Title: Soul and Body
Author: HF
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir
Rating: NC-17
Summary: The past forges the path the mind walks.
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir
Rating: NC-17Warnings: incest of a graphical sort, angst, corny love poetry.
Summary: The past forges the path the mind walks.
Disclaimers: Lord of the Rings would have been a lot spicier if I owned these boys.
Other parts: Like most of my stuff, "Soul and Body" is an admixture of book and movie-verses. It fits into whatever timeline The Shield occupies; however, "Soul and Body" precedes it, and there will be a bridge fic somewhere between the two. I do know that much.
Author Notes: Second FaraBoro fic! I feel somewhat exhibitionist writing this, as I'm doing so at work. Why at work, you ask? My computer is still broken, still in the bowels of the tech center with no idea when it's going to be done, and damn it, I've really wanted to get this finished. Hope you enjoy!
Soul and Body
Rare it is that a Man, however keen-sighted, knows how hard memory may drive him, or how those long gone may shape the path of his thoughts. Faramir of Gondor is one such man who does know. He knows the power of memory, for he has tasted it in dark and bitter dreams of a lost land and glory – he knows and he has no power over it, for there is no escape from what hides within him, ready to leap out and ensnare him in vanished times.
In flashes the memories come to him, when he sees Éowyn’s boldness, with her golden-haired loveliness that is not simply the beauty of a woman, but the beauty of a strong, undaunted spirit. And when he sees the King, the swift and guarded ferocity, that surety of his own power, they come.
When it is day he recalls battles, skirmishes, practice fencing in the courts. There is armor, leather and plate, and two polished swords resting in their scabbards, one crossed over the other.
When it is night and Éowyn is close against him, he recalls another body, another golden head against his, another voice – it is deeper, rougher, and it seduces him into sleep. He goes, his body made compliant by the force of memory, and despite the pain he knows will wait for his waking, he goes gladly.
He has heard that dreams are where the spirit journeys when the body sleeps, and at times he wonders why this journey, this pilgrimage.
* * *
It was one of his rare visits to Minas Tirith, for he was often away in the perilous woods of Ithilien. It was strange, when he allowed himself to reflect upon it, that the dangers of such a place were more welcome to him than the safety of his own halls. Not so strange, was the inevitable conclusion, for your own halls are not safe.
His father had been much as his father had always been, but there was no comfort in the lack of change. He still wore his sword, girt at his side, and the chain mail under his robes of office, and to some part of Faramir Denethor II would always seem more a grim warrior out of legend than a living man. It was the remnant of childish fancy, that thought, but he found his father had that strange power – to make him falter and stumble where there were no obstacles, to find swords where he expected peace. Always, always the stone halls of the Tower echoed with their own silent menace, a reminder of his father who saw and knew everything.
But he would not reflect on his unhappiness today, for the day was one of those on which it seemed there was no evil in the world. Early autumn had settled upon Gondor, with the Sun still spilling her warmth over the shoulders of the White Mountains, for the change of seasons was gentle and the years generous with kind weather. Even the black cloud in the East diminished under the bold blue of the sky, and the golden shield of the Sun overhead, and the knowledge that Boromir was coming home.
He stood on the lawn of the tower under the shade of the Tree, with the waters of the fountain whispering softly behind him. It was to the West he gazed, to Anórien – and not, as it was so often, to the Sea beyond the girdle of the land. The breeze caught his hair, the banners of the tower, the cloaks of the Guards who stood their silent and perpetual watch, but at this great height, all the world seemed still.
Still until he saw the dark, insignificant blot moving along the road heading for the tower. And he knew, even though he stood very nearly amongst the clouds, who would be riding in the forefront of the company.
“Give the signal for the trumpets,” he ordered his squire, “to welcome the Captain of Gondor home.”
Moments later the trumpets sounded, clear and silver in the air, pulsing in the breeze. Again they sounded, and a shout rose up from the city, a massed cry of many voices echoing off the stones. A third time came the trumpets, and the voices answered like thunder, and then silence fell.
Little joy was to be had in Minas Tirith, but that night the streets sounded with viols and many songs, for Boromir of Gondor had returned. He had returned, and more, he had brought back word that Lossarnach had pledged a force of soldiers to the defense of the Eastern borders, and that a small band out of the Eastfold was riding to the city with the blessing of the king. All along the grey alleys torches burned, and lights shone in many windows. In the sixth circle a chorus of women’s voices rose, sweet and throbbing with their own richness.
Yea, my love is exalted among men,
and Eru’s hand hath raised him up.
When he stands before the black gates
fear falls upon his enemies.
His sword and shield, what brightness may match them?
His eyes like silver may, my lady, yea, his eyes*
Boromir was standing by the window, a cup of wine in his hand. He had cleaned away the traces of his journey, and was now resplendent in sable and crimson, and his golden hair lay about his shoulders, gilded by firelight. Faramir stood by the table near the fire, near the bed, wanting to move closer and wanting to look upon his brother silently a moment more, to see the peace that he saw too rarely.
“They still sing that song,” Boromir murmured. “I remember Mother singing it, when I was a lad.”
“An old song,” Faramir said. “They sang it in the first days of the Alliance; there was more to it, I think, but much has been lost.” And Mother did not sing it for me, he thought, but did not say.
Boromir turned to him, and Faramir knew that although his brother did not have the deep sight of their father, he knew what thought lay on his mind. The firelight caught his green eyes and made them kind and warm, like they could be and almost never were. The smile on his lips was much the same, an expression few other than Faramir might ever see. What would the soldiers think, to see their captain smile so, caught in memory that was both fair and sad?
“You would know that,” Boromir said, and there was a hint of mirth in his voice. “You know all the old stories.”
“His hand strikes down the wicked, and the evil perisheth by his sword,” Faramir recited softly. He saw the old words, words shaped in the days of Isildur and Elendil, spin out and take hold, the darkening intensity in his brother’s eyes. “But in the darkness his arms surround me, and there is healing in his touch -- sweet as athelas he is to me, my ladies, yea, even as athelas is his breath.”
His brother drew a ragged breath, and the powerful chest under the tunic shook with the effort. “I must admit,” he said hoarsely, “that I did not feel so, listening to Mother sing.”
Faramir felt the quickening in him, swift and involuntary. He saw that Boromir had set the goblet down upon the windowsill, carelessly, for the wine dripped rich and red over the rim and beaded like rubies on the silver. He had already drunk his own wine, and mixed with nothing but desire it throbbed in every vein, a pulse of alcohol and arousal. Already expectancy gripped him, and too, the knowledge of what his brother’s clothes hid -- a body taut and magnificent, a body he knew, for he had mapped it with hands and mouth.
And how many times had their nights together begun this way? It was a path they walked, familiar and well-trod, and memory guided their steps along it. The homecoming, the wine, and now Boromir’s tower room, and the two of them alone in the firelight.
“What,” Boromir murmured, the word rough with promise, “is the last?”
Faramir shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
“Ah,” Boromir said. He took a step, another, a third and they stood close together. “It is just as well.”
Faramir moved to embrace his brother. From old habit he prepared himself for the shock of plate metal against his chest, was surprised to find only silk and fine linen and the hard muscle underneath it. Sword-roughened hands slid along the side of his face, under his jaw, drawing his lips to Boromir’s. There was no demand in the kiss or the body pressed against him, only the need Boromir kept veiled, but that need was potent a force as Faramir’s own desire.
"I feared for you," Boromir told him, voice hoarse and low, muffled now against the skin of Faramir's neck. His fingers were now at the laces of the tunic, slipping through them even as the knots fell away.
Faramir took one of the questing hands in his, trapping it against his chest, and draw Boromir closer to him. Through the haze of wine and arousal snaked that old, familiar sadness, and under the hot kisses Boromir laid on his neck and shoulder was the old grief. Desperately, he wanted to banish these things, that they might have a small space -- however small -- in which they had joy of each other, their only comfort. He whispered words that might have been soothing, asking Boromir to set aside his fear, but they had no force, for he could not set aside his fear and sadness either.
"Come," he whispered in the end, pulling Boromir closer to him and stepping back, leading him to the waiting bed. "There is a small space granted to us tonight," he said as he lowered himself to the waiting sheets and knelt upon them. "Would you share it with me?"
Boromir smiled down at him, at hearing the old words. "You have never needed to ask that."
"Then be with me."
Faramir held the darkening green gaze with his own, even as he reached for the fastenings of Boromir's tunic. Silk and linen fell away in a fall of crimson and silver, the tree and stars glittering in the firelight. Sweat already glistened on Boromir's chest, caught glittering on the fine strands of hair, salty against Faramir's tongue. Boromir moaned and quaked against him, fingers now lacing in Faramir's hair, stroking and massaging, encouraging him closer. Already he was hard, pressing urgently against him; Faramir could feel the quivering in powerful, corded muscles, a rhythmic tensing that send his own pulse hammering with need and he felt his own arousal answering, aching and uncomfortable in the confines of his breeches.
"Ah, Faramir," his brother sighed, the name a strangled exhalation.
Callused fingers were at his collar, pushing it aside. Faramir shrugged the tunic off, bare skin now moving against Boromir's in his awkwardness, and now Boromir's hands played over the bare expanse of his back, firm and exciting against his shoulder blades, the sensitive skin over his spine. He realized he was now leaning over backward, borne over by the weight of Boromir pressed against him and the overwhelming fact of his brother's presence.
There had been other nights, scattered like bright stars in the darkness, when they had spent hours exploring each other, uncaring of the danger or impropriety, hours lost in the pleasure of each other's touch, tangled and breathless in the sheets. Faramir wanted those hours now, needed them, but duty waited on the morrow, and danger was too close, here. So instead, as he gathered Boromir's hard, aroused body to his he gathered memory, too, of long and cherished nights.
There had been once when Boromir had taken him in his mouth -- the first time, it had been -- and the pleasure of it had so shocked him he could not even cry out with it. Boromir had teased him about his silence before once more licking and stroking him, tormenting him with lips and teeth and tongue, and that had nearly sent him mindless, that sensation and then -- he had seen this through eyes half-shut in rapture -- the sight of Boromir's fair head, golden hair dampened by sweat, between his legs, and the thought alone that this was happening had undone him.
And another time he had been on his stomach, and Boromir's hands had been everywhere, like fire, and he could not comprehend the depth of his own need, the begging desperation Boromir's touch had wrung from him. For hours it had seemed that the torment had lasted, hours of pleasure stretched into an eternity, until he thought he could not bear it, and then Boromir had entered him, and the breath in his ear had been like a cry of victory.
Once again they had found time, a stolen night granted to them and this time Faramir had covered the beloved, aroused body beneath his, and he had taken the two of them in hand together, reveling in the slickness of shared fluid, smiling as Boromir arched and twisted up and against him... and what had been the point, where they had come together? What had he done to make Boromir cry out and shudder?
"Boromir," he whispered, fearing the name would be lost in the insistent rustle of bedclothes, Boromir's own harsh and urgent breaths.
It was not.
Boromir moved against him, and Faramir could hear the low, inarticulate cry in his brother's throat. He welcomed the hard, needing body against his, felt Boromir undo the fastenings of his loose breeches and slide them away, and then there came against his skin hot air and sweat, and the maddening pleasure of desire loosed. Boromir's lips were on his chest, kissing him, pausing over his nipples to suckle and lick and torment. His brother's presence was everywhere, surrounding him, filling his senses with his scent, the feeling of skin soft and scarred and rough alike, the powerful surge of muscle now between his legs, like a drug, like wine.
"Please," he said, his fingers tangling in Boromir's hair. His hips moved off the bed, arching against Boromir's arousal. His fingers left Boromir's hair, reached down to tug at his breeches, to slip under the band, deeper to palm the erection waiting there. He kneaded it, delighting in the moans and growls it wrung from Boromir, and also in the wet, hard flesh that filled his hand. "Please," he whispered against Boromir's lips, which were parted. "Oh, please, Boromir."
"Faramir."
His name was choked, half-silenced by the fierce kiss Boromir pressed against his mouth. There was sweat in the kiss, his sweat and Boromir's, and the taste of Boromir's mouth, still rich with wine. Faramir removed his hand and Boromir cried out against his mouth, and between the two of them they made clumsy work of unfastening what clothing was left to Boromir. Naked they were pressed against each other, Faramir lifted up to his brother's body as if in offering, and in the darkening green eyes he saw Boromir's acceptance.
Even in careful haste there was pain in Boromir's first explorations, pain that Boromir soothed away with kisses and murmured words, and Faramir mastered by force of will. Swiftly it melted into pleasure, the gut-twisting delight of being opened, exposed to the eyes of another who looked on him with ardor, the teasing give-and-take of fingers in his body and his response -- the arch of his back, the brief and elusive slide of skin on skin, the provocation that finally made Boromir snarl and cover him and press fiercely against him. Once again his body stretched, opening to the hot flesh against him, and pain hovered before his sight and closed about his heart, but again it faded and pleasure returned.
All of it fell away, the grief and danger and fear, and the long nights of separation, and it seemed in this infinite moment that the perils of the world belonged to another time. He hung, suspended by and twisting in pleasure, Boromir first driving in and then pausing, sunk deep within him, and his body was caught in a straining arc like a bent bow, quivering and waiting. Boromir began to move above him, inside him, arms bracketing him, and from old experience they found that pace, the one that built and built until they were both carried along on it, borne up as if by wind, both mastered by the need of each other.
And then there was heat -- swift, flooding heat in his bowels and Boromir's hot, thick cry of release, then his brother's lips against his own, burying them in a kiss that stole what breath remained. And then Faramir came with a cry of his own and Boromir swallowed it.
They lay together in silence, tangled in the rich sheets. Faramir stared at the crimson drapings and touched them; silk and velvet, a bed for a prince. He smiled, and started to wonder at even this unaccustomed luxury when, as if from a place deep within him, words came, chanted in a voice both low and infinitely sad and captured by the voice and the words, he sang along.
"My beloved cometh from the White Mountains; like a stag he covereth the mountaintops. My bed is made; crimson covers it, yea, and silk. It waits for him, for the night, and my arms desire him. But alas! Night vanisheth, and dawn is come -- yet come, come my beloved! Yea, crimson silk awaits thee, and myself -- yea, even I await thee, with perfumes of love and with the spice of desire."
Boromir looked up. "What is that?"
"It is the end," he said, touching Boromir's face. The green eyes were tired, but clear, and gratitude shone in them. "It is the end," he repeated, more softly this time. "Go to sleep."
* * *
It is a long journey back from dreams and back from passion; there are many nights he wakes, hard and desperate against Éowyn, and she accepts his passion gladly. There are many other nights when he wakes with tears on his cheeks, and Éowyn dries them with her fingers and holds him in silence until he falls asleep again. For these things, he is both grateful and guilty, because she does not deserve to be the consolation to a grief of which she cannot know and, not knowing, not understand.
He was there the day final honors were done for Boromir: a tomb, empty, in the Silent Street save for his leather vambraces set there by the King himself. He had been there, in the halls of the Dead, watching as the King laid a hand upon the tomb and sang words so soft no living man might hear them. He had been there, silent in his own grief, remembering a grey ship and the fog, and a warrior asleep and clothed in radiance.
The tomb has been sealed and the ship has passed on, but still he wanders back to those days, and farther back, as far as memory will take him.
----
I know a noble, rare guest of good lineage in the dwellings, which the savage one cannot crush with hunger, nor the enemy harm with thirst, with old age or disease. If the servant properly attends him, he who must journey along the way, at home they discover for themselves certainty of untarnished abundance and joy, kin uncounted – care, if the servant serves his lord and master evilly on the journey… May one man, he who wishes, relate with fitting words how the guest is called, and the servant, which I speak of here.
-- Riddle 43 (The Exeter Book)
-END-
