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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

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Title: To Learn You All Over Again: Memories Past and Future
By: Faramir_boromir
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir
Part: 5/?? of To Learn You All Over Again
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: Brotherly incest. If this bothers you, read no further.
Archive: tolkienfanfiction.com. Others, 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: The brothers return to the rooftop of the Steward’s House after an absence of many years.
Thanks to elandae and gladio for the beta!


Memories Past and Future

One last turn of the passage, and we reach the top of the staircase leading to the roof. Through the window slits, faint light guides our steps to the final landing, where a short stool sits abandoned next to a small table. Stale air is everywhere; this hallway has not been used for ages.

After Faramir hands me the key, I place it in the lock and try to turn it, but nothing happens: despite my strength, I cannot make the door open. But this seems to be the right key—it is the right size, and turns a little, now that I try again. I hear some scraping, and the key turns a little more. Rather than risk having it snap within the lock, barring the door completely until a locksmith might free it, I stop twisting the key, withdraw it from the lock, and think.

Turning back to Faramir, I see he gives me a questioning look. “Well?”

“This needs some help. Wait here.” I start down the stairs past my brother, his face going from curious to confused. “Boromir, where are you….”

His words grow fainter as I move quickly down the staircase, stirring up more dust with every step. In a few moments, I am back to the ground floor, and after passing along two other corridors, I arrive in the kitchens.

“Where’s Cook?” My voice is a little too loud for such a modestly sized room, but I hope it will bring the cook at a run if he lingers nearby.

“Speaking with the butcher, Lord Boromir. May I assist you?” A helper steps forward, his face streaked with soot but hands clean at least.

“I’m trying to open a lock that is jammed and rusty. Do you have cooking grease, or anything else that would free the lock, friend?”

Without even answering, the cook’s helper moves to a container near the fire, mutters, then scurries into an adjoining room. Returning, he carries a small brown pot with mesh covering its mouth. He places it carefully in my hands, then backs up a step or two before speaking.

“The container should have more than enough for the task. We always keep plenty at hand, for it has many uses. That,” nodding towards the pot at the fire’s edge that he checked first, “has not cooled enough yet for use. If you need anything else, please, simply ask, Lord Boromir.”

“My thanks,...?” I do not know his name, so I suggest he should tell me by pausing and reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder.

He quickly backs up a few more paces, out of my reach. “Beormen, sir. My clothes are dirty from tending the fire all day. You should stay clear of them, Lord Boromir.”

I smile my lack of concern to him, and say with a shake of my head, “I’ve been much dirtier myself in the field, Beormen. But now that you make me think of it….”

“What, my Lord?”

“Do you have some cheese and bread? My brother and I are not going to eat in the Great Hall this evening, and would like food for later.” I know what reaction this request will bring. With no further prompting, the helper and his mate rapidly assemble a veritable feast of cheese, meats, mead, sweet cakes, and more food than four men could eat, much less two. In moments, the food is bundled into a heavy cloth, the jug of mead under my arm, and I am striding back toward the staircase leading to the roof.

Faramir has heard my tread on the stairs before I reach the top, and comes partway down to meet me. He’s lit a torch in the passage that gutters and flares—probably not much fuel left to keep it burning, but at least it will light our steps for a time. He takes the jug and bundle from me, leaving me with only the pot of grease for the lock.

“Our evening meal’s arrived, I see. My thanks, Boromir. I should have thought to collect this when we came in from the garden earlier, but I was eager to come here.” Knowing eyes capture mine: We were both in a hurry, brother. For the same reason. He asks, “What’s in the pot?”

“Remember the chicken we ate a week ago? I think this used to be part of it.” I place the container on the low stool and take the key from my pocket. Lifting the pot’s mesh cover, I’m surprised. The white grease has a faint animal smell but it is not strong or unpleasant. I take a bit of grease from the pot, smear both sides of the key, then try the key in the lock again.

The door still won’t open, but this time, the key revolves a quarter-turn. This is the right key; it just needs encouragement. I turn the key back to its starting place, take it out, and apply more grease to either side before trying it in the lock again. Turn, you little… With a little extra force applied near the end, the lock’s mechanism can be heard giving way, the squeal of metal on metal as parts slide against each other. Finally, the door opens. Success!

I gather the pot, stool and table, and carry them outside, Faramir trailing in my wake. Fresh air at last. The open air makes a welcome change from the stuffiness of the passageway we’ve been standing in. Faramir takes several deep lungfuls of air, as do I.

After putting down our food, he returns to the hallway, brings out the torch, and places it in a rusted holder near the door that takes it weight easily. In the dying light of day, the torch casts odd shadows across the rooftop, matched by similar beams thrown up from the courtyard torches newly lit below us. The setting sun is nearly gone.

The roof of the Steward’s House overlooks the entire city—no buildings or towers are so high in Minas Tirith, save the top of the Great Hall itself, and there is no access to its roof. As boys, we made many forays, but we found no passage higher than its second floor.

Walking onto this windy roof brings back a store of memories, happy ones, from childhood. All of Faramir and me, using the rooftop for games of every sort. I look at Faramir and see he is also remembering the same long ago days, each seemingly lit by a hazy sun.

“Do you remember—“ we both say at the same time, which starts us laughing.

I go first: “The time we tried to find out how far a rock could be thrown from the corner there?”

“Yes, Boromir. Yours went farther, but if I recall, breaking a library window earned you our tutor’s wrath for at least a week.” Faramir shakes his head, a wide smile on his lips as he recalls the day. The breeze catches his hair, blows a few strands across his face before he pushes them back.

“And the time you wanted to see how big a splash you could make in the courtyard if you dropped a wet rag from over there?” I point to another corner.

“Yes, the smith never could call me “Captain Faramir,” once I commanded a company, without tripping over the words.” Faramir is grinning at the memory. “Well, it did land on his head, so I suppose he should be forgiven. He seemed certain I did it deliberately.” The memory of the normally dignified smith looking up at us both, hair slicked across his face and the soaking wet rag in his hands, has me openly laughing now. Then I see a thoughtful look cross my brother’s face, and I know what he is thinking, though no words pass between us.

He is wondering the same as I. Are they still here? Together, we walk to the middle of the easternmost wall. Atop the waist-high wall, even in fading twilight my eyes find the place on the center stone: there they are, side by side. I’m a little surprised to see how fresh the chisel marks look.

Faramir runs his fingers in the crooked grooves of both our initials, the first letters of his name and mine. He looks across at me, to see my expression. I’m remembering Faramir, eight years old…

”When you’re steward, Borya, you will live here and the Great Hall will be yours. It should have your initials on it, carved like they do over the doors of all noble houses. We should get a mason to carve it, right here.” Faramir points to a stone in the center of the roof’s eastern wall, his expression serious at first. Then I see the teasing in his eyes—he’s testing me, to see if I accept his silent challenge: steal the tools, carve my own initial in the stone.

“Come on, Farya,” I yell over my shoulder as I run for the stairs. The two of us are flying down the staircase, Faramir just behind me as we reach the ground floor. He knows where I’m going, though I haven’t said a word. We still used nicknames for each other then, before Father forbade it.

The secrecy needed to attempt such petty mischief appeals to two boys like us, though we both know better. I sneak near the workmen in the courtyard, and when their backs are to us, I grab a hammer and chisel from the tool pile. Then I scramble back to safety in a doorway where Faramir has been keeping watch.

Atop the Steward’s House once more, it takes many swings for me to carve my initial’s crooked arcs into the stone Faramir pointed to. The noise alone should bring one of the older men to the roof, yet strangely, no one comes. I’m not used to a chisel; it slips in my hand more than once, and on a steamy summer day, the work is tiring. Sweat rolls down my neck after the thirtieth stroke, and I’m panting as I finish joining the last curve to the straight line.

When my initial is complete, though, I’m still not satisfied.

Something seems wrong. I puzzle through what I should do, seeking the solution. Then, the answer becomes clear. Obvious.

“Not alone. It doesn’t look right by itself.” I start chiseling another letter. “Besides, it was your idea to do this.” But my arms are weary, and I begin to pause between hammer strokes.

“I can do it.” Faramir takes the tools from my hands, continues cutting the straight lines of his own initial. “If someone finds them, at least we’ll get in trouble together.” It takes many blows on the chisel from both of us to finish the second letter, and the hot sun beats down on the rooftop, turning both of us sweaty and tired—but we don’t stop until the task is finished. Hard work has made the marks something more to us. There’s pride. Brotherhood.

When the last line of Faramir’s initial is finally done, we survey the letters carved side by side, our sweat and struggle mingled there. The smile I saw on Faramir’s face that afternoon

is the same smile I see on my brother’s face now. He’s remembering the workmen, the stolen tools, and our boyhood joy in doing everything together. Filled with emotion from the memory, his eyes seek mine, his love revealed in them. He reaches out to touch my hand, and I would respond by pulling him into my arms—but for one thought. No risks, brother. We play no child’s game now, Faramir: remember our rules.

I whirl and stride back to the door through which we just came. Shutting the door, I slide the bolt on this side of the barrier into its housing. Now we have the roof to ourselves. Safety assured, I turn, expecting to walk back to my brother.

What?! Surprised, I’m caught: silently, on quiet feet, Faramir has followed me. As I turn my back to the door, he’s hurled himself at me, catching my wrists with his hands. His shoulder, thrown into my chest, has knocked the wind partly from my body, stunning me. For a moment, I use shoulders, legs to throw off my captor, training overriding all conscious thought, until I realize: This is Faramir. No danger.

He senses when I relax, but he does not release me immediately. Faramir presses me into the door itself, his bearded mouth crushing mine, his body pinning me to the wood at my back. He knows, now. He knows what I would have him do. Brother….

No room for thoughts, no need to look. Eyes snapped shut, I still see him. Faramir. Hands released, he’s already got my shirt pulled up, off my arms and on top of my shoulders, stopped only because his lips won’t let go of my mouth. His beard rubs into mine, the stubble playing against my lips as he would kiss me into submission, raw, persistent. His groin seems fastened to mine, pressing together through clothing layers, rubbing our erections against each other so harshly that it is brutal, almost painful. “Mmmnnhh.”

I feel my brother’s hands scrambling to unlace my breeches, to push the leggings down, so he can run his hands beneath my rear and grind himself closer, push me harder against the door. Yes, Faramir, faster, just like that.

My lips are rough now from the scrape of his beard as he pushes his tongue past mine, insistent, demanding to have his own way. Do not stop. I might respond in kind, but not now. He’s taken charge, and I want him this moment, no delays. The pillaging goes on until I can feel nothing else but Faramir. Everywhere, Faramir. Please….

My brother’s mouth breaks from mine; I can’t stifle a moan. No, no, don’t go.

Breathing ragged, he grates out, “What are you thinking, Boromir? I want you to tell me. Tell me. All of it.” My mind can’t tell him everything: there are no words and there’s too much to say. He means to taunt me this way, because I did the same to him not long ago. Tonight, he takes a lover’s revenge, our game his weapon.

Without waiting to hear my answer, he bends, starts to kneel, running his hot breath and mouth over my chest. There, Faramir, brother…. He bites—not nips, but bites—each nub sticking up, before nuzzling his way down my torso. Words, like my breath, come in short bursts, choked out of me by force. “I am thinking…you are…all I would have, Faramir.”

Dazed, still, from his aggressive kisses, I reach hands up to touch his hair, a few curls falling back from his face as he returns to his previous conquests for another vicious kiss. “Please…Farya….” By now, Faramir is licking and kissing and biting and licking each bud, left then right then left again, until I think I will lose my senses.

No more words come, not from my mouth. I can make only sounds with no meaning. My eyes have been clenched shut for minutes now, but I know exactly where my brother is, what he is doing. His hands still clutch my buttocks, possessive. He grips them with most but not all of his strength: so strong from years spent clutching weapons, a knife, a bow, a sword. Your hands, brother. Controlling hands.

Those powerful hands begin to pull the flesh of my buttocks, kneading, pressing, grasping. I follow Faramir’s progress without sight, through touch, from chest to stomach. I can barely stand: his assault is devastating. More, Faramir, again.

“Faramir, I want…” I hear my brother’s other knee hit the paving stone, one of his hands leaving my rear so he can grasp my hardened flesh. “What would you have me do, Boromir?” Yet he has already decided his course: he speaks of submission, but intends to command. The feel of his hand, holding me fast, is one I can bear, just. Don’t move. No more, or…. I can barely get words out to answer him: “Please, brother….”

Faramir runs a slender finger down its length before he wraps his whole hand around the shaft once more, sliding the flesh up and down while bringing his tongue in to wind around the top. He opens his lips to surround the crown, slipping his tongue down the… Love you. I love you. Faramir, I want you. Faramir.

My chest is afire, air dragged into lungs fast and hot. Summer it may be, but mere air could not scorch me like this. The blood flows too swiftly, turning hands, face, all into a moment of heat. You have done this. I burn.

Right hand still working with his mouth, Faramir reaches up, pressing his left hand and forearm across my stomach, holding me down, trapped between door and his taut muscled flesh. He bears down hard, then harder with his arm, knowing I will try to tear loose if I can, when my time comes. Yes, pinned….

My shaft stiffens even more, sweet agony. My hips would fly forward, but the strength of Faramir’s arm across my stomach prevents me from moving far. He forces me back, pushing me with his forearm, using all his strength to restrain me. I could break free, but I do not want to.

I fall back against the door again, heedless of any other feeling but Faramir, his hot mouth sucking and pulling me deeper within. Tensing, the end is so close. I feel it nearing, proof I love you more than all else. Proof, brother.

But for the door, I would fall, even with hands gripping his shoulders, my nails biting flesh to show him I cannot stand much more. His mouth has undone me, mouth, tongue, arm, fingers pushing me until I have no reserves left. Now, Faramir.

The rushing in my ears, in my groin subsides in an instant. Finished. Drained.

I feel the softness of his tongue, supporting my spent shaft after I have emptied myself into his fiery mouth. Mind returning, I begin to sense things beyond my body’s needs once more. Rapid breaths slowing, my chest no longer heaving, now. My heart stops racing. Eru, Faramir, you would lick me clean after all this? Enough, my brother.

With firm hands, I push away on his shoulders, to let him know he has done all he needs to for now, then I begin to dress myself again, put shirt and all to rights. The bite marks on my chest will fade, given time. They are nowhere someone else might see them if I am careful. When I look down at Faramir, still kneeling while I dress myself, I see that he thinks my push a rebuke. “Did I do wrong, Boromir?”

“No, brother, I wanted you merely to stop. I am content. You did right.” And I place hands under his arms, raise him to stand in front of me, and pull him close. His look of doubt begins to fade. “More than right.” Why do I never have the words? I would not hurt him, especially now. I dip my head to bring my mouth to his, tell him through kiss and touch what I cannot seem to say.

As our eyes shut, I sense Faramir’s eyelashes brush against my face, soft wings. I would lose myself in you, brother. Our lips cling to their mates, tasting stubble and sweet flesh, mingled with my essence on Faramir’s tongue. The flavor makes me want to taste his own seed in my mouth; I move my hands to begin undressing him, to push his clothes out of my way. But his hands catch mine, hold them fast. What? Why not?

I open my eyes, to learn why he stops me. Blue eyes slowly open to face me, my brother coming into focus, the torch’s glare drawing him in stark relief. “Why stop me, brother? I would give you only what you have given me.” But Faramir shakes his head, still holds my hands, and I am confused. Then I remember: it is my turn in our game. “What are you thinking, Faramir?”

A pause, suddenly worried, but he answers. “That I was right.”

“About what?”

“That you would like…surprise. Enjoy being held back, restrained. Controlled.”

“I did. I did not know until you surprised me, but I enjoyed it. More than enjoyed. I would you might do that again, brother, another time.”

“I thought you might, Boromir. I thought so days ago, but could not find an occasion to surprise you until now.”

“You have been waiting for an opportunity, to use stealth against me.”

“Yes.”

“How did you know?” I am curious, for he has reasoned out something I did not even know about myself.

“I thought of it after you and I went in the pantry the other night. You doused the candle and surprised me—and it made me wonder, if you might like me to do the same. I already knew you would wish me to be fast.” A little smile settles on his lips. Pleased with himself. I smile back—he should be pleased. I am.

“And control, bracing me against the door with your arm? I liked it, would have you do the same again, but what made you think of that? I did not hold you fast in the pantry, Faramir.”

“I…I think…I would like that myself. And if I might take pleasure from it, I thought you could as well.” There is some uncertainty in his face, concern that he has said something I may not approve.

I stop to think now. Always, you are ahead of me, brother. Have I devoted so much thought to what would give you pleasure? In truth, I have not.

I realize, after a week spent in your bed, I have put my needs ahead of yours each night, my own pleasure guiding all I have done. “I already knew you would wish me to be fast.” ‘Tis truth—speed inflames me. But is it the same for you, Faramir? I do not even know, and I should. Selfish, Boromir. You can do better, for him.

“Faramir, are you…displeased with me?”

Confusion. I see it mark his forehead, his face. “No, Boromir, I am not, in any way. What makes you ask such a thing?”

“I have not spent…as much time as you thinking about…what you would have me do.”

Faramir’s features clear instantly. I may have few words to say, but he knows now what I mean. “Brother, I think too much, sometimes. I would not have you do the same.”

“No, Faramir, I ought to consider what might please you best. It is little enough to repay—“

My brother cuts in. “Boromir, lovers do not exchange favors, barter-like. I need no such courtesies from you.” He drops my hands, steps back, moving away from me. Again, my tongue fails my meaning.

I move from the door, following him. “Faramir, I’m hungry. Let’s eat, and I’ll try to explain myself better.”

Adopting my suggestion, Faramir moves to the low table we carried out here with us, picks up the bundle of food from the ground, places it on the table, and starts to pull out the contents. “Cheese, meat, bread, fruit, cakes—brother, did you tell them you had two men to feed, or six?”

“Two, Faramir. I even named us. They knew what they were doing. Hungry?”

“A little.” He takes some cheese in his hand, kneels, sitting cross-legged on the roof, and looks up at me once more as he takes a bite. I sit beside him, pull over the jug of mead, and take a round of bread in my hands. Stones warmed by the day’s sunlight form our resting place. Between bites of bread, and a few swallows of the honeyed mead, I try to match words to my scattered thoughts.

“Faramir, I should have known this already, but I only realized it now. We are not the same in everything. Look at us—you reach for cheese, I take something to drink. Our needs are not the same in food, or perhaps, in…privacy.”

I use this last word deliberately. After a week, we have a new language—a code devised for our love that only we understand: drunknenness, privacy, moonlight, keys. Faramir will know what I mean.

“Yes, Boromir. You are right. We are not identical in every need, every desire. Must we be?” The way Faramir says this last, I know he thinks we need not be. Any difference matters little to him, so long as love is sure.

I pause, considering this. “No, though I wish we were.”

“Why wish such a thing, Boromir?” The wind is dying now, the night grown still.

“Because then I would know best how to make you happy. I would always please you.” I fear I may not.

“Boromir, you please me exceedingly well. Any better, and I might not survive the experience.” Faramir’s face breaks into a wide grin, eyes dancing. But I am not so merry, or easily put off.

Must we have the same desires? No. Just that it would help me better know how to pleasure you, Faramir.

But I’ve already said this once, and I can think of nothing else to say. In desperation, I use a phrase he will know well. “Faramir, what would you have me do?” Our question, the new one asking for guidance, offering submission: tell me what you want, love.

“Brother, I know not how to answer you. I do not always want the same thing. And I do not know everything I might enjoy. I am not so…experienced as you are.” His face flushes at this last admission, embarrassed, though he should not be. Little brother, I wish I knew no more than you. Stars begin to wink in the distance, coming closer, as night falls around us.

I suppose there will always be differences between us. You are taller, I am stronger and heavier. You prefer cider, I like mead—yes, Faramir, I have always had a weakness for sweets. I know you do not. You are more like me than anyone else could be, yet we differ. Why would I erase every distinction and make us identical? Why?

Faramir finishes his cheese and reaches for some bread and meats, piling them together and wolfing them down, eyes on me as I take another long pull on the jug of mead. He is thinking again, a thing that bothers him: I see it in his face.

“What, Faramir? You think on something that troubles you.”

“You leave again in ten days to patrol the frontiers. I do not know how I will stand to see you go this time, of all times.”

“Nor I, brother. Nor I. Always before, I left behind brother and friend. Now it seems I must leave behind all.” His eyes brighten—so rarely the object of love, Faramir. And when I speak my love for him he savors every word when it does come.

The cheese is consumed, then the sweet cakes. Our talk turns to trivial matters, things done during the day, plans for the morrow. The torch near the door flickers out, eventually, leaving us beneath stars and a pale half-moon’s light.

Beyond the parapets, stray torchlight reaches up from the courtyard below, lighting my brother with half-shadows. With ranger’s eyes, he probably sees me more clearly than I see him, but at this distance I perceive enough.

And then, a slow intake of breath from my brother. “Boromir, I have thought of what I would have you do now. If you will, that is.”

“What? If it would bring you pleasure, willingly, you know that.”

Even in this weak light, I see his face darken, red color spreading from his neck up to forehead—another embarrassed look, like the day nearly twenty years ago when he sought answers from me about his changing body. Though Faramir will not falter now, as he did then. We may still shy from talking about our bodies, but he will not let false humility stop him from speaking, if it is something he really wants.

“Boromir, I know not what you do while you are in the field, but for long years I have had to…give myself pleasure rather than…hunt it in the company of others. Command is a lonely bedfellow, after all.”

I nod, the saying a familiar one to men who serve in Gondor’s forces. Though we have never spoken of it before, I am not astonished that my brother satisfies his body by himself; it has often been the same with me, and his reasons are similar to my own, I suspect. Steward’s son and a Captain of men? Few could ever approach him as an equal or aspire to be his lover. His loneliness probably rivals my own, once in the field.

“So, Faramir, what would you have me do?” I repeat the question, this time smiling to let him know I would do anything to help him, though I do not know what he intends.

“Once I return to patrol, a few weeks after you, I will be alone once more. I would make the nights pass more quickly, with your help.” He leans over, to whisper in my ear what he desires me to do, as starlight shimmers above us.

“I wish for you…to watch me, brother. Watch as I take myself in hand and seek my pleasure. I will do this so many nights when I am alone in Ithilien. I would take the memory of you watching me do this, so that every night when I repeat this act, I may close my eyes and remember you, now. Do not touch me, do not kiss me.”

I do not think Faramir could have shocked me more. We are together now: why would he forego my touch or my kiss? Why? But it is his wish and I will obey him in this, since I asked him what he would have me do.

“One question, Faramir. Must I only watch? May I touch myself while you do the same, or must I restrain myself?” I do not know which I would prefer more, for it has never occurred to me to watch a lover and take so little action myself.

“Touch nothing, brother. Keep hands from both yourself and me, and use only your mouth. Speak softly into my ear what you will, words I may take with me to Ithilien, when I must do without you and find pleasure by myself.” Faramir’s words are so compelling, I simply nod my agreement, and wait for him.

He unfolds his crossed legs and stands up briefly, pulling his tunic over his head. As a torch’s flare lights up the distant courtyard, I see clearly again what starlight has, until now, grudgingly revealed. Even lit from behind, his beauty catches me out. I regret now that I agreed not to touch him—what would have been the harm in undressing him? But he wishes for this to be as if he is on patrol, alone with his men, so I do nothing, for now.

Faramir takes the tunic, lays it lengthwise on the hard stones, a harsh surface for what he intends—but then, he has slept on less yielding surfaces many times while in the field. He catches my eyes, sees the uncertainty in my gaze, for I do not know how I will manage myself in this. “Can you do this, Boromir? Do I ask too much?”

“I can do it, brother, though I do not know how I will feel a few moments from now. This is…strange.”

“Imagine it with me: it is almost night, as it is now. Near darkness, things glimpsed only by indirect light. The end of a long day’s march in Ithilien, with plans made for tomorrow’s maneuvers. Most evenings, I lie down only after every man except the scouts is asleep. Even then, I do not sleep easily when I’m wrapped in my cloak and eager for rest.” I see the pattern of his nights, the same as mine: last to bed, restless to dawn, first to rise. So alike.

He goes on: “After this week, I will know sleep only if I help myself by what I would do now. Help me, Boromir—please?” There is a pleading note in his voice, one he knows I will not resist. I never have.

I strengthen my resolve. “Yes, brother. I will do as you ask.” I move to kneel beside his head when he stretches out on the tunic. Closeness makes it easier to see what he does. He unlaces his breeches, shifts his hips so that the leggings are pushed partway below his knees, granting him access to his hardened flesh once he releases it from the leather.

As he does, I cannot draw my eyes away from his erection—the thought of how he intends to touch himself there only moments from now has stirred the blood in my abdomen and made me stiffen again. But I am forbidden to do anything: I can touch neither him nor myself. What new torment have you devised, Faramir? Yet I would know how you do this, what aid you want from me. Yes, I am curious.

Lying back, Faramir closes his eyes—Ithilien is easier for him to see like this. But I see only him: my brother, handsome. My lover. The end of day has come, and beneath glittering stars I see his skin stretched out, a pale canvas of all I desire. Faramir.

Eyes closed, breathing more regular now that he is relaxed and lying on his back. Faramir raises his right hand, brushes hair from his face, trails the hand softly from face to chest. He pauses there, passing the hand over his chest, from one side to the other, while his head rolls slowly to one side. I hear his summons: “I am in Ithilien. Night has fallen, and I would sleep. Speak to me brother, ease my passage into sleep with your words.”

I move from my knees to stretch out beside him, propped up on one elbow so I can watch him, my mouth close enough to his ear that he can hear me, though no part of my body touches his. I think for a moment, what I would say, then I whisper, “Faramir, I am here. Brother, ‘tis time for bed. Come.” It is all I can do to keep my hand from stretching out to touch him. It takes an act of will, but somehow, I manage it.

Faramir’s left hand joins his right, stroking across his chest, slow patterns of hands touching the skin, then raising his hands slightly until only his fingertips can pass to and fro over his tensing body. I watch, amazed, as the faint gestures begin to make the nubs pucker and rise on his chest, the hair on his chest beginning to stretch upwards once the skin is excited to his touch. I remember feeling his fingers brush my chest in just such a gesture, and my breath catches. Eru, Faramir, I need you to touch me, like that, just so.

I speak the thought aloud before I can stop myself. “Faramir, I would that you touched me like that, just as you do now. Your hands brushing my chest, my skin.” My brother’s hands pause, then repeat the same movements again, the very ones that I loved seeing him do. Across, stroking the nubs, ghosts of touches above his skin. I realize that I can influence what he does. Of course! Faramir, I see your plan now. You would have me tell you what I wish to see, not just what you would do for yourself.

If only I can find the words. I must force them out, tell him what he must do next. “Brother, I would take your two rosy buds in my mouth and taste them myself. I would kiss you there, catch you in my lips. You know how.” He lifts one hand, unhurried, to his mouth, moistens two fingers and returns it to his chest, wetting the left nub and pulling at the reddening circle until I can see it strain against his very skin. The center has tightened and filled, an awful hardness against so much that is smooth.Gods, Faramir, you will kill me.

“The other one, Faramir. I must taste them both.” He gives a slight nod, eyes still drifted shut, though I sense beneath the lids that he turns his eyes to look toward my voice. “Yes, brother, I would kiss them and roll them on my tongue—you know what I would do when I taste you there.” Another mute nod, as wet fingers rouse the other bud to match its fuller twin. My hand moves down to touch the bulge in my breeches, but I catch myself just in time: my brother would have me wait, so I wait.

I hear a faint moan from Faramir’s lips, a small sound, then “Borrryyyaaaa….” as he moves his left hand down, making light strokes from abdomen to groin. His right hand he slides down between his legs, tracing from thigh up to waist. Each sketch of a touch brings his hands closer and closer to…He wants you to speak to him, not merely watch. Remember your duty.

“Brother, I would have you touch only your legs. Touch the skin of your thighs, in long strokes, as I did a week past.” His hands still, then go near to his knees, lightly grazing the skin of his inner thigh, each caress a little closer to his hardened member and its now glistening tip. I must keep talking. I must keep talking. Make him speak.

“Faramir, call my name. I need to hear you say it. Say it, for me.” Another nod, and he opens his mouth again. “Brother, I need you. Please come to me, love. Borommiirrrr….” The hairs on the back of my neck are now standing straight up: this drawn-out cry, his endearment that I asked for, chills me. I know he will do the same in Ithilien, where I cannot follow. Eru, you torture me. Faramir, how will we bear this?

“I would have you touch yourself, but gently, brother. Do not become excited too soon, love. Make this last, for us both.” Another nod from sightless eyes, then his right hand slips up to cover his erection, two long slim fingers barely gliding up and down the length from top to base.

Sweat begins to form on his forearms, I see a drop fall to his stomach as he slides fingers up, back, up again. He speaks, as if from a far off place. “Boromir, please, I long for you. Where are you, brother?”

“I am here, little one. I will never leave your side. Do you still go gently, Faramir?”

“Yes, brother, I wait. Command me.” Oh, Faramir, what I would do, if only you let me have control of my own body! I can see the strain he labors under, the cords in his neck straining with each light stroke. Sweat beads on his face, dotting his forehead, the warmth from the stones at his back matching the blood he has heated within himself.

“Then I release you. Tarry no longer, brother—forward. Hurry. I will be there soon, waiting to hold you.” I watch, spellbound, as he presses the lean fingers down more firmly on his hard length, places a thumb to hold the skin firm in his hand, then increases his speed. Faster, faster his hand flies up and down the taut erection, silvery white liquid trickling from the slitted top.

Even as his hand hastens, he finds strength enough to speak. Murmuring, he asks, “Whose am I, brother? Say it.” What question do you ask? Now? He repeats the question, a little louder this time. “Whose am I, brother? Tell me who I belong to.”

I cannot believe he wants me to say those words. My mind rebels against this, even as I am bound to obey him. Into his ear I say the words he bids me speak.

“You are mine, Faramir. No one else’s, brother.” His head nods, as I continue. “My lover, mine alone. Tell me you know this, Faramir: you are mine.” His hips are lifting off the ground, now, the tightness of his thick shaft obvious signs to me: soon. Very soon.

“Yours…Boromir. Only…nnnhhh…yours. Brother!” With a last writhe of his hips, Faramir’s speedy hand draws out his prize: a uneven jet sprays through his fingers, onto his stomach and chest. His entire body seems to go limp in that moment, his breathing now through an open mouth, gasping for air.

I lie beside him, staggered by what he has done. What we have done. My brother wanted to hear me claim him, deny him to anyone else. You wanted me to say those hateful words again, and I do not understand why.

Yet, to hear his thoughts—“Please come to me…I long for you”—spoken from the depths of his very soul…. I have never known such closeness, such love. The nakedness of his need, voiced aloud. A single word—“Yours”—thrills me even in memory. Is this why you bade me speak, Faramir, when I was not master of myself? So you might know the extent of my desire? Brother, I will never have words enough.

His head rolled to one side, eyes still shuttered, my love lies exhausted before me. His labors past, I am freed from any restriction now. Faramir, I come. I seize his mouth with my lips, kiss him with all the passion I feel for him. For once, he responds weakly, as if he cannot summon the strength to give me an answer.

Before, I wanted to taste him, and he denied me, stopped my hands from touching him. Now, Faramir will not stop me. I bend over his chest, begin to draw away the moisture spattered across him.

A blurry voice: “Unnhhh, Boromir, you don’t need to—“

Raising my head, I quickly cut him off. “Need, no. Desire, yes. Do not hinder me, Faramir. This is my wish, and I have waited long enough.”

My tongue makes short work of what remains on his body, the flavor of my brother coating my mouth, filling my senses.

But as my lips linger on his chest, tasting him, I realize—when I pushed Faramir away from me earlier, did I deny him what he desired, what he wished to do? I thought he meant only to clean me, but it was an act of love, of passion, as mine is now. Faramir, I’m sorry. I didn’t think.

When I am done, he has come back to himself once again, begun to pull up breeches, raised himself to look at me. Questions. He has them for me, and I have a few for him.

“Well, Boromir? What would you know?”

“I was ashamed that I called you ‘mine’ the other night. Dishonored. Tonight, I find you want to hear me say the words again. Do you want to recall my failure? My unworthiness?”

Faramir’s hand reaches over swiftly, to grab my arm, hold it, then caress it. “No, brother. I do not think of those words as any failure, or dishonor. I…I want you to have me.” Swallows hard, then says, “To…to own me. There is no shame in words like that, especially when I want you to say them. They make me know, you love me. You protect me. You want me.”

I am confused, and admit it. “I do not understand, Faramir. Jealousy is wrong, a weakness. And you deserve—“

“I deserve you. I want only you. If it is jealousy, then I want you to be jealous.” I shake my head, denying him, even as he continues. “You heard my answer—even if you had not asked it of me, I would have spoken the same words. I am yours, Boromir, yours alone. Does my answer mean I’m weak? That because I desire you to possess me, I am less than a man?”

I had not thought about what his answer meant. Question and answer. Now I see the pair. Demand and submission. Mated, as we are. Mine. Yours.

Understanding at last, I nod, slowly. “No, Faramir. Not less of a man. Your answer is the only right one. And you will make the same demand of me, yes? Tell me who I belong to?”

He sees that I comprehend after all, and answers question with question. “What would you have me do?” Eyebrow raised, a small smile I see there. His question, now, is not one of obedience but a promise—he will tell me, whether I ask him to or not. And I will give him the same answer. Yours.

A small shiver runs down my spine: I want to hear him claim me with the same words. Simple words of possession do this, send a chill of infinite passion through me.

And another revelation: Faramir wanted to hear me say one word—“Mine”—so he might shudder with delight, as I did just now. Faramir, I made you feel that way, with a single word I spoke, didn’t I? I gave you this feeling, too! Eyes closing for a moment, I am bewildered, overjoyed. Brother, you lead me to pleasures undreamt of. Yes, tell me who I belong to, as I have told you.

“Tell me. Tell me tonight, Faramir, when we are in my bed. You will have your answer there.” I stand up, extend a hand to pull my brother to his feet, where he drags his tunic over his head.

“You don’t want to stay here.” Sadness.

“I do, Faramir, but for what I have in mind, we will both prefer the comfort of a mattress. I know it. You may be used to sleeping on bare rock, but I have not forgotten the softness of my bed. Where I may hold you until you fall asleep.” Smiles exchanged, we rapidly gather the food and other items from the table. Faramir holds most of our collection while I swiftly unbolt the door leading down from the roof.

As I shove the bolt free from its housing, I say, “I am glad we are not the same, Faramir.”

“Why, brother?”

“Because I would never have thought of what you just did…but I am glad that you thought of it.” I can tell he was still worried, wondering what I thought of watching him in the throes of his passion alone. My words reassure him, tell him he has pleased me. For Faramir, reassurance leads to boldness.

“You liked it?”

Though we step quickly through the door, I pause before answering. He should not know how eager I am to try this once more. Make him wait until we are back in my room, tell him there. I swing the door shut, begin to lock it from the inside once more with fingers fumbling in the dark.

Finally, I cannot resist telling him the truth, though it seems like weakness. In a low growl, I admit, “Yes, I liked it. Can we do it again?” The door now locked, I would not linger after I give the key to Faramir. Somehow, it seems right he should keep the key to our roof.

Standing in darkness, on the landing at the top of the staircase, I hear him answer. “Yes, on one condition, though.”

“Anything, Faramir.” By the Valar, what will you make me do next? But I am smiling as I take his arm, move him down the unlit stairs, closer to my room.

From the shadows, a faint kiss brushes my cheek. “Next time, we exchange places.”

“Done.”


The brothers would not have carved the letters “B” and “F” from the Roman alphabet but the appropriate Tengwar letters, the alphabet used by both Westron and Elvish (Quenya and Sindarin), common in the West. The letters are named: F is “Formen”, meaning ‘North’, and B is “Umbar”, meaning ‘Fate.’ For the complete Tengwar letter series, see URL: http://www.geocities.com/TimesSquare/4948/tengwar/sindar.htm

On Farya, Borya, and Elvish terms of endearment, see the use of this suffix as an endearment in UT:418, as in Anardilya (“dear Anardil” UT:174). Not to be confused with the verbal and adjectival endings -ya. For a scholarly essay on the subject, see URL: http://www.uib.no/people/hnohf/affix~1.htm

With thanks to gladio on both subjects!

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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