Concept: making Faramir laugh
What a lovely concept indeed....Sorry couldn't help but write something inspired by this.
No one could make Faramir laugh as heartily as Boromir. He had a way with his brother; with only a few words, they would both be doubled over, gasping for breath. Boromir’s laugh was boisterous and loud, the sort of sound that seemed to build in his chest before bursting free. And if he caught Faramir just right, the younger would let out a breathless snort. That was something his elder brother would never allow him to forget.
It was often worse beneath the watchful eye of their father. Before the boys had grown into men, they would find themselves tangled in the humor of childhood even in the most serious of settings. In their father’s chambers, where the lords of Gondor gathered to discuss matters of state, Boromir would provoke Faramir without mercy. He would mimic their father’s grave tone, nodding solemnly along to the droning speeches. It would send Faramir into silent fits. He would press his lips tight and refuse to look at his brother’s exaggerated expressions, and if he was particularly stubborn, he might elicit a sharp, betraying exhale.
The moment Denethor’s disapproving gaze settled upon them, Boromir would clear his throat and resume his composure, standing tall and dutiful as though nothing had passed between them.
After losing Boromir, Faramir laughed far less. Not by choice, he simply had no reason to. He missed his brother, and grief had drawn him into deep, slow waters of melancholy. The halls felt quieter without that booming laugh to shake the stone. And you missed the sound desperately.
A few times, you brought it to him gently.
“I just miss your smile,” you would say, your voice soft as dusk.
Faramir, of course, would smile then, brushing aside your worries as though they were no heavier than dust. He would kiss the concern from your lips and trace the curve of your cheek with his knuckle.
Faramir had a way of mending almost anything. His voice, warm and low, would steady you as always.
“I smile every time you grace my thoughts.”
His great grey eyes would hold yours, their corners turning upward into soft crescents that gleamed beneath the torchlight.
It was hard to say anything beyond that. His words were always sweet, no matter how heavy his heart felt. And yet they did little to quiet your concern. The matter rested, though little changed. Your time within the White Tower left you little leisure for hobbies that did not serve your duties.
Swordplay was certainly not among your strengths.
Still, you loved watching him in the training yard of Minas Tirith.
Faramir moved effortlessly. Fluidly. As though the blade was not forged metal but an extension of his very hand. He wore only his trousers; the hems darkened with damp earth. Summer storms had softened the ground, but the moment the sun broke through the heavy clouds he had returned to his drills. The light struck against his bare skin, turning it warm and red beneath its gaze. Sweat beaded along his brow; he wiped it away with the cloth tucked into his waistband.
When he turned for water, his eyes found you.
He beckoned you closer with a small wave and a tilt of his head. “My love,” he greeted warmly, his face brightening as you approached. He brushed sweat-darkened strands of hair behind his ear. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
You swung your leg over the rung of the gate.
And promptly caught your heel.
The metal snagged. Your balance shifted. There was a graceless flail and then—
The ground embraced you with an undignified squelch, soil clinging instantly to your sleeves and bodice. The fall bruised nothing but your pride.
Faramir was at your side in an instant.
But the earth, still slick from rain, betrayed him as well.
You yelped as he fell forward, though he caught himself on his hands just in time, bracing his weight above you. A splatter of mud streaked across his shoulder and cheek. For a suspended second, you simply stared at one another, wide-eyed and breathless.
“I suppose,” you breathed, fighting a grin, “you could say I have fallen for you.”
It began so quietly you almost missed it.
His lips pressed together, shoulders tightening as though he meant to contain it. His composure, that careful, captain’s composure trembled visibly.
The sound seemed to surprise him more than it did you. His eyes widened faintly before warmth overtook them entirely. The huff broke open into something fuller, rounder — and suddenly he was laughing.
One muddy hand slid around your waist, pulling you close as his shoulders shook. He bent forward, forehead nearly touching yours, laughter spilling free and unguarded. It was brighter than you remembered. Richer. Alive.
“What a way with words, my love,” he managed between breaths.
He tried, he truly tried to regain himself, but another snort betrayed him, and that only sent him into renewed laughter. You felt it in the way he held you, in the way his fingers curled tight as though anchoring himself to the moment.
And for an instant, only an instant, he looked younger. Lighter.
Not untouched by grief but not buried beneath it either.
He wiped a streak of mud from your cheek with his thumb, still smiling, breath uneven. The sound lingered between you, softer now, dissolving into quiet giggles and shared breath.
How dearly you had missed it.
How dearly you loved being the cause.
