Faramir Fiction Archive

Unexpected Blessings (NC-17)

Written by Nissi

14 November 2006 | 18644 words

Chapter 5: Of Wine and Grief

Three bottles of wine later, Faramir was drunk nearly to the point of staggering. He slumped on the bench facing Boromir’s statue, clawing for pleasant memories to which he might cling should he tumble into the chasm of despair that was ever near.

He rose and stumbled to the statue, which was elevated a few feet from the ground. He was able to reach to trace the long lines of Boromir’s strong legs. The stone was cold beneath his fingers. Chilled and unyielding. A stark contrast to how his lover felt in life.

“I no longer live a lie, my beloved,” he whispered. “I live only with our secret. I love you,” he pressed his cheek to the stone calf, closing his eyes and sighing deeply. “I love you desperately. I miss you desperately. I ache for you, Boromir.”

Faramir lost track of how long he stood that way, his face to the carved boot, attempting to fantasize about what his life would be like if Boromir had survived. Boromir would be Steward, but only in title, as Elessar would still be crowned. Surely he would live in Minas Tirith, but perhaps with persuasion Boromir might depart the White City for Emyn Arnen—for a future of living with his husband, remaining outwardly brothers but privately lovers until the end of their days.

The more detailed his imaginings grew the less he noticed the cold stillness of the stone. He realized, at length, that the feeling against his cheek was not of stone but of leather. The smell of tanned hide was distinct, and the warmth of Boromir’s body beneath his clothing was clear. Faramir opened his eyes and slowly lifted them to his brother’s face. Boromir stood animated with life, lovingly gazing down on him.

Faramir gasped and stepped back, blinking several times to shake the image, however much he wanted it to be real.

“Hello, little brother,” Boromir’s voice rang through the garden. It possessed an ethereal quality but was still fully his own, sonorous and soothing.

“Boromir,” Faramir whispered, his voice strangled in his tight, dry throat.

Boromir looked incredibly beautiful. He was wreathed in the orange light emanating from the torches behind him. “I have missed you, my love,” Boromir said.

“Boromir,” Faramir replied with firmer voice. “I have missed you beyond telling.” He stepped up to the statue and clasped his arms around Boromir’s legs. The feeling was real, warm and soft and replete with every detail he could recall of his husband. The sensations fell perfectly into place.

“I’m sorry to have left you alone, little one. I know I promised to be with you always,” Boromir said regretfully.

“And I am sorry for the madness that was my marriage to Éowyn. Please forgive me for my transgression, Boromir…” Faramir nearly sobbed.

“Shh, beloved. We both transgressed. I did not return. You did not remain only mine. Time apart makes all lovers a little mad, at least,” Boromir replied understandingly. “The past is behind us. You are forgiven…”

“As are you,” Faramir interrupted eagerly.

“Then there is nothing standing between us,” Boromir smiled tenderly. “Nothing blocking us from reveling together in our love.”

Faramir squeezed his eyes shut tightly. “Please be real,” he pleaded. “Please let this be some magic of the Valar, some gift of Eru. Let this be an inexplicable miracle.”

He felt Boromir’s hand descend to caress his hair, twisting and tangling his waved ginger locks. “Come to me,” Boromir whispered.

Faramir opened his eyes, climbing the statue’s base without question, holding tightly to his brother’s waist to prevent himself from slipping and falling. At eye level he was able to gaze intently into the olive green orbs of Boromir’s eyes. “Steward of Gondor,” Boromir mused. “A prince. Lord of your own territory. You have accomplished much, brother of mine.”

“No more than you would have accomplished, my love. Mine is small glory compared to what yours would have been…” Faramir protested the praise. Ever he remained humble, a noble quality, even if it was self-deprecating.

“Accept who you are, Faramir. Accept what you are. I told you once that you would prevail, and you have,” Boromir sweetly rubbed the tip of his nose against his brother’s.

Faramir was overcome with passion and appreciation. He swiftly fastened his lips to his husband’s and slid his tongue between Boromir’s lips. Faramir lost himself in the familiar taste and warmth. Boromir’s arms encircled his waist and they held each other in this same way, two halves of a beautiful, loving whole.

When they broke apart, Faramir gasping for air, Boromir rained little kisses upon Faramir’s face and neck. The Lord of Emyn Arnen writhed in his brother’s arms, feeling the pressure of his arousal within his fitted cotton breeches. There was an unmistakable hardening bulge within Boromir’s, too. Faramir soon began to grind himself against his love, both men panting with desire and moaning softly at the contact.

Faramir’s excitement grew suddenly and terribly. He ached for his husband. He ached for release. But he feared he would not possess the control to stop himself, as the friction of the steady rubbing had his cock throbbing with impending orgasm. It had been so long since he last felt sexual bliss with his love. It had been so long since he was even graced with his presence.

“I love you,” Faramir gasped. His eyes opened wide as his climax hit him. He wanted to stop it, wanted to tear off his breeches and give himself to his lover, to unleash when he felt Boromir’s organ sheathed within him. But there was no stopping. His cock released many spurts of his seed into his trousers, slathered against his thigh and down his leg, and wetting the front.

“I love you, Faramir,” Boromir crooned, holding his spouse tighter. As Faramir’s head fell limply upon his shoulder he sighed. “That’s it, little brother, my love. That’s it…” encouraging him to wring every ounce of pleasure from his anguish-wearied body. They continued to grind gently against one another as Faramir’s orgasm subsided.

In the library, Legolas decided to check on Faramir and see if the young Steward had need of food or sleep. He knew how Faramir had been denying himself basic needs in the distraction of his troubles. Legolas moved silently to the memorial gardens, but stopped short at what he saw there.

Empty wine bottles bespoke of the facilitator to Faramir’s behavior. He had climbed his brother’s statue and clung to it, head resting on its shoulder as his hips ground against the statue’s groin.

“Take your pleasure,” Faramir gasped to Boromir, still fully engulfed in his hallucination. “Take me, my love, my husband, my brother…possess me once more,” he murmured. He nuzzled at Boromir’s neck before lifting his lips to capture them in another desperate kiss. He continued to rub against Boromir’s erection, determined to pleasure his lover.

Legolas watched as Faramir’s lips moved to the statue’s and his mouth twisted against the stone as if he was truly kissing Boromir. The elf realized the extent of Faramir’s hallucination and frowned with the knowledge that it would be heartbreaking for the man to return to reality. Yet Legolas could not leave Faramir in such a state, writhing against the statue of his brother, calling it “husband,” and begging it to make love to him. As Faramir reached down to untie his breeches Legolas paused a moment, finding a perverse allure in the sight before him. He had never before seen Faramir in lust and even intoxicated the Steward was lovely—arching gracefully, moaning enticingly, and speaking sexily.

Legolas had long admired the beauty of Boromir’s brother. Though he was immersed in his grief when Legolas met him, he radiated something that spoke of his nobility, goodness, and giving nature. His face was strikingly handsome, and his slender body was both sleek and powerful. In build he could have been elvish, and yet he possessed enough imperfections to make him distinctly a man.

Legolas knew his feelings for Faramir were more than mere friendship, as he felt a stirring within him whenever the man was near. Now the stir took on a new dimension as he beheld Faramir with his husband’s statue. Legolas forced himself to focus and spoke loud enough to break the spell.

“Faramir. Faramir, listen to me. It is not real, my friend, you must stop…” Legolas had not finished speaking when Faramir broke his kiss, looked stunned, and reeled backwards.

Suddenly Boromir grew stiff and cold. His mouth sealed, forcing out Faramir’s tongue. His arms withdrew from Faramir’s waist. His hardness subsided. He was gone. Faramir felt the loss slam into him devastatingly, mingled with the embarrassing realization that he had been moving upon his brother’s statue the whole time. He had brought himself to climax there in the memorial, clinging to a lifeless idol.

The widower felt his body swing backwards as he hastily parted with the stone. His footing slipped and he tumbled towards the ground. Legolas couldn’t reach Faramir in time to soften his fall; Faramir hit the paved ground first with his buttocks, then his head. The blow was hard, and the man was knocked unconscious. Legolas could not rouse him. Blood pooled from the back of Faramir’s head onto the white stone.

Legolas was faced with a terrible decision. Did he risk calling the healer to the spot—seeing the wine bottles were emptied nearby, Faramir’s breeches were soaked through the front with his pleasure, and the statue bore a tell-tale damp spot where Faramir’s seed had made contact? Or should he carry Faramir to his bed and risk the time it would take to strip him, clean him, dress him in a night shirt, and settle him upon his bed?

Faramir had been fortunate. The guests were gone and his home was relatively empty. None saw his display in the garden. Legolas knew that if anyone even suspected lewd behavior in the memorial Faramir would be mortified. The Steward would rather die than have his secret revealed to his people, in part or whole. The choice became clear. The elf cradled his friend’s limp body in his arms and hefted him to Faramir’s room.

He only hoped Faramir’s injury was not so severe that the precious moments required to make Faramir presentable for the healer would mean the difference between the prince’s life and death.

Faramir blinked his eyes rapidly against the light. His head throbbed with a ceaseless dull ache. He groaned as he came fully to consciousness.

In a heartbeat Legolas was by his side, leaning over the bed. “I have been waiting for you to wake,” he said in a friendly manner, smiling warmly.

“What happened?” Faramir’s memory of the previous night’s events had been clouded by the alcohol. Yet he remembered clearly Boromir’s presence—Boromir’s touch, taste, smell…he looked around the room. “Where’s Boromir? Where is my brother?”

Legolas frowned. He had hoped the blow would shake Faramir back to reality, not leave him with lingering confusion. “He is not here, Faramir.”

“Where is he?” Faramir tilted his head confusedly, then regretted the movement.

“He was never here, Faramir. It was an illusion, brought on by too much drink,” Legolas responded

“But I felt him, Legolas…” Faramir began to counter.

“It was the statue, Faramir,” Legolas said, lowering his voice. “You were…with the statue.”

The memory came flooding back to Faramir. He winced and groaned once more, embarrassment and grief mixing with the pain. “I’m so sorry, Legolas.”

“Please do not apologize,” Legolas reached down and tenderly adjusted the bandage wrapped around Faramir’s head. It had shifted on his brow when the man moved his head.

“I thought it was real. I was praying it was real. What a fool I must have looked,” Faramir sighed. Fright came over him as he had a disturbing thought. “Did anyone see me?”

Legolas shook his head. “No, Faramir. Only me, and you know your secret is safe.”

Faramir exhaled slowly. “I remember every detail, I…oh, Eru, it’s so embarrassing. I was…intimate with it.” He felt like crying. He was reliving fresh mourning and contending with the humiliation of what he’d done.

“Grief and wine do strange things to the mind,” Legolas smiled gently. “In a way,” he ventured, “it was oddly beautiful to see you with it…him. With him. I can imagine now how you must have been together in private times. I can imagine how lovely you must have been as both brothers and as a couple.”

Faramir returned the smile. He was touched by Legolas’s admission. Without much of a conscious decision his hand lifted and the backs of his fingers brushed against the elf’s smooth ivory cheek.

Legolas felt his breath catch in his throat. Faramir had never touched him that way before. There were friendly gestures, but never a spontaneous, loving contact such as Faramir was affording him now. He wasn’t sure how to react. For all his years he was still young by elf standards, and had never been intimate with another.

“You amaze me, Legolas,” Faramir smiled as he continued to caress his friend. “So full of wisdom. Brave, and true. Understanding. Loving. Compassionate. All the best of your race, in one perfect specimen.”

Legolas looked down shyly. Faramir found the reaction amusing and laughter rumbled in his chest. “You are modest. Like me. It used to drive Boromir to distraction,” he grinned.

Legolas smiled brightly, lifting his gaze to meet Faramir’s. “It is good to hear you laugh again, Faramir.”

Faramir’s fingers moved to run through Legolas’s long hair. “Your hair reminds me of his,” he said thoughtfully. “Soft and straight.”

Legolas took the cue and brought his own hand to Faramir’s head, brushing the wisps of his bangs back. “I have no comparison for yours. At least, not to any person I have known. The color is glorious, like autumn leaves, or the rust of a late-summer sunset. Yet at times it is golden as maize, and at others brown as earth.”

The two fell into a comfortable silence, but Faramir tired. “My head. Am I alright?” he asked quietly, the fatigue feeling unnatural.

“You will be. You hit the ground hard, and your skin was split. The healer stitched it and said the jarring would leave you sleepy and pained for a few days,” Legolas explained.

“And the healer, did she see me…soiled?” Faramir asked, concerned for the image he must have presented.

“No. I took the chance of stripping and cleansing you before I summoned her. You were fresh and clad in your night shirt when she arrived,” Legolas said.

“You are indeed good to me, Legolas Thranduilion,” Faramir praised, very moved.

“You are worthy of goodness, Faramir,” Legolas replied. He stood and said, “You are tired. You should rest.”

“Legolas?” Faramir began.

“Yes?” Legolas answered.

“Will you stay with me?” Faramir asked in a small voice. He had never asked the question of anyone but Boromir, and he felt foolish the moment the words left his mouth. But the desire was genuine, and genuinely innocent. He wanted contact. He wanted someone to hold him and make him feel like everything was going to be fine.

“Stay with you?” Legolas repeated, unsure of Faramir’s meaning.

“When I was ill, Boromir would stay with me…lie beside me, and hold me,” Faramir blushed as he spoke, feeling more ridiculous by the minute.

Legolas’s face lit with understanding. “I see.” He contemplated the request, and then said affably, “I will stay with you, Faramir.” He crossed to the opposite side of the bed and gracefully climbed atop, not daring to slip beneath the covering blanket. He stretched out beside the Steward and tried to determine the best way to hold him. He paused a moment, then followed his heart, letting it govern his movements. He rolled on his side to face Faramir and draped his arm across the man’s chest, tightening his grip.

Faramir sighed contentedly and turned his head to face his friend. “Thank you,” he said simply, closing his eyes and drifting to sleep.

Legolas had no want of rest, so he merely lay there, still as a stone. He was happy to observe Faramir from so near. He looked breathtaking in sleep. And Legolas was pleased to touch Faramir—to feel his warmth beneath his arm, chest rising and falling in soft and steady rhythm.

The elf had no idea where, if anywhere, these new developments between his friend and him were leading them. But he eagerly anticipated the discovery.

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