“Father will be looking for you.” Faramir did not move away from the window with its carved wooden screen. He could see everything that happened in the courtyard below, but not even the sharpest eyes could see him. He had heard the door to his chamber open, footsteps on the stone floor, and the door close. He knew it was his brother — only Boromir would enter his room unannounced; only Boromir’s steps were so familiar to him.
“No, little brother,” the elder son of Denethor said quietly. “He thinks I celebrate our victory with my men.” In the courtyard below the weary warriors of Gondor told each other already inflated stories of their own valor, praised their fallen comrades, and for the first time in a generation, dared to dream of the future.
“Only you call it our victory,” Faramir muttered. The victory should have been shared; Faramir and his small band of Rangers had held the city as long as they could, retreating only when Boromir and his troops had relieved them to drive the evil forces of Mordor from Osgiliath. But by the decree of the Steward, only Boromir was lauded with the victory while his younger brother was stigmatized with the near loss of the important city.
“You must not take his words to heart,” Boromir cautioned his brother. “He did not mean what he said.”
“Yes, he did,” Faramir replied bitterly. “He means every word he says, the harsher the better.” Faramir was accustomed to such treatment from their father; his accomplishments routinely belittled by the Steward; his abilities always found wanting. Long had he dismissed the pain his father’s remarks caused, but they still struck deep, like a sliver of glass that works its way under the skin unseen. He heard his brother’s footsteps crossing the room, and sighed as Boromir embraced him.
Before seeking out his brother, Boromir had removed his armor and was clad only in a heavy linen undershirt and leggings. His hands were rough, the palms calloused, the knuckles scraped raw, but their touch was welcome. “Come to me, brother,” he whispered close to the younger man’s ear. “Your kisses are sweeter than any wine, and you are all I crave after the battle.”
Slowly Faramir turned in the circle of his brother’s arms, sliding his hands between them to rest on the broad chest, his lips immediately captured in a searing kiss. They came together without hesitation, long accustomed to each other’s love. Brothers though they were, they had been lovers since Faramir sprouted the first signs of a beard and felt the first stirrings of passion in his loins. Boromir had come to him gently at first, not wanting to frighten him with a man’s needs, with desires held in check for years. He taught Faramir of pleasure, then of passion, just as he had taught him of the sword and of the bow.
“I will be leaving soon,” Boromir bemoaned when they parted to breathe. “Father insists that I journey to Rivendell. Eru alone knows when I may return.”
“I pray that it will be soon,” Faramir said. “I will miss you every day that you are away.”
“And I shall miss you, little brother.” He planted a kiss on the younger man’s forehead. “Now come with me before I explode right here.” He crushed Faramir to his chest in a fierce embrace. “I fear this may be the final time we will be together — at least for a while.”
“You have had another vision?” Only Faramir knew of the dreams that plagued Boromir; only he gave them credence when Boromir dismissed them as flights of fancy.“Only the same one, yet again,” he answered. “It is just a feeling. Perhaps a she-Elf will put me under her spell,” he teased, “and keep me to herself for eternity.” He pressed another kiss to Faramir’s lips, his tongue pushing into the welcoming cavern of his brother’s mouth.
Faramir’s bed was near at hand, though it was little more than a raised pallet covered with a rough-woven blanket, but the brothers had lain together in much less hospitable spots, sharing their secret passions out of the prying eyes of Denethor’s court and the rumor-mongering tongues of the courtiers. In the space of a few footsteps between the window and the bedside, Faramir pulled the loose shirt from his brother’s body and dropped it to the floor. Before he could attack the lacings on Boromir’s leggings, the cuirass and shirt were stripped from his own shoulders, the shirt sleeves catching in the leather vambraces he still wore.
“Have a care, brother,” Faramir muttered. “Ripping my shirt will not go unnoticed.”
With a heavy sigh Boromir stepped away from the younger man. “You are right,” he admitted. Unceremoniously he sat on the foot of the low bed and pulled his boots from his feet, then stood again and unlaced his breeches. As he pushed them to his hips, Faramir’s hands reached for him, easing the tight leggings over the bulging arousal.
Kneeling before his older brother, Faramir took the erect member deeply into his mouth as soon as it was freed from the garment’s confines. Strong fingers combed into his hair, holding his head. He sucked hard, then pulled back, swirling his tongue around the velvety crown before releasing the throbbing shaft. He rose to his feet, sliding his body along his brother’s until their lips met again.
They fell upon the rude bed, their bodies pressed together from mouth to knee. Their hands roamed over each other’s flanks, sliding to cup rounded buttocks, then between their bodies to bring their erections together. Gentle pressure on one shoulder pushed Faramir to his back, allowing Boromir to journey down his throat and chest, pausing to tongue each rosy nipple to hardness. He found his way along the ticklish ribs, nuzzling and nipping the fair skin.
A ragged scar crossed Faramir’s flank, a souvenir of one particularly nasty troop of orcs. It was not an old scar, the edges still pink next to the white seam, the marks of the surgeon’s stitches still visible. Reverently Boromir kissed the scar, then sighed. “You would never have taken that blow,” he vowed, “had I been there.”
“You cannot protect me all my life,” Faramir answered, threading his fingers in the long hair, darker than his own.
“We are brothers,” Boromir insisted, resting his cheek on Faramir’s hip. “We should fight at each other’s backs if need be. Not,” he went on, “at opposite ends of our lands.”
“Father sends me where he thinks I’ll do the least harm,” the younger brother said, long resigned to their father’s opinion of him.
“This is not the time to be thinking of him,” Boromir chided. “This time is for us and us alone.” With a glance to Faramir’s wan smile, he bent his head to take the weeping erection into his mouth, savoring the familiar, bittersweet taste of his brother’s seed.
Faramir could not suppress the gasp of pleasure as he was engulfed by his brother. The warm moistness of Boromir’s mouth surrounding him, and the play of his talented tongue on the sensitive crown made him thrust his hips off the bed, and Boromir took him even deeper, swallowing the full length of his steel-hard organ.
Slowly Boromir pulled back, sipping away one last drop of pearly fluid before releasing his brother entirely. “Tell me what you want,” he asked, his voice low and husky. His chest heaved with his every breath, and he leaned on one elbow, his head at his brother’s hip.
“You,” Faramir gasped. “As ever, I want you to take me. Make me yours once again.” He turned onto his side and reached under the corner of the mattress for the phial of oil he had hidden there in hopes of his brother’s visit, and pressed it into Boromir’s hand. He pulled his knees up under his body, raising his firm, round buttocks. He knew his brother could not resist this offering, and he grinned when he felt the oil rubbed into his skin, fingers circling his entrance, then pushing deeply inside.
Sparks of light flew behind his eyes, and his breath quickened. One more deep breath relaxed his muscles, and Boromir’s fingers were replaced by the hot, hard head of his brother’s sex.
Boromir entered him slowly, the sweet agony of the intrusion sending waves of blinding pleasure throughout Faramir’s body. They each knew the other’s favorite pleasures, each other’s secret spots and needs. Words weren’t necessary between them, but Faramir, as ever, encouraged his brother’s movements, knowing it heightened the older man’s pleasure as well.
It seemed an eternity before Boromir was fully sheathed in Faramir’s tight, hot channel, and he stretched his body along Faramir’s back, his breath hot on the younger man’s neck. “Mine,” he whispered. “You’re mine.” He caught the edge of Faramir’s ear in his teeth, nipping gently, then held tightly with his hands as a shudder wracked the slender body beneath him. He straightened up, then settled into a rhythm that built in speed and intensity until he was slamming into his brother’s body, each thrust forcing another cry of pleasure from between the clenched teeth.
Faramir tried to muffle his cries, but he had to breathe, he had to move in tandem with Boromir’s thrusts. He nearly shouted when his brother’s oiled hand closed around his still throbbing member, stroking and pulling as they moved together. He could no longer see; he could no longer think, he could only breathe and move between the steel in him and the heat surrounding him.
Once, as a child, Faramir had climbed too high in a fig tree, too timid to climb down by himself. Boromir had stood at the base of the tree, calmly directing his every move. “Now just let go, little brother,” Boromir had said at the end, “I will catch you.” Falling from the tree was much like the fall from the heights of his passion as he released his seed and collapsed, still embraced and impaled by his brother.
He knew his spasms would trigger Boromir’s climax, and after only a few more strong thrusts he felt the hot seed of his brother fill him, and the weight of his body on top of him. They rested together as the soldiers continued to celebrate outside, the sounds of the revelry muted by the screen at the window as well as their height above the courtyard. The brothers held tightly to each other, neither wanting this time to end, both of them knowing it could well be the last time they shared each other’s company.
Boromir threw aside the blanket soiled with Faramir’s seed, and they lay on the mattress ticking still sweat-slicked and flushed. They whispered to each other, reminiscences of their childhoods, their lives together and apart, but not a word of the future. The sun lowered in the west, shining through the wooden screen at the window just before it set. The reticulated light played over them both, leaving bands of shadow across their bodies.
Faramir traced the edge of a shadow across his brother’s body, his fingertips swirling in the sandy hair scattered over the strongly muscled chest. “Did you know,” he asked quietly, “my earliest memory is being held in your arms?”
“Mother made me sit in her rocking chair with pillows under my elbows before she let me hold you,” the elder recalled. “You had been fussing all day, but as soon as I held you, you quieted and smiled.” He tightened his embrace before going on. “Father told me not to coddle you, so you would grow up strong. But holding you felt so good, so right. I vowed then to take care of you forever.”
“You made such a vow when you were only five?”
“I was always too serious. And I think I was six by then.”
They laughed together, the shared memories binding them even more closely.
The night darkened, and they continued to lie together, sharing the small pleasures of their hands and mouths, kissing and caressing as lovers do. All too soon, it seemed to them both, the dawn brightened the sky, and Boromir rose from the bed and gathered his clothes.
“I must go,” he stated simply. He blinked away the threatening tears, and turned back to face his brother one last time. “I shall always love you, little brother. No matter where I go, or what fate awaits me. My heart will always be yours.”
“And mine is yours,” Faramir answered. He sat up and crossed his legs like a tailor. “Brother,” he began, then bent his head to look away.
“Yes?” He ducked his head under his shirt and thrust his arms into the sleeves. “What, Faramir?”
“Let us say our good-byes here,” he suggested. “Lest Father or his cronies see my true feelings.”
Boromir sat on the edge of the bed, his back to his brother. He pulled on his boots, then turned and gathered Faramir into his arms. They kissed once more, clinging to one another. The kiss lingered until they breathed each other’s breath, then Boromir wrenched himself away. He strode to the door without turning back, but stopped with his hand on the latch. “I leave Gondor in your hands, little brother,” he said without turning his head. “I know you will care for what we both love.”
Standing at the wooden screen, Faramir watched as his brother — his lover — rode out from Osgiliath, bound for Rivendell and whatever fate awaited him.