Denethor quietly opened the door to his second son's room. Though it was past midnight, he did not hesitate to use the jangling keys at his belt to gain access to Faramir's room. Nor did he believe Faramir would be surprised to see him.
The room was different, when he stepped in. At first he noticed the open window, and thought that was all that was affecting him. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he perceived that not one but two figures lay asleep in Faramir's bed. He could see Faramir's angelic face and slight build on the side of the bed he was nearest to; the other was an undistinguishable hulk, buried deep in the covers.
Anger reached out an icy fist and closed it tight around Denethor's heart. How dare he. How dare he take a lover into his bed. This was beyond impertinence. Faramir should have expected him. This was a slap in his face, a blow to his pride, and it was deliberate. Even if Faramir was uncouth enough to entertain other lovers behind Denethor's back, he should have been smart enough to send whomever it was away, not to let them fall asleep in his bed.
Denethor stepped closer. He had no wish to identify the other, only to awaken Faramir. Faramir would tell him, in due time.
Faramir had always been a light sleeper. Often he would jar awake at the noise of Denethor's entering his rooms and would be sitting, knees tucked up to chest, eyes wide open and completely awake, when Denethor came to him. Apparently, Faramir's exertions with this other had exhausted him past that point tonight. Denethor frowned, and stepped forward, slowly.
Faramir awakened on the third step. He lifted his head off the bed, an automatic reflex to perceived noise, and saw Denethor. His whole body went tense instantly. There was a strained moment in which they locked eyes. Denethor was certain his were blazing fury; he could not read the look in Faramir's. The years had taught his second son to be less and less expressive, until he wandered around with a dead look on his face much of the time, unreadable to all save Denethor, and even sometimes to him.
Faramir glanced at the sleeping figure next to him, then carefully sat upright. Denethor realized he was clothed, in a modest cream nightshirt. His posture was tense and his eyes never left Denethor's. He knew he had transgressed.
Denethor grated out a single word, in a coarse whisper. "Come."
Faramir glanced once more at the figure still asleep in his bed, and Denethor saw him make the decision to try to obey his command without waking the other sleeper. But when he curled his legs up under him, the mattress moved, and then the other figure shifted. Faramir sat still, that unreadable look on his face, as the man behind him sat, shook his hair out of his eyes, and saw Denethor.
They were a study in contrasts. Faramir had dark hair, brown that was made black by the absolute paleness of his skin. His bones jutted out at the joints and there was an indefinable look of sadness about him. His skin was made to appear even more white by the deeply bronzed skin of the man now sitting behind him, putting a hand on his waist, looking at Denethor over Faramir's shoulder. The man behind him was like a sun-kissed shadow of Faramir's moonlight appeal. He was naked from the waist up, and possessed rippling muscles where Faramir had none. His hair, naturally brown, was bleached coarse and blond by the sun. His eyes, where Faramir's were banked embers, were smoldering.
How, Denethor thought quietly in some corner of his mind. How can two children, from the same mother and father, become so different.
Boromir spoke. "You absolute bastard."
Faramir's expression did not change, but Denethor's did. Betrayal and danger came in those three words: betrayal, from Faramir, and danger, from Boromir. Denethor had underestimated his second son. He had told the one person who was safe from Denethor's wrath; the one person whom Denethor could never carry out the threats he had made all those years ago, threats that had kept Faramir silent.
Until now.
"I don't want to hear a word from you," Boromir said. "Not one word of defense. There is nothing you can say; there is no defense for what you have done."
Denethor knew this was true, and so he did not speak. He had known in his gut, the second he saw Boromir rise up behind Faramir, that it was over.
Faramir was silent. His eyes never left Denethor, but he did not attempt to make any excuse. Denethor would never know how Faramir had finally cracked; whether he had gone weeping to Boromir or whether Boromir, noticing changes in his younger brother, had pried the information out of him. It didn't matter. It was over.
Boromir's expression would have sent an army of Haradrim running in the other direction. "I trusted you," he whispered in a bitter oath. "I trusted you to take care of him. I left him here with you, even when I saw how he was withering I didn't take him away. How could I have been so blind."
Denethor felt as though he should say something, but Boromir had been right. There was no word of defense he could give, none that Boromir would accept. So he remained silent, unable to look his elder son in the eye.
Boromir looked on him with loathing. "If you were any other man," he said. "Any other man, I would kill you. And do not think for an instant, Denethor, that it is the ties of blood that are holding me back. It is your position. The murder of the Steward would cause upheaval in Gondor, no matter how richly that Steward may deserve it. But this ends here, tonight. You will never touch him again. Tomorrow I am taking Faramir away with me, and it will be up to you to explain our departure. I am taking him somewhere where he can heal from what you've done to him, and someplace you can't reach him."
Boromir had it all figured out. He could not have learned any earlier than this afternoon, and yet he already had a plan, had already altered his life for Faramir. "This is the last thing I have to say to you, Denethor," Boromir said gravely from behind Faramir. "If you ever touch him again--if you frighten him, threaten him, do anything to cause him harm. You could be the King of Gondor and Arnor and all the Western Lands, you could be an Elf King of old, you could be Iluvatar himself. I do not care. If you so much as lay one finger on his head, I will kill you for it."
Denethor met his first son's eyes then, only briefly, because the anger there was terrifying. He could see that Boromir spoke the truth, not an idle threat, and that was all that mattered. He looked at Faramir one more time, and he knew that Faramir, too, knew it was over. A wealth of emotion passed between them--a wealth and a world of pain that was just the two of them, that no one else would ever understand. Then Denethor turned sharply on his heel, his fur robe spinning out behind him, and left the room.
It was like a thundercloud had passed from overhead, taking the threat of lightening elsewhere and leaving the air clear. In the suddenly overwhelming quiet, the brothers could hear each other's light breathing. After a tense moment, Faramir all but deflated. He cautiously lay back down on the bed again, staring up at the ceiling. Boromir leaned over him; Faramir would not meet his eyes. Boromir lay down beside him.
Then, quite suddenly, Faramir flung back the covers and stumbled towards his waste bin. Boromir caught up with him in time to hold his brother's hair back from his face while Faramir, literally sick with tension, threw up into the bin. When Faramir was done he slumped over the bin, exhausted. Boromir left him to get a damp cloth and a glass of water, then returned. He wiped the sweat off Faramir's face and helped him to rinse his mouth out. Then he set the bin and the cloth aside and attempted to lead Faramir back to the bed. Faramir was listless, unable or unwilling to move under his own power, so Boromir nudged his younger brother's arms around his neck and carried him gently back to the bed. Faramir allowed Boromir to place him onto the bed and tuck him in like a little child, straightening out the messy covers and pulling them up to his shoulders. But when Boromir smoothed his hair and then made as if to lie on the floor next to the bed, Faramir made a small noise of protest and grabbed his hand tightly. "What?" Boromir asked.
"Stay here," Faramir pleaded.
Boromir had had no intentions of leaving the room, but he knew what Faramir meant. He got back onto the bed, lying down behind Faramir again so he could wrap one arm lightly, reassuringly, around his little brother's waist. Faramir lay still for a moment.; then he turned around and pressed his face against Boromir's chest, putting skinny arms around his brother. Boromir tucked Faramir's head under his chin and rubbed his back soothingly, until he could feel the younger man drift off into dreams. Boromir lay awake all night, holding Faramir and thinking of where he would take his brother when the morning came.
