Boromir in my arms, hugging him tightly against me. Dawn was so close it seemed I could see each new streak of light stealing up into the sky—something I never saw in our home save from my brother’s room, facing east as it did. We roused ourselves, rushed to put all right before servants arrived, and I stole a kiss from him at the door before I returned to my own room. In our haste, I did not have time to ask him what he meant.

Last night. Dinner taken on trays in my room, with the whole night spread as a feast yet before us. And I could ask the question that had plagued me all day. “Boromir, last night, you said, ‘Mine. Mine.’ I feel I ought to know the answer to this, but I’m no longer sure I do. Why did you say that?”

Boromir lowered his eyes to the barely eaten meal, pushed the tray away and walked to the window. His body radiated discomfort from the question. Trouble. Something is wrong. Why couldn’t I just leave it be? Eventually, he let out a low breath and walked back to where I sat, pulling his chair even closer before he sat down across from me.

“Faramir,” taking my hands within his, “When we walked from the barracks back to the upper levels yesterday, I noticed for the first time how some people watch you. They watch us both, true, but yesterday was the day I perceived how some of them look at you. And a few I saw had such expressions on their faces….” Boromir looked to the floor as he shook his head, strands of hair falling from behind his ears to shadow his face, then he looked up again. Another deep breath, then, “One or two looked at you as I now do: with desire. With such open longing that it made me angry.” His eyes dropped to the ground once more, sadness in his voice. “And I could not stop myself, when I took you last night. I would deny you to everyone else, Faramir. That is selfish, I know, and unworthy, but I cannot help it.”

I might have asked Boromir the question “what are you thinking” a thousand times, and never discovered this about him. How others saw me had driven him to a frenzy of mind and body. “Not selfish, Boromir. Jealous.” I took my hands out of his, and instead placed his hands within mine. I rubbed the backs of his hands with light strokes, keeping us close.“It is a state I know well. I have lived with it a lifetime, it seems, and learned to master it.” Boromir’s disbelieving eyes flew up to mine, the words “I never knew” in his mind though he did not utter them. No matter, for I read them in his face. Something else you did not know about me, brother.

“Boromir, when Father praises you, I’m filled with pride. Pride for the House of Húrin, proud that we still keep the trust of the stewards intact. Proud that you do all in your power to keep Gondor safe. But in a corner of my mind, hidden away, there is a small part of me that has always been jealous. You know better than anyone else why this should be so.”

“Yes, but…you never spoke of it before now. Not even when I asked what you were thinking.”

“There was no need before, for by the time you asked the question, it was always buried beneath that pride—and that I told you of, freely. Now there is need and I should speak of it. To crave another’s love is natural, especially from a family member who should love you—as Father should love me, or as I do love you. For many years, my jealousy of you caused me to believe Father’s poisonous words about my lack of worth—that I was selfish, and unworthy. That jealousy made me think the same as you do now. But those things are not true.”

“Of course not, Faramir. You, selfish?” Boromir snorted. “You are the most generous man I know, brother. You help others, and never seek the credit for doing so. As for unworthy…that is also unjust. I knew Father’s words wounded you, and he gave you every cause to be jealous. Although…I do not understand something.”

“What?”

“You said you mastered it.”

“Yes, love. Or perhaps I should say, I grew wiser, with Mithrandir’s2 help. He explained something to me, on a visit he once made here. Somehow he knew—for I would never have told him—that I suffered from jealousy Father was poisoning me with. And the Grey Pilgrim showed me how to escape it.”

“How can it be done?”

“Mithrandir told me to imagine you in a room by yourself, without Father, without anyone else. ‘In your mind, you see your brother standing alone. How does that make you feel, young Faramir?’ he asked, and I told him. ‘Sad. I’m not there. He’s alone.’”

So Mithrandir asked again, “Suppose you and he are in the room alone with each other. Then how do you feel?” And I said, “I love him. I feel pride. I am grateful for all he has done for me.” Then Mithrandir told me, “When you hear your Father speak to Boromir again, imagine the room is empty but for you and Boromir. Your father’s words will…fade away.”

I look into Boromir’s eyes, see the light of comprehension dawning in them. “Mithrandir was right. The next day in council, hearing Father praise you again, I imagined the room empty except for us. And the jealousy…each day it became a little smaller. Now, when he speaks well of you and poorly of me, there is almost none left.”

A crooked smile lit upon Boromir’s mouth. “It seems I’ve learned something new about you every day this week. That you could feign drunkenness. That you loathe the thought of marriage as I do. That you are ticklish near your hipbones.” I smile at this, as Boromir continues. “That you have become a master in the arts of stealth and secrecy. That you make an excellent accompaniment to honey.” He raises his eyebrows at the memory, while I am grinning openly. “Now I learn from you how to put aside jealousy. What more, I wonder?” And he leaned forward to capture my mouth with his own, our eyes closing as we joined.

My eyes reopen, seeing the garden again, hearing the words echo in my mind. “What more, I wonder?” What else is there still for us to learn in each other? If Boromir has discovered so much he never knew of me in a week’s time, can I say I have learned as much I did not know about him? I could.

Boromir’s needs are lightning in a rain storm, unpredictable flashes, swift bursts illuminating the night. He waits for no soft words, no whispered seductive phrases to spark his enthusiasm for our pleasure. I know that now. A fierce kiss or a slow lingering one is enough to stir him. A single look from me five nights ago had him pressing my back to the floor as he stripped the clothes from himself, permitting no words, no delays. Fire you are, consuming the two of us until only cinders remain.

Yet there is another truth to Boromir’s loving, once our fires have burnt out: he does not want me to leave him. Either I must fold him in my arms or he must wrap me in his, after we have spent our passion. More often than not, he has bundled me before him, his chest solid behind my back as we waited for night’s end. No longer a child, I am still safe in his embrace, never alone.

I relax, leaning back on the bench, the sturdy wall bracing me. It is warm from the afternoon sun, and its warmth seeps through my clothes, burnishing me with faint heat. My mind has been unsettled because I no longer know myself. But in the quest to find my lost peace of mind, I am not alone. Boromir will aid me, just as I will help him. And that comforts me.

Before, perhaps, I held back from loving, fearing the consequences, duty, Father, politics. No longer. This love will not fail me, because Boromir will not fail me.

Looking down to the book, I finger a corner of the cover, while I consider what took me away from its contents, long special to me. Few things could draw me from this text, yet it could not hold my attention this day and I understand why now. A smile settles on my face, replacing the worried frown that has been there most of the afternoon. I close my eyes to soak in the last of the summer sun’s heat.

Footsteps crunch gravel in the distance, coming closer, rounding a corner on the other side of the wall from where I sit. With another ten paces, the boots’ owner will turn a second corner and come to the end, the path that runs before my bench. Ranger training has me listening for patterns after the first footfall I hear. With a few strides more, I recognize the gait: Boromir. He knows my favorite spot to sit in our garden; we came here regularly as children. I open my eyes, looking right, expectant, waiting for the moment when he will appear. My brother rounds the second corner, I see him, and my heart leaps. Boromir.

A wide smile breaks across his face as he strides toward me, glancing quickly from side to side to see if there is anyone else in the garden besides we two. Seeing this action, I know what it means better than I would have done four or five days ago—he is not ashamed, as I might once have thought. No. He wants only to kiss me, if he can in safety.

“We are alone, it appears.” Then he leans forward, grips my shoulder with a firm hand, and brushes his lips across mine. The kiss is the merest taste that makes me want more than I can have of him this instant, and he knows it well. It is an old game between us, played this week by new rules: my brother teasing, my lover now teasing me also.

Breaking the kiss, he sits beside me, looks first at my face then to the closed book beside me. Though I have not learned his every mood as our love is refashioned, this look I know of old, and from it I glimpse his thoughts.

“You came to see if I was brooding, didn’t you, Boromir?”

“Not brooding, but…thinking too much about this week.” He slides his left arm around my shoulders, a gesture anyone else venturing into our garden might misinterpret as brotherly alone. The two of us know better, as my brother’s left hand begins to slide up and down the sleeve of my tunic.

The setting sun is a mantle about the mountains, the peak of Amon Dîn in the far distance lit from behind by a fireball sky. The sight cheers me: another day passes, and the Enemy still kept at bay. A good day? Yes. Boromir once said that any day which passed with the Enemy still held in Mordor must be counted a good day. For that and other reasons, today has been a good day.

“And have you been? Thinking about this week?” Inquisitive grey-green eyes roam my face, seeking signs that I am unhappy, relieved to find I am not. Always my protector, even from harms I would do myself, brother.

“Yes. And other things as well. My men in Ithilien. Mithrandir. The past.” I cross my arms across my chest to screen the movement of my right hand, as it reaches up to grasp the fingers of Boromir’s hand now draped over my shoulder. Concealment, always concealment. Our fingers tangle in a hidden knot, the reassurance of love given and reciprocated.

“And what have you concluded about the week?” Boromir leans his head back to one side, to see me better, perhaps, as I answer. The fading sunlight glints off a few rogue strands of his hair, the right side of his face in sunlight while the left is cast in growing shadows.

My answer is given softly, so only he may hear. “That if I am a little lost….” I stop, then start the thought again. “That if I do not know myself, or you, as well as I thought I did seven days ago, it matters not—we may yet find ourselves again. For we are together.” The look of love I send him, coupled with a smile, sets his mind at ease. I squeeze the fingers of his I hold, as my brother smiles at me, a little indulgently.

“Faramir, when was the last time you got lost?” Kindly eyes chide me, as I remember easily. Four years old, wandering the hallways of the Steward’s house, turning into a dusty corridor, farther and farther into the darkness until I could not find my way back to the light. I backed up against a cupboard, frightened, terrified I would be lost forever, crying with hands balled up against my eyes. And Boromir found me. Held me, kissed tears away, and gave me his hand to lead me back to our waiting mother. Yes, Boromir, I remember. You found me.

In Boromir’s eyes, I read his unspoken thought. I would always find you, Faramir. You know that.

“I am in a mood to celebrate, little one.”

“Celebrate what, Boromir?”

“Our ‘drunken’ discoveries of a week ago. Never have I been so inclined to honor a night of sobriety as I am right now.” With his right hand, Boromir reaches into a pocket, pulling out something that he holds tight in his fist.

“I have brought you a present, Faramir.” He turns over his hand and opens it, revealing a key in his palm. From its looks, the key fits a large door. Suddenly I know what door it unlocks. The roof!

“It appears to be a present for us both,” I respond, with a short laugh. Boromir’s fingers tighten in mine, a silent signal that he agrees.

“Cook found it, finally, after hunting through all the chests and drawers in six different storerooms. Shall we take our evening meal on the rooftop, brother?”

“That would be the ideal ending to a very good day, Boromir.”

“I have some thoughts on that matter, brother. Food alone will not be enough for me.” We rise from the bench, Boromir keeping his left arm about my shoulder. I swing my right arm behind us both, wrapping it around his waist as we stride down the graveled walkway. Ten paces along, I realize my mistake.

“I’ve left my book. Wait here.” And I retrace my steps to the bench, pick up the forgotten volume, then rejoin my brother. When I do, Boromir is shaking his head, a little perplexed.

“You never do that. I can’t recall you ever forgetting one of your books.” When I show him the title of the book almost left behind, he lets out a low whistle—he knows how important this particular book is to me.

“I told you, I was feeling a bit…lost from myself this afternoon. But my mind is much calmer now.”

“If you say so, little brother.” Looking somewhat askance at me, he was clearly not convinced.

I try to explain once more. “I was thinking about too many things, my usual complaint. Mostly…that all we’ve done made me lose…my sense of who I am. But I’m not so worried about being lost anymore.” I’m not alone. And I smile, to give him confidence I am well.

Seeing my smile, Boromir’s returns as well, for now he knows I am in better spirits. He throws an arm about my shoulders again. As we walk, he hands me the key to the roof and says, “Faramir, just remember: if you intend to get lost again, I’ll need to come with you.”


1 Mindolluin is the easternmost peak of the White Mountains, and lies closest to Minas Tirith.

2 Mithrandir or the Grey Pilgrim is the name most commonly used by Gondorians for Gandalf the Grey. (With thanks to seasalt for helping me sort this out.)

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

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2 Comment(s)

I like the way you describe Faramir as a integral nature, the power in spirit and acting according to his convictions. Not weak but compassionate and pitiful, not dreamy but thoughtful.
I’ve read all your stories and they are simply amazing. I saw you posted them a very long ago and would like to read new… Thank you very much!

— Anastasiya    Thursday 27 August 2009, 13:41    #

THIS IS ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL. THE STRENGTH OF FARAMIR OVER BOROMIR REVEALS THE STRENGTH OF THEIR LOVE AND REVEALS TO THE READER WHAT FARAMIR PURELY POSSESSES.

— NAELE    Tuesday 14 September 2021, 13:33    #

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