Faramir Fiction Archive

Legacy (NC-17)

Written by Carla Jane

30 March 2004 | 95430 words

Éowyn had always considered herself a practical girl. Magic and legend were not subjects that she had given much consideration to until recently, until her discovery of Denethor’s hidden room. However, if their king and father was willing to use unsavoury methods to secure his kingdom and satisfy his own desires who was Éowyn to dismiss those same methods. Yesterday’s announcements meant that within a matter of days life was going to become intolerable. Éowyn was certain that her father was going to expect her to replace Boromir in the royal bed. Her beloved brothers were going to be torn away from her. Boromir would be given something that Éowyn was convinced that he should never, ever have.

A complete upset was in order. Most importantly… Denethor would have to die. He was old enough that an unexpected illness wouldn’t be completely unlikely. Still, before Éowyn could consider using the poison she had tucked away, the line of succession would have to be altered. If Faramir were to achieve the throne of Gondor when Denethor died rather than Boromir, Éowyn was certain that the younger of the two brothers would give the Riddermark back to Éomer. Faramir would make sure she and Éomer would be given their due. The same could not be said if Éowyn and Éomer were forced to bend their knees to stern Boromir upon the old king’s death.

Of course, deciding that she needed to remove Boromir from the line of succession and making it happen were two entirely different things. So it was that Éowyn firmed up her courage and crept into the most secret room in all of the White Tower, a place she wasn’t supposed to know existed. There was a book in Denethor’s hidden study that held the solution to Éowyn’s problem if she dared to use the information she had learned over the last few years. If the careful lines of ink were to be believed, Éowyn was a short chant away from calling a demon that would grant her fondest wish, a demon that had been bound to the service of the royal family of Gondor since the end of the last age.

If she was going to do this, now was the time. Denethor was out of the Tower for day, arranging some further bit of nonsense for Boromir’s birthday celebration no doubt. Éowyn might not get another chance to slip into this hidden room until it was too late, until after Boromir left to take possession of her and Éomer’s homeland. She sighed. Her breath stirred the air, causing dust motes to dance in the light of the magic globe that illuminated this small room. Summoning spirits was a huge risk. The book suggested that until Denethor had taken the throne the kings of Gondor had only used the demon in times of most dire peril. All the accounts, with the exception of the ones written in Denethor’s hand, warned that every time the monster was summoned it took away some vital bit of soul from the one who had called it. Still, considering what was at stake, this had to be done.

When she started the incantation that was written on the very first page of the ancient book, Éowyn’s tongue tripped over the old-fashioned dialect, but by the required third reading, the spell flowed like poetry. Called by her voice, a column of darkness formed in front of the young woman. That darkness slowly defined into the likeness of a man.

Burning eyes of complete black captured Éowyn. The gaze sliced into the very heart of her, baring every thought she had ever entertained. “You know not what you have called forth, you foolish little girl.” The demon’s voice was a low-toned whisper. “Even now I consider devouring you and leaving your bones strewn about the tower halls so the king will discover that you dared to summon me. Mayhaps if I do… he will guard the secret more closely from the rest of his children.”

Screwing her courage up, Éowyn tried to shout, although it came out with a squeak. “By Isildur, I command you.” The heavy book she held was thrust before her. “I summoned you and you must obey me, Aragorn son of Arathorn.” Éowyn’s tone steadied slightly as she used the creature’s name. If she didn’t look straight into the demon’s eyes she could envision him as a mere man, as if she knew any men who would wear a cloak that looked as if it were made of twilight shadows.

“Perhaps I could indulge you a whim.” He moved closer, a flowing action rather than a proper movement. The demon reached out to finger a bit of her long blonde hair. “I have grown too accustomed to the colours of the night. It is a pleasant change to see gold once again. I have forgotten how lovely a colour it is.” Releasing the strands he glanced about the dark room. “Although I am unimpressed by your choice of parlours, my dear. Denethor normally calls me when he out in the countryside. I much prefer that.”

Éowyn pushed forward with her wishes, suspecting it was a dangerous thing to exchange pleasantries with this creature of magic and power. “I have a task for you, Aragorn, slave of Gondor.”

“Of course you do.”

He smiled at her, an expression that should have been mild if it were not for the sparkle of malice Éowyn felt prickling under her skin. She took an uncontrollable step backward. “I need you to take someone away in such a manner that his father, the king, will not care to give pursuit.”

Aragorn paused, seeming to consider. The solid black of his eyes had melted away, leaving them a thoughtful blue-grey. One leather encased finger lifted to press against pursed lips, showing that the finger- tips of his gloves were missing and that his nails were blackened. “Do you wish this man dead? That would certainly dissuade anyone from expecting his return or pursuing him. Or would you prefer him simply disgraced and removed from Gondor?”

Killing him was too much. If Faramir were to ever discover that his sister had caused his beloved Boromir’s death his rage would be indescribable, besides which, Éowyn suspected that there was more hinging on the answer to that question than she could grasp. Glancing down at the heavy volume in her hands to steady herself once more, Éowyn recalled a line she had read near the beginning, a part of the instructions. “Tell me this, demon. If you take him away does he count as your payment? If you simply kill him… I am still obligated to pay you in another fashion or will his blood satisfy you? He’s part of the royal family, just as I am.”

“The pretty girl is also clever.” The compliment hissed out. “Another of the royal blood. Yes. IF I find him acceptable to my tastes I suppose he could stand as payment for his own abduction.” The demon eased closer once more, looming over Éowyn. “But my tastes are particular and your near-innocence seems a very ripe prize to me at this moment, little girl, especially after years of dealing with Denethor’s sour essence.”

“BACK! By Isildur. Step back demon,” Éowyn ordered. “I would have you look on Boromir before you ask anything of me.”

“Boromir? Denethor’s o’ so beloved. Now you have intrigued me.” Aragorn’s right shoulder shifted, a fluid gesture, which was enhanced by the sheen of his silken tunic and cloak of shadows. “As my lady wishes.” One hand gestured absently and an oval of light appeared to float in the centre of the room.

Éowyn was delighted. She could not have hoped for better than the scene before them. Boromir was sparring in a brightly lit yard amid many other soldiers of castle guard and had been at it for quite some time by the looks of things. He was glistening with sweat and had discarded his shirt, confident that the practice yard was safely screened from the eyes of any proper-born women. The afternoon sunshine gilded Boromir’s half dressed form, turning his golden-brown hair into a crown. If the demon desired light to alleviate the darkness he was immersed in then Boromir had to be a powerful temptation at this moment. It was only when the vision expanded to show more of the picture that Éowyn felt a twinge of regret. Faramir was Boromir’s opponent. Both the brothers were a sight to behold. Éowyn’s regret increased to actual fear when a glimpse of the audience revealed that Éomer had recently taken his turn in the square and he was half-dressed and sweaty as well.

The demon seemed uninterested in the audience however. He tightened the view to concentrate on the full-blood brothers, both of whom were absolutely captivating as they sparred. Faramir’s normal reserve had no place in a sword fight, even if it was just practice. Every bit of his lean grace was on display. Nor did Faramir look scrawny and under-fed as he sometimes seemed in court garb. The fighting style that the brothers were currently using showed off Faramir’s coltish grace as well as Boromir’s more mature prowl.

The match ended moments later with Boromir forcing a move that exposed Faramir for a death blow but, of course, that strike never came. Instead, Boromir gathered his younger brother close to his chest and planted a kiss on the top of Faramir’s paler, strawberry-blond hair. Faramir beamed with pleasure at the sign of affection. Boromir grinned and ruffled his brother’s already messy locks. Releasing Faramir, Boromir paced over to a water trough and proceeded to dunk his own head and shoulders. The view in the portal shifted to focus on Faramir’s face and the unreserved worship that showed in his shining eyes.

“Very nice.” Aragorn commented, bringing the pair in the library back to the here and now. “Both of them are quite delicious and even by way of this reflection I can see that they adore one another. What a matched set they would make.” The magical window vanished and the demon turned his attention back to Éowyn. “Would you like me to take them both? If you wish to kill the old king and put your lovely brother on the throne, then sweet, innocent Faramir is a complication. He is Éomer’s elder by two moons I believe.” The demon displayed his knowledge of Éowyn’s mind carelessly. Those eyes, grown dark once more, bored into her. “Ah, I see. Faramir is a companion you wish to keep. You want to facture this empire Denethor has used me to build and divide the two pieces between the objects of your affection.”

“Take Boromir,” Éowyn demanded. “That grants my wish and pays you as well. That is the deal.”

Aragorn’s head bowed, allowing long dark brown hair to fall forward and hide his disturbing eyes. A curled fist touched his forehead in salute. “As you wish, lady of Gondor. I am, after all, enthralled by your family line so it seems only fitting that I whisk one of you away to my kingdom. The crown prince will be a welcome addition to my company.”

The combination of sweat and their brief rinse off had their shirts sticking to them, but they didn’t dare go without coverings as they travelled up through the White Tower. It would be scandalous for the king’s sons to be seen wandering about only half dressed. Faramir and Boromir headed for the heir’s suite. Of the two of them, it was Boromir who was expected to look the most presentable.

Just a few days remained until Boromir would be leaving for Rohan and both young men were trying to spend as much of that time together as was possible.

“We’ll have dinner sent up tonight.” Boromir led the way into his suite. “I’m not in the mood for the great hall this evening.” He strode straight through to the bedroom. “I’m not in the mood to share you tonight.”

“That’s fine with me.” Faramir lingered near the doorway while Boromir stripped down. The dunking they’d had in the trough had been a temporary measure. Warm water, soap and clean towels stood waiting.

Considering that he hadn’t taken very many hits during any of the practice bouts that he had fought, Boromir was marked with far more bruises than Faramir expected. Still, even with all the odd discolorations here and there on his body, Faramir found Boromir the very picture of beauty.

“We’ll stay in until bedtime. Don’t go to your afternoon lessons today, Faramir. I don’t want to lose a moment.” Boromir scraped the soapy washcloth over his chest and under his arms.

“Shall I stay the night?” Faramir’s voice was eager.

The question caused Boromir to pause, and to look over at his brother. “I have a meeting with father late tonight that I can’t miss.” Boromir’s excitement dimmed noticeably. “You’ll have to go back to your rooms then.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Faramir offered readily. “I’ll just read a book while you’re gone. It’s no bother.” Padding over, Faramir settled himself on the side of the bed. His gaze followed the movement of Boromir’s cleansing hands. He wiped at his own upper lip, feeling sweat build there despite his lack of activity. The thought of spending the night with Boromir was making his stomach clench up. He wanted desperately to be here, but Faramir wasn’t even sure of the reasons behind the fierce craving. It’s wasn’t like he hadn’t slept in his brother’s bed hundreds of times before.

Dropping the washcloth back in the basin, Boromir stared over at his brother. “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” he hedged. “And I’ll likely be bloody miserable company after father gets done with me.” The rest of the explanation tumbled over itself in its rush to emerge. “I mean… father has been in such a foul mood that he’ll likely spend the whole time snapping at me… conflicting orders… nonsense really, but I have to listen and then there’s those damned leaves he’s taken to burning in his hearth. That stuff gives me a raging headache.” Boromir stared at the floor. “Best you’re off to your own room come bedtime.”

“It’s no trouble,” Faramir persisted. His mouth was dry and it felt like his skin was too tight. The colour rising to Boromir’s cheeks was fascinating. Faramir found himself wanting to reach out and touch. It was strangely like the sensations that plagued him around pretty girls, only deeper in his gut. The feeling had clear overtones of how he had felt in the linen closet with Éomer and Níniel, the chamber-maid that Éomer had sweet-talked into relieving them both of their virginity a few months ago. It made no sense to Faramir that he should feel this way around his beloved brother, but it was undeniable and nearly painful. Perhaps his body was dreading their upcoming separation just like his mind was and this was the result. “Let me spend the night with you, Boromir,” Faramir whispered out.

The impassioned plea snared Boromir’s attention. Long moments passed while the brothers stared at one another in amazed silence.

“You don’t know what…” Boromir faltered, swallowing nervously. “You can’t realize how that sounds.” A clean shirt was seized and hastily dragged on. The fine material snagged and clung to still-damp skin. “Later,” Boromir finally managed. “We’ll decide later, before I leave to meet with father.”

“Boromir…” Faramir began, wishing he could explain himself but unsure of what exactly what happening between them.

“Read to me, Faramir,” His brother cut him off. Taking a deep breath, Boromir’s tone purposefully softened before he spoke again. “I want… I need… to burn the sound of your sweet tones into my mind. I need to take the memory of it to Edoras with me.”

A quake ripped through Faramir, making his voice shake. “New wine it is…” he quoted the ancient bit of prose in a husky imitation of his usual recitation tone, “… to hear your voice. I live for hearing it. To see you with each look is better than eating and drinking.” He stared up at Boromir. “I love you better than my own life. To linger forever at your side is all that I could desire.” He improvised the last two lines, confident that Boromir wouldn’t recognize the change. Boromir seldom bothered with anything resembling poetry.

“Faramir…” The name was almost a plea. “You’re not child anymore. You should mind your words more carefully or someone might mistake your intentions.

“There’s no one I love better than you, Boromir,” he persisted, rising to his feet and barely holding back from reaching out.

The elder sighed, his eyes strangely liquid in the diffuse light of the room. Arms crossed over his chest, the fists clenched. “Go get changed, my only love. Get some clean clothes on, then come back here. I’ll order us some lunch. We’ll play chess.” He retreated to an open window, making a show of looking out. “Off you go, poppet. Quicker gone, quicker back,” he used a pair of phrases that their mother had often employed.

The reminder of their shared childhood was like the splash of cold rain on Faramir’s face. “I won’t be long. I bring some books.” Stepping to the doorway was harder than moving underwater. “I’ll bring a nightshirt too.” Faramir turned and ran before Boromir could protest.

Wanting to choose a time and place that would allow for the largest possible audience, Aragorn waited until evening. At dinner he materialized in the shadows just inside the main entrance to the White Tower’s dining-hall.

Aragorn surveyed the scene laid out before him. The grand hall was at its most festive in honour of the upcoming celebration for Boromir’s twenty-first birthday. The place was full to bursting with visitors. King Denethor and three of his four children were already in place. Staff bustled all about the many long tables. Denethor’s middle son had just appeared in an archway and he was talking to young server. A hush settled over the assemblage as they awaited dinner. The situation was perfect.

The bit of shadow that Aragorn stood in seethed, spreading away from the doorway, extending fingers of twilight into the hall. The expanding darkness turned heads at every table. Almost everyone stilled, peering at the unnatural sight. Those few that weren’t confused into inaction reached slowly for weapons. A chill wafted out, making the crowd, who were dressed for a warm indoor evening, shiver and pull away.

Aragorn seemed a fragment of the darkness, broken off and given form when he finally stepped clear. The shadows at his back coalesced into a trailing cape. Aragorn approached the head table at a smooth glide, his soft soled boots absolutely silent on the stone floor. Torch-light caught and glittered against the only bit of silver decoration on his otherwise entirely black outfit. The white tree and stars of Gondor glinted on Aragorn’s chest. No one was close enough to see, but he left his eyes the pure black that betrayed his demon state. It would be enough, that even from a distance anyone who looked at Aragorn’s face would see something was wrong about him.

Guards were drawing weapons now, unsure, but fearful. Chair legs scratched at the floor. A few of the youngest ladies in the hall were making a sound somewhere between a whimper and a coo of admiration. Heads turned as Denethor rose to his feet.

Aragorn stopped before the king. The cloak that had flowed behind him swirled, tightened and settled into the shape of a proper cape. Aragorn smiled at the furious red hue Denethor’s face had turned.

“YOU!” The king bellowed out the word loud enough that every man, woman, and child in the hall flinched. Only Aragorn seemed unimpressed at the show of fury. “YOU have no right to be here in my halls, monster! Be gone with you,” Denethor dismissed him loudly, even as his hand rested on the hilt of his sword in silent warning. The king’s heirloom sword was one of the few weapons in Middle Earth that could harm Aragorn, given the right circumstances. This was not one of those circumstances, but Denethor had no way of knowing that.

“You are mistaken, Denethor,” Aragorn argued softly. Gasps of shock at the show of disrespect sounded all about the pair. “I come, as always, by direct invitation.” Aragorn couldn’t contain the smug smile that accompanied the news. “One of your offspring summoned me, as is the right of the royal house of Gondor.” He didn’t indicate Éowyn, but instead paced over until he could lean on the table directly in front of Boromir, purposefully giving the wrong impression.

Boromir’s shocked gaze shifted from his father to the stranger in front of him. His eyes widened and his breath gusted out as he looked up at Aragorn.

Seeing his son’s reaction to Aragorn’s overwhelming presence through a veil of jealousy and anger, Denethor was appalled. He roared and pulled his blade free to swing at the trespasser in his home. The sword passed through Aragorn as if through a creation of smoke, thus proving the demon’s claim that he was in Minas Tirith by invitation. Denethor’s lack of success turned the king’s face to an even darker shade of red.

“It is time, beautiful one.” Aragorn bent further forward, keeping Boromir’s gaze with his hypnotic, blackened eyes. The firstborn prince of Gondor seemed to strain upward even though he was still seated. Just as Boromir’s lips started to form a query about the intruder’s identity, Aragorn raised one hand. The gesture locked up Boromir’s vocal chords, silencing him. “Do not speak just now, beloved. What passes between us is no longer the concern of anyone here.” Another mere twitch of Aragorn’s fingers froze Boromir in place. A broader movement tossed Denethor back into his throne-like chair.

“Your son is weary of living under your command, King Denethor,” Aragorn chose his words carefully, skirting a fine line between truth and invention. “The duties you constantly demand him to perform strangle his spirit. He wishes to come away with me and be my lover instead.” Illustrating the assertion, Aragorn bent over the table, caught the front of Boromir’s heavily embroidered tunic. He hauled the prince up into a kiss.

“NO!” The denial screeched out from an unexpected source. Over near the rear entranceway to the hall, Faramir attempted to fight his way through the spellbound crowd. Just as the young man approached the centre of the commotion, Faramir bounced backward as his body hit the invisible barrier surrounding the scene.

“You lie.” Denethor’s denial was venomous, but far quieter than his son’s heartbroken wail. The broad-shouldered king trembled, fighting to arise, but he was trapped in his chair by the demon’s will. “You have bewitched Boromir. You lie. Every breath you take reeks of deceit. BOROMIR IS MINE! No one else has ever had him. No one ever will. He has always been mine. He will always be MINE! I demand you release him. You are my servant. You MUST do my bidding.”

Aragorn laughed, amused that in his anger the king had forgotten himself enough to reveal such secrets. “Not when it directly contradicts a previous instruction from another member of the royal family, my liege.” With inhuman strength he dragged the young man in question over the tabletop and into an embrace. The silence around them expressed the shock of the people in the dining hall. Not meeting resistance, the demon stole another kiss from the prince. This time the demon’s teeth were employed. Aragorn bit his own tongue before forcing Boromir’s lips to part and accept a blood-flavoured kiss. The effect of the demon’s blood was instantaneous. Boromir groaned low in his chest and clutched at Aragorn.

“NO!” Faramir’s second, more furious scream rang through the hall. The middle prince once again violently flung himself at the magical shield that held him back. “BOROMIR! No! Take your hands off my brother. BASTARD!”

Even as he kissed Boromir into submission, Aragorn watched the king from the corner of his eyes. Denethor’s fuming indignation crumbled into despair as he saw Boromir cling and grind his hips into Aragorn. Boromir was so completely captured that the prince wouldn’t even have bothered to breathe if Aragorn didn’t pull back briefly and require it.

Aragorn’s gloved hands threaded firmly into Boromir’s long hair. He cradled Boromir rather than forcing himself on the prince. Unforeseen images swirled about inside Boromir’s muddled consciousness, surprising Aragorn. It appeared that the prince found the arms he was now wrapped in far preferable to his only other lover. Aragorn was pleased to realize this seduction would not only be a pleasure to himself, but to Boromir as well. A quick probe from Aragorn showed the king’s mind shattering as he watched his insanely treasured lover swoon in another’s embrace.

“Come away with me, Boromir. I have a castle that is sorely in need of your warming light.” Aragorn’s stroking hands moved downward, mapping out shoulders and easing over muscle. “That is what you want, isn’t it my love?” The question was loudly spoken. “This is much more to your liking than the other bed you are normally bound to, is it not?” Aragorn held Boromir away so the reply would be just as clear.

Voice thick with a kind of arousal he’d never felt before in his entire life, Boromir begged without hesitation. “Yes. Please.” his hands caught at Aragorn’s clothing, attempting to drag their bodies back together. “Please.” The heavy black velvet bunched but didn’t tear. “More.” Boromir fought to kiss the other.

“Soon, beloved,” Aragorn soothed, petting. “We just need to bid farewell to your family.” His mouth quirked into a smile.

“Boromir!” Faramir was slamming the flats of his hands against the magical wall. “BOROMIR!” His voice rang through the entire feasting hall, a desolate, heart-broken sound.

The wail caused Boromir to blink. His beloved brother’s voice was the only thing that was able to penetrate the fog of lust blanketing his mind and Boromir begin to turn his face in Faramir’s direction. Aragorn quickly caught the lapse and thwarted his conquest’s distraction with another fleeting kiss. The new infusion of blood caused Boromir to sag against Aragorn’s support.

“NO! Boromir, stop!” Faramir’s body coiled and he battered himself against the shield.

Denethor showed no such emotion. The king merely slumped back in his chair and glowered at the display his eldest son was making of himself. Hatred and twisted jealousy were more obvious than fury on Denethor’s pinched features.

“Have you no blessing to bestow upon our union, my king? No sage words of fatherly advice to send your son on his way?” Aragorn taunted.

“Those…” Denethor’s upper lip curled. His chin lifted in an attempt at dignity. “Are not the actions of any son of mine. Take your whore and be gone from my city, demon. The one who invited you hence is no longer a member of the royal line. I deny Boromir. He is no son of mine. Your welcome is revoked.”

“FATHER! DO NOT!” Faramir wailed, plastering himself to the barrier. “Boromir, wake yourself from this spell.”

Still smiling, Aragorn gathered Boromir close, shrouding the prince within the massive billows of his black cloak. “As the royal house of Gondor commands me, I obey.”

As Aragorn vanished, so did his restraining magics. Faramir toppled forward to sprawl on his face. Denethor rose awkwardly out of his chair. It almost seemed as if lightning flashed about the king’s furrowed brow.

No one dared to speak for a long moment. Almost everyone in the hall was in shock at words that had been spoken and the events that had taken place before them.

One voice broke the silence. “Father.”

Faramir’s protest got no further. Éowyn, who had up to now been a silent witness, threw herself across the divide to gather her half- brother to her breast. “Hush Faramir. Do not antagonize him. Now is not the time. Father will strike you down,” Éowyn advised. She had a far better grasp of just how dangerous their father was at this moment.

“Dinner is over.” Denethor snarled and stormed out of the banquet hall. Silence remained in his wake.

Éomer, who had been merely an observer up until now, slowly climbed to his feet. One of the senior staff-members was beckoned close. “Have the people collect their food from the kitchens, one table at a time, and eat it elsewhere,” Éomer instructed in a whisper. “I do not know what that thing was… but best we put the guard on alert. Pass the word that Prince Boromir is…” Éomer hesitated. Next to father, Boromir was the highest ranking officer in the armies of Gondor. “Prince Boromir is compromised and should be brought to the king if he is located.”

It was a sign of the chaos spreading through the room that the man accepted the orders of a sixteen-year-old boy without a word of complaint.

Éomer’s attention shifted to where his sister clutched at Faramir, attempting to contain their half-brother. Waving his hand to get things moving, Éomer then paced over to his siblings. “We need to take this elsewhere,” he insisted in a low tone. Éowyn had hinted that something was going to happen before Boromir could be dispatched to the Riddermark, but this was unbelievable. He put aside his suspicions. This was not the time. “Come away, Faramir, let us remove ourselves to our room.”

“No.” Faramir shrugged roughly, attempting to free himself from Éowyn’s hands. “I have to find out who that was, WHAT it was, and where he took Boromir. I have to seek that thing out and help Boromir escape.”

“It did not look to me as if Boromir wanted to escape, dear one,” Éowyn countered. “He seemed rather, um, affectionate with the man.”

“It was a trick! It was a lie! Boromir would never…” Faramir freed himself violently and rose. “I will talk to father. I will find out what he knows. I WILL bring Boromir home. Just wait and see.”

“Father?” Faramir cautiously pushed open the door to his father’s office.

“Leave me be.” Denethor snapped out. It sounded as if he was on the far side of the room.

Faramir winced from the harsh tone but he refused to retreat, not considering what was at stake. Stepping just inside, Faramir pressed on. “Father, about Boromir?”

“I said GO AWAY!” Denethor kept his back to his son even as he shouted out the command. The king’s frame was rigid, but on the edge of a tremble. “I will not hear his name ever again.”

“You can’t mean to allow that… thing… to take Boromir from us without a fight.” Faramir edged into the room. “What was it, father? You spoke as if you recognized it.”

Denethor whirled about. A raft of parchment was swept from the small table near him by the swipe of one hand. “That creature may only enter Gondor by invitation.” Denethor’s expression was a mask of fury. “The invitation has to come from the king or his immediate heirs. Boromir must have summoned the demon. He brought it here by choice. He opened the very heart of this kingdom to it’s poison. HE HAS BETRAYED ME! It is unthinkable.”

Faramir’s head shook, not able to believe that Boromir was capable of going against their father’s wishes in anything. “But what is it?”

“A leech.” Denethor almost spat. “A thing of dark magic and corruption. A perversion. It is a weapon the kings of our land have used at need for the preservation and expansion of our kingdom. A creature I used too often it seems. It has become difficult to control over the last few years, but I never thought…” Stormy eyes slowly focused on Faramir, as if judging the young man. “You will learn of it soon enough. When you come of age I will tell you everything about it. The demon will be bound to you and your children. It comes with the throne.”

“But Boromir…”

“Boromir is dead! He betrayed me! He turned his back on me after all I have done for him!” Denethor’s anger raged up once more. “So it will be written. Boromir has fallen into darkness and can no longer be trusted. My son died today… a traitor. His name will no longer be used within our line. I only wish he was dead. It would be a far more preferable way to lose him. I will wield my power once this madness passes. Once I have calmed down and dare to deal with that foul beast again. I will demand that the creature put a proper end to Boromir. I am still king. My word is that creature’s final law.” Denethor’s voice choked. “I love him. I love Boromir beyond reason… and he turned on me. It is intolerable that he should live, yet be beyond my grasp.” Taking a steadying breath, the king began again. “You are now my heir, Faramir. Your training must be intensified. This changes everything.”

Awareness of what the king’s ranting might mean for his brother dawned in Faramir’s eyes. “You going to have him killed! NO!” He screamed. “NO! Boromir needs our help. If you allow him to be hurt I will… I will put a knife in your heart myself,” The threat was panicked.

“Boromir called a demon to him. It took him. Justice was done. He is no longer my son or your brother. He is no longer our concern save for what upheavals he might cause with the demon by his foul betrayal.” Denethor’s tone was grim.

“He will always be my concern,” Faramir shot back. “He is my brother and I will not abandon him. I can not.” Hands clenched to keep from striking out. “I have to go after Boromir. Tell me where it took him,” Faramir demanded. “I’ll bring him back. I know you want me to. I know you want him back as much as I do.”

The king’s entire frame trembled with emotion. “I forbid it! You have much to learn about the duties now required of you as the next king of Gondor.” Denethor ran an appraising look up and down his second child’s frame. “Settle your affairs. Move your belongings into the heir’s quarters. Do it quickly. I will need to take you out into the kingdom within the week.” Rage had distorted Denethor’s features. “Now get out. GET OUT!”

Using every bit of self-control he had, Faramir tried to contain the retort that wanted to burst out. Arguing with his father was a futile pursuit at the best of time. This would earn him nothing but perhaps a guard placed upon him. Even so, not all of his upset could be contained. “Give your throne to Éomer if you will not save it for Boromir. I would never take my brother’s birthright. I will find where this demon has taken Boromir… and if you value your life, my brother had best be alive and unhurt by YOUR devices when I find him.” Not trusting his voice any further, Faramir swung around and stalked out of the room.

Boromir’s head was pounding when he awoke. It was a small mercy that the light falling in the wide window opposite the bed was merely the pale illumination of the moon and stars. The sun’s glare would have been painful to the eyes, Boromir suspected. Luxuriating in the comfort of finely woven sheets and a plush mattress, Boromir examined the room he found himself in. This place was completely unfamiliar to him. The stone of the walls couldn’t be seen, so Boromir was uncertain if he was still within the White Tower. Except for the window, every possible surface of the walls and ceiling were obscured by gathered swaths of dark fabric. Silver embroidery glittered in the moonlight in many complex patterns, some of which almost looked like writing. The only pieces of furniture in the room were a table, two chairs and the over- sized canopied bed that Boromir laid in.

Closing his eyes, Boromir attempted to reconstruct his evening. He recalled being furious as he arrived for dinner in the main-hall. He and Faramir had been planning to eat supper together and spend the evening in Boromir’s rooms until a page had come from father demanding Boromir’s attendance. Neither of them had wanted to attend the banquet for something had been brewing between them, something powerful and dangerous as a rising storm. Father’s summons allowed for no argument, however. Worse yet, the page had insisted on lingering in Boromir’s rooms to help him dress for dinner, so the brothers hadn’t even been able to speak plainly. When Faramir had left to prepare himself for the formal affair, it was with a dark expression marring his lovely face.

His brother was slow to arrive in the dining-hall and Éowyn had been hovering, about to plant herself in Faramir’s empty chair at Boromir’s right hand. A stranger had appeared and Father had exploded with malice. That was the last thing Boromir could clearly recall. A few wisps of extreme speed, whipping wind, smoky darkness, and a burning in his mouth tickled at the outer edges of Boromir’s mind, but he couldn’t grasp anything solid. Attempting to sift through the muddied memories, his eyes drifted shut once again.

A faint clinking sound caused Boromir’s body to startle upright in panic, struggling against binding fabric. The light in the room was changed to a weak dawning red. He must have dozed again. More important, someone else was now in the room with him. Focusing, Boromir finally got a look at his host… or perhaps not. It was a child setting food out on the table. Struggling with a tray almost as large as himself, the curly topped boy set out a bowl, plate, pitcher and cup. Strangely enough, the boy was dressed in a grey-toned replica of a Gondorian page-boy’s uniform.

“Child.” Boromir sat up, sliding to the edge of the massive bed. “Where am I? What house is this?” Boromir was careful to keep his tone unthreatening. “Who is the master here?”

A pair of huge, amazingly blue eyes lifted to gaze at the Prince. “This is Barad-dur, lord, and speaking my master’s name is not a privilege I am allowed.”

There was something about the curly-topped boy. Mayhaps it was his figure or his bearing, but despite the innocent face, Boromir concluded that this was no child who now stood before him. “You must be mistaken, little one. Barad-dur is a place of demons and evil, a place far from my home. Are we still in Minas Tirith, or have I been taken away from the city?”

“I can not force you to believe what you choose not to, your lordship, but this IS Barad-dur.” The plates and such were arranged. “Will you eat, lordship? The master said that you had no supper yesterday.” The small man poured a goblet of wine and brought it over to offer to Boromir.

As soon as he saw the crimson liquid a powerful thirst seized Boromir. He took it without hesitation. The wine was thick and strangely flavoured, quite unlike any wine that Boromir had ever tasted before, but it wasn’t satisfying. He found himself craving a sharp tang that the drink in his hands couldn’t provide. “I do not recognize this vintage.”

“It’s from Harad,” the servant supplied without hesitation. “Though most of the food is from the north rather than the south since it’s what we’re all accustomed to.”

“Your master is from the northlands?” Boromir attempted to get more information.

“All the servants are from the north.” The small man’s mouth twisted into something that might have become a smile if it wasn’t so grim. “You should eat… and drink as much as you can. When you are done just put the dishes in here and tug on the line. It will ring a bell downstairs.” A swath of fabric was pulled back to reveal a hole in the wall. “The shaft goes straight down to the kitchens.”

Boromir watched as the halfling climbed into the cupboard he had uncovered. “This is how you ring the bell.” A cord hanging alongside the box inside the cupboard was tugged and a moment later the crouching servant began to lower out of sight. Walking over, Boromir looked into the hole that now remained. He could just see the top of the box descending into darkness. A strange mixture of heavy ropes moved inside the shaft.

“You really should drink more.”

A silky voice caused Boromir to whirl in place. He had no idea where the man had come from, but Boromir was no longer alone. A distantly familiar, dark haired man now sat cross-legged on the bed. He appeared about fifteen years older than Boromir and seemed well seasoned, like someone who had seen a great deal of the world. His face was handsome and clearly cut, like a fine sculpture. Liquid blue-grey eyes seemed to look right into Boromir’s soul. The dark shadow of a recently grown beard and moustache gave him a look of disreputable danger. The man was clad almost completely in black, save for the vaguest hint of silver decoration on his chest that illustrated the tree and stars of Gondor such as the senior officers of father’s army wore.

“Who are you?” Boromir wore those same stars and tree on his uniform when he was in the field as part of father’s entourage. He knew most of Denethor’s most trusted men quite well and yet this was a stranger. “Where am I?”

“I believe Frodo already told you that this is Barad-dur. If you choose not to believe him, I doubt that my repeating it will have much effect.” Amusement simmered within the man’s intense eyes. “I am Aragorn. We met last night, but then you were more than a bit overwhelmed so it is understandable if your memories of our introduction are a bit muddled.” Long legs unfolded and he moved to the edge of the bed. Head tipped to one side, Aragorn studied his guest while a smile played at the corner of his generous mouth. “You really are quite the treasure. I can see why Denethor has delayed intolerably long about bringing my existence to your attention… and why he hid you from me.”

Boromir’s puzzled expression grew more severe. “How do you know my father?”

“Your father holds my leash, just as he held your’s,” Aragorn explained. “I am a tool of royal house of Gondor. I am the most prized weapon your father wields, Aragorn Elessar, the most recent incarnation of what began when Isildur inhaled the miasma of Sauron, servant of Morgoth.” Aragorn’s eyes blackened over and shone a moment before shifting back to blue.

“I was taught about Sauron and Isildur,” Boromir began cautiously. “Sauron was a great evil in the world. He wielded a ring of power that would have destroyed everything. Prince Isildur killed Sauron and then died in the explosion that resulted. That’s when my family’s line began. King Elendil was also dead so his steward took up the ring and, guided by an Elf lord, Húrin saw to it’s destruction.” It was an old story. “Húrin married one of Elendil’s grand-daughters… Isildur’s daughter… and accepted the throne of Gondor when he returned home since all of Elendil’s male heirs had perished in the war.”

“To the victor goes the task of writing the histories down,” Aragorn purred out. “But I suppose that your version of events will suffice.”

Boromir’s back stiffened at the suggestion of his family’s deceit.

“An amendment must be made to explain ‘who’… or rather… ‘what’ I am.” Aragorn rose from the bed and walked to the wall marked by the window. Catching a handful of the cloaking drapery, he pulled it to one side to reveal an arch which opened onto a balcony. “Isildur was not killed that day in Dagorlad. He was transformed. He was tainted by Sauron’s spirit and then bound to the house of Húrin by the destruction of the ring.” Aragorn looked toward Boromir. “Your father should have explained all of this to you years ago… but Denethor is a greedy, arrogant man who seems to think he is going to live forever.” The last phrase made Aragorn smile to himself.

Boromir glared, but he didn’t dispute the description of his father.

“Denethor has used me more than any of your forefathers has dared to employ any of my previous incarnations.” Aragorn stepped out onto the massive balcony.

Boromir had to follow if he wished to hear, since Aragorn began speaking once more. The words were lost, however, as Boromir staggered under the impact of the vista spread out below them. Dark crags, black mountains and distant fires dominated the scene. They were in a building higher above the ground than any that Boromir had ever imagined. It was more like standing on a mountain ledge.

“This really is Barad-dur.” Boromir had seen Mordor only once before, but this place was like no other in Middle Earth.

“Yes, it is.” Aragorn leaned on the black stone railing. “One indrawn breath at just the wrong moment and I am fated to feed off my own descendants and dwell in this dark world for all time. Fate has been a cruel mistress to me.” Dark brows lifted. “Still, life ever-renewing and the powers I possess have compensated me. Being able to fetch a packet of leaf from the shire in a few small steps or the ability to tear the walls down around a town are amusing tricks.”

Boromir blinked in realization. “You are father’s weapon. You are the reason my father was able to spread our boarders so far, so easily.”

“Yes. I was attempting to tell you that. I am commanded by Gondor’s royal family. The king or a prince or princess of Gondor may command my actions once they call me to them by way of an incantation,” Aragorn admitted freely.

“So I can command you to return me to my home,” Boromir concluded.

“If your father had bothered to teach you the spell… and if you were still a prince of Gondor… yes, you could.” Aragorn noted the look of confusion on Boromir’s face. “Oh yes, you were rather befuddled when your father announced to the entire court… and to me… that he was disowning you. Sorry about that.”

“Disowned,” Boromir repeated in an astonished tone. He tried once again to recall the events from the great hall, but everything after Aragorn walking into the feast was a blur. “What happened? Why did father disown me? Is Faramir all right?”

Aragorn ignored the flurry of questions, choosing instead to stare straight into Boromir’s eyes. “Do you love your father, Boromir?”

Green eyes blinked. The prince swallowed loudly. “Of course. My father is a noble man, the finest king that Gondor has seen in long years.”

The proclamation earned a slight nod from Aragorn. Taking several steps closer, Aragorn spoke again. This time his breath tickled Boromir’s ear. “And do you enjoy it when your father uses you like a whore in the darkness of his chambers, boy? Do you relish the thought of licking his seed off his skin when it backspills out of your mouth? Do you like having your legs tied open so Denethor can slide the handle of his precious sword inside you?”

Boromir struck out, only to have his fists captured and held by Aragorn. “I’ve seen inside Denethor’s mind and your’s as well,” Aragorn whispered. “I know everything filthy thing he’s done to you, boy… and how you felt as it happened. I can taste your despair, the shame that suffused you when his attentions stiffened you and his fierce ecstasy as you wept and erupted at the same time. I know you were counting the hours until you left for the Golden Hall. I also know that your father was planning to use and impregnate the girl he was sending to become your wife so she could give you an heir without ever allowing you to touch her.” Aragorn brushed his lips against skin. “I know every nasty thought swirling through your mind, my golden one, including the urges you’ve had to kill your father while he slept.”

“I would never…”

“But you thought about it, you’ve fantasized about it,” Aragorn countered in a low tone. “Not that I disapprove. Denethor has used you badly.” Gentling his grip, Aragorn smoothed up from Boromir’s wrists until his hands rested on the blond’s shoulders. “You should be able to take pleasure in the slide of body on body, not dread it. You should be cherished, not abused.”

Boromir’s expression was wary but he didn’t retreat from Aragorn’s touch. Green eyes studied Aragorn’s face, searching for a sign that he was being mocked. “I want neither. I want nothing to do with a physical relationship with anyone. I simply wish to protect my brother and serve my country.”

“Duty is cold comfort for one so young and vibrant as you, Boromir. Are you passionate about anything, my prince? Have you ever felt so alive that you wanted to scream out to the world how wonderful life was?” Aragorn plucked at Boromir’s memories and got a flash of Boromir riding as fast as his horse would run with Faramir in hot pursuit. The image made Aragorn smile. What a pair the brothers where. It was a pity Éowyn hadn’t wanted to be rid of them both. Daring further, Aragorn raised his hand to brush back Boromir’s hair. “I will show you passion.”

“I want nothing to do with passion.” Boromir pulled away, pacing to the far side of the balcony. “Passion is just another word for pain.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Aragorn stalked after him. Catching Boromir’s upper arm, Aragorn dragged the other back around to face him. “You are desperate to feel real passion, my prince. There’s years worth of need throbbing within you, just waiting for the right touch before blazing alight… and that touch is mine.”

Forestalling any argument, Aragorn captured Boromir’s mouth with his own. Boromir’s struggle was mostly internal. Years of training to ‘be still’ under a demanding kiss warred with long standing orders to NEVER let anyone but Denethor lay hands on him. Complicating things further was the fact that the kiss felt wonderful. It seduced as well as mastered. Boromir found himself melting under the extended, sensual exploration. Without even realizing it was happening, Boromir was bent back over the heavy, wide railing behind him.

Aragorn’s hands weren’t still. Fingers stroked clothed muscle before plucking at the fastenings to Boromir’s formal dinner clothes. His body flexed, rubbing against Boromir’s. When Boromir gasped for air, Aragorn’s mouth shifted. Boromir’s jaw and ears were mapped out with open-mouthed kisses and delicate nips.

Head thrown back, Boromir stared, half-blinded, at the sky. He watched the dully gleaming sun track impossibly far in an arch above them while Aragorn’s attentions drifted lower, burning bare skin. Bright pain pierced the haze briefly, sending a flare of hot sensation outward from Boromir’s upper chest. Boromir meant to give voice to how the pang felt but his breath was stolen away by warm fingers slipping into his leggings and cupping his groin.

Dry, smoky air tickled Boromir’s bared front and ruffled his hair so slowly that it felt more like water rushing over him than wind. Sound had completely muted, becoming nothing more than a dull roar. Reaching blindly, Boromir’s hand settled into thick hair.

Aragorn was dropping little by little before Boromir, leaving trails of fire and ice everywhere his demanding mouth touched. A hand that almost felt like it was tipped with claws pushed at Boromir’s upper body. The horizon tilted. Boromir attempted to widen his stance but his ankles were hobbled. Snatching for support, Boromir’s one hand fisted into Aragorn’s hair while the other scraped on stone.

“I have you. Relax.”

Aragorn’s assurance seemed to burrow straight into Boromir’s mind rather than come through his ears. It was beyond Boromir’s ability to disobey at first, but when shockingly wet heat closed around his half- erect shaft, he completely tensed up. Boromir had never experienced anything like this feeling in his entire life. It had nothing in common with Denethor’s demanding fingers or Boromir’s own embarrassing and rare bouts of self-gratification. There was no way to hold in the scream of pleasure that tore out in reaction to the attention.

Boromir had to close his eyes. The explosions inside his eyelids were bad enough without being superimposed on the blurring, upside-down landscape of Mordor.

Denethor seemed to hold all the information that Faramir required but there was no way of forcing him to share that knowledge. Faramir also realized that asking anyone else in the Tower would be a lost cause. What he had to do was to get out from under Denethor’s immediate influence. There wasn’t much time to waste. Sooner, more likely than later, Father’s shock would wear off and Faramir might find himself under arrest for the things he had said.

Faramir dared to linger long enough to make two stops, but both proved fruitless. Neither the Tower’s senior scholar nor Melador, the royal arms master would tell Faramir anything. Both had witnessed the scene in the dining-hall and both swore that they had no inkling of where the creature had come from or what it was. Faramir suspected they were lying but he had no way to make them say anymore.

By the time Faramir reached the stables he was in a mood to strangle someone. It was more than a little surprising to find only one person there. Éomer had Boromir’s horse out and fully loaded-up for a long journey. Éomer’s own mount was saddled with Faramir’s tack. The pair of them were the finest animals in all of Minas Tirith. Father was going to be furious. Éomer was checking the straps on his much-beloved mare as Faramir came to a shocked halt.

“If it was you or Éowyn…” Éomer shrugged and ran his hand along his horse’s neck as if saying farewell to a dear friend. “I would do the same thing.”

“Do you know anything about that creature?” Faramir asked, hopeful but not expecting any more aid than the gifts that stood waiting.

Éomer’s head shook. “I saw the same as you… but Faramir… did you actually listen? Did you understand what Father said? Do you realize what it meant?”

Faramir’s expression was puzzled.

Sighing, Éomer passed the reins to his half-brother. “Think hard on our father’s words, Faramir. He spoke of things that never should have been shared with an audience. Not just things about that intruder either.” White-blond brows drew together. “There are things between Boromir and our father that you need to consider.” He gagged briefly before finding his voice once more. “Éowyn has explained it to me. I wish you would take the time to come up and talk with us… but I understand why you can’t delay…” Éomer waved off the protest he saw Faramir about to make. “I know, I know. Just promise that you’ll send us word about where we can reach you. You are very dear to us Faramir, and we don’t want to lose you.”

Giving in to his emotions, Faramir caught Éomer in a hug was a bit desperate on both sides. “If this land isn’t to be Boromir’s…” his voice was faint. “I know Father thinks you will make Gondor a better king than I would, Éomer.” A harder squeeze punctuated the quiet words.

“But he’s wrong. I’ve know that for years, Faramir.” Éomer let out a long, deep breath and drew back so he could urge Faramir to mount the restive horse. “You would do a better job of it than either Boromir or I would. Boromir is a soldier… not a ruler. He would make a fine commander with you as his king, brother-mine,” Éomer observed. “… and myself, I have never wanted Gondor, just the Riddermark. My heart desires the open plain. The farms and cities of Gondor mean nothing to me.”

Faramir grimaced, wishing he had more time to explore what Éomer was saying. “When I bring Boromir back we will settle this properly.” Shifting in the saddle, Faramir looked toward the open stable door. Soldiers might arrive at any moment.

“I’ll hold them off of you for as long as I can,” Éomer promised. “Some of Éowyn’s jewellery is in here,” he patted one of the saddlebags. “She told me to give you leave to sell it for what funds you’ll need. Now ride! Get yourself some distance away from the city and think on what we heard, Faramir. Think long and hard.”

Boromir awoke to the sensation of strong fingers tracing over his skin, a custom he was fast becoming enamoured of. The prince was lying on their canopied, curtained bed as nude as the day he was born. Aragorn reclined beside Boromir, tickling his fingers down Boromir’s ribs and hip.

A cup that Boromir could have sworn wasn’t there a moment before was raised in Aragorn’s hand. “Sit up, my golden one. Drink.” Steam rose from the vessel. Accepting it, Boromir discovered the cup was filled with fragrant chicken broth. The broth was salted more heavily than Boromir was accustomed to but it satisfied a craving. As quick as the heat of the liquid allowed, Boromir swallowed it down.

“You need to keep your strength up, lover.” Aragorn caressed a purpled bite near Boromir’s nipple before getting up to fetch a tray from the table.

The food was different than Boromir recalled Frodo delivering earlier… or was it yesterday. Perhaps Aragorn had eaten the other meal while Boromir slept. His lover never seemed to eat when Boromir was paying attention and yet he was healthy and vibrant.

While Boromir mused, Aragorn had picked up a chunk of seasoned meat and pressed it to the blond’s lips. The morsel was accepted because Boromir was desperately hungry, but the prince’s face turned away almost immediately afterward.

“Eat your fill, love.” Aragorn licked his fingers where Boromir had sucked in his eagerness to swallow down the bit of pork. Shifting, Aragorn climbed behind Boromir, offering to support the younger man rather than demanding to feed Boromir.

“Thank you,” Boromir voiced softly. He allowed his weight to settle against Aragorn’s completely dressed form. “For not treating me like a pet,” Boromir finished. Denethor had insisted on hand-feeding Boromir too many times for Boromir to find the situation as anything but degrading.

“When the hunger is too intense upon a man…” Aragorn began. His lips moved against the nape of Boromir’s neck. “It must be satisfied before playing.” Aragorn inhaled with obvious delight. “The branching was an age ago, but I can still scent my daughter’s blood in you, fair Boromir. The royal house of Gondor stayed rather narrow until your father. The kings normally only had one or two children. It kept the heirs from squabbling.” Aragorn’s voice was soft and distracted. “It means I have limited descendants within the realm of Gondor. Luckily that was not the case with my son, my brothers and their offspring up in Dunland and Minhiriath or I would be forever on the edge of starvation.”

Boromir heard the words but was too famished to insist on an explanation at that moment in time. The food before him held most of Boromir’s attention. Oddly, considering the part of the land they were in, the fare was always fresh, wholesome tasting and perfectly prepared. The chunks of buttered potato and cubes of pork were especially satisfying today.

Between his quickly filling stomach and Aragorn’s kisses and massaging touches, Boromir found his mind growing heavy with drowsiness once more. A faint sting on his shoulderblade made Boromir straighten but Aragorn’s mouth suckling at the injury soothed him.

“Eat, drink, then rest some more, my love,” Aragorn advised. His lips impressed the words right into Boromir’s skin. “I’ve errands to run but I’ll be back before your lovely green eyes open again.” Aragorn’s mouth returned to pulling at the flesh of Boromir’s shoulderblade.

The prince managed a few more swallows from a cup of cool juice before he felt the need to fall back into Aragorn’s supporting embrace and let his mind drift into dreams.

“White…” Boromir objected without heat, “… is not a practical choice to clothe me in.” He eyed the swaths of gold embroidered silk. “It stains,” Boromir continued.

“We will not be disembowelling any orcs or crawling through marshes,” Aragorn teased gently. “Indulge me, golden one. Lighten the darkness of this fortress for me.” His gaze swept down Boromir’s bare form. “Not that your lovely figure displeases in its natural state, but I know that you are uncomfortable being nude outside of bed.”

Ducking his head to hide the blush on his cheeks, Boromir accepted the bundle. He tossed the pile of fabric on the bed and began to puzzle out the purpose of each garment. At home Boromir had avoided full court- gear whenever possible and the times he couldn’t escape the damned costume a servant or Faramir would normally aid Boromir. That thought made him drop the breeches and frown.

“I must get a message to Faramir,” Boromir announced. “He’s likely worried. It’s been…” His frown cut deeper. “Days?” Turning back to Aragorn, Boromir cocked his head. “How long have I been here? It hasn’t been weeks, has it?” Trying to count sunrises or sunsets was a hopeless task. Most of the time Boromir dozed off in darkness only to wake in the same, but feeling completely refreshed despite the brief sleep. Meals were no help. There was always food in the room and breakfast, lunch or dinner, it was all the same sort of fare. It couldn’t have been too long however, Boromir reasoned, since he and Aragorn had done little except make love.

“It has been but a blink of an eye, my love,” Aragorn assured him. “But long enough that you need to get out and stretch your legs. You can write to Faramir tomorrow. I will see to it that the letter is delivered.” An elegant hand gestured to the clothing once more. “Let me help you with these.”

Having Aragorn dress him completely altered Boromir’s dislike of the process of slipping into court clothing. Aragorn’s lips and flingers worshipped each bit of Boromir’s skin before it vanished under the pale material. Muscles were stroked before the over-layers were pulled into place. The nape of Boromir’s neck was nuzzled as blond hair was carefully fished out from the confines of the high collar. A brief spark of pain at the side of his neck made Boromir wince, but the following warmth had him leaning back into Aragorn’s embrace. The dressing felt like it was taking all morning while it was happening, but only just a few moments once it was done.

“You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen,” Aragorn praised. “Come walk with me.”

The drapery that Boromir was positive led out onto a balcony was drawn back to reveal a moonlit courtyard filled with black stone ruins, tall tangled vines and silvery flowers. Boromir’s gaze shifted from the new vista to the window, positive that sunshine had been pouring in only moments ago. Of course, stars twinkled in a black velvet sky there as well.

“Walk with me, love,” Aragorn beckoned again.

“This does not look like Mordor.” Boromir padded forward to accept Aragorn’s extended hand.

“No, it doesn’t. Does it?” Smiling, Aragorn let the curtain fall behind them. The black drapery seemed to vanish in the darkness of a tall, narrow archway.

Except for the rustle of the cool breeze through foliage, the gardens were deathly silent. Not even a bird call disturbed the still of the half-ruined courtyard.

“What happened to the balcony? How did we get out of the tower? Where are we?” Boromir kept his voice to a whisper.

“We are somewhere private.” Aragorn began walking, drawing his lover along. “Somewhere safe… at least for us.”

In the near distance tall, spiked towers stabbed up into the night sky. A pinkish, full-moon lit their path well enough, but most of the colour was leeched away by the thin light, leaving silvers, grays, black and white, all overlaid by a faint blush of rose.

“I should recognize this place,” Boromir mused softly. “Faramir would know. He paid more attention to our afternoon lessons than I did.”

Boromir’s shoulders were caught and held. Aragorn stared at him a moment then dove in for a kiss. By the time the clinch ended, Boromir was shaking violently. He could taste copper and lust, and his head was spinning. Boromir’s mouth followed Aragorn’s retreating lips, but Boromir was held away by strong hands on his shoulders.

“MORE!” The kiss had ended far too soon. Boromir’s entire body was screaming for it to continue.

Aragorn’s tongue flicked out, cleaning away the hint of glistening darkness on his lips. “Not here. Walk just a little further with me, beloved.” Aragorn led him down the cracked, grass littered pathway. “I stayed here at Carn Dum for a time, but the surrounding lands were unhappy at having me so close so I returned to Barad-dur. Still, I come back to visit fairly often. It was a magnificent castle in it’s time.” Aragorn gazed about himself with a slight smile on his face. “My halfling servants come from a place not far from here.”

Boromir supposed that the information Aragorn was sharing was likely valuable, but he was having difficulty wrapping his mind around anything beyond the urge to drag Aragorn down to the cold ground and ravish him.

“Here… look at this,” Aragorn drew Boromir past a tumbled wall. Spread out below them was a field of tiny white flowers. Above the vast meadow the starry sky seemed almost a reflection. Eyes turned upward, Aragorn took Boromir down crumbling stairs and into the field. Well into the knee-high growth, Aragorn stopped and pushed gently, easing Boromir down into the thick grass and flower-bed.

“Here. I want to have you here. You look just like the moon in the sky. My own light.” Aragorn grinned down. “Invite me into your arms, beloved.”

“Please, Aragorn.” Boromir’s arms lifted. “I need you,” he coaxed.

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