Faramir Fiction Archive

Trail of Tears (R)

Written by Kissa

21 June 2008 | 6893 words

Chapter 3

Faramir quickly knelt next to Boromir, shaking him in disbelief. As he did so and heard the pained growl leaving his brother’s chest, he noticed the bloody arrow tips lying around all over the cave floor. They were new and had fresh blood on them; he counted three or four and his heart stopped in his chest before it could resume its beating. The fact that his brother had survived such an attack was a miracle! Whether Boromir would survive to see other battles seemed highly unlikely.

But he would try, he had to! He could not lose his brother! If Boromir died, his life would become pointless and there would be no reason for him to go back to Gondor.

He could hear the sound of falling water somewhere deeper into the cave and he quickly got up, getting to work and going to bring some water. He discovered there was a creek which came from the ground, and the water was warm instead of ice-cold. It also smelt funny and Faramir recognized the smell of healing salts. He might just be lucky, at least this one time…

He worked as fast as he could, and paid attention to every detail in his brother’s body language, searching for signs of pain or clues to how extensive the internal damage was. To his luck, Boromir seemed only high on his body’s natural means of fighting pain. He checked and double checked for the tissue damage characteristic to poisoning, but it seemed that his brother was merely feverish. There could be a number of other reasons… Faramir was undecided, until Boromir’s squirming attracted his attention to his brother’s groin. His decision was made in the fraction of a heartbeat. He threw off as many layers as he could before he began to work, bringing all he needed close to where Boromir lay.

Once the wounds were disinfected on the outside, as Faramir thought it best not to upset the by now mending flesh, he applied some healing salve all over the wounded areas. Even after doing his best to clean and mend the wounds, his brother was still watching him with burning eyes, fixing him in an obvious attempt to not attract his attention to the obscene tent in his leggings.

But Faramir had spotted that long ago and intended to make good use of it. From his position, straddling Boromir, he lowered his hips and ground them against Boromir’s groin, smirking at the moan his gesture elicited.

Boromir had not yet spoken, probably to spare his energy. The sweat that had broken out on his forehead and chest told Faramir the older man was trying to cope with unspeakable pain – which was normal, considering how many arrows he had taken.

He knew just the way to help Boromir fight pain. Reaching behind himself, he unlaced Boromir’s leggings, letting the thick shaft spring forth into his hand and smiling at his brother’s relieved gasp.

Next, he made a show out of shimmying out of his own clothes, keeping only his thin shirt on, and without wasting any time, he went back to straddle his brother, loving the feel of skin on skin and rocking gently against Boromir, who lay there watching him and biting his lips in anticipation.

His brother’s green eyes were glazed with pain, but also dark with arousal, which was most intriguing and… flattering. Faramir was aware of the effect he had on his brother, but until now he had not known the extent and depth of it.

After the most cursory of preparations – he had always liked it to hurt a bit, in the beginning, as it gave it more meaning in his mind – he guided Boromir’s swollen manhood into his own tight body, sighing in pleasure as he felt the thick length slide all the way in, inch by inch, then he set a slow, hypnotic pace, eyes riveted on Boromir’s awed face. By the look in his brother’s eyes, the older man surely must have thought he was hallucinating.

Faramir leant forward and laced his fingers with his brother’s, murmuring:

“Nay brother beloved, ‘tis not a dream. I am for real, and you live, thank Eru.”

He bent his upper body even more so he could kiss his brother. He was met with hungry, flaky lips which reached for him, devouring.

They had always been each other’s addiction. They each had their reasons, some pure and some others less so; Faramir knew his own and did not question Boromir’s. It was enough for him to know that no one and nothing on Arda held more sway than him over his brother’s every move and thought. It was the same in his case, for Boromir, but he had had to save a bit of reason and an alert corner of his mind so they would never be caught, hurt and separated.

The nannies had understood them, when they were little; they had seen five year-old Boromir, skinny and frail, carrying baby Faramir around and looking after him with the utmost care and concentration. Not once had the child dropped or hurt his baby brother in any way.

They had all been shocked to find the brothers healed each other just by the simple fact of being together, going through the same thing. Boromir had caught a stiff cold once, and they had consigned him to his bed. Baby Faramir, now one year old, had cried until he had become blue in the face, and Denethor himself, kept awake by the vigorous screaming, had put the baby into the sick brother’s bed. Come morning, the two were both sleeping peacefully, their breathing synchronised, any trace of the cold now vanished.

It had happened many times since then. Faramir would take away Boromir’s fears and doubts, and the older brother would blow tenderly on skinned knees that fixed themselves in a matter of hours, not days.

Faramir could remember their first night as lovers more clearly than he could remember any of the more recent events. He had been fourteen at the time, tingling all over and restless on that night. Something invisible had led him to his brother’s room, finding Boromir in prey to what seemed a very painful state, as the older brother had been flushed and sweaty when Faramir had laid eyes on him. And, as he had discovered when he’d climbed into bed with his brother, Boromir had been naked under the veil-like sheet.

The young Faramir had looked at his brother’s body with the eyes of a poet – seeing it in an idealized light, the sight had stolen his breath and any trace of sense. If it was so beautiful, how could any of it be wrong?

Had anyone come into the room then, asking Faramir whether it was day or night, he would have been unable to say; all he could have said would have been “Boromir”.

His brother had been rubbing himself against the sheet below him, as if in prey to a full body itch, but Faramir did not care what it might have been, as long as he was completely absorbed in following every flexing of his brother’s well-sculpted, but still lithe and elegant body. He had moved to sit against the headboard, watching as the sheet covering Boromir kept sliding off more and more; soon it would reveal all of his brother’s nude form to his entranced eyes.

He had been pulled lower, into a half-lying, half sitting position, his brother using the scrawny chest as a pillow, resting against Faramir for long moments, as if listening to the restless flutter inside Faramir’s chest would soothe him… and it had, apparently, only not for long.

The rest of the night had been blurred out and romanticized by Faramir’s young mind. He could not remember details of how he had ended up with his legs around Boromir’s hips, how Boromir had done to slide inside him so painlessly and what he had done to make him feel like their souls were spilling into each other, becoming one. There had been no attribution of guilt in the light of dawn, but only Boromir touching his lips to Faramir’s chest, where the heartbeat could be seen thumping against the ribcage. In one way or another, they had always known they were inseparable.

Since then, they had woven an intricate web of deceit. For Denethor, for the nannies, for the servants and the soldiers they fought alongside with. Not a soul in this world could ever find out… Bolted doors, twisted keys in covered keyholes, whispered endearments and censored displays of affection made up their secret code.

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