Faramir Fiction Archive

Unexpected Blessings (NC-17)

Written by Nissi

14 November 2006 | 18644 words

Chapter 3: The Houses of Healing

WARNING: There is discussion, but not detailed writing, of an encounter between Éowyn and Faramir. You will read that it happened, but not how it happened, etc. Just a het mention, rather than a het encounter.

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Legolas loved Ithilien. The task of helping to rebuild Gondor’s natural beauty was one he undertook with glee. Furthermore, he enjoyed that his new home was close enough to Minas Tirith to visit with Aragorn often.

He had not known Faramir well when he relocated to the prince’s territory, but they soon became fast friends. Legolas was impressed with Faramir’s knowledge of elvish ways, and they shared a love of nature, particularly gardens, forests, and lush meadows. Ithilien was a boundless supplier of the latter two, and Faramir made Emyn Arnen a great example of the former.

But for as long as he’d known the young Steward, Faramir had been suffering the torment of Boromir’s loss and his various internal conflicts. Legolas wished that he could allay some of Faramir’s troubles. He hoped the project of constructing a memorial to Boromir would help.

And it did help. Faramir felt excited about the prospect of having a productive activity that would honor his love; a new goal to achieve, to help distract him from his pain. He was deeply grateful to the elf for affording him the opportunity, and for offering his aid so that the effort could be collaborative.

The companions returned to Emyn Arnen with lighter steps and happier hearts. A tremendous weight had been eased from Faramir by the sharing of his secrets with the trustworthy elf. Along the way they exchanged memories of Boromir, recited poetry, marveled at the scenery, and discussed their experiences in the fight to defeat Sauron. The slight respite Legolas gave to Faramir was a better birthday celebration than he had imagined could be possible, given he had nearly taken his life in despair.

Faramir looked forward to spending more time with Legolas, and Legolas felt precisely the same. A new bond was forming between them, and Faramir was glad for the support. Especially as they strode towards his home and he spied Éowyn running out excitedly to greet them.

He could no longer avoid the decision with which he’d grappled for such a time. Should he tell Éowyn how he felt and allow her the opportunity to extricate herself from their marriage, or remain with her and try to make it work? As she bounded towards him he felt his mouth go dry as a wave of anxiety hit him. Pins and needles worked their way through his body. It was time.

Éowyn threw her arms around Faramir’s neck and hugged him tightly, showering his lightly-bearded face with tiny kisses. She was so happy to see her husband returned that she didn’t acknowledged Legolas’s presence—from no rude impetus, but sheer ignorance. Faramir’s mysterious note had left her terribly worried. She knew well that he was not himself, though she never questioned him. They had both been through a great deal and time had not yet fully healed either of them.

“I am so pleased you’re back,” she whispered, customary tears springing to her eyes. Faramir embraced her, but cast a worried glance over her shoulder to Legolas. Their blue eyes met for one moment, then parted as Legolas slipped silently into Faramir’s house.

“I’m sorry, Éowyn,” Faramir began. He took a deep breath and struggled with how extensive his apology should be. “I shouldn’t have left with just a note,” he sighed, feeling his courage elude him. “I’ve been half mad…”

“Shh,” Éowyn hushed him. “You’re here with me now. That is all that matters,” she smiled lovingly. Faramir was amazed at her ability to forgive and forget. Her thwarted relationship with Aragorn was a prime example of how well Éowyn released a grudge. She rode to battle for sake of their friendship regardless of the fact that he had rejected her advances.

Éowyn released Faramir and took hold of his hand. “Come to our bed,” she whispered, despite that it was broad daylight and such encounters between them were rare even in the conducive dark of night. “Let me show you how dearly I have missed you.”

Faramir gazed into her eyes. He softened, his guilt remaining steadfast. He could not face telling her the truth. The Steward did his best to force thoughts of his husband from his mind as he nodded silently, acquiescing to her desire. He thought perhaps intimacy might kindle some interest in his wife.

But the trick failed. He could not keep his memories of Boromir at bay. He reveled in them as he gave Éowyn what she wanted, however detached he felt. He knew then that there would never be love or passion in his marriage to her. But he could give her partnership, and perhaps that would be enough to prevent her heart from breaking.

His heart felt beyond repair.

The construction of Boromir’s memorial commenced almost immediately, with the elf and the man excitedly sketching and planning. Faramir commissioned the greatest artists and stonecutters in Minas Tirith to capture his love’s image perfectly, their own memories of Boromir still fresh and strong. He anxiously awaited the results while frequently recalling Boromir’s words: “_My lovely one. We will live to see peace. We will yet have time to take chisels to stone and carve out puzzling elements of architecture._” The memory made him laugh. It was a joyful moment in Boromir’s and his history, and Legolas had taught him that he must let the joyful moments carry him through the sorrowful times.

Beyond merely planning, Faramir threw himself into the labor, spending his days busily planting the perfect blend of flowers, grasses, and herbs to achieve both beauty and fragrance. As he turned soil beneath the mid-day sun he watched stonemasons lay the foundation for the statue. Something in the whitewashed color and square cut of the stone brought to mind a random memory from two years past.

He had been in Minas Tirith, a city of countless such stones, en route to the great hall from the library when he heard the commotion. Boromir and his men had returned from Osgiliath sooner than expected. The younger son of Denethor raced down the many levels to the gate as quickly as his legs would carry him. The sight that greeted him was not what he’d expected, and not what he’d hoped.

Everywhere there were injured men lying on stretchers, and others still were limping towards the Houses of Healing, aided by city guards. Those who were not harmed tended to their horses with somber faces. Boromir sat astride his mount, giving orders for the treatment of the wounded.

Faramir rushed to Boromir’s side. “Boromir!” he gasped, thoroughly out of breath. “So many wounded…”

Boromir turned to his little brother and smiled sadly. “We were insufficiently prepared for the forces that assailed us. We won the day, but paid a heavy price.” Seemingly as an afterthought he leaned towards Faramir and said, “And hello, little one,” he winced as he righted himself, tugging on the reins to steady his still-agitated horse.

Faramir reached out and placed his hand upon the saddle near Boromir’s thigh. He allowed two fingers to inconspicuously brush against his secret husband’s leg. “I am so happy you’ve returned, whatever the circumstances…” Faramir’s eyes strayed to Boromir’s chain mail-clad arm. The mail was split near the shoulder and stained brown with a copious amount of dried blood. When the older man moved he could see the unhealed gash beneath. “Boromir, you’re hurt!” he exclaimed.

“It is not dire,” Boromir replied dismissively, but winced once more.

“It is deep enough to concern me. You’ve bled a great deal. I’ll have no arguments, dismount and give your horse to a stable boy. You’re coming with me to the healers,” Faramir replied sternly.

Boromir began to protest but Faramir firmly reminded him, “No arguments!” He held out his hands to his love, offering help. Boromir chuckled. Faramir’s behavior was touching, and lifted his spirits. He swung his leg over his horse and groaned as his shoulder ached sharply in response to the movement of his arm. Faramir grasped Boromir’s sides and helped him to the ground.

“Can you walk the distance, or shall I fetch a stretcher?” Faramir asked, concerned for potential weakness. Boromir had clearly been wounded for some time.

“I can walk,” Boromir replied resolutely. But when beyond immediate earshot of others he whispered, “Stay near me.” Faramir remained the one person with whom he could show vulnerability, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was feeling lightheaded. He was a hardened warrior—it was not his first wound—but it was in a painful place, and he had indeed bled long and hard while he put the safety and well-being of his men before his own.

“I’ll be at your side,” Faramir responded quietly. He was overwhelmed with the need to call Boromir by any of their romantic names, and to tell his spouse how much he loved him. But such sentiments were for private times in private places. Faramir patiently led Boromir up the levels to the Houses of Healing, deflecting busybodies who tried to collar Boromir for conversation along the way.

The healers placed Boromir in a private room apart from the rest of the wounded men, who had overrun the place and thrown the Houses of Healing into near-chaos. Faramir insisted on remaining at Boromir’s side while a young woman cleansed and stitched the nasty cut. Orc swords rarely left a clean edge. Already it looked angry with infection, so she generously applied a salve and bandaged his chest and shoulder tightly.

She gave Faramir the bottle of salve and informed him they were simply too short-handed to cope with all the injured, and asked him if he would apply the salve in evening, night, morning, and noon, making sure to cleanse the wound twice per day. It was not the first time Faramir had helped care for injured soldiers when the number had been too many for the healers to tend well. Faramir had a strong stomach and a well-rounded understanding of medicine. Though he was not a healer himself, he could easily perform healing tasks when given instruction.

Faramir was more than happy to help tend his brother’s shoulder. Beyond the satisfaction of taking care of Boromir, he knew the task would ensure they would be in each other’s company throughout the days it would take for Boromir to fully heal.

As soon as the healer left the room Faramir shut the door securely and knelt at Boromir’s bedside. “My love,” he breathed a sigh of relief at finally having time alone with his husband. He gently took hold of Boromir’s hand and brought it to his lips, showering it with minute kisses. “I have missed you, terribly.”

Boromir smiled adoringly, twisting his hand to trace a small circle upon his lover’s cheek with his thumb. “My beautiful husband. My sweet Faramir. I have missed you too, more than I can express. You were on my mind constantly. When it looked as though we might lose the battle I was overcome with worry. Worry that somehow you’d be unsafe…unreasonable as that concern was, since you were securely in Minas Tirith and the orcs were not plentiful enough to storm the city. But worry that I’d fail you…”

“Fail me, gorgeous one?” Faramir questioned, puzzled.

“Fail you in my promise to come back to you,” Boromir replied.

“But you have not, and you are the strongest, most skillful warrior in Gondor. You will never fail me,” Faramir cooed, bending forward and laying his head in Boromir’s lap.

Boromir ran his fingers through Faramir’s hair, tangling them with the rusty tresses. “And you? Are you well?”

“Aye, perfectly well now that you’re returned, my lovely one. Your time away has seen much of the same for me here in our home city. Training. Reading. Briefings with father and the council. Formal meals. Time in my gardens. And thoughts, Boromir, so many thoughts of you,” Faramir replied.

“You were conjured in my mind as well, little brother. Thoughts of you distracted me from pain and allowed me to continue to lead my men through the peril,” Boromir beamed.

Faramir glanced up to the bandage, through which the wound was weeping. “Does it hurt?” he asked with worry.

Boromir shook his head slowly. “It does not hurt greatly. Hardly at all when I am perfectly still. But it is torture to have you near and to remain still…to refrain from touching you…”

“There will be time,” Faramir whispered. He sighed contentedly, the warmth of Boromir’s groin against his cheek. He felt the stirring of his lover’s cock through the blanket and his breeches. The healer had only required Boromir to undress to the waist.

Faramir looked up and locked eyes with Boromir. He swam in the green pools Boromir presented, shining much like the surface of rippling waters. His breath quickened as the power of Boromir’s presence struck him. He closed his eyes and nuzzled against his brother’s lap, rubbing his cheek against the rapidly-hardening bulge beneath him.

Boromir bit his lip and groaned quietly. “I thought you said there will be time?” he half protested, half joked.

“For you to touch me,” Faramir replied, eyes opening and seeking Boromir’s once more. “The time for me to touch you is nigh.”

Boromir shuddered. “Faramir, I’ve wanted you so badly…”

“And you shall have me, my husband, but not today,” Faramir smiled coyly. “You’re not recovered enough for that sort of activity. But if you promise to remain very, very still…”

“Yes? If I promise to remain still…what?” Boromir asked breathlessly.

Faramir merely grinned mischievously and righted himself, tugging down the blankets. His hands rose to quickly untie Boromir’s breeches. The brothers had long since mastered making short work of unlacing each other’s trousers. So many of their encounters were in stolen moments with no time to leisurely strip one another.

The younger man revealed his lover’s cock and took it lovingly in his hands. “Ohhh…my love,” Boromir moaned and arched against the headboard, immediately regretting the movement as pain shot through his shoulder and radiated down his arm.

“Still!” Faramir hissed. Boromir forced himself to still completely, allowing only his face and hands to express his appreciation for Faramir’s ministrations.

His brother’s lips descended to purse around the head of his cock, suckling tenderly. His beautiful blue eyes trained on Boromir’s and the corners of his lips curled into a slight smile. The juxtaposition of innocence with naughtiness drove the older man wild. He had to pour every ounce of concentration into remaining still as Faramir orally pleasured him expertly.

Faramir had learned well all the tricks that brought Boromir tremendous pleasure, and he employed every one of them. Boromir’s face twisted into various expressions of intense pleasure and desire. He couldn’t restrain his hips entirely and as he drew closer to orgasm he pumped in tiny movements in time with the bobbing of Faramir’s head.

Boromir had no need to warn Faramir when he was on the brink of climax. Faramir never once shied away from swallowing his brother’s offerings and could easily tell when Boromir was close. The older man bunched the bed sheets in his fists, threw his head back and groaned louder than he should have as he exploded into his husband’s mouth, releasing all the tension that had been pent up during his trying time away from home.

Faramir swallowed time and time again, relishing Boromir’s pleasure. When the older man’s orgasm ebbed Faramir pulled his lips from his spent cock, just in time to hear a noise beyond the door, and the creak of the door starting to open. With near panic he jumped to his feet and tugged up the blankets, having no time to lace his brother’s breeches. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and watched as Boromir tried to collect himself enough to greet whoever was entering the room. To Faramir’s dismay it was Denethor, arrived to check on his beloved firstborn.

Faramir took a few steps away from the bed, assuming the role of wallflower as Denethor welcomed Boromir heartily and fussed for the state of his health. “You are flushed and perspiring,” their father observed. “Are you fevered?”

“Perhaps a little,” Boromir lied, covering for his and Faramir’s illicit activities. “But the healers had no worry. They gave Faramir instructions for my care.”

“I would prefer to assign you someone with experience and talent in the ways of healing,” Denethor nearly spat. “Your brother meddles where he has no business.”

“Father, his help here has done much good!” Boromir protested. “I insist on receiving Faramir’s care,” he stated boldly. “The healers are far too busy with my men. Let them be. My men need them far more than I.”

Denethor looked unconvinced but acquiesced. “Very well. But I will be keeping track of your progress, my son. Our need in Osgiliath is great, and though it pains me to order you there so quickly, you must return with reinforcements the moment you are well enough so to do.”

“We were overwhelmed,” Boromir informed the Steward. “There were not enough men the first time…”

“We will marshal more,” Denethor said with a dismissive wave. “I would send Faramir in your stead but I cannot trust his skill as a leader beyond the woodland.” Faramir looked down at the ground. He was accustomed to such abuse, but it never failed to sting him nonetheless.

“I am tired, father,” Boromir said honestly. His orgasm had worn thin the last of his energy.

“Then I will take leave,” Denethor replied with a gentle smile. “Rest well, my son. Faramir, leave your brother to sleep now. Tend to your duties elsewhere,” he barked to his younger son.

Faramir nodded slowly. “Yes, my lord.”

Denethor spun on his heels and exited the room, his heavy robes swishing behind him.

Boromir frowned and reached out his hand to his lover. Faramir stepped forward and gratefully took it. Boromir wasn’t sure what to say—his father’s harsh words always left him feeling awkward.

“It’s alright, my beloved,” Faramir whispered, absolving Boromir of his concern. “I do have responsibilities that I should address. But I will return before nightfall to take care of you.”

“Bring another blanket,” Boromir said softly.

“Are you cold?” Faramir tilted his head. “I can fetch a nightshirt from your chamber…”

“No, brother of mine, lover of mine,” Boromir replied. “I want you to stay with me. Whether with me in bed if we dare it, or in the chair beside, I want you near.”

“Then you shall have me near,” Faramir smiled brightly. “I love you, Boromir.”

“And I love you, Faramir. I will count the moments until you return,” the older man said sweetly.

“No, you will not,” Faramir responded quietly. He bent forward and placed a tender kiss on his love’s brow. “You will sleep.”

Boromir craned his neck to bring his lips to Faramir’s. They engaged in a passionate kiss, nearly more than Faramir could stand, as his own arousal had grown during their encounter—waned in Denethor’s presence—but was swiftly rekindled by the taste of Boromir’s lips and tongue.

The younger man broke the kiss and caressed his brother’s cheek. “Go to sleep,” he whispered. Boromir nodded and settled into the bed, finding exhaustion quickly.

That night Faramir had returned and tended to Boromir’s injury as instructed. He wedged the chair against the door, ensuring privacy; prepared to use the excuse that Boromir desired no interruption in the night should anyone attempt to enter the room. The couple slept together in the small bed, cuddled tightly beneath a bundle of blankets, bare skin against bare skin. It was one of the most peaceful nights Faramir could remember.

He reveled in the opportunity to spend so much time with Boromir during the week that followed. Boromir was recovered enough for them to make love many times. As Faramir now planted simbelmynë in the memorial garden—a plant he had carried back from Rohan after his marriage ceremony in Edoras and since nurtured, seeded, and grew in Ithilien—he felt a single tear slide down his cheek. Legolas was right. The happy memories would sustain him, but ever would they be bittersweet.

But as the simple white flower signified, Faramir would always remember.

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