Title: The Shield
By: HF hfox @ ontheqt.org
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir
Rating: R/NC-17
Warning: rather graphic slash of questionable merit, incest, with side order of angst.
Summary: [spoilers for TT extended edition; admixture of book and movieverse] The defense of Gondor passes on.
Disclaimers: All the beautiful, slashable, dirty Gondor!Men belong to Tolkien.
Noteses: I don't quite believe that I've actually written a B/F fic (or F/B fic, whatever), so I'm still in shock. At any rate, feedback and such is always loved, for 'tis the food of the gods and of graduate students who do this sort of thing for free when they should be doing something else.

The Shield

The only sound now was that of the watch changing on the ramparts. In early evening the euphoria and celebration had spent itself and vanished in the haze of exhaustion and the dread, clinging fear that still hung over Osgiliath. Above the city's broken domes, the light from the dying, westering sun still strove against the black gloom of the East and there were no stars. Below, in the streets, the occasional soldier moved between empty buildings but otherwise all was still.

Boromir turned from the window, satisfied that the watch had taken up its proper place. He knew, with a soldier's knowledge, no attack would come this night. No, no, Mordor would wait to strike -- not long, he thought, but long enough that the Men of Gondor might twist in fear under the shadow of that black and mighty hand.

And he would not be there when it fell. Bitterness wound sharp tendrils about his heart at that. He would not be standing beside his comrades in that last assault, the day the world of Men would topple, the day the tides of Mordor would crash against and overwhelm his city, his land. He would not be with his brother in that final struggle, and that thought was as the bite of a sword.

With each passing moment the room darkened. A boy entered, carrying tinder and flint, to light the torches in the sconces along the wall. Boromir stood by the window. The strike of flint and the first snap as the flame caught were both loud in the silence. Quickly the boy moved about the room, eyes fixed with painful resolution on his task, and in a matter of moments the light had driven darkness away, for however short a time.

He muttered some word or two of thanks. The boy stared at him a moment, flushed, and then darted out the door.

"You should not do that," Faramir said from the doorway.

Boromir grinned. "I only said thank you."

"He could be forgiven, for thinking you look a terrifying warrior from the South. Have you taken off your armor since the assault began?" Faramir stepped inside, moving with the swift soundlessness of the Ithilien Rangers, and shut the door behind him. He inspected the room closely, with a wariness of which Boromir was both sad and proud -- proud because his brother had made such a soldier and a survivor, and sad because he knew Faramir, at his heart, was neither of those things. "Well?" Faramir asked, looking up, and Boromir realized suddenly that the question had not been idle. "Have you?"

"I have not," he admitted ruefully. "Only my helm, as you see." He gestured to the helmet on the windowsill. It glittered gold in the light of the flames and silver in the newborn moon, but for a moment it seemed to Boromir as though it were a richly ornamented skull.

"You never wear your helm," Faramir said, "and I should begin to think you a dwarf, if you take to wearing your armor any more than you do. Where is Anborn?"

"Seeing to the garrison on the eastern bank." Boromir watched Faramir survey the room, with its rough bed and desk already littered with maps and diagrams. The only touch of comfort was a flask of wine and two glasses, captain's prerogative, but Faramir seemed satisfied with all of this. Too, he seemed strange, restless and prowling, and there was a shadowed look to his face that did not belong there.

"I will help you, then," Faramir said. "May I have your cloak?"

Absently, Boromir unhooked the clasps. The black cloak was heavy in his hands; there were glossy patches, still damp, where the blood of enemies had run. A tear ran near the lower hem where he had caught it on masonry. Faramir took it and folded it neatly atop the bed, and as if in a dream, Boromir watched him.

He did not count himself among the most perceptive of men, but he knew that something festered beneath Faramir's silent and practiced movements. And he knew what it was, the old infection that had poisoned his family for so many years -- but there were things even Boromir feared, and one of those things was to speak of what had happened and was happening between what family remained to them. It was a lance in the wound, and pain too much dreaded.

But when will I see him again? His traveling clothes were on a chair by the desk, a silent and potent reminder. Doubtless Faramir had seen them, too.

Faramir was unbuckling the spauldings, and his fingers brushed against Boromir's neck, barely perceptible through the curtain of hair. Boromir fought back a shiver at the touch, and the promise it carried. Then the vambraces and gauntlets were off, and set aside, and all this was done in silence.

"You must not listen to Father," he murmured, when Faramir bent close to loosen the cuirass.

"I know I must not," Faramir replied, looking up at him. Under the shelf of golden hair his eyes were dark and unreadable. "But I do listen, and my heart takes heed. Too much, maybe, but there is little I can do to stop that."

"More men should tell of your valor," Boromir persisted, "and Father should hear them. Who was the man who rallied the men across the bridge, and chased the enemy back into the eastern woods? There would not have been a chance of our victory here if you had not kept watch in Ithilien." Faramir was intent on the armor now. "You must know that, that we could not have won without you - the men know that," Boromir insisted. "Will you not hear me?"

"I do hear you... and your praise is what sustains me -- I value it more than I can say." The cuirass had been set down, propped against the wall, and Faramir now knelt before him to unbuckle the greaves. His forehead rested on Boromir's knee. "That I am worthy of esteem in your eyes...that means much to me, as your brother and as a soldier."

"That is why I fear..." Boromir shook his head, and struggled to find the words. He had not his father's gift to choose words to wound cruelly -- he managed to do that, he found, through his own clumsiness -- or Faramir's, to comfort.

Faramir looked up and met his eyes squarely, and Boromir could see the pain in them, and the resolution as Faramir said, "Let us not speak of it now." And as quickly as that the rough dressing was laid over the wound. Faramir pushed the greaves aside with a rasp of metal over stone and, without looking away, stood up.

"There is a small space granted to us tonight," he said hesitantly. "Would you share it with me?"

Boromir smiled, faint but yet with a trace of mirth, and took Faramir's face in his hands.

"You have never needed to ask that," he answered, and drew Faramir to him.

Part of him protested the carelessness, the danger, but it had been long... and it would be longer still, before - if - they ever saw each other again. And when we meet again, who can say where and when it will be - this world, or the one that waits? It was a soldier's fatalism, but it banished hesitation, that and the hot, fervent press of Faramir's mouth against his, the strong hands slipping over his shoulders, the fingers twining through his hair.

Faramir's mouth still tasted faintly of ale, and he smelled of old sweat and the leather of his armor, but overriding these things was the powerful assertion of his presence. He wondered if Faramir, who shared with their father the uncanny perception of their race, knew of this rare power, to overwhelm him by simply being there, pressed close to him.

Clumsily he reached up between them to undo the laces of Faramir's shirt, hindered by Faramir working at his collar, brushing over the black velvet and silver embroidery. It became a race, their fingers fumbling with each other's clothes, pushing fabric aside and slipping beneath it to sweep over heated skin. Faramir broke away from him a moment to drag his shirt over his head, and quicker than thought he reached for the hem of Boromir's. Their hands reached it at the same time and together they made swift work of removing it.

Together they stumbled to the bed and together they fell on it. The cloak tangled around their ankles, and Faramir impatiently kicked it away. Boromir felt the last of his control burning away, burning away under the hot persuasion of Faramir's hands on his chest, the kisses on his mouth and neck that went lower. Faramir slid down his body, mouth and fingers playing across his chest, through the fine golden hair, over skin now moist with sweat.

Boromir shook and struggled desperately to master himself, caught between wishing Faramir did not know how to build this fire in him, and his need for him to continue doing it.

Already Faramir had his breeches unfastened, and his breath gusted hot and moist over Boromir's arousal. He could feel his brother's hard length against him, hot and imperative through the thin barriers of cloth, and the sensation very nearly made him dizzy. It was too much piling in on him, Faramir's tongue now moving over him, freeing him more fully from the confines of his breeches, the pleasure and desire rolling through him, and the knowledge behind it all that it would not last made these things clearer, more desperate. His hips moved instinctively into the warmth of Faramir's mouth, the muscles clenching - you know, you know how much I want you.

Faramir knew, yes, he knew, because Faramir always knew these things. Had known them, long ago.

In long, steady caresses of lips and tongue Faramir drew it out, until Boromir found he could not think past the haze that clouded his thoughts. He looked down the length of his own body, saw it shaking and covered in sweat, and Faramir's golden head between his legs, poised over his erection, broad shoulders pushing his thighs apart. All of him was a bowstring, stretched tight, ready for release, and then Faramir looked up at him through the tangle of his hair, right in his eyes he looked at him, and the heat in the blue-green gaze nearly undid him.

"Please," he murmured, the first word spoken between them since this began. "Please, Faramir - I would..."

And Faramir knew, because Faramir always knew these things, the things to which Boromir in his awkwardness and need could not put words. With silent, efficient movements he pulled off the remainder of Boromir's clothing and then his own, and settled down beside him, sweat-covered and magnificent, his body hard and corded with muscle, his skin marked in places by scars. Boromir felt Faramir's gaze on his own body, as tangible as if Faramir's hands were on him, traveling over him, and the ache between his legs grew; he reached down, touched himself, felt the sticky mixture of sweat and Faramir's saliva and his seed covering him. Low in his throat he groaned, rubbing against the fingers of one hand as he reached for Faramir with the other.

Boromir did not think about such things - the shape and source of his own desire, why such need had taken him now - and never would he reflect on them, or put words to them. All that remained to him was the expression of his need, and so he pulled Faramir against him, guiding him between his legs with whispered commands. Wet fingers probed at him, tentatively at first and then more boldly, and Faramir's mouth was at his neck, teeth worrying at the skin of the nape, pushing aside the tangle of hair. He thrust powerfully against the other's body and felt the reflexive pressure of Faramir's hips in eloquent reply.

And then Faramir was pushing against him, not with fingers this time, and all of Boromir stiffened in that first moment. Slowly, slowly Faramir moved within him so that the pain melted and ran into an overwhelming pleasure, the rush of fierce joy that took Boromir in such moments. His back arced off the mattress, moving so that he took Faramir deeper and his brother trembled with desirous moans against him and throbbed insistently inside, in the tight grip of Boromir's body. Deeper he slid, and deeper until Boromir had taken all of him and they lay tangled together a moment, Boromir's erection trapped and aching between them, at the edge of fulfillment.

Then Faramir began to move, and to kiss him through his gasps for breath, deep kisses as penetrating as the shaft buried in his brother. And Boromir was lost to all else save returning the kisses, gorging himself on Faramir's mouth, striving against Faramir's body to bring him in so that for a moment it seemed they might never part. His hand took his own penis and wrapped around it, and Faramir's hand closed over his.

It built swiftly, like a wind at his back, compelling, passing through him like a storm. It swept him up and bore him along, and he rode the current out past the brink and fell. There was a flash of heat over him and in him, and of whiteness like lightning that took his vision, and then all was silent except for the rush of Faramir's breath in his ear, and the thunder of his own heart.

* * *

He did not want to leave it, this small space they had made for themselves in the time given to them. Never before had he grudged something so fiercely; before, even the harshest privation, the greatest danger had been no sacrifice if it had meant Gondor might see yet another dawn. But now he was being sent forth as an exile to a place of which little good was said - elven counsels and strangeness and trickery. Soon he would obey the call of duty and his oaths, but for now this room, the arms around him, were a shield between himself and the fate that waited for him.

My place is here, he thought to himself, tightening his arms about his brother, his lover, companion. Here..

But there was still a thing to be done, and it required acknowledgment that this place was no longer his.

"I leave in the morning," he said.

"I heard Father telling you that," Faramir said, the words not without bitterness, although it was faint. "The men will be grieved to see you go. Who will see to them, if not you?"

"You will." Boromir drew a breath. He knew what was coming next; all that was required of him now was to say it. "You say you value my praise and my judgment, and that is a great honor - I know of no greater praise, than to be worthy of your esteem. Will you then show your honor of me by captaining the army, in my place?"

His brother went very still and silent. Outside, the watch paced its rotation on the fortress walls, and in the clearer western sky the stars shone.

"Why?" Faramir asked at last.

"There is no one else who can do it," Boromir answered, "and there is no one else I would trust to do it."

Faramir rolled onto his back. A space lay between them now, so small but yet great - a momentary loss of warmth before Faramir gently drew Boromir closer to him.

"My dreams have been dark of late," he said softly, "and the path of my thoughts is more dangerous than the perilous tracks of Ithilien. I... I cannot see." He raised a hand in frustration, dropped it, began absently to rub over Boromir's side, moving downward. There was no passion in the touch, only a need for contact that echoed Boromir's own. "I stumble in a terrible uncertainty; how can I force others into my own peril, when I must protect them?"

"You must pull them into danger, too, if there is any way to safeguard our land and people," Boromir said softly, fiercely. He reached down took Faramir's hand where it rested on his thigh, felt muscle and tendon tense in his grip, straining against it. "You must find a way to hold out, for Gondor to hold out, until help can come."

"How?" Faramir whispered. "How, with you gone? How can we fight, without our sword?"

"You must be the shield, then," Boromir said, "and defend against the enemy's strokes, although when the battle is over, you will get fewer thanks than a shield would." He stared into Faramir's eyes, into the shifting blue-green depths of them, which he knew as well as he knew his sword, or his own body, or the body beside his. "Indeed, brother, the impossible will be your task, and it may full well be that a thankless death will be your reward -- I cannot lie to you. You know that."

"I know both things." Faramir lifted their hands, studying the play of light and shadow over their twined fingers. "We both knew that one day the long defeat would be ours to fight, as it was our father's before us, and our grandfather's, and it was all the Stewards' and Kings' from the lost days." He paused. "I do not fear my death," he whispered, "only for Gondor... and for you. I fear to do this thing, that I would lead my people into the Shadow by my blindness - that I would betray your trust. And long ago I gave up hope of grace for my toil, or reward."

Boromir studied his brother. The sweat on his chest was drying, but still shone in the torchlight, and his hair was rumpled, the eyes distant with love and sadness. He looked an unlikely leader, although he had proved himself and his men would follow him to whatever end he sought. Yet years of their father's malice had been laced through him like poison, and his presence in Osgiliath that afternoon had been a sore blow, an unexpected dagger in a moment of peace. He ached for Faramir with an intensity that surprised him, and the constriction in his heart almost kept his next words back, but desperation pressed him on.

"Necessity is a hard comfort," he said finally, hardening his voice. "Would you have me order you, my own brother? I will, if I must. Gondor needs you - there is no other now, to stand between her and the Enemy who waits for her. I would not have her stand undefended at the last battle." He took a breath. "But more, Faramir... I need you."

Again Faramir fell silent, but when he spoke it was with resolution.

"I will do it."

"There may yet be hope," Boromir murmured, relieved and unable to hide it. He pressed a kiss to Faramir's lips, felt the slow response before pulling away. "If nothing else, I would have you remember that. I would bring you hope, if it lay in my power."

"Give me the promise of yourself," Faramir said. "That is all the hope I need."

That is no hope, Boromir thought, but there was enough wisdom in him to keep that to himself, and in the greyness of dawn he gave his word before they rose, dressed, and parted, and he left his brother behind, alone.

-----

The lone one I am, wounded by iron, cut by blade, weary of war-work, exhausted by swords. Often I see battle and fight the enemy. I do not expect comfort, that it come to my rescue in war-play before I am utterly undone by men, because the hammers' legacy, the steely edged, battle-tempered craftwork of smiths, strikes and scores me in the fortresses. Yet I must endure a more hateful meeting. I could never find any physician in settled lands who healed my injured body with herbs, because on me the scars of blades grow greater through mortal blows by day and night.

--Riddle 5 (The Exeter Book)

-END-

Post-fic notes: The above riddle is from the Exeter Book codex, a collection of various poems written in Old English. Although Old English is usually associated with the Rohirrim, I like the riddle for the shield's description of itself as a lone warrior that knows it will one day meet its death, but that goes out and fights nonetheless - and expects no reward for its suffering.