Faramir Fiction Archive

Legacy (NC-17)

Written by Carla Jane

30 March 2004 | 95430 words

Aragorn’s appearance in the kitchen made Pippin, the youngest of his halfling servants, yelp and fall backward off his chair.

“Boromir is asleep. You’ll need nails, needles, thread, and fresh sheets to clean up the mess. I need his shoulder bandaged,” Aragorn snapped out orders. “If he wakes up before I return… don’t leave any liquids but wine in his room… and make certain it’s laced with something that will put him back to sleep.” The last instruction was aimed at Frodo.

There were eager nods all about the kitchen. The hobbits knew Aragorn would never eat them, but they also knew he wasn’t above hurting them in other ways if they didn’t do their very best to keep him happy. Aragorn, not the least bit pacified, scowled and turned away from his servants. Muttering curses vicious enough to turn the air to steam, he shifted, giving into the call that was blistering inside the back of his skull.

Expecting Denethor’s grim visage, Aragorn was surprised to find himself appearing in a lady’s bedroom. Éowyn stood near a white-painted desk, flipping impatiently through a small stack of letters. “What do you want now?” Aragorn’s tone was harsh and demanding. He was furious at being dragged away from Boromir again so soon. Éowyn might know the chant and be willing to pay for his services, but she wasn’t his primary master and never would be. Aragorn could afford to be rude to her.

The girl was doing her best not to look intimidated by Aragorn’s angry presence, and failing. She got to the point immediately. “I need to get a message to Faramir and none of Éomer’s men can find him. I want you to locate him and bring him here… to Minas Tirith.” She picked up a note off her desk and held it out.

Aragorn would have turned on the damned girl and ripped her heart out at that moment if his binding would have allowed it. Instead he had to talk his way out of the errand. “Do you honestly thing that Prince Faramir is that stupid, little girl? Don’t you know that as soon as you reveal that you have command over me he will realize that it was you who told me to take Boromir away?”

Éowyn frowned, her fingers fidgeting with the letter that requested Faramir’s immediate return. “Fine, then use some local to deliver the note… but you must guarantee me that it will be put into Faramir’s hands.”

“It will be.” Aragorn paced over to take the paper, but Éowyn held it away.

“There is another thing.” She looked pale.

Aragorn huffed out an impatient breath. He could taste her thoughts in the air. “I told you already, girl. I can NOT kill the king for you. My bindings won’t allow it.”

“I’ve gone through the book,” Éowyn explained. “You can’t kill him directly, but you can do what I need you to.” She stiffened her resolve and looked straight into Aragorn’s black eyes. “Once Faramir is on his way home I want you to find an absolutely beautiful blond boy… one who’s nasty and vicious enough to do the job, but who doesn’t look it. Arm him with a weapon that the guards will miss and put him somewhere that Denethor is certain to notice him. Offer to pay the boy whatever he wants to kill Denethor.”

Aragorn had to give Éowyn credit for a well thought out plan. Denethor was using up boys in a rather steady stream as of late. Most of them were dead within days of the king taking an interest in them. It would be no surprise to the court if one of the brats turned on his rapist and the king was killed. That plan clashed with Aragorn’s intentions however. For his purposes Faramir needed to come to Barad-dur and Aragorn needed a little time to entangle the young man. Nor was Aragorn eager to invest the time it would take to locate just the right boy and place him in Denethor’s path.

“Poison would be faster,” Aragorn observed.

“Poison would raise questions. Do as I tell you, demon, and no more arguing.” Éowyn extended her arm to pay him.

Aragorn could hear her chanting inside her mind that this would be ‘the last time’. She trembled in mixed anticipation and dread of his bite.

Still warm from feeding on Boromir’s flesh and blood, Aragorn could exert enough control over his hunger to shake his head at the offering. “No. I want to drink from here this time.” Gliding over, Aragorn tickled a fingertip down the curve of her throat.

“Denethor always feeds you from his wrist,” Éowyn argued.

“By my choice,” he countered. “Argue with me on this and I’ll demand to taste the inside of your thigh instead.” Aragorn was allowed to make very few demands on the royal house, but this was one of them.

“Foul beast,” Éowyn muttered, but her head tilted obligingly to one side. As he leaned in, Éowyn’s nose wrinkled at the clear scents of sex and blood that clung to him.

“Denethor offered me you and Éomer for the return of his favourite,” Aragorn whispered against perfumed skin. “Perhaps I should accept. The pair of you could birth and raise children enough for me to feed on… so I would never have to hunt the breadth of Dunland and Minhiriath for my son’s descendants when I’m thirsty.”

Éowyn shuddered. Aragorn could tell she was tempted to knock him away and banish him for her presence without letting him drink, but she managed to control the urge. If Aragorn was sent away without payment he wouldn’t be bound to perform the tasks she had requested.

His tongue flicked out. “Denethor might even be so grateful to me for Boromir’s return that he would fill your belly with the first child himself if I asked nicely.”

“BE SILENT!” Éowyn snapped, holding herself still by only the thinnest thread of willpower. Coming, as it did, right before the taking of blood and essence, Aragorn was forced to comply with the demand.

The heaviness of sleep was slow to surrender Boromir. He was distantly aware of a soft pillow against his cheek and the soothing caress of fingers long before he felt the desire to open his eyes. Everything was clouded by heat, tickling breath and suction. Eager lips scorched his nipples then trailed downward.

“Keep your eyes closed.” Aragorn’s command sizzled across Boromir’s nerves, plucking excitement from them. “Lay still and let me devour you, my love.” Then Aragorn’s mouth engulfed him and Boromir couldn’t do anything but moan and arch up into the delicious contact.

Aragorn’s attentions were intense, but slow enough that satisfaction was held just out of Boromir’s grasp. Each time Boromir was certain that he was about to climax the pressure would ease enough that he found himself on another higher plateau rather than the peak. Boromir’s thoughts were a splintered wreck and his body burned.

“PLEASE!” It couldn’t have been the first thing that Boromir had screamed. Considering how raw his throat felt, he’d likely been shouting for a fair while. “MERCY! Please, oh please.”

A slow, deliberate lick and a smoky chuckle from Aragorn made Boromir whimper and thrash, lifting to return to the heat of his lover’s mouth.

“Not yet, my love.” Aragorn caught hold of Boromir’s legs and lifted, gently pressing them up toward Boromir’s chest. His face dropped once more causing a shriek as he drew Boromir’s balls into his mouth.

Torn between catching at his own legs to hold himself open to the erotic torment and throwing his arms out for balance, Boromir wailed out his frustration.

Strong hands caught at Boromir’s behind, supporting him even as thumbs separated the cheeks to expose him. Aragorn’s beard rasped against sensitive skin. Boromir could feel every one of Aragorn’s fingers on his bottom and yet a trail of wet fire traced into the crevice.

Realization thundered into Boromir’s mind at the same time that Aragorn’s tongue pierced into his body. Boromir shocked into orgasm. He twisted and clawed at the sheets, but Aragorn held him in position. Before Boromir could catch his breath, it began again, even more invasively. Boromir felt wonderfully boneless under the attentions, as if he were floating in warm water.

This second build up was even slower than the first. Boromir melted into the feelings that Aragorn was provoking. At some point Aragorn’s tongue must have been exchanged for fingers since the spill was being lapped up like cream off his belly, but Boromir couldn’t say when it had changed.

“In all my long lives…” Aragorn whispered, edging higher. “Nothing has ever felt better than this.”

Boromir jolted, just realizing that he’d been skewered by something thicker and longer than fingers. A slow rhythm of drags out and then powerful thrusts underscored the words tickling his ears.

“Your body under mine,” Aragorn murmured, “… is sweeter than any of my wedding nights.” His body stroked into Boromir’s. “Better than the first drink from a new king.” Teeth scraped flesh. “You know what I am and yet you still want me. So damaged, yet so beautiful. So sweet on my tongue.” Aragorn’s breath scalded. “So very human.”

The praise heated Boromir as much as what Aragorn was doing to his body.

“I love you, Boromir. I love you.” Strokes interspersed the words. “Love you.” Aragorn’s fingers pulled gently at Boromir’s returning erection. “Say you love me. Promise me you’ll stay with me forever. There’s nothing but you and I. No one else matters.”

Boromir couldn’t understand how Aragorn could manage entire sentences. His own grasp of language had been reduced to moans, curses and begging.

“Tell me you love me!” Aragorn’s demand was underscored by his body stilling while his shaft was still deep inside Boromir. “Say it. Say you love me.”

Boromir quaked. His body was still thrumming with pleasure but those words in that tone of voice were too much like something Denethor would demand. It sent a tremor of fear creeping up his spine.

Realizing his mistake, Aragorn eased into movement once again, whispering out his pleas but not withholding sensation to get a response. “I love you. There’s no one who matters but you and I, Boromir. No one has ever stirred your soul like I do. Tell me, my love. Please. Say it.”

“ARAGORN!” Boromir shivered violently.

“PLEASE BOROMIR!”

Boromir’s nails dug into his lover’s arms. Even trapped by the position Aragorn had twisted him into, Boromir tried to lift into each thrust. His head was thrown back and a wordless groan keened out of him.

Growling, Aragorn gave up on hearing the words this time and threw himself into their coupling. Shoving hard enough to thump Boromir into the headboard, Aragorn ploughed into his lover’s body. Teeth bared and as soon as Aragorn felt the beginnings of Boromir’s orgasm he broke skin.

A blur of thrashing satisfaction, wrenching groans, and shaking ended with Aragorn easing off to one side of Boromir’s limp form. He licked at the small wound just below Boromir’s ear. Aragorn had only taken a tiny drink, just enough to kick his system past the breaking point.

Boromir’s chest heaved. He shuddered and rolled so he could burrow tight into Aragorn. Sighing, Aragorn reached with his fingernail. He pierced the skin at the base of his own throat where his lover’s lips were pressed. Just a few drops of blood welled up, which would be enough to push Boromir the rest of the way into sensual dreams. Aragorn would give his lover a short rest, and then wake Boromir by making love to him again. Aragorn needed Boromir completely lost in a sexual haze by the time Faramir arrived.

Éowyn paced the tower restlessly. Long days had passed since she had sent the demon away with the letter for Faramir and instructions on how to destroy Denethor. That damned creature was the source of more annoyance than mere delays, as well. Aragorn’s choice of whereabouts on her body to feed had blown Éowyn’s secret wide open. She hadn’t been quite ready to share all the details of how she controlled the demon with her brother, but he had questioned the marks at her throat. An explanation had been required of the wounds, and that tale had led to the rest of the story coming out. Upon hearing what had been occurring Éomer had been furious. He had lectured her for hours. Not only had he been angry that Éowyn had risked herself by dealing with the beast, but Éomer’s fury at his sister keeping such a dangerous secret to herself had been frightening. He had insisted that she never summon Aragorn, ever again.

Time was healing those wounds but they were still clear enough that she had to wear high collars. Time, however, was not bringing Éowyn what she had paid for. No word had come to suggest that Faramir was on his way home or that Denethor had encountered any peril.

The king was due home from Pelagir any day now, so Éomer was lingering in Minas Tirith. Éowyn’s brother felt the need to both take council with the king and to guard Éowyn while Denethor was about.

“Your ladyship…” The page that appeared at Éowyn’s side was sweaty and winded. He had obviously been running about in search of the princess. “Your ladyship,” the child repeated while he caught his breath. “The king’s ministers are gathering in the council room. Prince Éomer is there. He is calling for you. It’s urgent. It’s about the king, my lady. Something horrible has happened.”

Éowyn kept an expression of glee off her face with a great deal of effort. She had been half afraid of, and half anticipating, the opportunity to disregard Éomer’s command and call the demon to her once more so she could demand an explanation of the delay. Now it seemed she wouldn’t have to disobey her brother’s orders. Denethor was dead, that had to be what this was about.

Catching her long skirts up, Éowyn ran down staircases and through long corridors. When she arrived at the doorway to Denethor’s council chamber her cheeks were red and she was breathing shallowly.

The room was full but the men inside were all strangely arranged. Some were gathered around the table. Some were shouting and pushing into each other’s faces. Small clusters had formed all through the gathering.

Éomer was standing near the king’s empty chair, frowning down at a paper that lay on the table before him. Soldiers were all about the room. Two of them stood at ready right behind the prince. The cut of their uniforms indicated that they were riders and the horsetails on their shoulders declared them part of Éomer’s personal company.

Other groups were also evident in the clutter of uniforms and court- dress. A fair sized group of old-guard nobles and scholars were gathered at the right side of the room. Some of the younger nobles were lingering between that lot and Éomer’s clutch of supporters. Most uncomfortable was the rather impressive collection of grim-faced officers who had grouped themselves off to the left. A few men stood alone in the fragmenting crowd, while others drifted between the cliques.

Éowyn found it simple to assign each of the largest groups to a prince. The establishment wanted everything done to order. Faramir was the legal heir. If they didn’t support him then their own places could be called into question. The younger, more flexible men were acknowledging that Éomer was the only royal son who had been available to them for the last two years. Most bothersome was the suggestion that the army of Gondor stood apart and that they might want Boromir back despite Denethor’s revoking of his eldest’s rights.

That was the only real flaw in Éowyn’s plans, that she hadn’t allowed enough time for the whole of Gondor to become comfortable with the new line of inheritance. Boromir’s fame had been twenty-one years in the making. Until two years ago very few people had given much thought to either Faramir or Éomer. The thought of putting an eighteen-year-old in charge of the most powerful empire in Middle-Earth would make more than a few people uncomfortable. Faramir’s absence from Minas Tirith hadn’t helped affairs either.

Looking about the room, Éowyn had become distracted. She felt it like a prickle under her skin when Éomer’s hawk-sharp eyes pinned her. Realizing who stood at the door, a hush spread slowly through the crowd.

When Éomer finally spoke, it was in a room gone silent. “Éowyn.”

Éomer’s expression had never been so difficult for Éowyn to read. She fought to copy it.

“There was an incident during father’s trip home from Pelagir.”

Éowyn’s pulse raced in excitement, but she dug her fingernails into her palms to keep control.

“The king, our father, is dead.”

Every eye in the place was on the exchange between the two youngest of Denethor’s children. The fate of the kingdom, and possible civil war, would be influenced by the next few sentences.

It could be done, Éowyn realized. She had control of Denethor’s demon. Faramir was completely out of touch and hadn’t contacted anyone here in months. Boromir was legally disowned. If Éowyn were to drop down into a curtsy and say just the right words there would be men that would fight to put Éomer on the throne. The conflict would ripple out, however, especially considering the unsteady loyalty of Gondor’s armed forces. The government would turn in on itself and tear everything apart, the Riddermark included.

Éowyn nodded gracefully and pitched her voice just right. “We must find…” It was both empowering and vaguely comical, the way everyone’s breath caught as they waited on words of teenaged girl. “Faramir.”

All the attention shifted back to Éomer. “Of course,” he agreed. “Our father made himself quite plain. Faramir must be brought home and crowned with all possible speed.”

Éomer and his sister had made their intentions clear. Éomer was not going to contest with his half-brother for the throne, even though only two months separated their birthdates. That united two factions of the council. There still could be trouble, especially from the outer limits of the empire, but Denethor’s ministers and nobles seemed calm at this moment in time.

There no longer could be any restraint in the search for Faramir. Éomer’s voice thundered out orders. “Every messenger must go out, soldiers as well. Prince Faramir must be located and brought home to Minas Tirith. All the nobles must report here as well to swear loyalty to the new king after the coronation.”

Éowyn padded across the floor. The men parted before her. Once at his side, Éowyn settled one hand on Éomer’s shoulder. She wanted to offer to call the demon and have it fetch Faramir, but she knew what her brother’s response would be. Perhaps later, once they were able to retreat somewhere private Éowyn might be able to persuade him to let her use the creature just one more time, but for now she had to play the part of the silent, submissive sister.

Aragorn had felt it, the exact moment that Denethor’s victim had turned on the king, broken apart the necklace he wore, and used the sharp edge to slash Denethor’s throat open. Aragorn heard the strangled garble of sound as Denethor had attempted to summon the guards standing in the hallway of the inn or his demon servant. Aragorn would have liked to actually see the boy squirming away from the blood-soaked bed and scrambling out a window, but there was no invitation. Denethor’s dying wheezes weren’t permission enough to allow Aragorn to enter Gondor.

With the last faltering beat of Denethor’s heart, Aragorn’s perceptions were wrenched sideways. Rather than a vague impression of a cooling corpse, Aragorn was gifted with the sensation of torturous travel, overwhelming exhaustion and a dull aching hunger as the legacy passed to Faramir. That brief taste of Faramir’s essence was enough to tell Aragorn that the boy-who-would-be-king was close at hand. Aragorn had maybe one more day before Faramir would be pounding on the gates of Barad-dur.

“What is it, Aragorn?” Boromir stroked a hand down his lover’s chest, tracing muscles. “You shivered. Are you cold?” He pushed up slightly so he could look into Aragorn’s eyes. “Is something wrong?”

The show of concern brought a smile to Aragorn’s face. “Just a wisp on the wind, my love. It’s nothing you need to fret over.” Boromir’s wrist was caught and Aragorn dragged it up so he could suck at those tormenting fingers.

The intense suction made Boromir groan. His body shifted, arching against Aragorn’s and revealing he was hard yet again. Smiling around the fingers in his mouth, Aragorn surged into action. They rolled on the already ruined bedding until Aragorn was perched atop his lover. “You taste like raspberries…” he remarked on the bit of pastry Boromir had been eating a few hours ago. “And here…” Aragorn’s mouth moved, lapping up the other’s forearm. “Treacle… and a hint of salt too.” With over-elaborate care he pushed Boromir’s arm up so it was pressed to the bed above tousled golden-brown hair. “Will you lay still for me, my precious? Will you let me taste every inch of you?”

Aragorn traced a finger along the limb. He would have liked to bind Boromir to bedposts for the sheer aesthetic pleasure of it. The idea of having his lover completely aware under the long hours of the tormenting seduction they normally indulged in was intoxicating. It would be a sweet change from the half-drunken pliability Boromir was usually wrapped in when they made love for entire days at a time. Aragorn wanted to see midnight-black fabric twisted around strong, struggling wrists, but it couldn’t be. Such a thing would invoke too many memories of Denethor’s attentions for Boromir.

Perhaps Faramir would be more adventurous, or it could be that Boromir would allow his brother to do things to his exquisitely sensitive body that he could not accept from Aragorn. “Let me worship you, my love,” Aragorn whispered against yielding flesh. “Let me…” Another arm was carefully eased upward. The pose beautifully displayed the lines of Boromir’s body, showing off a form that had softened slightly after going two years without swinging a sword.

“Mmm…” Boromir surrendered sweetly, exhaling his excitement as Aragorn’s lips skimmed over him. “Only if I can do the same to you. Ahh! Aragorn!” His arms started to move in response to what was being done to him, only to drop back down when he heard a murmur of disappointment from his lover.

“Trust me, my love. Let me make you feel good.” Aragorn murmured into Boromir’s ear. “You do trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Boromir moaned and his frame strained upward to gain more contact with the man crawling above him. When the wet tip of Aragorn’s erection brushed his hip, Boromir’s leg automatically lifted, curling up and around the other, offering himself.

“Soon. Not yet.” Aragorn nibbled and licked at the underside of Boromir’s chin.

“Not soon enough. It’s never enough.” The complaint whimpered out, barely loud enough to be heard. “It’s maddening… but I can’t… I just can’t get enough of you… even though we do this all day… every day. I don’t understand.” Boromir struggled to increase the contact between them. His arms lifted and wrapped around Aragorn’s neck, the request for stillness forgotten. “When I’m asleep I dream of making love with you. I never taste anything I’m eating because I can’t stop fantasizing about you. If you move outside my reach for even a minute the cravings I feel to press against you again are painful. What have you done to me, Aragorn?”

“It’s just love, my golden one. Just love. I love you. You love me.” Aragorn prompted. “You do love me, don’t you, Boromir?” At the same time he asked the question, Aragorn ground his body into the one underneath him.

“I don’t know. I suppose. Yes. I must. I do.” The declarations were fractured apart by gasps for air.

Purring with delight, Aragorn readjusted himself so he could spare a hand to wrap around Boromir’s shaft. “Say it. Say it, my love, and I’ll push into you so far you’ll taste me in the back of your throat.”

“I do. I love you. Oh my… please, Aragorn. I need you. Do it.” Heels dug into the base of Aragorn’s spine and Boromir groaned.

“That’s what I needed. That’s what I wanted,” Aragorn praised. “My own, my Boromir.” It wasn’t anything like the binding of servant to king, or of ancestor to the next incarnation, but it was enough. The vow tingled through Aragorn’s nerve endings promising much, mostly promising that Faramir wouldn’t be able to simply gather up Aragorn’s prize and ride off with him without a fight. Inflamed, Aragorn fell to the happy task of wringing every bit of passion he could out of his lover.

Massive black gates protected the path into Mordor. It was a sign of the demon’s contempt for the threat of humanity that those gates stood open. Faramir had been forced to dismount, however. Neither the horse he rode on, nor Boromir’s tethered stallion had wanted to pass between the two enormous black doors. He’d had to whisper, coax and tug at the reins in order to make the animals enter. The bothersome situation was compounded by having two horses.

Faramir didn’t really need the second horse. Everything he carried with him could be affixed to the mare that Éomer had given him. Leaving Boromir’s horse behind would, however, be an admission of despair. It would be as much as saying that he would never find his brother and that he was just going through the motions.

The trouble hadn’t ended once Faramir had entered Mordor. Every step between the gates and the black tower had to be earned. The land was treacherous, the animals nervous, and he himself was drained, hungrier than he had ever been in his life and so thirsty he couldn’t gather up enough saliva to spit out the dust in his mouth. He had pushed too far, too fast, while avoiding contact with anyone since his talk with the demon for fear of being recognized and hauled home. Too many people in the eastern parts of Gondor would have known Faramir on sight, so he refrained from visiting either markets or taverns.

When Faramir finally arrived at the base of Barad-dur he felt no vindication. Walking twice around the gigantic structure, all Faramir could manage was weary, bitter anger and staggering disappointment. There was no entrance within reach of a mortal man.

“Bastard!” Faramir tried to look upward, but it only made him dizzy. The sides were completely flat for at least fifty or sixty feet before it appeared there was some kind of stepping effect in the structure of the tower. Sagging against the strangely smooth stone of the towering monument, Faramir slammed the flat of his hand to the rock. “GIVE ME BACK MY BROTHER, YOU BASTARD!” He meant to roar the demand, but it came out as more of a croak. “BOROMIR!” Resting his forehead against the structure, Faramir screamed straight into the rock. “BOROMIR!” Nails attempted to find purchase and failed. “You promised,” he complained in a rasping whisper. “You promised you’d always come back to me. Please.” His voice rose again. “Either let me in or I swear… I’ll die here so my shade can haunt you for all eternity, demon!” Still, there was only silence.

“BOROMIR!” Hands balled into fists and pounded until skin split under the abuse. A wave of weakness washed through Faramir. It felt as if every drop of blood in his veins was being drained out through his hands. The smear of red from his fists puddled out like a small pond before forming into a pattern. The blood then blazed alight as if it had somehow caught fire. The lines thinned, spreading out from the original marks, snaking across the surface of blank stone. Within a minute the shape of an elaborately decorated door formed in cracks of blood red. With a loud grinding screech, the rock began to shift. Doors of foot-deep black stone opened to reveal a very small, young man dressed in a grey-toned Gondorian page-boy’s uniform.

“Your majesty.” A perfect court bow was executed. “Welcome to Barad- dur.”

Faramir blinked, not quite believing his eyes. His head was spinning and he felt as if he were about to fall over.

“If you will come inside, your majesty, we’ll tend to your animals. Both yourself and the beasts appear near done in,” the small man offered in a faintly rustic accent.

“Is Boromir really here, or is this all a trick?” Faramir looked past the young man and saw a scene better suited to a small village. There were chickens running about between the legs of goats and amid patches of garden. The fifty-foot high walls had disguised the fact that the actual tower was built inside a massive circular courtyard. Between those tall outer walls and the citadel was a deep patch of land illuminated by a thin band of sunlight. “I need him,” he declared faintly. “I need him so much I… please. Tell me true. Is he here?”

“Of course Lord Boromir is here, your majesty,” the servant confirmed in a pacifying tone of voice. “If you will come inside… and allow us to tend to you and your horses…” the suggestion trailed off unfinished.

“Take me to him. I want nothing else. Just take me to my brother. Please.” Faramir’s vision blurred and he lowered his gaze to the ground to help his balance. Only then did he realize that a steady drip of blood was still escaping his hands and pooling at his feet. That puddle of red darkened to black and his lashes fluttered. When next Faramir was able to focus, the young man was kneeling above him and a too-warm hand settled on Faramir’s brow.

“Lordy. Opening the door bled you white. Lay still, your majesty. Not to fret. We’ll fix you up right and proper. The master wants you taken care of.” The sweet voice rose to a shout. “Sam! Lend a hand. This one’s just as heavy as his brother.”

A response was on the tip of Faramir’s tongue but he lost it as shadows closed around him.

“It would just be a moment’s work,” Éowyn coaxed her brother. Her body leaned against his chest and she traced his jawline with one finger. “I should show you how to call the creature anyway, Éomer. If you don’t want me to bargain with him… you could do it.”

“No.” Éomer pushed his sister’s caress away. “Every time you use that demon, it damages you… and yet you still wish to do it. I can’t help but wonder if there is some foul enchantment that comes with wielding it… one that draws you into calling it again and again… for lesser reasons each time. I will not fall into that trap.” He took hold of Éowyn’s shoulders so he could look straight into her eyes. “We could end it here. You could end it. Faramir knows nothing of the creature’s binding to the rulers of Gondor. If you never tell him, he will not pass it down to his heir when the time comes. We should burn the book you told me about. That would put an end to this curse on our line.”

Her expression was exasperated. “You would not throw away a sword or a bow simply because it was too effective at destroying your enemies,” she argued. “It is one thing to choose not to use the creature… but to discard it entirely would be foolishness. The kings of Gondor have held this demon in their service for generations and only Denethor has abused his power.”

“And what are the kings of Gondor to us, little sister, but our oppressors?” Éomer’s tone grew dark. “WE are the people of the Riddermark.” He sighed. “You tell me one of our children, a son made of you and I, might one day sit on the throne of Gondor rather than a child of Faramir’s. Would your pet demon obey a son of ours… or would it turn on him… declare him to be not of king Faramir’s siring, and ruin everything?

Éowyn faltered. “But the child would still be royal.”

“You said direct heirs,” he reminded her. “If Faramir is crowned and has a son… does your power over the demon vanish? Would my sons be able to control this plague since I am no longer in the line of succession? Don’t you see, Éowyn? The complications of dealing with a thing of magic like this… it isn’t worth it. One miss-step could be the ruin of us. The kings of Gondor were nothing more than lucky that something hasn’t gone wrong already. It needs to end here.”

“You won’t even let me use it to find Faramir?” Éowyn complained. “We need him here… now. The longer it is before he is crowned the more dissent he will have to deal with when it finally happens. It could be months before he decides to return to the Minas Tirith. The demon would likely find him hours and return him to us within a day.”

“Then it will be months before he is crowned… and I will hold his throne until he arrives,” Éomer stated calmly.

Éowyn pulled away and walked across the room. Her arms crossed over her chest and she glared at her brother. “And will you wait even longer without complaint to take me to bed like a proper woman? For ‘that’ can not happen until Faramir marries me.”

“I have waited for you my entire life, Éowyn. A few more months will not kill me, merely frustrate me… and I am well accustomed to that state of affairs.” He caught her eyes and shot an encouraging smile her way. “It shouldn’t be so very long. Faramir might have been rather single-minded in his pursuit of Boromir up until now… but he will not ignore word of our father’s death.” Crossing after her, Éomer gathered his sister into his arms. A hand stroking her hair attempted to ease the stiff posture she was frozen into. “Let it go, Éowyn. Please.”

“Fine. We’ll let the soldiers and messengers find him.” She leaned into the hug. “But I won’t destroy the book.”

“Only if you swear to hide it from Faramir. I won’t have him infected by this creature. I won’t allow it to ruin our brother the way it destroyed Denethor. I also don’t think he should ever discover that you have control over it. Our brother is a clever man. He will realize that you had a hand in Boromir’s loss… and as much as he loves us… Faramir could never forgive you for that, Éowyn.”

She nodded against his chest. “I’ll ask for the Denethor’s private library. I’ll ask for it to be given to me as my own special retreat. It would be best if Faramir never saw any of what is in the secret room.”

Relieved, Éomer kissed the top of her head. “I suppose that will work,” he allowed.

Faramir drifted in and out of fevered dreams for a fair long while. He had vague impressions of cups being held to his lips several time, and perhaps someone feeding him a pleasant, but rather bland, mush. The voices had been cheerful and the hands that had tended him were gentle. Strangely, when Faramir finally sat up, clear-headed at last, he discovered that he was alone in a long narrow room.

Plain black stone made up three of the walls. The fourth was strangely smooth, almost like glass but completely opaque. The room was pleasantly warm, which was a good thing considering all Faramir could find to wrap around his bare form was the sheet off the bed. There was nothing else in the room except a stand with a pitcher, bowl, and chamber-pot on it.

Draping the top sheet over his body, Faramir climbed unsteadily to his feet. One hand stretched out, seeking support. His palm splayed over the slick fourth wall and Faramir was astonished to see light spread out from the point of contact. The blot of transparency expanded like a ripple in a pond. Within a breath the entire wall was perfectly clear. The length and breadth of an elaborately decorated bedroom was revealed to Faramir’s sight.

The room was illuminated by a collection of candles that it would have shamed a wealthy lord to waste. The centerpiece of the display was a massive bed draped with trailing black and crimson sheets and fur throws. The demon stood at the foot of the decadent creation staring down at the nude form that sprawled on the bed. Boromir was like a bright gem displayed in a jeweller’s box.

Faramir threw himself against the clear barrier, pounding on blockage with hands that throbbed at the abuse so soon after their earlier injury. “BOROMIR!” The scream echoed in Faramir’s own ears but his sleeping brother didn’t react in the least. The demon however looked in Faramir’s direction and a truly frightening smile pulled at his lips. Eyes flashed completely black for a moment before returning to a semblance of humanity. At the same moment he shrugged out of the robe he wore and let it fall to the floor, leaving him as bare as Boromir.

The sight of those eyes was enough to make flashbacks of old nightmares rip into Faramir’s gut but the terror twisted in an entirely new direction as the creature crawled up the bed to crouch on hands and knees above Boromir.

“Don’t you touch him! I’ll kill you if you touch him!” Faramir shouted out a warning he had no way of enforcing.

Laughing softly, Aragorn’s mouth dropped down and he began nuzzling at the far side of Boromir’s face. Kisses were scattered over cheeks, lips, nose and forehead. Whispers fell from Aragorn’s lips. “My love, my own, my precious. Open your beautiful eyes.”

Somehow, despite the fact the bed was at least five long steps from the wall, Faramir heard every word.

Lashes fluttered and a long, sad sigh gusted out of Boromir. “Aragorn. Mmm, I dreamt you left.”

“Never for more than a moment, my love.”

“BOROMIR!” Faramir screamed the name at the top of his lungs but his brother didn’t notice in the slightest. “Boromir, I’m here! BOROMIR!”

Arms lifted, pulling Aragorn down into a kiss. Lips parted in invitation and Boromir moaned, arching up into the body poised above him. Fingers threaded into long dark hair, letting it slip through then petting the mussed strands.

At the end of the impossibly lengthy kiss, Aragorn dragged his mouth off and downward. He licked, nipped and sucked at Boromir’s throat before continuing lower. Pausing at Boromir’s heaving chest, Aragorn turned his face sideways. Resting his cheek at one pebbled nipple, he shot a wicked grin in Faramir’s direction and carefully mouthed the words ‘he loves me’.

“It’s a trick!” Faramir shouted right back. Boromir might not be able to hear his brother’s screams, but it was clear that the demon was all too aware of their audience.

Turning his attention back to the body underneath him, Aragorn sucked hard at both peaked nipples before easing himself up to sit on his heels.

“NO!” Boromir protested the withdrawal.

“I brought you a gift,” Aragorn pacified. “Don’t you want it?”

“I want you.” Sitting up he tried to catch Aragorn and pull him back into another kiss. “Nothing else matters.”

“My dear, sweet Boromir, it will only take a moment.” Climbing off the bed, Aragorn padded over to a small table and lifted a cut glass bottle. “Come here, my love. Please.”

A look of curiosity on his face, Boromir slid to the edge of the bed and stood, stretching out sleep-stiffened muscles in a manner too provocative not to have been purposeful.

Aragorn’s finger crooked. “Over here.”

The demon stood near enough to the barrier that held Faramir away that they could have touched if the invisible divider didn’t prevent it. When Boromir came close as well, Faramir swallowed and spread his fingers wide on the barricade. Faramir hadn’t realized it, but their long separation had blunted his memories even though he’d been focused on Boromir to the exclusion of all else for two years. To see Boromir so close and so vibrant after all this time was exhilarating. Adoration that had simmered low in the back of Faramir’s mind blazed up stronger than ever. His heart raced and his body ached to close the distance between them. “Boromir, please.” Faramir pressed tight to the clear wall, begging to be heard. “Boromir!”

A frown darkened Boromir’s eyes and he turned with a look of puzzlement to the stare in Faramir’s direction. “Aragorn, there’s something odd…”

“Smell this, my love.” The demon interrupted. He caught Boromir’s chin and forcibly turned his face away from the wall. “It’s made with the distilled essence of flowers that grow in the uppermost reaches of mountainsides.” The stopper was lifted out and traced down the centre of Boromir’s chest. The substance left a glistening trail in its wake.

Boromir shivered, a full body quake. “It’s warm… tingling.” A cautious finger was touched to the gleaming line. He sniffed, and then rubbed his fingers together. “It feels… odd.” A nervous laugh huffed out.

“It won’t hurt you. You know I would never hurt you.” Aragorn assured, even as he poured out a substantial handful of the perfumed oil and began rubbing all over Boromir’s shoulders, chest and stomach. “You can trust me, my love.”

When Aragorn’s fingers dropped down to massage the unguent over Boromir’s cock and sack, Boromir gasped and retreated, which put his spine right to the barrier where Faramir stood. Cursing, Boromir plastered himself backward, only to bow out into the contact a moment later. His shoulder blades rolled against the wall. “AHH! Aragorn! It’s setting my skin on fire.” What might have been a complaint in a less reverent tone came out as astonished praise.

Faramir had flinched away at the muffled thud of Boromir hitting the divider, pulling the sheet tighter around himself. As the tone of Boromir’s moans went from startled to utterly aroused, Faramir found himself right up against the clear wall once more. He couldn’t bring himself to look away as the demon set about coating every inch of Boromir’s front with the gleaming oil.

“Talk to me, my light. What does it feel like?” Aragorn eased upright, dragging his slick palm up Boromir’s leg and wrapping his fingers around his lover’s quickly thickening shaft. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know.” There was a breathless quality to Boromir’s voice. “Like standing too close to a fire. Like you’re breathing against my skin everywhere at once.” He squirmed, trapped against the wall by Aragorn’s body pressed tight to his. “I can’t… Oh Aragorn. Touch me. You have to touch me. I burn.”

“I am touching you, love.” Aragorn’s face buried into thick blond hair making Boromir moan and tip his head to one side to expose himself to his lover’s nibbling teeth.

“Do it, Aragorn. Drink from me. I want you to,” Boromir pleaded, grinding against skin then shuddering.

“Not yet.” Lips right at Boromir’s ear, Aragorn looked up and met Faramir’s gaze. “Will you trust me further, love? Will you let me slip my fingers inside you so you can feel the blaze there too? It won’t hurt you, it will just rouse you… I promise.” Reaching around, Aragorn pulled hair away from the nape of Boromir’s neck and traced a slippery looking circle there. Even as he spoke to his lover, Aragorn held Faramir’s eyes with his own. “I want to bury myself inside you.” The phrase growled out making both the brothers shiver. “I want to feel you buck against me and hear you plead while I thrust deep inside you.”

Faramir shook his head vehemently and mouthed the word ‘no’ even as Boromir hissed out a low, sizzling “YES!”

Still holding Faramir’s shocked stare, Aragorn caught at Boromir’s shoulder and turned him around with a move that skirted the edge of violence but didn’t quite cause harm. Faramir scrambled backward, tripping and falling over the trailing edge of his sheet as Boromir’s naked, aroused body was suddenly pressed to the invisible divide. Landing on his arse, Faramir’s heels tried to find some purchase to shove his body away from the display.

Nothing in Faramir’s life had prepared him for the act of raw sexuality being preformed in front of him. No kisses, awkward gropes in the safety of darkness, or even the time he and Éomer had taken turns loosing their virginity to a chamber-maid in the frail shelter of a linen closet could have equipped Faramir for the sight before him.

One of Boromir’s arms was bent over his head; the other was twisted at his side, his hand keeping Boromir from being crushed to the wall. His entire body was tense with anticipation. His legs were spread wide, with the muscles standing out under the skin. Boromir’s entire body undulated, rocking against whatever Aragorn was doing behind him. What really tore Faramir’s guts out, however, was the look on Boromir’s face. That expression of absolute rapture was impossible to look away from.

Unconsciously, Faramir crept back over to the divide, climbing to his feet as he neared the barrier. Fingers lifted, touched the wall right at the level of Boromir’s trembling stomach then pulled back as if burnt. Boromir’s breath caught audibly and was then released in low, wrenching moan. His mouth stayed open and he panted, tiny sobs that sounded anything but sad emerged with every heave of his chest.

“Please!” Boromir whispered. “Please, oh please.”

Biting his lip, Faramir extended his fingers once more. Held inches away by the demon’s magic, Faramir was still able to trace the lines of Boromir’s arching throat and press his fingertips to the heated spot where his brother’s forehead rested on the other side of the barrier. Boromir whimpered and turned his face, so Faramir found his hand spread just out of reach of Boromir’s shining cheek.

Boromir’s body jolted and Aragorn let out a hissing moan. Faramir’s hand retreated and he touched the fingers to his mouth as if to soothe an unexpected burn.

“There’s nothing like it, love.” Aragorn crooned. “Nothing like the feel of your body in my arms, your tight bottom riding against my hips. You are the very sweetest piece of work in the whole of the world. I don’t know how any man could look at you and not want to spread your legs and drive into you from dusk until dawn.”

Boromir’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He didn’t seem to be reacting to Aragorn’s heated whispers but instead his body writhed in time to slow steady thrusts. The filthy patter hit its real target, however. Faramir felt his stomach lurch and he gasped in reaction.

“Your lips feels like a bonfire when they close around me,” Aragorn continued. “I can never get enough of you sucking me. It’s almost as good as when I swallow you down, love. Every inch of you makes my mouth water.” He growled and Boromir trembled. “Do you want my hand wrapped around you, my darling? Do you want me to squeeze away that ache between your legs while fuck you through this wall and out the other side.”

“Yesss… touch me. Please. Touch me,” Boromir begged. His erection, pushed to the barrier, was dripping a steady stream of pale drops that smeared wetly on the surface. “TOUCH ME!”

Faramir knelt down in a near trance, his open palm pressed to the murky mess and he breathed heavily through his mouth. His head fell forward to rest on the barricade and he stared. When Aragorn’s hand appeared, Faramir couldn’t hold in the cry of disappointment that another’s fingers were wrapping around what he wanted to touch.

Aragorn pumped his hand and Boromir lost all sense of restraint. He wailed and threw his head back to rest on Aragorn’s shoulder. Eyes opened but stared sightlessly up at the ceiling.

“Let it go, love. Spray it right into his pretty face.”

If Boromir had any idea what his lover had said, he gave no indication. His body simply reacted to the oil soaked hand pulling at his aching erection. He shuddered violently and milky seed splattered out of him, hitting the wall right at the level of Faramir’s face.

Faramir’s fingers spasmed against the wall. He let go a wail before falling backward, pulling the sheet over him like a shroud and huddling underneath it in shame. Long moments later, when Faramir finally dared to emerge from his self-imposed cocoon, he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed that the wall had darkened to impenetrable black once more.

Faramir dragged his sore palms across the surface of wall, frowning at the slick material. It had remained stubbornly solid ever since he’d retreated from the realization of how aroused he’d become while watching his beloved brother in the throes of passion.

“There’s nothing to see right now, pretty one. Boromir is sleeping again,” Aragorn announced softly from behind Faramir’s back. The voice caused Faramir to whirl around. The demon sat cross-legged on the bed, looking up with a smug smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I quite wore him out. You only saw the first bit of what we got up to. Still, I got the impression you had suffered enough distress for the moment so I spared you the next four hours of it.” Aragorn stretched out, laying down with one hand propping up his head. His black-clad form almost disappeared against the midnight sheets.

Faramir grew absolutely still, fury bubbling up inside him.

“I’ve never used that oil on Boromir before. It added a pleasant urgency to his need… not that he isn’t a perfect slut under normal circumstances.” Blue-grey eyes sparkled with mischief as they gazed up at Faramir. “Your father trained him to be quite the shameless whore in bed. He’ll do absolutely anything I want him to.”

With a roar of wordless anger, Faramir threw himself at the demon. His fingers wrapped around Aragorn’s neck as the tumbled off the far side of the narrow bed. Strong hands encircled Faramir’s wrists and pulled them away with ease. A perfectly controlled roll turned them over and Aragorn forced Faramir’s limbs flat to the floor. Maddeningly enough to Faramir, the demon was chuckling in amusement as he perched atop Faramir’s trapped body.

“It’s going to be such a treat serving you, pretty one. None of the other kings of Gondor have ever been so young and filled with such naive passion… or such delicious guilt. Denethor was never as innocent as you. He was already planning his bloody empire inside his mind when he was a mere child. I suppose it comes from you’re being the second son. The second best.”

Faramir glared up at his captor, a truly poisonous expression.

Leaning over, Aragorn rested his forehead against Faramir’s. “I could take this wall down, my king. You could be the one to bend over lovely Boromir and receive his sleepy kisses. I could keep it dark; keep him on the edge of dreams. He would never know it was you. Ah, but that wouldn’t be what you wanted at all, would it? You want him completely aware of who you are when you fasten your lips to his.” Aragorn whispered in a silky tone. “It could happen. Boromir would welcome your touch, sweet one. He would delight in it. I know what’s in his mind. I’ve spent entire days swimming through him while he slept. I’ve needed no other entertainment since I acquired lovely Boromir.” A seductive smile accompanied the words. “He dreams of you constantly, Faramir. Boromir dreams of you, my lord. He fantasizes about you wearing a thin white chemise, sitting on the bed next to his and speaking of kisses. He so wanted to cross that narrow divide and press you to the mattress, to explore your entire body with his tongue.”

“Stop it,” Faramir pleaded, but he was no longer struggling to escape. There was something decidedly odd about what the demon had just said, but it was overpowered by Faramir’s absolutely primal reaction to the suggestion of lying down with Boromir. Faramir’s unsatisfied erection returned with a vengeance. If the demon didn’t stop whispering such obscenities, Faramir was afraid he’d orgasm simply from the lurid fantasies Aragorn’s words were crafting inside his head.

“Say it, pretty one. Say you want me to take this wall down so you can crawl into Boromir’s bed and show him how much you’ve grown since you’ve been apart. You want him to realize you’re not that little boy he used to coddle, but a man who can match him in every way.” Aragorn’s lips brushed Faramir’s left temple. “Can you picture the curve of his spine? Wouldn’t you like to run your fingers over his skin as he turns away… as he drops his face into the sheet and lifts his rear… offering himself for mounting?”

“Stop it.” Faramir’s eyes closed and he let out a defeated sob of air. “Just stop it. Please.”

Sitting up, Aragorn smiled at the young man below him. “Poor baby, I realize that Boromir and Éomer have outdone themselves protecting you from the harsh truths of what was going on within your twisted little family circle… but you’ve been out in the real world for two years. I should have thought that it would have seasoned you a bit more than it has.” A surprising gentle touch brushed Faramir’s hair back out of his face. “Here it is, my lord… the plain undecorated facts…” Aragorn tugged at the hank of hair nearest his fingers. “Pay attention, little boy,” he scolded. “Denethor kept you all high up in that tower too long, making certain that the four of you… and everyone else in the world… knew that HIS family was something entirely apart from every other human in all of Middle-Earth.”

Faramir frowned, feeling the need to plug his ears and scream just as strongly as he felt the urge to hear what the demon had to say.

“It’s not surprising that you all turned to each other. No one else would dare intrude into your precious royal circle. No one else is good enough for the children of Denethor… except as a passing fancy, a day’s amusement.”

“No… stop.” Faramir’s head started to shake.

“Your father started sleeping with Boromir when he fifteen years old. Boromir submitted to anything… absolutely anything… the old man wanted. He played the part of a willing… nay, even an eager… lover, for the soul purpose of keeping Denethor’s grasping hands off your tender little body, Faramir, my sweet.” Aragorn’s voice could not be shut out. “Dear Boromir has never lain with anyone except Denethor or I… and has only ever seriously wanted one other lover in his entire life.”

Faramir’s breath caught.

“You.” The word practically rippled the air around them, it was so intensely voiced. “You. The very same innocent that he sacrificed himself to preserve is the one body Boromir has most wanted to plunder.” Aragorn laughed. “Oh yes… And then there’s dear Éomer and Éowyn, who have been playing ‘special little games’ with each other since Éomer turned fifteen… at Éowyn’s instigation, I should add. She’s quite the calculating little vixen. I like her. She’s my kind of girl. But surely you must have noticed, Faramir?” he mocked. “Éowyn’s been wiggling after your attention as well. She’s absolutely burning for a game of Éowyn in the middle with you and Éomer.”

“STOP IT!”

“Not that Éowyn will let Éomer stick his cock to her. No, that one last thing has to wait until you return to them and she can seduce you into joining the two of them in their extremely tangled sheets. Just in case a baby results, she has to be able to blame you rather than dear Éomer. Her plan really is quite clever. She marries you, sleeps with you and Éomer both, and whatever happens… children of the royal line will sit on the thrones in both Edoras and Minas Tirith when the time comes.”

“You can’t know any of that! You’re just spouting whatever ridiculous filth comes to mind.”

“Faramir, my darling boy. I know every little twisted notion in Éowyn’s mind. I quite painstakingly dug through her thoughts the day she first summoned me and ordered me to take Boromir away so you would be the next king of Gondor rather than him.”

Faramir went dead still. Mouth hanging open, he blinked several times, staring up the demon. “Éowyn?”

“Why… yes, your dear sweet-faced sister paid me to remove him with Boromir’s own body, blood and soul… without a second thought. She hates him. She’s always hated him, Faramir, from the first moment she saw him. So she tossed him out like so much garbage. She commands me… just as you could if you wanted to, if you knew how.”

“How?” he asked in a tiny whisper.

“Would you like me to teach you how, pretty one?” Aragorn’s eyes gleamed blackly. “Would like the power your father held over me? Can you bring yourself to wield me even knowing it would corrupt you with every task you ask me to perform? Are you truly your father’s son as much as Éowyn is your father’s daughter?”

Faramir turned his face away, looking instead to the wall that concealed his brother. “Yes… and no,” he finally answered. “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll find out. Teach me. Teach me everything.”

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