Part X I
My Brother's Keeper

A/N: A note about continuity. After some consideration, I rewrote the confrontation between Denethor and Boromir in "Come Undone." I am hopeful that that chapter is now more closely in line with the feeling and intensity of the rest of the story. In making that revision, however, I basically started over, and though most of the dialogue has remained, some other details were dropped and other explanations added that were not present (or were present in a very different form) in the original posting. If you are confused as to certain references in this chapter, I suggest you reread the last 4-6 pages of "Come Undone" and see if that helps. If it doesn't, e-mail me and yell. (grins) Thanks guys! I really appreciate all your kind words of encouragement!

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Boromir set the book down on the table–slammed it down, really, and was angry with his own lack of control. After Denethor had left him to his misery last night, he had needed hours to crawl and grope his way back to something approaching composure. His dreams had been predictably horrific, though he remembered little of them, save waking to a feeling of stark terror and a racing pulse. The morning had seen him excluded from council–Verethon had told him the steward wanted him to see to his own preparations for the journey, and while Boromir had been relieved that he would not have to face the tension of the council, the dismissal had hurt. After that inauspicious start, the day had deteriorated from there. Everything–from the obvious worry that hung wraith-like over the city to the most minor and niggling details of mundanity–grated upon his already strained nerves 'til the very fabric of existence seemed a vast and intricate machine with but one purpose: to torture him. To run hither and thither, overseeing on the one hand the preparations his father had set in motion, and on the other the responsibilities that he would have to leave to others had frustrated him beyond belief, and the ream of correspondence that he had then had to write in order to be certain that all went as required as concerned Osgiliath had stretched his patience dangerously thin. And for all that he knew it was absurd, he could not help but feel that every person he encountered somehow knew his secret, and he had had to fight the urge to flinch each time he met another's eyes. He wanted to scream at the ghost-self he had become, wanted to vomit, to purge this world from his being, but he could not be rid of himself. Considering the violence of those feelings, that he had managed to get through the day at all without exploding was a triumph of self-discipline, but Boromir felt no satisfaction at the victory. What does it matter, when discipline cannot dictate what I feel in my very blood whenever I see Faramir?

For all his agonized self-loathing, Boromir, like most men in his circumstances, had managed to achieve a truce with himself long ago, else he would have been driven mad. And though the most recent crisis with Faramir had come dangerously close to sending him plummeting back down into the abyss of doubt and panic that had claimed him when first he realized the ways of his heart, he had slowly begun to come to terms with the changed situation. Faramir's anxieties and newfound wariness of him, his painful and abortive overtures–all of these things might hurt, but Boromir was learning to accept them, and to begin to hope for a new (and more honest) peace between himself and his brother. But Denethor had shattered that fragile self-reconciliation, leaving him adrift in agonized doubt. His father's ruthless denunciation, even if carried out in private, had rubbed his face in the shamefulness of his desire, exposing him at last to the direct and unrelenting scorn that homosexuality woke in most others. For the first time he had been forced to look his lust in the face and truly see it, rather than allowing it to pass as felt but unexamined and suppressed in his daily life. And he had been disgusted… but even disgust could not break him from the grip of his own passions. In the end, Denethor's impassioned tirade had done naught to ease either his love or his lust, for his brother; rather, it seemed almost to have inflamed it. Why that should be, I know not! Perversity, perhaps, and have I ever fully appreciated the difference between "pervert" and "perverse" before? People look to me for strength, for leadership in time of war, but none know the rot that lies beneath, save two! I have no choice but to continue the path that I have always walked, and pretend that I have still pride enough to carry a city, but I know better! I know better, and still I hate myself for such doubt!

With the weight of such humiliation, of such profound self-alienation, riding on his shoulders, it was therefore little surprise that his temper was orc-foul, and evidently so in spite of his efforts to disguise it. Those whom he had encountered as he went about the necessary tasks to prepare for a long journey had sensed his mood and walked on eggshells around him, which did nothing to help him. Not that he would have accepted any offers of help, for it simply was not in his nature to speak his pain to others. But pain has never cut like this before! He had suffered injury to within an inch of his life against the Haradrim, seen comrades and friends die screaming on the battlefield, and had had to hold a child amid the bloody wreckage of her village. I lied to her, he remembered. I told her she was safe, that she would one day see her parents again. And Valar help me, I laid her down in death when she bled out in my arms. That had been one of the worst days he had ever endured, and he had never thought to see it surpassed unless (or until) Minas Tirith and Gondor fell to Mordor. But that was before I saw the look in Faramir's eyes when he learned the truth of what I felt for him under the guise of brotherly love! And before I learned the truth of father's dislike of Faramir! Before I learned how very much my father's son I am! Boromir bowed his head and probed at the sore spot in his mouth where he had bitten through his lip the night before. Salty warmth spilled over his tongue and he grimaced again as he made himself return to the task of packing.

In truth, save for one or two things, he had nearly everything he would need, and was in fact simply shifting items about: from table to desk to shelf, from shelf to chest to bed, and from bed to backpack or saddlebags, and the process repeated itself with some variations and in reverse just to keep his mind occupied. He could not justify taking Silvaríel with him, but he was not quite certain what to do with the book. His esquire would return it to he library, but for some reason, Boromir could not seem to decide where to leave it so that the lad would see it and realize what to do with it. This is ridiculous! He told himself, even as he turned back to rummaging pointlessly in one of the saddlebags.

"You leave tomorrow, I hear," a voice from behind him startled him badly, and Boromir rounded on the intruder fiercely even though he immediately identified him. Faramir, however, gazed back without flinching from the doorway, where he leaned against hands braced to either side of the doorframe. "I hope you did not think to present me with another fait accompli, Boromir." He must have come in only recently, for I was just in the antechamber. Curse it all, I did not hear the doors!

"You might have knocked," Boromir replied rather huffily, reluctant to begin a conversation that could have but one object. More, in light of his newly reborn shame, he feared the possibility of reconciliation. Better for us both if Faramir is kept at a distance! I should never have encouraged him to try to settle matters between us; I should have let him drift away! Never mind that it would have broken his heart to do so, for there were worse things than even a soul in torment, after all. Surely there are…!

"I might have," Faramir admitted easily, and quirked a skeptical brow at him, "Had I thought you would answer, I might well have knocked."

"Well, we shall never learn now what I might have done, shall we?" Boromir shot back, deliberately echoing his brother's condemnation earlier that week.

"As to that, perhaps it is better thus. Certainly your…discretion… helped me in the end," Faramir replied, adroitly turning that bitter jibe against itself, transforming it into something positive. And although Boromir silently cursed his brother's quick mind and glib tongue, he could not help but feel a certain relief to learn that Faramir had apparently made peace with Boromir's rather underhanded dealings. "Have you any plan at all to find Imladris?"

"What matter is it to you? Denethor gave me the task and the time table," Boromir grunted, turning back to his imaginary packing in order to spare himself the sight of his brother. Standing there against the light that spilled in from the other room, his brother's slender, wiry form was all too clearly silhouetted, and Boromir felt his jaw muscles ache from constantly gritting his teeth. For if he had always been ashamed of his too-interested love of Faramir, never before had he blamed his brother for the temptation he presented. Although if I am honest, I suppose I still do not blame him. But if he did not exist, would I even know what I am? Would I know the depths of my own twisted nature? And unbidden, Denethor's voice replied in his mind: Blood always tells! So perhaps it would not have mattered, and he would have fixed upon another, but his heart scoffed at the very notion even as it bled for wanting.

"So I perceive, and a few discreet inquiries revealed the hour of your departure, even," Faramir replied, pausing ere he added significantly, "I could wish that others would trust me more, for I had a difficult time convincing anyone to speak with me on the matter." A pause, then, "Family most of all." Another pause, but as Boromir did not leap to fill the conversational void, Faramir, after a few moments, continued, "What did Denethor do to you, Boromir?" And this time, Boromir stiffened, pausing for just that split second too long. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and struggled for composure as he finished tying his bags shut by feel alone. Then, slowly, he straightened and considered what answer he might make. It was not an easy task, for Faramir's presence proved a disturbing distraction. He could feel his brother's intensity, feel the gravity of his concern and anger all along his body. It was like heat, like sunlight, and when Faramir shifted positions, he felt it, as if they were somehow connected across the space between them. "You cannot keep this within you, Boromir. Or have you forgotten your own words? Some secrets can kill, and I do not doubt that this is one of them."

"Why then, should I expose you to it?" Boromir demanded, turning once more as he changed tactics somewhat, striving (and failing, he suspected) for a reasonable tone. If anger and resentment do not drive him forth, let us try logic… such as it is!

"Because," Faramir replied, letting his arms drop to his sides as he moved out of the doorway, approaching slowly. And now it was his turn to turn Boromir's words back against their author, "I am your brother, and whatever has happened between us, I cannot see you suffer like this!"

"Sometimes pain is deserved," Boromir growled automatically, and instantly regretted the rejoinder, for his brother's eyes narrowed as he ran through the implications of that statement.

"Sometimes it is," the other agreed. "But not always, and there comes a point when even good intentions cannot justify inflicting it on another. One does not punish orcs, after all, for they are irredeemable; neither should a father break his child's bones for a broken tea cup. Whereby does such harshness profit either child or family?"

"You draw a false comparison," Boromir grated.

"And you speak now but to counter me. You believe your own words not at all, and were I to tell you that it was summer, you would say it was winter," Faramir responded.

"Those were games we played as children, Faramir!" Boromir retorted, trying desperately to displace the focus of this conversation even a little. Alas, Faramir was not one to be led astray by a false trail.

"And as a child, you used to trust me better! I know that I have given you little reason to think that I trust you still, but believe that I do! In this moment, I do, and I would have that faith returned!" His brother spoke in a low, urgent voice, his advance bringing him well within arm's reach, and Boromir felt his defenses beginning to succumb to sheer proximity if naught else. "Will you not speak to me about this? What said our father to you that has changed you so?"

"Faramir!" The older man half-groaned, exasperated on the one hand, but also suddenly fearful. Fearful of what, precisely, he was not certain–of being too close to the other, of hoping too much, of disappointment, of having been seen as vulnerable. Perhaps he feared himself, and certainly he feared to reveal what Denethor had said and done last night. For whatever else he is, Denethor is still our father and lord. Faramir must never come to lose his respect for the steward of the city, even if he fears and despises him as a father! Boromir glared at the other, hoping that that clear sign of displeasure would convince his brother to leave off questioning. Faramir stood his ground, though, with worried grey eyes fixed upon Boromir's face. His brother laid a hand upon his shoulder, gripping firmly in a gesture of comfort as well as encouragement, and Boromir sucked in a surprised breath.

"Will you not speak?"

"No," Boromir replied with as much force as he could muster.

"You will never be rid of me," Faramir said with quiet certainty. "I told you that once, but I would have you believe it this time."

"Valar help me…! Faramir, this does not concern you!" Boromir said desperately.

"Insofar as my brother is the heir to the stewardship, and my father is the steward of the realm, what troubles you is my concern, as a captain of Gondor if nothing else!" Before which statement Boromir flinched somewhat, unsettled by how closely Faramir's reasoning echoed Denethor's–but to such different purpose! Faramir now grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a slight shake as if to try to jar him out of his silence. "I know father's ways better than any other in matters of his displeasure. Can you deny that he cut deeply, or that he abuses the power that he has over you?"

"I think you do not understand…" Boromir hissed, closing his eyes once more, struggling against himself. The frightened, crippled part of him that bore the imprint of Denethor's handling violently resisted speech, but the part that could not for all the world lose Faramir's affection entirely–especially when he knew what Faramir must be enduring to stand before him thus–cried out for release, craving what comfort a confession might bring. "I have not the words for this, even if I wished…"

"Try, Boromir," the other insisted. Curse it all! And honestly, he did try, for as he had realized long ago, it was not in him to refuse his brother anything, save only what he deemed harmful to him. As this is! But such was the tone of the other's voice and his own need that for a moment, he nearly overcame the almost atavistic terror that washed through him.

Almost. "I cannot!" he finally managed. "I may not!"

Faramir's mouth tightened, and he took a step backward, releasing his brother then; and Boromir winced in spite of himself, feeling abandoned, though he supposed he ought to rejoice if that refusal had alienated his brother so. Mayhap he shall now leave… ! But his brother remained, watching him, and after awhile, Faramir sighed softly as he dropped his eyes. Glancing about, as if in search of inspiration, Faramir crossed the short distance to the window by the bed and gazed out at the night. Boromir folded his arms across his chest, as if to hold a confession in, and he listened as Faramir's voice drifted gently but seriously from the window embrasure: "Well, if you will say naught, let me be your tongue for a time, as you suggested earlier today. I have given much thought to this matter since last we spoke, so tell me when I begin to stray!" Faramir drew a deep breath, seeming to gird himself for the effort, and Boromir listened in silence as his brother's words fell hard upon his ears. "Denethor knows the truth of your… that you are from the other river bank, as they say," the other hedged euphamistically, but Boromir still flinched to hear it come frankly from his brother's lips. "I know not for how long, but let us say that he suspected you long before I did. Speak if I stray!" Faramir interrupted himself to glance sharply at Boromir.

"Go on," Boromir said quietly, in a subdued manner, unwilling to tell his brother that Denethor had suspected Faramir for far longer than he had ever doubted Boromir. Besides, he is right in the main: whether for long or for short, father knew the truth without ever having to ask! I suppose like recognizes like when forced to it!

"What he might have said to you, I can only guess, but I know well what it is to be flayed by his words. It used to destroy me each time I had to face him, and it costs me much still to resist collapse, even after many years of practice. Sometimes I have not the strength, even as I lacked it this morning in council, and afterwards when I could not approach Denethor!" Faramir's voice grew harder at that, and Boromir could hear the self-contempt in it ere his brother took another breath to calm himself. When he had regained a measure of control, he continued, "You who have had his love could not stand before him, and I doubt not that he sought to break you," Faramir glanced at him over his shoulder, and there was much sympathy in his face as he said softly, "That much I read from your manner, and yet I cannot say whether he succeeded. This afternoon, you struck me as much changed. How badly are you hurt?" And with that question, the pressure of those eyes, at once similar and utterly dissimilar to his father's, mounted, and grew almost unbearable. Boromir felt his breathing catch slightly, as if the other probed an injury, feeling for the point that would cause him to cry out in pain. "Did he break you, Boromir?"

"I…" Denethor's elder son felt his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth as he struggled with himself to remain silent. But Faramir would not let him go, and as his brother turned from the window and slowly advanced once more, a number of conflicting emotions rose up in response, boiling about the wounded part of his soul. On the one hand, he desperately wanted to keep his secrets, and there was no small anger directed at Faramir for pushing him so hard; on the other, he knew that his brother was right, that he could not hold this within himself. Not all of it at least! Between the two extremes, Boromir felt torn, and could not seem to decide whether there was enough of himself left to even answer Faramir's question.

"Did he, brother?"

"Faramir, do not torture me thus, curse you!" Boromir snarled, alarmed by the pleading in his tone, for it cost him much to beg and even more to curse his brother.

"Then answer me, and thereby end this inquisition," Faramir replied, refusing to allow him to escape. And when he still said naught, his brother frowned, and a sort of dread seemed to creep into his lancing regard. "Boromir…?"

"He said I must redeem myself!" The words came out flatly, harshly, and all in a rush, as if some limit had been reached and breached with but the speaking of his name. Boromir closed his eyes against the chaotic surge of emotion, and felt himself swept away by the current of his own anguish. "For all that I know, he has known for years, and waited for me to weaken enough…" He broke off, unable to finish. Shaking his head violently as if to rid himself of the memory, he demanded bitterly, "What more is there to say? You have wondered why he despised you so? To dissuade me from loving you I think, for he saw too clearly where my heart lay! That is why he chose me to find Imladris, and not you. It is not for any logic that you or I might present him, but to part us. To give me a chance at redemption… a chance to forget you!"

"And did he persuade you in that?" Faramir asked urgently, once more gripping his brother's shoulders, unable to refrain from the gesture for he sensed the other's need of support.

Boromir swallowed hard as everything seemed to come to a head. He stared wordlessly at Faramir for a long moment, at a face and spirit he had loved all the days of his life in one fashion or another. And he wondered, Why are you so close in this moment, and yet so far? Do you even know the pain your touch, so innocent of all harmful intention, can cause? Deliberately, he caught his brother's hands in his and drew them from his shoulders, squeezing tightly, as he replied wearily, "No… to my shame, no he could not!"

Something like a smile tugged at Faramir's lips and he nodded slowly. "Then you remain Boromir. After what I saw today, I feared it might be otherwise."

"You surprise me," Boromir replied, searching his brother's face for sign of wavering and finding none. "I doubt not that your words are kindly meant, but Faramir, can you speak them without pain?" Boromir demanded. "Would you not wish that I not look to you?"

"I would not have you turn away at least. Boromir, you know that I cannot love you as you would wish," his brother replied. "But neither can I abandon you; for even as I cannot dictate your heart, I ought not to let your love dictate my own."

"As simple as that?"

"As simple as that, and the more complicated for being so simple!" At which, Boromir gave an exaggerated sigh and shook his head, and the slight smile that curved his lips was a real one, for all that the pain remained.

"Your logic, as always, remains impenetrable!" He glanced down at the hands he still held, wondering what on earth he would do now that Faramir was not pulling away from him. Nothing suggested itself as an obvious solution, yet he could not seem to relinquish his grip, feeling his brother's physical hold on him as a steadying influence. Closing his eyes, he shook his head and his let his posture slip somewhat as of a sudden all the day's tension seemed to dissipate at once, as sometimes happened after a hard-fought battle. "Valar, I am tired!"

"Then sleep, Boromir, for you need the rest," Faramir advised.

"I doubt that I could!" Which was an admission that implied more than the a stranger might think, for both brothers had learned early on to take what rest they could whenever they could, war being the uncertain but exhausting endeavor that it was. Faramir's recent insomnia was therefore the more remarkable, indicative of the potency of that dream, and Boromir's current doubts were equally cause for worry.

"You must!" Faramir replied, eliciting a snort of subdued laughter from his brother.

"Must I?" He squeezed Faramir's hands in his a moment, opening his eyes to gaze at his brother again. "You are not my father!"

"Fortunately," Faramir replied dryly.

"Quite. But you are no less my tormentor, Faramir," Boromir said seriously, deciding that he might as well address what lay still unresolved between them. For otherwise, I may never have another chance to do so, and certainly I shall not rest unless I have at least tried to make him see what I see! "I know you mean well to come here, and think not that I am not grateful to you for your pains. But come a few hours, or even a few minutes, and I fear you may flee once more! Your head, as ever, would rule your heart, but in this I cannot trust your logic above your feelings, love," he said very deliberately, watching Faramir's reaction to the endearment. His brother blinked, then frowned, and Boromir could not be certain but he thought the hands within his trembled a bit. "See?"

Faramir's brow knit as he considered this, and after a few moments' thought, he sighed softly and raised his eyes once more to Boromir's. "You may be right, brother, but earlier today, I would not have dreamt of coming here, nor of chasing after you on a crowded street when you wished to avoid me."

Something about that admission touched on memory, dislodging and nudging words to the fore of Boromir's mind, and he closed his eyes once more as he murmured, "'Let me touch now mortal sickness that my love shall learn its toll!' Your Silvaríel knew well the darkness of our desires, Faramir! But to which side shall we fall, you and I? I cannot live with this uncertainty… this wavering… on your part, though I understand it well enough. If you cannot learn to love me fully–not as a lover but only as you did before–then seek me no more. Let me find what peace I can alone!"

Faramir bit his lip, considering his brother's request. Or rather, his plea! And he is right to make it, for it is not fair to him that I am so… so inconstant. Alas that intuition spoke truly, for I know not whether I have the strength to grant his wish… and mine! "I would regain what once we had," he said slowly. "For in truth, I miss you… more than you might think possible! But I know not how to prove myself to you, Boromir, or even to myself, if I am honest!" Faramir replied, seeming weary now in his turn. His brother gave a slight shrug, as if in surrender to the uncertainty of the moment. "Know, though, that I would gladly return to what we had, if only you would satisfy me as to one point first, brother."

"And what point is that?"

"If we could between us devise a test that would convince you of my sincerity in this matter, would you wish for me to succeed? Or would you have me keep my distance? For in spite of your words, it is clear to me that you are in doubt over this."

And Boromir, hearing that, frowned, realizing uncomfortably that Faramir did indeed have a point. Would I wish him to prove that he can love me in spite of my love? Would it not be better to learn to live without it? Without even the hope of it? In one way, it would be so much easier if Faramir could not bring himself to overlook Boromir's quite ardent desire for him, for at least then there could be no confusion on Boromir's part. But for years, I have thought there was no hope, and that did not ease my longing! Why must you ask me such questions, Faramir? "Once, I would have said 'yes' without hesitation," he replied at length, and felt more than saw Faramir wince at the qualifier. "After last night–indeed, after this week!–and in spite of our father's scorn, I would still say 'yes,' but more cautiously." Boromir released Faramir's hands. But he risked reaching up to gently tug at a lock of hair that fell into Faramir's face, in imitation of his brother' s habit, ere he added, "For Denethor has made me see too much to love you freely and without pain. I fear it is my sentence that if I cannot surrender my passion, then nothing that comes of it shall ever be free of shame. And perhaps it is better thus, for even were you to desire me, I could never let you have so unworthy a lover as myself!"

"I see," Faramir replied, considering this in silence for a short while. "I think you shall not be the only one to burn the midnight oil, brother!"

"Well, had I the luxury, I would do so. But as you advise, I shall try to rest, for I leave at dawn and know not how long the journey shall be," Boromir sighed softly. He turned and went to the bed, gathering the two travel sacks that lay there to set them down on the floor beneath the window.

"Would you have me stay?" Faramir asked suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?" Boromir turned quickly, a perplexed look on his face, for his brother could not possibly mean that the way that it sounded.

"I said, would you have me stay? There is a chair in the other room I could use…"

A chair… of course! "And what would you do?" Boromir asked, relieved but curious.

For answer, Faramir crossed to the desk and picked up the book that Boromir had borrowed. "Your citation brought something to mind."

"Ah," Boromir paused, considering the request a moment. He could not fathom his brother's motives at the moment, but he recognized the tone: Faramir had caught on some idea and would not be content until he had explored it further. More, he wanted, for some reason unknown to Boromir, to remain and to refuse him would likely hurt him badly. Well, and what matter is it if he stays to one who sleeps? For despite my earlier words, I feel a need of it desperately, and shall not stay awake for long. "You are welcome to remain if you wish, and you know well where I keep everything."

"But would you wish me to stay?" Faramir asked, emphasizing the pronoun.

"I have always wished you to stay," Boromir responded, and was mildly surprised when that comment elicited naught but a nod. "What of father? If he catches you here…"

"Let him!" Faramir cut him off, and his tone was uncharacteristically sharp. Boromir nodded slightly, accepting the other's defiance even as he shuddered at the thought of that confrontation. May it never occur! He prayed briefly to whatever power might hear a reprobate's plea.

"Well, then, I wish you a good night. May you find what you seek."

"Good night, Boromir," Faramir obediently left for the antechamber, closing the door behind him. Boromir stood there and wondered whether he ought to bar the door for safety's sake. But what good would that do? It would not keep me here! But such considerations were merely the workings of a tired and dispirited soul, struggling to find a way through inner divisions without surrendering too much of his own essential matter. Matter which, as the course of fortune ran, had been shaped by that conflict, and in some deep sense knew not how to live without it. Considerations about the status of the door were therefore merely specious: Faramir was safe from him, and in truth, there was something oddly reassuring about the idea of him keeping watch just beyond the door. When we were children, I remember he used to come to me whenever he had nightmares. He could not sleep alone. And now, thirty years later, our places are reversed! Though of course, Faramir would never now join him in bed, as he had when they were ten and five. Stop that! He ordered himself. Sleep now, since that is your purpose. Sleep! And let the morning bring what it may, for this is my last night in Minas Tirith for a time, and it will be long ere I lie in safety again!

***

And as the night wore on in the other room, Faramir sat tucked up in the high-backed chair near the hearth, and though he did read, his attention was not focused. The words washed over him, sweeping through him like the tide only to withdraw again after a time, retreating from the shores of his mind. For though he sought one line among the multitude of Silvaríel's works, in truth he had come here to try once more to enter his brother's mind. The book provided a common point from which to begin, at least, and that was much tonight. This room, as Boromir had indicated with his passing remark, was intimately known to Faramir: surrounded by his brother's possessions, his arrangements, his tastes, it was easier for him to try to think as his brother did. I have always loved him, and he has always loved me… that is the constant in our lives, and now that it has been shaken…! Faramir had always assumed before that Boromir, although quick-witted and not wholly unreflective, was not given to internal scrutiny, being generally confident in himself and his abilities. But having learned the extent of his brother's life-long struggle to hide his sexuality from others, Faramir had now doubts about his assumptions. Clearly, Boromir would have suffered doubt about himself, and would have had many opportunities to question his own motivations. Certainly, he still remained far more comfortable on the field than in the council, but rather than being simply a product of a less contemplative disposition, Faramir now wondered whether a part of that stated preference had not been carefully devised as a sort of camouflage. Or perhaps it is more basic than that, even! He thought. Perhaps it is the one place where he need not restrain himself, where his actions require no words and are their own justification! And perhaps that was not as simple as it seemed, Faramir thought with a slight smile for his own complicated ways.

With a soft sigh, he rose, carefully leaving the book open upon a stand, and made a circuit of the room. Boromir's tastes were less varied than his own, and also less subtle. He kept a number of small carvings from various regions of Gondor, and the tapestries on the walls were for color as much as to help keep out the chill of winter days. There were fewer books, and most of them had to do with military history rather than philosophy or art; there was a small collection of weaponry upon one wall, and Faramir knew that in addition to employing them decoratively, Boromir could wield any of them to deadly effect. I suppose I could as well if pressed to it, but not with half the artistry! Faramir decided as he turned back to the book shelf, atop which sat a small, intricately carved box. The curling patterns of raised wood and the inlay of different types of bark to create an almost flame-like impression bore the stamp of the same craftsmanship that the carpet on Faramir's floor evinced. And why should they not, for they came of the same place! It had been Finduilas' once, and was one of the things that she had brought with her out of Dol Amroth to remind herself of her home. The box had gone back to Imrahil upon her death, and the brothers' uncle had in turn gifted it to Boromir when he had turned sixteen, as a remembrance of the sister that Imrahil had loved. It was therefore doubly a gift, and it was the only keep-sake that Boromir had of his mother. Why this one item, and not any others? It was a question that he could ask of almost anything in this room. Boromir was not much of a collector, Faramir realized suddenly, for all that certain types of objects were repeated throughout the décor. For whereas others who collected carvings would stay with a particular theme or style or artisan, Boromir did not. One example of any given period or style seemed to be enough for him; the same might be said of the books on the shelves or the weapons, none of which were of the same type. Just one… One box, one book of poetry, one city to call home… one love… just one… just one…

Just once! The words he had sought earlier came suddenly to him, and Faramir pondered their significance as he stood gazing at the closed door that led to his brother's sleeping chamber. Just once. He could imagine Boromir asleep within, and who knew what dreams might visit him tonight? What dreams had he last night, I wonder? Faramir thought with a shiver. I would see him at peace! But can I bring myself to do what I think is needed? Ever he sought to stand before me, to shield me when I was threatened… weak… . From him I learned honor, and also the meaning of courage. We keep each other, and always have, and I would not lose that, either through father's intervention or my own actions. What constituted the right course in this singular situation, Faramir could not be certain, for no feat of reasoning could lead him from the tangled skein of conflicted allegiances and emotions. Whatever I decide, I must not act half-heartedly, for that would be cruel. Whence comes conviction, though? Whence comes courage enough not to flinch? Closing his eyes, Faramir blew out a sigh and after a few moments he reopened them. In the end, the well-spring of his strength had its roots in many places, but in time of crisis, he knew whither he always turned: towards his brother. With that thought firmly in mind, he blew out the candle by which he had read and stalked across the room. Silent as a hawk on the wing, he opened the door, and slipped inside his brother's chambers…

******

A/N: To all those who have commented on the anachronistic flavor of "homosexuality" as originally used by Faramir in this chapter, all I can say is that I am occasionally a moron. Duh, the solution is right there in the title of this story!!! Feel free to kick me a couple of times, especially those who speak German and who might have wondered when that phrase would ever appear in the story! Thank you all for the multitude of expressions that you offered up for my consideration; though I ended up not using them, I appreciate the efforts you all went through to try to correct that stylistic flaw.

Part X I I
Bread for the Journey

Consciousness burrowed through dusty oblivion, insisting that he wake, and Boromir gave a soft, sleepy grunt, acknowledging the proddings of his body's time sense. Dawn would come soon, and though in his somnolent state he could not quite remember why, he knew he needed to arise. But as he lay there, letting awareness percolate slowly but steadily through the screen of his dreaming mind, he felt a slight shiver work its way down his spine. It was a feeling he had had before, and all too often, it had that flavor of warning to it that demanded instant reaction; today it was not threatening so much as weighty, but still Boromir jerked suddenly and fully awake to the certainty that he was being watched. But I am still in Minas Tirith…! He had slept half-curled on his side, head laid on the pillow that he cradled in the crook of one arm; and as he now swiftly pushed himself up onto an elbow, he was for a moment blinded by the mass of his long hair that tumbled into his face. With a shake of his head and the aid of one hand, he dragged the unruly strands from his eyes and squinted into the dimness of the room. He needed but a few moments to discover the source of his unease, and Boromir felt his cheeks heat in the darkness. "Faramir… why are you here?"

"Good morrow to you as well," Faramir replied from where he stood leaning back against the wall, hands pressed flat behind him.

"Mmm…" Boromir could not for the life of him think of a more intelligent reply, and he shook his head again in an attempt to rouse himself to clearer thoughts. "Varda's stars!" He swore softly, feeling his startled embarrassment begin to spawn other, unwelcome emotions. Why has he come, and how long has he stood there? he wondered. I should have barred that door after all! For he was acutely aware of the fact that he wore nothing beneath the sheets (it was too hot!), and given the strained relationship that he and Faramir had endured for a week now, he felt his brother's presence as an intrusion. For I know not what he intends, nor how to act! What does he want? And how do I rid myself of him long enough to dress? Such were the considerations that raced through his mind, and fear threaded his pulse—an anxious anticipation and wonderment at Faramir's motives. Letting his hair once more act as a screen, he rubbed at his eyes; the whole scene seemed almost unreal, dream-like, and he wondered if perhaps he might wake soon… As if to reassure him of the reality of the moment, an uneven, soft mass struck him, glancing off his shoulders and head, coming unraveled as it came to rest atop him.

"Father expects you gone shortly, I should think," Faramir said, offering the barest of smiles and ignoring the glare that his brother shot him from beneath the shirt and trousers that now draped him. "Best that you not dare his wrath with so trivial a thing as tardiness." His brother then pushed himself away from the wall and wandered deliberately to the other side of the room, there to examine some unimportant item. Boromir was not one to waste the privacy Faramir had just granted him, and he hurriedly drew the trousers on, standing quickly to pull them up. The shirt followed swiftly, and, breaking with his usual routine, he snatched his belt from the trunk beside his bed and hastily buckled it before he sat down to pull his boots on. Safely attired, if not quite fully dressed, he turned to consider his brother's back as he began collecting the rest of his clothing: mail, overtunic, jerkin, sword-belt, and cloak. The chain mail went on first over the shirt, and though it was an awkward affair to struggle into the garment, Boromir had worn it too often to get caught in it, and he quickly settled it, adjusting the thin leather padding that lined the shoulder region. It was a poor concession to a very relative measure of comfort, but after so many years of sleeping in the stuff when necessary, Boromir scarcely heeded the weight. And Faramir, hearing the telltale chink! turned slowly from his contemplation of a candle to watch him once more.

It was a strange feeling that that quiet scrutiny aroused, and Boromir fought with the sensation that he stood exposed. Somehow, it felt indecent to face his brother when he still had not all of his clothes on, even if they had often seen each other in less than this. How truth known in full doth change things! Boromir would have given much to know what thoughts passed through Faramir's mind at that moment, but he could not ask for fear of what he might discover. There was something in that clear-eyed gaze that whispered of intimate familiarity with all that Boromir was, and more, of some weighty pronouncement yet untold. Boromir felt himself examined, touched upon and turned about, taken apart by the mind behind those eyes, seen through and through; and it struck him of a sudden that what he felt now was likely close kin to his brother's discomfort under Boromir's too ardent gaze. Oddly, the thought seemed to calm him somewhat, though he knew not why it should, and he returned Faramir's stare as steadily as he could whilst he continued to dress himself.

"How shall you go, Boromir? Through Rohan to the Gap, or northward first, to try to find a way through the high passes on this side of the mountains?" Faramir asked, breaking the silence.

"Through Rohan and the Gap. The region between Mirkwood and the mountains is little known, but the maps give the land a treacherous reputation," Boromir replied, fastening the clips and ties that held the jerkin shut. "Eriador is at least said to be flatter."

"I see. And is there aught that I may do to help in the time left? Return books?" A pause, then, "Give your farewells to our father?"

"Never jest about that!" Boromir said, rather more sharply than he had really intended. With a shake of his head, he sighed. "And I do not ask that of you, for I fear our father would but resent the messenger the more." Boromir paused, half-expecting Faramir to respond, but his brother said naught, only nodded thoughtfully. Cocking his head at the other as he finished with the jerkin, Boromir decided that tact was wasted at this late hour. "Why came you here this morning?" He asked bluntly, buckling his sword-belt on.

"To see you," Faramir replied, eliciting a rather perplexed look from Boromir. "To watch you dream, and see you once more without a wall between us. To relearn the reasons that I fear you not."

"You were here all night?"

"Much of it," the other admitted. Once within his brother's room, Faramir had spent the night pacing slowly and silently, pausing now and again to watch his brother for long spells. It had been many years since he had had the opportunity to observe Boromir like that—since Faramir had been ten, or even younger, for Boromir had soon moved into another room. And later, he had been assigned to the various companies, of course, and was rarely at home. But I remember watching him when my dreams banished all rest, he thought. More, that peculiar habit of youth had remained with him throughout his life. Faramir rarely slept through the night, for even had he not the watch to supervise at times, he found it helpful to watch others sleep. A commander could learn much of those who served him by such nocturnal observation: the troubles of the day tended to show in faces no longer concerned to guard themselves, and in the insomnia of some, while others slept like dead things as if fearful to wake. Whereas by day, a man's pride refused to admit to limits, by night Faramir found it easy to judge who could be pushed further, and who hovered close to collapse. Sometimes men would come out of their nightmares, and finding Faramir awake, would even speak to him about them, for his own reputation as a dreamer was an abiding one. Over the long years, in fact, the idiosyncrasy had become something of a company tradition, and only the newcomers were surprised to learn that their captain served as counselor at need. But after a few months or years, even the wariest eventually sought him out, for all knew that his discretion was absolute and that he would not laugh at the images that came to the sleeping mind. For his part, Faramir treasured such encounters; they were a way of knowing another, one that required only a willingness to watch first and then to listen, and it helped Faramir to better understand the needs of his flock of soldiers.

As for Boromir, Faramir had been relieved that his brother had slept soundly last night, although to one accustomed to gauge the mood of dreamers, there had been an edge of uneasiness to his repose that was telling. I know not if he shall ever truly be free of this, nor how the events of the past ten days shall shape his path from now until the end, Faramir thought worriedly. What pride he has, I fear, may cover over a despair of self, and who knows whether it always has? That brashness that others saw in him, that willingness to stand ever in the path of destruction… might it not be a way of inviting death? And if so, then after this week, I doubt not that his control may slip… he may misjudge the danger that he is to himself, thinking that he knows already the worst. But brother mine, you have not even begun to plumb those depths, for you have a good heart and I think in one sense you know not the meaning of the word, 'worst.' For what you see as the worst of yourself is born of love, and not merely of lust. Such were the thoughts that had come to him during the course of the night as he had kept watch, and he wondered how long he had harbored the seeds of his doubts and observations, for they had come forth fully formed, with no hesitation, as if in some secret recess of his soul he had long tended them. I only wish I knew the depths to which I could sink, for then I might know whence come such thoughts. For one must carry darkness within one to understand it fully!

How to convey all that to Boromir was a problem he still had not solved, and Faramir felt a touch of desperation himself. His brother was not one to put much stock in theory, but there was only so much that Faramir could do, and still he could not be certain whether what he would do would do more harm than good. Boromir was watching him now, with that look in his eyes that said he knew not what passed through his younger brother's mind, but knew nonetheless that it was serious. After a moment longer, Boromir asked, "You say… 'reasons that you fear me not.' What mean you by that?"

"That I needed to remember them, and that I have. Last night, you said that if we could find some way to prove my commitment, that perhaps we might have a chance regain what we lost."

"Yes…" Boromir replied, and wondered at his brother's words. Has he truly spent the night thinking of that? It was a possibility, for Faramir was tenacious and not one to leave an idea half thought out. Still, he could not imagine what test they might make of his brother's heart.

"We neglected, however, to say aught of you, Boromir," Faramir continued, arching a brow at him. "Beneath and behind all your words, you also fear to love me, and that anxiety remains with you, even in sleep. Is that not so?"

Boromir frowned, scrutinizing his brother's face, seeking some sign of whither he would go with this inquiry, but Faramir had his mask in place, confounding his efforts. "I fear to hurt you, Faramir… to… to dirty you, somehow," he replied, painfully and looked away as he spoke. Not that that helped overmuch, for Faramir simply moved with him, intent upon remaining in his field of vision.

"But that is a part of how you love me, and much though you or I might wish it, can you begin to untangle what is now firmly bound together?" Faramir asked rhetorically, for they both knew the answer. "So, if you cannot learn to tame that fear, then we shall never truly be reconciled, any more than if I fail to tame mine. We have learned too well to despise ourselves, Boromir. That is father's true legacy to us both!" The younger man said bitterly.

"The case is different, though! I should not love you thus, Faramir. Father was correct in that at least!" Boromir protested, unable to fathom that his brother now seemed to defend what had repulsed—indeed, what must still repulse—him.

"But you do, and if father could not bleed that out of you with his words, then nothing shall! You know that, or why else have you so carefully hidden your desire for so long? And if you have spent so long learning to hold it in check, then what matters it now that I know your secret? Why, indeed, should I fear that you love me?" Faramir asked, and watched as Boromir seemed to rock back on his heels a bit before the intensity of that sharp inquiry. "Why should you fear to love me, knowing that you will never act upon what you feel?"

"Perhaps because I am not so certain of myself as you seem to think!" Boromir managed hoarsely, shaking his head. "Do you know how hard it is to have you so near? To touch you or to stand at your side? To listen to you read poetry? I dream of you, Faramir…!"

"And I have dreamt of you as well," his brother replied, which sent a ripple of shock through Boromir. "What of that?"

"Not as I dream of you, I think," Boromir challenged.

"I dreamt that you lay with me, and touched me… as you would have touched your lover," Faramir responded, watching his brother's incredulous reaction. "And though I found no pleasure in that dream, neither has it sullied me, as you put it."

"Valar, I do not need to hear this!" Boromir murmured, folding his arms across his chest as he turned away, overwhelmed by a number of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he could not accept what Faramir now told him, for such revelations and considerations only muddied already dark waters further. On the other, there was such sincerity in his brother's manner that he could not doubt that what he said now came from the conjunction of heart and head, mind and soul, and he was truly glad that Faramir at least seemed to have made peace with Boromir's unnatural passion. And in amid relief and confusion, there was a sort of desperate hope, a flutter of desirous anticipation that yearned to make itself felt, to break free for a moment of the shackles Boromir had set upon it. No! I may not allow that! But as Faramir came once more to stand before him, he realized that it might not be a question of "may" but only of "can": Can I hold this within me if he continues on as he does? To which the answer came back resoundingly: I know not!

"If you would not have me turn from you, then do not hide from me, Boromir!" Faramir said, seeming almost angry with him. "You said that you would have me learn to love you once more, but how can I do so if by your actions and words you tell me that you find nothing of worth in yourself? I have never wanted to pity you, Boromir, but you shall drive me to it if you will not face me!" That stang something to life, and Boromir frowned as he jerked his glance up to his brother's face once more and his spine stiffened. "Better!" Faramir murmured. "Now tell me: what do you want of me? If I can give it, I shall."

"And if you cannot?" Boromir queried, cocking a brow at the other. "What then?"

"If I cannot, I shall tell you and let you judge whether I have failed the test," the other replied.

What do I want of him? What a question! The innumerable fantasies that the mind could spin out in an instant assailed him, but he irritably brushed them aside. Fantasy I have had, and dreams as well, but he asks not after those! What would I have of him, here and now, in waking life where dreams should have no hold? That was a far more difficult decision to make, and for a moment, Boromir despaired of finding an answer. I must leave, and soon! Who knows but that all of Gondor depends upon the words of that rhyme, and yet I stand here and waver over so simple a question! It seemed a gross injustice to all concerned, and certainly it ought to be beneath him to hesitate like this when he knew that duty lay just outside his doorstep. But he was held to his spot by the look on Faramir's face, by the steadiness in those grey eyes that nevertheless seemed fierce. Boromir blinked, recognizing in that ferocity a protectiveness that he was not accustomed to see directed towards him. Almost always before, it had been he who had protected Faramir, and certainly he had few peers to whom to turn for shelter. None, in fact, for it is not my place to let others defend me, he thought, and felt a sort of sigh escape him as, without quite intending it, he reached out and traced the line of his brother's face from temple to chin with a gentle fingers. "For years, I feared you would scorn me if ever you discovered my desire. And here you stand, willing to give me whatever I wish… save one thing only!" He smiled, dropping his hand to his brother's shoulder. "I shall not ask you for that. How could I, after our words last night? I should be content with what I have."

"Are you, though?" Faramir asked, suspicious of the subjunctive.

"Will you never cease to ask me questions?"

"Only when I have my answer!" Boromir considered his brother another long moment, still not quite able to believe that they could even discuss this at all. And it may be our last discussion for a long while! I would not end it on an ill note… but neither would I end it with uncertainty. That would be a torment indeed, the long road with naught but doubt to return to in the end. In the mean time… A long journey alone…

"I would have something to remember you by," Boromir said at last, and then gave a slight smile. "And I would have you choose it, whatever it is!" Now let us see what he says!

Faramir frowned slightly, but in consideration, rather than in disconcertion, it seemed. And it seemed to Boromir, as he watched his brother's eyes flick over his face, that the other was not surprised, either. As if he expected me to somehow turn him aside thus, he thought, and wondered suddenly if he had been outmaneuvered. And if so, how badly? All night he has had to think of this…! But Boromir had not known himself what he would do, so how could Faramir possibly anticipate him? To which the nagging voice of reason replied: He knows you too well! How many times have you seen it? He and father are alike in their ability to know a man's heart better than its owner knows it!

"I shall return your book for you," Faramir said then, and Boromir blinked, thrown off by the non sequitor. "But before I do, tell me, do you recall this one: "'But once, my love, for life is swift! and death doth win the days…'?"

"'Taste my love but once, my love, and kiss me once for always,'" Boromir finished the quotation and found himself staring once more at Faramir. It was certainly a poem that had caught his eye, and further proof of his brother's uncanny ability to judge him. And although he was almost certain that he knew the other's intent, a part of him simply could not believe it. "Faramir…?" He asked, trailing off, awaiting something more solid than a half-suggestive poetical reference.

"So… kiss me once, brother. One time, as you would… and so remember me," Faramir replied softly, coming to stand close, and try as he might, Boromir could detect no play in his voice. He is in earnest! Words crowded on the tip of his tongue—exclamations, questions, confusion—but the look in the other's eyes stilled them all. If I do this… shall I be able to stop there? Just one kiss… at once everything I could ask for, and yet so much less than I would wish! Almost as much a temptation as a satisfaction! In the end, though, whatever his doubts, it was not really a decision, nor even a question: he would kiss him. So, although incredulity still held his heart suspended, Boromir reached out with one hand and drew a fingertip down Faramir's body, til he settled first one hand and then the other just above his brother's hips. His brother's eyes followed the caress, but he did not prevent it, and so Boromir leaned slowly forward. Still Faramir did not flinch, nor draw away even when his brother paused, as if to give him the chance to do so. And since he did not, Boromir did kiss him, very carefully: just a light kiss on the mouth as if to test the other's resolve. Or my own! But neither of the brothers wavered. Warmth seemed to flood through Boromir as his heart remembered to beat once more, and his eyes closed of their own accord as he risked a little more pressure, a little more insistence, deepening the kiss. He could feel the rasp of the other's beard against his own, and Faramir hesitated only a second before he yielded to the flick of his brother's tongue against his lips, opening his mouth slightly. As Boromir reached up then to catch hold—gently, mindful of the bruises—of his brother's face with both hands, he felt Faramir clutch his arms as if to steady himself, and to his delight, he felt the other begin now to return the kiss rather than simply allow it.

Never before had Boromir been so aware of another in all his infinite particularity, or of the pleasure that could come of such visceral knowledge. Faramir was too tall for Boromir to draw him against him as they kissed, and he could not be certain in any case whether the other would be receptive to such an embrace; but as ever, Boromir was very conscious of the contours of the lean, wiry body that hovered tantalizingly close. Faramir's scent filled his nostrils, filled his mouth so that he could taste him with every breath; the texture of his skin beneath Boromir's callused hands proved an unexpectedly sensual tactile stimulus; and the feel of his pulse throbbing against Boromir's fingertips measured out moments of eternity—a subtle vibration that stirred the two of them, and set them to resonate with each other it seemed. Faramir accidentally drew his tongue across Boromir's lower lip, reopening that cut, but though the younger man tensed somewhat, he did not withdraw at the taste of blood. For his part, Boromir felt the slight sting only added another dimension of feeling to the moment: after all the pain of the past ten days (or indeed, of the past twenty years of silent, hopeless adoration) the hurt seemed not unfitting. It felt right, and perhaps his brother sensed that; it was, after all, his blood as well—the blood of the stewards of Gondor, shed so often for others and now, just once, shed solely for and by one beloved. Just one kiss…! For Boromir doubted not that his brother had meant what he said: there would be no other time, and any kiss subsequent to this must never be as between lovers. So small a gesture, and yet the measure of all that Boromir held dear… But once indeed, my love!

He felt one of the hands on his arm free itself to touch his face, a caress as careful as the mouth that responded to his need, and more hesitant at that, but there and real. There was a certain curiosity in that touch, as well, and he felt a pang as Faramir's fingertips gently explored the curve of a cheekbone, then drifted back to push a long strand of dark hair behind Boromir's ear ere they wandered down the side of his neck and came to rest eventually on his chest, just over his heart. He recognized that touch, remembered it with painful clarity, but somehow, the gesture was transformed when Faramir did it, becoming a sign and seal of forgiveness rather than a memory of shame. He knew not what alchemy his brother practiced, but whatever it was, it struck something deep, and Boromir gave a whimper (there was no other word for it) as he eased back from his brother at last and more abruptly than he might wish.

Shaky, overwhelmed, and uncertain whether he stood now on the verge of tears or laughter, he gazed at the other whose face he still held gently cupped in his hands. Faramir's eyes remained closed, and his breathing was none too steady either… and he had never been more beautiful to Boromir. After a moment, his brother ran his tongue along his lips and swallowed hard, opening his eyes to gaze into his brother's. Obsidian, they seemed, for there was but a thin ring of grey to distinguish iris from pupil, and Boromir tenderly brushed a dark lock from the other's face and ran his fingers back through his brother's hair. "Can you forgive me?" For what, he did not say, nor could he have said had he been asked, but it seemed not to matter.

"I forgave you yesterday," Faramir replied simply, managing a slight smile. And there was something so very endearing in the expression that accompanied those words that Boromir automatically started to lean forward again. But this time his brother did step away, if only slightly, and the hand on his chest pressed harder to hold him back. "Once, and for always," he reminded him, but there was no reproof in his voice. In fact, Boromir fancied he heard a touch of remorse, but quickly dismissed the idea.

"Romantic!" He growled instead, chucking him under the chin ere he released his brother fully, forcing himself to put the moment behind him.

"Terribly, I suspect," Faramir agreed with a self-conscious laugh, folding his arms across his chest. But then he sobered and said, "Be careful, Boromir! For Gondor needs you here to lead her. And," he added, exhaling slowly, "I need you as well."

Boromir only nodded, unable to formulate a response past the sudden constriction of his throat, and he berated himself for the lapse in his self-control. Going to the window, he stooped and retrieved his baggage, slinging his pack over one shoulder and his horn over the other. Faramir came and took the saddle bags, twining the straps about his left wrist and hand, and for a moment, they stood, watching each other. Then Boromir smiled, and clapped his brother on the shoulder as he said softly, "I will remember," and meant more than just Faramir's latest words.

"So shall I!" His brother responded, and then led the way out of the door…

***

… as Denethor turned away from the palantír and felt the fissures in the ice of his self-control widen. Leaning his head in his hand, he bitterly cursed fate even as he strove to suppress the disgust that welled up within him. And so they have decided, it seems! Well that Boromir shall be gone, but I doubt that that shall change aught! He had not been able to hear what his sons had said to each other—the Seeing Stones were precisely that, unless two stones were aligned to permit their users to communicate—but the sentiments seemed damnably clear. A brief moment he wondered whether he ought not to have sent Faramir after all, but when he had made his decision, it had seemed that Faramir was the safer of the two. And in truth, if the journey is hard, Boromir is better suited to it. Whatever my fears, Gondor must have answers if it is to survive! Even in his despairing disappointment, the needs of the realm came first, before any personal consideration. But that did not mean that Denethor would ever forget that intimate scene. I have fought for so long to hold back the darkness, and yet it pervades our very bodies! Curse you both for weaklings and worthless! But there was naught that he could do without rousing suspicion as to the source of his knowledge. And given that it was Faramir who remained, there was also the remote—but not incalculable—possibility that he might realize the steward's own guilt.

And so I say nothing, and since I shall need Faramir to serve in his brother's stead, I can make certain he has no time to fall any further. As for Boromir… at least I can depend upon his loyalty to Gondor to drive him back to me when the errand is done! Ah, my son, alas for the blood in your veins! With a soft sigh, Denethor stood and veiled the palantír once more, and as he went slowly down the stairs, he could not help but feel that he descended into the muck and grime of a world in chaos. Laugh if you will, Sauron, at this tragedy of a family! However tainted, we can still stand, and we shall! To the last throw… yes, though we have no hope left, whatever the fools below may say, we continue to the last toss of the die!

***

Faramir tightened the straps that held the saddle-bags in place and gave the mare's neck an affectionate slap. The roan whickered at him, butting him gently in the stomach with her nose, hoping for a treat most likely. "Naught today, lass," he murmured, stroking the animal's long face. It had been a long and quiet walk down to the second circle, both of them preoccupied and a little uncertain of themselves. For his part, the taste of his brother's mouth and blood still lingered, and Faramir had let that flavor roll about his tongue, wondering what to make of what they had shared. He had not expected to enjoy it, not really, but for all that he still felt no attraction to his brother, it would be a lie to say that he had felt nothing in his brother's arms. For I do love him… and however disconcerting it might be to be the object of my brother's very passionate attention, I suppose in the end that I am curious enough—and possessive enough!—to want to know what he is like in love. Faramir had tried to make his own kiss everything he would have wanted to share with his brother, though that fell short of what Boromir might want. But I did not flinch, and I shall cherish the memory. My first kiss… he thought, and smiled slightly at how strange that sounded. But for all that, I think I am glad that it was he who gave it me, though I know not why I should feel thus. Perhaps because it was his brother, someone he knew and trusted, which might be much more than he could say of any woman his father might choose for him to marry. Romantic! Boromir had accused, and Faramir was rather surprised that it had never occurred to him to see himself thus. I had no reason to do so, he thought. Another thing to think about, assuming I have the time…

Boromir grunted then, giving the cinch a sharp tug and nodding his satisfaction as he slung his shield across his back. So the quest for Imladris begins! And though it had to end in parting, I wish I were going as well! For now that the moment drew nigh, he was stricken with the feeling that he had to say all, and he bit his tongue against the temptation to babble on like an idiot. His brother joined him at the mare's head, lead rein in one hand, and he, too, gave the horse's nose a pat, but his eyes were on Faramir. "Can you face Denethor?" Boromir asked, rather abruptly.

"If I must, then I shall. And since I must, you need not fear overmuch," Faramir replied by way of reassurance, and possibly with more confidence than he felt. Boromir nodded, apparently satisfied with his answer.

"Tell him then…" his brother paused, seeming to marshal his thoughts, trying to pick just the right words. "Tell him I have gone. And tell him… tell him I shall not forget Gondor's need. In that he may always rely on me." Faramir did not miss the unspoken implications, nor the regret and hurt that still clung to those words, but he said naught, only nodded in his turn. The sun was creeping now over the gloom of the Ephel Duath, and in the courtyard without, shadows sprang up as the light stole over the city. Few people as yet were about, and the stable yard was still quiet as Boromir glanced over his shoulder at that lighted square, hesitating. "Faramir…" he began as he turned back, and then could say no further. For Faramir, in that brief space, stepped around the horse and without asking or warning, caught his brother's head to still him and kissed him again: once on the mouth, a swift but not insubstantial kiss, and then another, more lingering one on the forehead. Farewell it was, after the custom of Gondor, but more than that. A promise of chaste love, and if it was not that of one who would share Boromir's every touch, it was still more than mere fraternal affection. For though we are brothers, we are somehow more than that. I know not what to call it, and perhaps it is unique in all the world—I know not! Nor do I care! Faramir thought.

"Strength for the journey," he said softly, even a bit shyly. "Be at peace, Boromir!"

Boromir blinked swiftly, and a look of wonderment crossed his face as he risked a quick caress of his brother's cheek. "Beg nothing from him," he murmured. "Nothing! And so let Denethor learn the measure of your worth!"

"I shall not."

"Good. Come then, if you will, for I can tarry no longer." Faramir walked his brother out of the stables, through the great gates that led to the first circle. From there, it was not a long distance, compared to the rest of the walk, to the gates of the first circle and the fields of the Pelennor. Boromir swung up into the saddle, and the mare snorted, eager to be off, but the steward's heir held her steady a moment longer. "Wish me luck!"

"Good luck!" Faramir replied obediently. Boromir gave him a quick smile, and then tugged the reins to turn the horse.

"Ha! Go!" And horse and rider were off, heading north-west to the Anórien gate and seeming to try to out-race the rising sun. Faramir heaved a soft sigh, and tried to ignore the dread that came to sit upon his chest. I shall see him again… of that I am certain, so why this fear? Tearing his eyes from the west, he turned now to the tower that rose glittering in the dawn's light. Put it aside, Faramir… you have work to do, and it is only just begun! And as he resolutely began the long march upwards, from over the fields came the clear sound of a horn, and he smiled as others answered from the walls.

********

But once, my love, for life is swift! And death doth steal the days!

Taste my love but once, my love, and kiss me once for always!

The tale is told, the dance is done, the web is now unspun.

Time lays low the mountains high and cleaves now two from one.

So rest, my love, my silent love, and speechless though I be,

Forsake me not but once my love, dim not thy memory!

And yet my tongue grows weary now, and cannot shape thy name,

Forsake me not still, o my love, and on my lips at last remain!

--Silvaríel of Arnor

***

Note to my readers:

"From the Other River Bank" is my first foray into the slash genre; whether it is my last, I do not know at this point. But in either case, I didn't write it without some fairly specific goals in mind. One of them I mentioned in the Author's Note, but I thought I'd share my motivations with you, as well as clarify a point that's come up (always very politely, for which I thank you all) a number of times in reviews and e-mails.

As I said in the Author's Note, one of the main reasons for writing this story was to infuse (carefully and not without trepidation) a convincing backdrop for a homosexual relationship into LoTR while still respecting the integrity of the canon, both in characterization and chronological detail. That's why I haven't labeled this an AU: I don't want it to be an outright AU or to be judged as such. I aimed for a solid "missing scenes" story that would be a plausible set up for the events of LoTR, but from a standpoint dealing with homosexuality. Whether I have succeeded or not is up to the individual reader to decide; I'd like to think I've taken my best shot, and though I may continue to tweak some of the details (references to Saruman had to be redone, for example, when I realized Saruman's treachery was revealed six days after Boromir had already left Minas Tirith. Oops!), on the whole, I doubt the story will undergo major revisions.

Slash writing interests me primarily because it reminds me that heterosexuality is not the only way to love someone else, and especially with male-male relationships, it opens a whole range of feeling and interaction that is normally suppressed for fear of misinterpretation. Since slash by its nature is an interpretation (and only an interpretation, as may be said of all other fanfic), that inhibition is removed. Slash to me is also a very political form of writing, and not because of any desire (or lack thereof) on the part of its authors to make it political. It simply is thus because what it is dictates where it stands in relationship to the so-called norm, i.e., heterosexual pairings. To me, that makes it a perfect match for LoTR, where the characters are not heroes because they want to be, but because who they are dictates their responsibilities at a given point in time. In this particular story, I might also borrow the phrase "the personal is political" to describe some of what happens in Gondor's capital. Granted, all of this is my own opinion and you are not obligated to share it in any way; but since it is my opinion, I can't see this story having a point if I'm not perfectly frank with you about it. It's an internal standard of consistency between author and work, if you will. I think slash, given its position in fanfic, deserves to be taken very very seriously on a number of levels, and I hope I've done this much maligned genre justice with "From the Other River Bank."

Other reasons for this story's existence are a bit less weighty. Personally, I like a challenge, but not just any off-the-wall challenge. I could easily come up with a tale where Aragorn smokes pot (funny how all the movie-goers seem to twitter at references to "weed" and "leaf") and dreams about having sex with Boromir. I could have Boromir make love to Faramir after the bridge of Osgiliath collapsed out of sheer gratitude for being alive. I could have Legolas make out with Treebeard, and how's that for a weird pairing? The ultimate expression of an Elf's love of the trees! But that's not really a challenge, since it's just me letting my imagination wander off the deep end. Maybe someone else could make that work, but that would then properly be someone else's task and not mine. And then, of course, there's the absolute dearth of Faramir stories out there, which is really a shame because he's so eminently writeable. Put him together with Boromir and it's killing two birds with one stone, since neither of them get the attention they deserve. Stick Denethor in there as well, and you've essentially shot a whole flock of birds, given that Denethor isn't all that popular in any sense of the word.

Finally, I get asked/get comments about the fact that I wrote about incest. For the record, I did not write an "incest story." No, I'm not related to Bill Clinton, either. Honestly, when I began this, the idea was not: "Let's write a story about brothers who fall in love with each other." Boromir and Faramir coincidentally are related to each other in a very integral way, but the deeply affectionate bond that they seem to have enjoyed strikes me as quite singular: it's undeniably related to and grown out of their brotherhood, but somewhere along the way, I think it transcends the ties of blood and fraternity even while remaining based in them. The only other story I can think of where I find this to be the case is "Advantages of Mortality," a very brief exploration of Elladan and Elrohir. I owe Amy Fortuna a huge debt of retrospective gratitude for proving with that story that not only was LOTR slash possible, but that it could be done well, tastefully, and believably. "From the Other River Bank" wasn't even a glimmer in my eye at that point, but once I started writing it, it helped to have in the back of my mind another brother/brother pairing that (in my opinion at least) worked beautifully and gave me a benchmark for my own work.

I also owe ElizChris, Gayle M, Hildegard Holmes and Caerulea many thanks for their critiques and wonderful correspondence. They doubtless will recognize this "Note" as having sprung from our e-mail conversations, and I hope they will forgive me for using the material that came out of those (very fruitful) exchanges.

Thanks for letting me write!

--Dwimordene

back to Part I - V
back to Part VI - X