Title: The Purpose of His Labors
Author: Berlynn Wohl  (bobtherobot@hotmail.com)
Rating: R
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir
Summary: An examination of the relationship between Boromir and Faramir at the
two crucial times when they each, respectively, come of age.
Keywords: Romance, drama
Archive: Anywhere, just let me know
Feedback: Of course. bobtherobot @ hotmail.com
Warning!: Incest.
Disclaimer: I have not made any money from Tolkien’s characters, not from my fan
fiction and not from the male-prostitution ring I run in Minas Tirith. *cough*


ONE

Here, where there were no animals grazing or boots trampling, the grass grew
wild and coarse, accompanied by wild flowers and colorful weeds. It was also
accompanied this particular day by two youths, who had not grown out of the
ground but had plopped themselves there, on that summer afternoon, in order that
they might for a little while preserve for themselves the illusion of a peaceful
world. They were laid on their backs; one of them was trying to make sense of
the cloud-shapes while his thigh was used as a head-rest for the other, lying
perpendicular, who was with only minor difficulty translating and reading aloud
from an oversized book of Elvish tales.

“Hurry up and get to the part about the battle,” Boromir said. “You promised me
there would be a great battle.”

“There will be,” said Faramir, turning the page. “You mustn’t interrupt.”

“I think I am being tricked. I think that you’ve been reading me another one of
those tales that goes on and on about an Elf-maiden who was the fairest who ever
lived – and don’t think I haven’t noticed that ALL Elf-maidens are described as
being the fairest who ever lived! – and then the battle at the end comprises
only a tiny fraction of the story.”

Fed up with his brother’s impatience, Faramir shoved the book into Boromir’s
hands and said, “Very well. Why don’t you read it, then? Go on, just skip to the
part about the fighting. Hm?”

Boromir looked at the Elvish script and was humbled. Noblemen of Gondor were
expected to be scholars in Sindarin, but he had been so busy with his study of
battle strategy and his arms practice, he couldn’t be bothered to learn more
than a few words of it. Faramir was years beyond him in the study of Elvish
language and history, but enjoyed reading to him from Sindarin texts, except
when Boromir got bored waiting for the clanging of swords and twanging of
bowstrings to begin.

Boromir ran his fingers over the text briefly, as if to absorb it through the
skin, but did not attempt to pronounce the words, much less understand them. It
amused Faramir too much when he tried and failed. Instead, he shut the book and
looked to the West. “Father wants us home ere the setting of the sun,” he said.

“We have plenty of time yet. Let me have the book, and I’ll read you a tale of
battle, I promise.”

Boromir handed the book back, but then stood up and waited for Faramir to do
likewise. They brushed the flecks of grass and dandelion seeds from their
clothes and took one last deep breath of the thick, warm air, heavy with
pollination. Lolling on the grass, as they had been, they were nearly
indistinguishable from one another, from a distance. Much alike they were in
face, and the difference in their sizes was not exceptional. But when they stood
up, anyone who knew them could tell who was the elder and who was the younger,
and not because of their height. Boromir strode with head held high and chest
puffed out, even on a casual walk such as this. Beside him, Faramir kept his
eyes on the ground, leading himself with his forehead, clutching his book to his
chest. Faramir was, truth be told, more pensive and gloomy than he was known to
be, that day. The reason he was obligated to return to the Citadel had to do
with a feast honoring his brother.

That is not typically a reason to mourn.

When they arrived, the dining hall was already crowded with nobles, Tower
Guards, soldiers, and the members of the Steward’s council. But Denethor spotted
his sons immediately. “Ah, there is my guest of honor!” he said, and when they
approached, Denethor threw open his arms and embraced Boromir. Faramir stood to
one side, his head bowed, and did not sit until his father and brother had
seated themselves.

Imrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth, was seated across from them, and confided to
the Steward, “I must say, I am pleasantly surprised to see you out and about.
Usually when I visit the City, you are locked away in your study. This should
prove to be an exceptional evening.”

“And why shouldn’t it be exceptional?” Denethor spoke much more loudly Imrahil
had. He was trying to bring the crowd’s scattered attention to himself. “It is
the last evening before my firstborn son, the heir of Gondor, leaves his youth
behind and becomes a man!”

Amid the cheers, a captain rose and held up his hand. “Now, now, Boromir isn’t
going on any special errand – he’ll be part of a company of Men facing a few
sorties with marauding bands of Orcs. Boromir is not yet experienced enough to
see real battle. But this errand will be his first excursion, and the beginning
of what can be nothing other than a long and glorious career as a leader of Men.
I am proud to be his commander, and look forward to the day when our places will
be exchanged and I will take orders from him.”

A hum of universal assent filled the hall, but Faramir was being made sick to
his stomach by all this joy and excitement. He leaned over and discreetly asked
his father if he could be excused. When Boromir saw his brother’s abrupt,
unexplained exit, he was confused and upset, but was obligated to stay, himself,
at least until the Men had drunk enough wine that they did not notice his
absence.

He found Faramir in his room, perched on the wide windowsill, his head tilted at
a lazy angle so he could gaze to the South. “Do not sit there pining,” he said
to Faramir. “I have not yet departed. If you must stare out the window like a
heart-broken lass, come to my room, where you may look out upon the Pelennor
Fields. If you look ever to the sea, you will wither away, as Mother did.”

At this, the dull ache in Faramir’s heart was punctuated by a fearsome stab of
loss. He rose and took his brother’s arm. Boromir led them to his spacious
balcony, where they could look down upon the White City and the verdant lands
that lay beyond. They leaned against the railings and faced half North, to avoid
looking upon the gathering shadows of the neighboring realm.

“Do you remember much about Mother?” Faramir asked. His voice was barely heard
above the breeze.

“I have very little memory of her, though I was not much younger than you are
now, when she died. She lived the last years of her life behind a veil of
sadness, which obscured my vision then and does so now, tenfold.”

“But you must remember something about her. Anything.”

“She was beautiful. Or I perceived her so, through a child’s eyes. I remember
seeing her only from afar. I can remember just after you were born...” At this
Boromir paused, and looked upon his brother with wonder, as if it were
ridiculous, to imagine that Faramir had sprung up to this height from the
swaddled bundle that he’d been in Boromir’s earliest memories. “The nurses
fussed over you, for you were smaller and not so hardy as I had been. But Mother
would only rock your cradle with one hand and rest her chin on the other as she
looked out the window. Ah yes, now I remember plainly. Her hair, it was always
done up in three plaits that were looped together. It’s so clear to me, now that
I think of it. With all the time she spent at the window, I saw more of her
elaborately-shaped hair than I ever saw of her face.”

Hearing this, Faramir turned his head, not wanting his brother to see his tears.
But Boromir did not think any less of him. “It is not a shame to weep,” he said,
and pulled Faramir to him. Boromir was so strong now. When he put his arms
around his brother he nearly squeezed the breath out of the poor lad. Faramir
let out a little cry of distress, but then relaxed and sank against Boromir’s
body, resting his head on the broad chest and admiring the calm, stoic slowness
of his brother’s heartbeat. “Do not think,” Boromir continued, “that she did not
love us. Only, her heart was lost in the sea. She did not belong here.”

Faramir clutched at his brother’s shoulders and shuddered, suppressing the urge
to let his weeping become a wail. “Do I belong here?” he gasped. “Will I rest my
arms ever on a stone windowsill, and wonder if the sea will wait for me?”

“Of course you will not,” said Boromir, his hands tracing soothing trails up and
down Faramir’s spine as it seized. “In a few years you will come of age, and you
will ride out with me on many errands, and when the enemy is vanquished we shall
look upon the sea together, and bathe in it, and taste its salt.”

“But that is not my desire either!” Faramir tore himself from his brother’s
embrace and pounded fists on Boromir’s chest with weakened, angry fists. “I am
no warrior! You are everything in the world to me, but I cannot be like you,
even were it the only thing that could please you. I care not for the burdens
that are laid on us by these troubled times!”

Boromir covered Faramir’s mouth with his hand. “Do not speak so, lest you are
heard. I know that your heart and mine follow different paths, but that does not
change the meaning of honor and duty. Were I to have my way, I would stay here
and be a brother to you, and no more, and we would while away the days and years
together and not think of Middle Earth. But my desires are not law. Our father’s
word is.”

Boromir was not willing to admit that he was really too young to go into battle.
He was not yet grown to his full height, even, but he was thrilled about taking
up arms. He did not understand how Faramir could not be so excited as he was,
but it tore him up nonetheless to know he was breaking Faramir’s heart by
leaving.

Faramir closed his eyes, and a final tear fell. “You are wrong about one thing.
Your heart and mine will not follow different paths for long. I will take up
arms one day soon, and defend our people, and even if we are leagues apart I
will imagine that you are at my side, as you have been all my life. Until now.”
He returned to his brother’s embrace, finding that the burdens of honor and
duty, which he had placed upon himself long before anyone else had, were easier
to bear with Boromir’s strength surrounding him.

“I will not be away long,” Boromir said, trying to seem cheerful. “This is a
simple errand, and I will be in little danger, for now.”

“For now. But you will not be home long, when you return. Father knows you
delight in battle, and will take advantage.”

“What will you do while I am away?” Boromir asked. “I know you are too active of
mind to spend all the day at the windowsill.”

Faramir would not answer right away. His youthful endeavors seemed silly now,
weighed down by the gravity of his brother’s imminent departure. “My fencing
lessons begin soon,” he said finally, but Boromir looked into his eyes and
pulled from him his true desire. “What I really would like is to learn to play
an instrument. But Father will not allow a teacher of music to come near me. He
says this is not a time for song.”

Boromir thought Denethor was right, kept his opinion to himself, for once. “What
would you like to play?”

“I don’t know. Something with strings, I think. I am sure my hands are fine
enough for such a delicate art. Do you think so?” He held his hands out to
Boromir, who took each of them in turn and scrutinized them. They were long and
slender, and their pale flesh was nicked by tiny scars in places, from childhood
battles, but were otherwise smooth and delicate, as yet uncalloused by combat
and toil.

“I know nothing about musicianship, but I do know that these are the most
beautiful hands I have ever seen. No sword is deserving of these hands.” Boromir
brought Faramir’s fingers to his lips and kissed them, all the while looking
down into his brother’s eyes. Faramir felt something deep in his belly,
something he’d never felt before, but he thought it was only despair.

“It is late,” Boromir said finally. “I still have much to do before my
departure.”

“Wake me before you leave in the morning,” Faramir begged as he left Boromir’s
room. “Pay no mind to how peacefully I seem to be sleeping. Disturb my slumber
so I may look upon my brother one last time before he sets off to change this
world.”

Boromir nodded as he picked up his sword and set it by the door, with his pack.
“Do not doubt that I will do it,” he said, and smiled.



TWO

After Boromir set off with his company into the grey mists of morning, Faramir
re-entered the gates of Minas Tirith, where he’d said his farewell, and
zig-zagged through the circles of the City at a lightning pace, up to the
balcony of Boromir’s room, from which place he could watch his brother for many
miles as he began his journey South-East. Over the years, that balcony would
become the first place Faramir was sought out when he went missing, so
frequently was he there. At dawn’s first light, in the murky dusk, he watched
Boromir depart, and awaited his return, over and over, even when he had long
gone, even when he was not expected home for weeks. Faramir was in danger of
pining away at a window after all, but not the same one as Finduilas. Guards and
instructors kept him occupied as best they could, at the behest of Denethor, but
sooner or later they would run out of excuses to keep him away from the balcony.
Sometimes Faramir would take his meals there, pausing only a moment to look
respectfully to the West before returning his faithful gaze so that it could
follow Boromir on his travels.

Boromir’s returns were joyous occasions for all, but Faramir grew notorious for
his excitable manner whenever his brother’s homecoming was imminent. Boromir
always had fascinating tales of mysterious dark Men and bright, wise Elves,
tales he himself found mundane, but which he told with enthusiasm, for he knew
what thrills they held for his young brother. Faramir had feared that Boromir
would soon change, grow old and grim from his toil, but even in five years he
could sense no real difference in his brother’s demeanor. This did not mean that
Boromir did not change, only that Faramir did not perceive it. If asked, he’d
say that he himself had not changed, either. But he had; unbeknownst to himself
he was growing up to be just as strong and skilled as Boromir, and a remarkable
judge of the hearts of Men, as well. He did not perceive himself so; he
considered himself weak and unworthy, and his only comfort came when his brother
confided that he, too, was sometimes doubtful and afraid. The desperation of his
labors gave Boromir an audacious valor, as if every blow he struck were from a
corner, but it also filled him with loneliness. He admitted that sometimes, in
the quiet dark, he admired herdsmen and farmers, for though they were subject to
the Steward’s law, they could taste the fruits of their own labor, in the crops
they sowed and the houses they built. Whereas he and his brother would labor
ceaselessly for peace and order, and one or both of them would quite possibly
perish for these causes before ever seeing their efforts come to fruition.

The first time Faramir perceived change in himself, he despised it. Towards the
end of his seventeenth summer, Boromir was expected home again, and for the
first time, he was not sure he wanted to see Boromir return so soon. Or rather,
he did not wish that he should be seen by Boromir. He wished that his brother
would wait until he’d passed out of the awkwardness he’d succumbed to. He’d been
growing taller at an alarming rate. Sometimes his bones ached from it. His
sleeves were too short. He felt like a great clumsy oaf in his growing body.
Always these days he was reaching too far for things and knocking them over, and
tripping over his feet, and on top of everything else, he was starting to smell.
It was something he had dreaded, when he was very young: servants and
black-robed Guards in the Citadel would scoop him up to tousle his hair, and,
brought close, he was overcome by their body odor. Now, he was beginning to
produce the same musk, and he was disgusted with himself for it, bathing as
often as he could to rid himself of it.

But the worst thing was also the strangest: quite often, Faramir would be
getting ready for his archery lesson, or would be re-reading some tale of
Numenorian history, and suddenly he would become aroused. For no reason at all
his member would stiffen. He was at first and above all confused by it, as
unprompted as it was, but after it happened every day for weeks, it became
merely a nuisance. Everywhere he went he had to make certain he carried
something he could hide it with, in case it happened. Sometimes, he wished he
could just take his member out then and there and relieve his need where he
stood, but more usually he was only annoyed by it, and wished to be rid of it
altogether.

In any event, Faramir could not stomach the thought of greeting his brother in
such a strange, mercurial body. He was overwhelmed now by the change in himself.
Would Boromir still love this new person masquerading as his brother?

But the schedule of Boromir’s travels was not set by the blooming of Faramir’s
body. A messenger had been sent ahead, to tell the Steward that his son would
soon return after immeasurable brave service to Gondor. Faramir was so excited
when the messenger arrived, he couldn’t get to sleep that night. He lay in bed
and mused over the irony of it: it was always hardest to get to sleep at the
times when sleep was most important. He wished to be well-rested for his
brother’s arrival the next day, but it looked like that might not be the case.
For one thing, the stirring in his loins had returned yet again. It was no use
resisting the urge now, lying in the dark, bored and restless. He reached down,
squeezed his hard member, and gave himself a little all-over shiver. His mind
began to wander. He did not think about lasses much while he did this, because
he was not overly familiar with them. In the Citadel there were almost no women
to be seen, and Faramir was not often able to wander the rest of Minas Tirith.
His only knowledge of women was what he read in books, and there they were
described only by how fair they were. Faramir had no concrete idea what
constituted “fair” in a lass, though he was sure he would know it when he saw
it. He also had no idea what women looked like beneath their garments, save for
a few of the more immodest works of Elvish art that he’d come across. He had to
assume that women undressed under the same circumstances that men did, but he
could not be entirely sure, as he’d never been present at the time. The guards
were often heard to tell lewd tales of their encounters with women, but Faramir
could not see how these “trollops” and “slatterns” could be reconciled with the
descriptions of Luthien and Nienor.

And so, having no women to think about, as he began stroked himself Faramir
thought at first about nothing at all. Then he thought of the same person he was
always thinking of: Boromir. Where was he, right now? Was he sleeping? Would he
really be home tomorrow? Perhaps he was awake, on watch. What was he thinking
about? Faramir considered his brother’s stern, noble face, the way the moonlight
might shine upon it and bring up it’s finest features. He sighed when he
realized that all he seemed to do these days was think about his absent brother
and relieve his inescapable urges.

Perhaps it was just coincidence, but when he thought of his brother’s large,
rough hands, Faramir was suddenly overcome, and his seed spilled onto his
stomach. He groaned; it did not make him feel very good, not even relieved, for
his brother was still abroad and his member would be a nuisance again in the
morning. He sighed and cleaned himself with the cloth in his washbasin, and
tried again to go to sleep. He was still thinking about Boromir.


THREE

Upon his return, Boromir was greeted at the Gates of Minas Tirith by a great
host of guards, nobles, and peasants, all of them hoping to catch his eye, see
his smile, win his heart. He accepted their clamoring graciously, but when he
saw his brother, all his other attentions fled, and he walked right up to
Faramir, heedless of the fawning maidens and obsequious servants. He dropped his
sword along the way, which was reckless but went unquestioned. He was within
arm’s reach of Faramir before he spoke.

“Hello, stranger,” he said. “Have you seen my brother? He looks remarkably like
you, actually.” He stroked Faramir’s beard, which had just begun to grow in
fully. As his fingers petted the coppery bristles, he continued in a whisper.
“But my brother is a mere lad. You are not so.”

Faramir blushed and averted his eyes, but moved no other muscle in his body.
Boromir seemed miffed at his stillness, and hooked arm round his neck to bring
him close. With his other arm he embraced Faramir tightly, and sighed, as if
their collision had forced the breath from him. And even when he ended the
embrace, it wasn’t ended, really, for he held Faramir close with two strong
hands on his shoulders. “I am always away too long,” he said. “I come back to
find that you are becoming a man.” He smiled and, honoring the request of the
guards, passed through the great gate, to make his return known to the Steward.

Duty called for Faramir as well. He remembered that he had a fencing before the
daymeal. Boromir would no doubt already be with the Steward, reporting all he
had learned in his travels to the South.

****

Faramir was not able to concentrate on his lesson, and cursed himself with each
misstep. His instructor, Belegris, knew that Boromir had returned home but did
not realize the importance of this event to Faramir, and so he assumed that the
troubled mind of the youth could be attributed in full to his new clumsiness.
Belegris was frustrated at his student, but kindly reassured him: “It is
something we all must endure. Even your brother, who is as skilled a swordsman
as ever walked this land, was for a time quite ungainly with a weapon.” Faramir
could hardly imagine that Boromir was ever that young (let alone ungainly). To
him, Boromir was always many years older, and he lamented that no matter how
many summers he had seen, Boromir would always have seen more, and so it was
difficult for Faramir to think of Boromir as ever having been younger than
himself.

Just when Faramir was getting warmed up, just when he’d found his feet, Boromir
stepped through the threshold and into the hall. Faramir heard the footfalls,
turned his head to see who it was, and Belegris accidentally nicked his hand.
Faramir dropped his sword and drew his hand back, turning back to examine his
wound only after taking a moment to gaze at his brother.

“It’s nothing,” he said, grinning bravely. “A scratch.” Blood dripped onto the
smooth stone floor.

Boromir took his brother’s hand in his own, turning it to see the wound. A fine,
thin score over a knuckle. He lifted it to his mouth and licked the blood away
with no hesitation, as if he bore the cut himself. “That’s enough practice for
you tonight,” he said, and began to lead Faramir away.

Belegris was annoyed. “Actually, we’d only just begun!”

Boromir turned back and regarded the instructor coldly. “I am certain that
however much practice Faramir has taken today, it is enough. You are dismissed
for the evening. Faramir, have you eaten?”

“Not since breakfast.”

“Then we shall have a splendid repast while we make up for all the conversations
we’ve not had.”

Faramir looked down at his sweaty shirt. “May I retire to my room first, to
bathe?”

“If you must. Which way is it from here, left or right? I’ve been away so long,
I’ve quite forgotten. You know, Faramir, father spoke of your peculiar habits to
me after I’d brought my tidings. You’ll never make a good ranger if you keep up
your unhealthy obsession with washing.”

“I just – oh, this is my room, here – I just don’t want to offend, is all. I’ve
perspired right through my clothes. I must seem wretched.”

“I hope you don’t mean to imply,” Boromir said, “that I offend you, wearing, as
I am, clothes that have been well traveled in. Perhaps I should retire also to
wash, so that I do not ruin your supper with my unbearable stench.” He laughed
and gave Faramir a slap on the back as he went off in the other direction,
seeking his own room.

Faramir was not sure if he really had offended his brother, but he was
embarrassed in any event, and before he retrieved fresh clothes he paced about
in his room, scolding himself for being rude, even if he hadn’t meant to be.
When he finally wore himself out at this, he sought out his washbasin and
undressed.

His self-flagellating reverie must have been time consuming, for he’d only just
got a clean pair of trousers on when Boromir suddenly appeared, groomed and
grinning. “Forgive me for not knocking,” he said. “I didn’t even expect to find
you here. I thought you’d be in the dining hall by now, but when I went, the
place was completely empty. I wondered where you went instead.” He strode right
up to Faramir, who was still bare-chested, and looked down at him. Faramir had
hair on his chest as well, now, and under his arms, and down his belly. Boromir
reached out with one finger to trace the trail of downy fuzz that ran downwards
from Faramir’s sternum and disappeared under his trousers. Faramir’s stomach
muscles were taut, made more so by nervousness when Boromir’s finger reached his
belt.

“Yes,” Boromir said, “you are indeed a man now.” He took the hand away and bid
his brother to hurry and dress. “I am anxious for a good hot meal,” he said.

Their repast was late, and the dining hall was, as Boromir had said, deserted.
“I am having the cooks prepare one last meal for the evening, just for us,” he
told Faramir. “It should be ready shortly. I’ve been and gone so many times now,
Father no longer sees it fit to arrange great feasts in honor of my return. But
that is just as well, for tonight I wish for nothing more than to enjoy a quiet
meal with my brother. Ah, and here it is now.”

The wise cooks had brought food for more than two people, having served many
times before these, the two greatest appetites in Minas Tirith. Their hunger
impeded the conversation at first, but when they’d about had their fill, Boromir
began to regale Faramir with new tales of his journeys.

“For the first time I came face-to-face with the men of Harad,” he said, “and
what faces they are!” Faramir leaned forward, not wanting to miss a word. “These
Men are strange and evil. They wear cumbersome costumes, even in battle, because
of the ceremonial significance. And they put gold in their ears. They take
spikes and stick them right through the lobe.” Boromir reached out and pinched
his brother’s left earlobe to illustrate. “Then they take gold hoops and push
them through the holes.”

“Doesn’t that hurt?” Faramir asked.

“Oh, the Haradrim pay no heed to pain nor blood. That is why we cannot trust
them. If we allow these barbarians into our realm they will take our women by
force, and murder all our infant children for their rituals.”

“Rituals?”

“Well, I never saw them performing any myself, but the Men in my company assured
me that the Haradrim perform gruesome rituals with children. But fear not, my
brother. One day you will join me in protecting our lands from these savages.”

Faramir looked down and picked at his empty plate with his fork. “I do hope that
one day I will prove myself worthy of fighting at your side, but Father is
disappointed that I do not share your lust for battle. Now that I am nearly of
age, he cannot decide whether to lock me away, lest my lack of skill bring shame
to the Hurin name in the battlefield, or whether he ought to send me far away,
station me in some outlying village or other, just to keep my miserable self out
of his sight. I am a constant reminder to him that he has produced only one
heir, after all, suitable for the throne of Gondor.”

Boromir was taken aback by his brother’s candor, and his insecurity. He could
not believe that their father would not think as highly of Faramir as he himself
did. After all, Denethor was a wise man; surely he could not be blind to
Faramir’s virtues. “Please,” he said, “let us continue somewhere else, where we
will be assured privacy.”

They retired to Faramir’s room. Faramir invited Boromir to seat himself at the
table by the window, but Boromir brushed past him and collapsed on the bed. He
closed his eyes and sighed, caressing the soft quilted covers. “How I look
forward to sleeping in a real bed, this night. Travel has exhausted me.” He took
off his boots and swung his legs up onto the bed as if it were his own. Faramir
pulled a chair up to the side and waited for Boromir to continue the
conversation.

“Mark me carefully, my brother,” Boromir said. “You have nothing to be afraid
of. You are young, but you are learned, and more importantly, your heart is
true. When the time comes, you will make Father proud. You will make all our
people proud. I know that now you are haunted by doubt and fear, but I also know
that one day soon you will master these things, and be a better warrior for it.”

“I wish I could,” Faramir said, as if his brother’s words were a pipe dream. “I
wish to be just like you.”

“Oh, you will never be like me, Faramir. You are as brave as I, but wiser, and
your nature is too gentle. I am by necessity a coarse soldier, but you are noble
as a prince ought to be: noble without sacrificing erudition.”

“Father says now is not the time for sophistication and lore. Now is the time
for strength, and arms.”

“And he is right, But if we sacrifice wisdom, what becomes of our people when
the war is won? We will be left with bloodied swords in our hands and no brains
in our heads. I may fight gallantly, and I will, for as long as there is breath
in me, but when Gondor sees once more a time of peace, you will be more valued
than I.” And, finishing this sentence, as if determined to have the last word,
Boromir fell instantly into slumber.

Faramir pulled the downy blanket over his brother’s body and kissed him on the
forehead. He moved the lamp to the table by the window and found his place in
the book he’d been immersed in for weeks: a treasury of Elvish poetry. Faramir
hoped one day to be able to translate it in its entirety, but for now he was
content to read. He was soothed by his brother’s slow, shallow breaths, and was
soon feeling the pull of sleep himself. He closed the book, put on his
nightshirt, and got into bed next to Boromir. He was asleep even as he laid a
hand on his brother’s shoulder.

****

Boromir was awakened by something in the middle of the night. At first he
thought it was a dream; a beautiful yet faceless apparition, visiting him in
slumber to offer him bodily comfort. But as he drifted towards consciousness, he
gradually realized where he was, and that the warm specter with the coaxing
honey-voice was not a dream at all. It was Faramir. In the night, he had sidled
up to Boromir and flung one arm over him, and now Faramir was rocking gently
against him. Boromir could feel the heat of exposed flesh. His shirt, and
Faramir’s nightshirt, had been pushed up, and now Faramir was rubbing his stiff
member against the soft skin of Boromir’s side. He was murmuring, low nonsense
syllables and whimpers. Boromir did not know what to think of this.

“Faramir,” he whispered, but he got no response. He repeated his brother’s name,
this time with more urgency, but it was certain that Faramir was doing what he
was doing while fast asleep. Boromir decided then that he could not blame his
brother for the deed, and lay still, listening to Faramir’s unintelligible
pleas. Suddenly the rhythm of Faramir’s hips halted, and he climaxed.

Faramir had been having dreams of a vague but very pleasant nature, and when he
awoke he was at first overcome with the sweetest of sensations. Then he felt
warm, but wet and sticky, and he became fully awake, and gasped in horror. He’d
spilled his seed in the middle of the night. Again. But this time his brother
was covered in his essence as well.

“Boromir, wake up!”

“I am awake,” Boromir said lazily. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, my brother, I’ve done something shameful.”

Boromir sat up, and the moonlight streamed through the window and illuminated
the shining fluid on their bodies. “No, you haven’t,” he said. “It is something
that happens to all of us, when we are young.”

Boromir’s calmness only amplified Faramir’s panic. “I’m so sorry! Please forgive
me! Please, please, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re forgiven, you’re forgiven. Come, let’s get you out of that soiled
nightshirt. Lift your arms.” Boromir grasped the hem of Faramir’s nightshirt and
pulled it up over his head. With a dry corner of it he wiped the seed from their
bodies, then he pulled off his own shirt and tossed both garments on the floor.
“We can worry about those in the morning. Come here.” He folded his arms around
Faramir and held him close, with all the empathy and wisdom of one who has
passed through these adolescent trials recently enough to remember them clearly.
“Do not be ashamed. You are a man now, and desire a bed partner. There is
nothing wrong with that. No doubt you were dreaming about some fair lass you’ve
seen about, in the circles of the City?”

“I don’t remember.” Faramir wished he could simply say Yes, but it was too hard
for him to lie to his brother. “It was agreeable, that’s all I remember.” His
speech was slurred, as sleepiness overcame him again, in the wake of his
brother’s comfort. “Mithrandir told me that sleep brings me the gift of
prophecy, but I suppose I have failed him tonight, in a rather spectacular
fashion.”

“The Grey Pilgrim has visited you?” Boromir said warily. But Faramir was already
asleep.



FOUR

Faramir rolled out of bed almost as soon as he awoke in the morning, anxious to
empty his bladder. It was not until he returned to bed that he saw the other
person occupying it. In the instant before he remembered who it was, he jumped
in fright. But when the memory of the previous night returned to him he climbed
over to where Boromir lay, and gently teased the stray hairs away from his face.
Boromir woke instantly and grabbed Faramir’s wrist, threatening to break it.
Faramir choked on the “Good morning” he was about to utter, and Boromir’s eyes
went wide when he realized who he’d retaliated against. “It’s just you,” he
said, and laughed.

“You thought I was an Orc,” Faramir said.

Boromir rolled over sleepily and stretched. “Today will be a good day,” he said.
“You can accompany me when I go to discuss the strategies of our next campaign
against the Haradrim.”

“Alas, I cannot,” said Faramir. “Father has requested that I join him when he
takes counsel during the noon meal.” Faramir had been vexed when Denethor asked
this of him. Could it not wait until Boromir had departed? But Denethor did not
do this without reason; he wanted to formally confirm Faramir’s first hunting
trip, which would precede his imminent military initiation.

Boromir and Faramir lay in each other’s arms in bed for as long as they could,
and spoke little. But they could not risk tardiness; someone would come looking
for one or both of them. Faramir’s arrival at the council was prompt, and the
discussion tense but brief. He thought he might have a chance to join the
strategy meeting after all.
But, as was usually the case with Denethor, the conversation soon turned to the
Steward’s favorite son, and he kept Faramir and his advisors round for a while
longer, to discuss him.

“There is not time now,” Denethor said, “but when Boromir returns again, we
shall see about finding him a wife.”

The council sounded their assent, but at the mention of a wife for his brother,
even the abstract concept of one, Faramir’s heart was moved by jealousy. He
thought Boromir far too young to be marrying. Denethor himself had lived nigh on
a half-century before taking a wife. Faramir suspected his father’s plans for
Boromir were politically motivated, but said nothing. Denethor went on:

“Our allies are fewer than they were, and so there are fewer maids of noble
blood to be found. That is the trouble. The King of Rohan has no daughter. He
has a niece, but Boromir will grow old waiting for her to reach a marriageable
age. He should not wait, as I did. There is no point to it. A man’s labors seem
more worthwhile to him if he has the love of a good woman waiting for him at
home.”

Faramir knew that Boromir’s labors were already worthwhile to him, and he did
not believe that a wife would make his brother a better soldier. But all he said
was, “Boromir has no time for women.”

“He doesn’t need to spend but a quarter of an hour with her, so that Gondor may
have an heir!” Denethor snapped, and Faramir was certain then that his
suspicions were not unfounded. He kept this to himself. It seemed whenever he
let his opinion be known, it only earned his father’s vexation.

****

Considering the late hour, Faramir was surprised when there came a knock at his
door. “Come in?” he said. Before he saw the face of the visitor, he recognized
the silhouette: it was Boromir.

“Ah, good, you are still up,” Boromir said. “I was hoping I would not disturb
your sleep.”

“My sleep is ever disturbed. Why have you come into my room at such an hour, in
your nightclothes? Has something happened?”

Boromir looked upon the book Faramir had in his lap. It was enormous; its pages
thick and crowded with tiny script. “Always with you it is books, texts, and
scrolls. You’ll never make it into history books if you spend all your time
reading them.”

“Let me enjoy my books while I can. Why are you here?”

“I did not travel seven hundred miles under sun and stars with only my own heart
for company so that I could return home and spend all my time in a lonely,
cavernous bedchamber.”

“You will not seek out some fair lass to keep you company?”

“What, a fair lass who will allow me to possess her for one night and think that
I belong to her for all our days remaining? A wailing, sleeve-yanking woman who
will never enjoy my presence because she is too occupied with voicing her
grievances about my absence? No, the price a woman asks for warming your bed is
too dear. Are you not going to invite me to sit?”

Faramir’s face flushed. Here his brother had been talking all this time and he’d
been so rude. He offered the empty half of his bed to Boromir, who gladly
accepted the offer. “You are troubled,” Boromir said. “You do not desire my
company?”

“Your company honors me. It’s just...Father says you are going to be married.”

“What, tomorrow?”

“No. Some time in the future.”

“So, why are you worried about it now? Father asks so much of us; and he always
wants it to happen this instant. He’s just going to have to wait.”

“I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear that.”

“You’re glad to hear that I will not marry?”

Faramir could not hold back. He blurted everything to Boromir that he could not
say to his father. “I do not want you to marry. You are my brother, and I do not
want to share you with some strange woman.” He paused, and tried to correct
himself. “I suppose it is wrong of me to say that. I am acting like you belong
to me. I am not even able to give you the things that women give in return for
their possessiveness.”

But Boromir was not offended. “It’s not like that at all. I am indeed your
brother, and I promise that no woman will ever come between us.”

Boromir opened his arms, and Faramir fell into them, not even realizing how much
he’d been anticipating a good strong reassuring embrace from those arms. Boromir
rested his chin on top of Faramir’s head and sighed heavily. His warm breath
went straight down the back of Faramir’s neck, raising the tiny hairs there.
Everything was so warm and comfortable, and Faramir squeezed his brother more
tightly, until he felt the all-too-familiar tingling in his loins, and he pulled
away from Boromir just as his hard member was nudging Boromir’s thigh.

“Oh, I must seem like some terrible beast,” Faramir lamented. “How can I
apologize to you? It’s just that I’m unable to control what it does, these
days.”

“Perhaps I should be flattered,” Boromir said, “that you cannot control your
excitement in my presence.”

“I know you have suffered these same ordeals. How long before it will start to
settle down?”

“Well, it depends on the Man, on his strength of will. It could take a year, or
two, or forty. Here, let me help you.”
He swept the covers up from the bed and crawled under them so he could be yet
closer to his brother. Faramir was confused, but Boromir acted so naturally, it
was difficult for him not to follow along. He closed his book and set it aside.
Boromir drew closer and put an arm around him. “Last night you were shamed by
the untimely expression of your body’s desire. Needlessly shamed, but you were,
nonetheless. I want to save you from that shame tonight. If you like, I will
give you a release, so you will be spent, and may sleep more soundly.” He
reached for the hem of Faramir’s nightshirt.

“Then you would bring a different kind of shame to me,” Faramir said, and pushed
Boromir’s hand away. But his words were leaden, and did not echo in Boromir’s
ears, for they lacked the ring of truth that was Faramir’s virtue. And anyway,
Boromir did not like being told No. He ignored his brother’s refusing hand, and
went again to his nightshirt, meeting no resistance this time.

Faramir shivered when his flesh was bared, but not from cold. Boromir ran his
hands lovingly over what flesh he’d exposed, first caressing Faramir’s thighs,
then his member, once it had stiffened again and demanded his attention. He slid
down and settled in beside Faramir, one arm still around his shoulders.

“Why are you so nervous about your own body?”

“It is so new to me, is all.”

Boromir smiled. “Well, it is new to me, too, so we will explore it together.”

With a shaking hand Faramir reached out and grasped his brother’s chin, tilting
it so they were looking straight into each other’s eyes. Then he dropped both
hands to the hem of his nightshirt and pulled it up to his ribcage, showing his
brother more of his newly matured body. When Boromir could bear the intensity of
Faramir’s eyes no longer, his gaze slid down and he nodded approvingly at what
he saw. He tickled the sensitive skin over Faramir’s hipbones, and stroked his
member with a regular rhythm. Faramir let his head loll to one side, and his
thighs parted. Boromir caressed their smooth inner flesh.

Boromir’s grip was so merciless, his hand so rough, Faramir was overwhelmed.
When he handled himself it was with lazy distractedness, but his brother had no
gentleness for him. Faramir’s hands clutched at his bunched-up nightshirt as he
struggled to reconcile his constant but minor need with the sudden, intense
pleasure he was receiving. He sort of tickled all over, like his whole body
wanted to be touched, not just his member. He squirmed; his nagging desire for
temporary relief had turned into a deep sexual hunger. His hips rocked back and
forth, far beyond his control. He felt like his body was getting ready for
something, and he was afraid of it. But Boromir nuzzled his ear and encouraged
him sweetly. Though usually quiet at the height of his pleasure, Faramir warned
Boromir of his impending orgasm with a series of pathetic whimpers mixed with
deep breathless grunts. When he climaxed, he threw his arms around his brother’s
neck, clutching at him and crying out into his shoulder while he spilled his
seed. “Oh,” he breathed finally into his brother’s ear. “Oh.”

Somehow, even when the rest of his body had relaxed, he was able to maintain his
death-grip on his brother. But after a moment of flawless quiet stillness,
Boromir pulled away so he could sit up, and Faramir’s arms went limp and he
slumped against his pile of pillows. “Oh,” he said again, and then was silent.
Boromir pulled the nightshirt off of him once again, and used it to wipe away
the copious fluid Faramir had spilled.

“I have to bathe,” Faramir whispered. “I’ll stink if I don’t wash the sweat
off.” But when he turned his head to look at his washbasin, it seemed half a
world away, much too far to travel, and he relented. Faramir beckoned his
brother to come near, so his whisper could be heard.

“I feel so tired. I feel like, I could never move again, but if I died here,
now, I would be happy to.”

“You’ve never felt that way before?”

Faramir shook his head.

Boromir laughed. “Why, my brother, That is called being satisfied.”



FIVE

It was a tense day for the City, as news had quickly spread that both sons of
the Steward would be setting out today, although admittedly Faramir would be
gone only for they day. There were always nerves in the atmosphere; in these
perilous times the citizens of Minas Tirith did not know if they were looking
upon their princes for the last time. The crowd stood at the gates, with Boromir
and Faramir at its open center. Women wept, Men offered blessings, children
patted the horses. Boromir embraced his brother tightly, and the onlookers
smiled at their brotherly affection, unaware of what they were whispering to
each other.

“How dare you,” Faramir said. “You show me the meaning of gratification, and
then abandon me here with only the memory of it.”

Boromir discreetly pressed his lips to Faramir’s ear and replied, “If you still
desire it, when I return I will show you much more.” He gave his brother a firm
pat on the back and then released him. “I knew that you would soon be departing,
yourself, and I learned something, just so I could tell it to you today. Boromir
mounted his horse and made as if to leave, but at the last second turned around
and called, “Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya!” And he
was gone.

Faramir could not go to his brother’s balcony to watch his departure, this time.
His own horse was brought to him, and Denethor rode up with a servant named
Andil. “Are you ready, Faramir?” he asked.

Faramir nodded and got on his horse. He took a last look at the faces of the
crowd, all bright with wonder and anxious with fear. Boromir rode South. Faramir
rode West.

The ride out was mostly silent. Faramir and his father had so little to say to
one another. But when the riders reached the top of a hill and spied a patch of
wood and brush, Denethor spoke.

“We are not going to hunt deer or pheasant today,” he said. “I chose an animal
that will more efficiently put your skills as a ranger to the test. What do you
know about wild boars?”

Faramir took a moment to think, sorting, out of the comprehensive knowledge of
wild game he’d gleaned from books, the facts most pertinent to this challenge.
“Boars are more elusive than deer,” he said. “They have no home territory, so
unlike a deer, if you scare one it may never return. In fact,” Faramir made a
spontaneous deduction, “hunting a wild boar would be not so much hunting as
waiting. You find a spot where they’re known to gather, and hide until one comes
out, rather than try to flush them out.”

“Well, you make it seem more trivial than it is, but you are not wrong.”
Denethor halted his horse, and though Faramir was riding a little ahead, he
sensed it immediately, and did likewise. “Look at the ground,” Denethor said.
“What do you see?”

Faramir dismounted and crouched to examine the marks on the ground. “Boars root
here, but these marks are intermittent, and not fresh.”

“How many days?” Denethor asked.

Faramir wasn’t that good yet, but he guessed. “Four?”

“I’m asking you.”

“Four.”

“Three,” said Denethor. Faramir was not sure if his father was just being
contrary, or if, despite his relative distance from the ground, he could tell
that Faramir had indeed missed his guess. Denethor and Andil remained on their
steeds, but Faramir walked, his head bent down, leading his horse as he followed
the boar-tracks to where the rooting was fresher and more frequent. He found
himself at the edge of a wide, muddy plot with an oversized puddle on the far
side where the boars would wallow.

“This is it,” he said, and did his thinking out loud. “We should go now and find
a place a ways off to wait, so that we do not disturb this area further with our
tracks or scent.” He got back on his horse and led the other two men to a patch
of scrub at the edge of the wood. They settled in; Denethor and Andil were
prepared to wait all day, but Faramir, who had less hunting experience, was
sorely disappointed that a boar had not come by after the first ten minutes. He
was impatient to return home; even if Boromir was no longer there, he at least
had the epic of Akallabeth to finish. Out here by the rooting pasture there was
nothing to do. Denethor had not even allowed food to be brought. Men were better
hunters when they were hungry.

Faramir laid his bow in his lap and looked at his hands. He rubbed them
together; they were a little calloused but were not yet properly rough, like his
brother’s. He started to think about Boromir’s rough hands again, the way they
felt on his body. When they were little, Boromir was very bossy, and would give
Faramir a good shove if he didn’t like the way his little brother was acting.
Faramir imagined Boromir doing that now: placing two coarse palms flat on his
chest and giving him a good hard push backwards, into a chair, or onto a bed,
perhaps. Then those hands would be free to roam. Though there were some expanses
of flesh on Faramir’s body wide enough for those open palms and outstretched
fingers, there were other places where Boromir’s hands would cup him, or curl
around him, and Faramir thought about that, as well. Soon, he was lost in his
dreams, nodding off in the summer’s afternoon shade. The sound of the wind
gently rustling the leaves was in his ears, and thoughts of his brother behind
his eyes.

It was only when Denethor shifted beside him that he became alert again, and
caught sight of the boar that had showed up. He hoped that neither his father
nor Andil had noticed how near slumber he’d been. He watched the boar for a
moment, and it was joined by a second, then a third, who was much smaller.
Denethor tapped Faramir on the arm to get his attention, and gave a nod to the
right, where the smallest boar was rooting. Faramir nodded, but he wondered if
his father would be more impressed if he took out the big one. There was only
one way to find out. He notched an arrow and aimed for the one on the left. His
hands shook at the moment of truth, but his first arrow was a direct hit, and
the largest of the boars collapsed in the mud while the other two fled.

“That was a superb shot, my son,” Denethor said gravely, and Faramir almost
smiled at his approval. “You are, as I have been informed, a formidable archer.
And your ambition shows through, for you have gone beyond my humble request and
shot the mightiest of the three boars. I have only one grievance: that the boar
you shot is too big to carry home!” Denethor no longer bothered to control his
voice in the interest of stealth. “Even if one of our horses could carry that
enormous beast, how could we sling it over the steed’s back?”

Faramir was mortified that his attempt to impress his father had gone so
terribly awry. But after a moment of consideration, he decided that this might
be another test question, and he said, “We could drag it.”

“Drag? Rangers do not drag their kills!” Denethor stood up and went for his
horse. He set off without looking back to see if the other two Men were ready.
Faramir fought back tears.

“Do not trouble about it,” Andil said to him, with an eye on the felled,
abandoned boar. “Even if we had a horse strong enough to carry that boar to the
gates of the City, My Lord would have delved for some other reason to disapprove
of your deeds. I will tell you a secret: I accompanied My Lord the first time he
took your brother hunting. Boromir wasted ten arrows and returned empty-handed.
Your father’s words are harsh, but you have no reason to doubt your skill. You
are as great a Man as your brother. If there is any quality of his that you
lack, it is the propensity to rush headlong into battle without thought of
consequence. That is no quality to have, no matter who asks it of you.”

Andil and Faramir mounted their horses and followed Denethor. Faramir rode right
up alongside his father, but said nothing. He watched the White Tower grow in
his vision as they approached it. A sparrow sang. Faramir listened, then
mimicked the bird’s song. Denethor turned to look at him, as if expecting to see
a sparrow sitting on his shoulder.

“Did you do that?” Denethor asked. “That was uncanny.”

“I’ve been practicing,” Faramir replied, and proceeded to imitate the calls of
jays and larks. This amused Denethor, whose mood was lightened immediately. He
laughed merrily and nodded at each call. It had been a long time since Faramir
had heard his father laugh. He was so thrilled, his judgment faltered, and he
could not resist taking the opportunity to request something of his father,
while he was in a good humor.

“I want to accompany Boromir on his next excursion, whatever or wherever it may
be.”

Denethor stopped laughing. He said nothing at first, and Faramir assumed that
his silence was his refusal to answer such an obvious question. It was unwise to
send both of Gondor’s heirs on the same dangerous mission. Denethor could not
risk losing both his sons and receiving in return the last days of the House of
Hurin. But what he said at last was: “You are not yet skilled enough. Only the
finest of Gondor’s soldiers accompany Boromir now, and you are nowhere near that
caliber.”

“But I am not going to become a soldier. I am going to become a ranger.”

“All the more reason you should not go with Boromir. His place is in the open
fields of battle, with the sun shining on his armor and the wind whistling
across his standard. You will spend your days in the shadows, and your deeds
will go unrecognized, for you will have executed them in stealth.”

Faramir’s eyes narrowed. “So I shall be like Thorongil.”

Denethor dropped his reins in shock and sputtered, “Do not say that name in my
presence! That Man is a shadow who crept into our past, ere you were born, even.
But that is all he is. He shall not return.”

“Mithrandir says that Thorongil will enter the White Tower again someday, and he
will do so proudly.”

“My son, are you mad? Or do you deliberately and of clear mind seek to disturb
me with talk of these wicked apparitions? It pains me to think of that wizard
filling your head with his ideas. It would be bad enough if you only listened to
him because you are a foolish lad who knows no better. But if you are of
independent mind, and still you choose to believe that wizard’s cryptic
nonsense, then Gondor has no use for you.”

“It seems that Gondor will never have a use for me, if you will never allow me
to accompany Men into battle, let alone lead them!”

“It is not wise for you to walk abroad, not yet. You are a lad, and cannot wield
a blade against the foes you would encounter. But do not pretend you are some
helpless bird in a cage, even if you can make a noise like one. You are allowed
to walk in the circles of the City, are you not?”

Faramir held his tongue this time. But what good did it do him to stroll in
Minas Tirith? No one spoke to him. He was too high above them, or so they
believed. He was well-liked, and the City would fall at his feet if he asked it
of them, because he was the son of the Steward. But that was not his wish, and
it never would be. All he wanted was what they were unwilling to give him: A
simple conversation, companionship. How silly, it seemed to him as he thought on
it, that he would gladly befriend the lowliest shepherd, but the shepherd would
not deign to befriend him! All he had in this world was Boromir, and he was sent
away as often as Denethor could find an excuse.

“Let me be with my brother,” Faramir asked once more. “If for no other reason
than that I may learn to be like him, and perhaps as a consequence win your
elusive approval.”

“I forbid it,” said Denethor, and Faramir, angry but obedient, finally accepted
this defeat. Orcs, the Haradrim, these he was sure he could stand against, but
the will of his father was impenetrable.

They rode at the edge of a dark vale, and Faramir gazed down into it. “If that
is your will, then I shall indeed walk in the shadows,” he said. “But not the
ones you speak of.”