Faramir Fiction Archive

Trail of Tears (R)

Written by Kissa

21 June 2008 | 6893 words

Title: Trail of Tears
Author: Kissa
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir/Aragorn
Rating: a harsh R
Warnings: AU (for yet undisclosed reasons), incest and graphic content with gross-out potential. Not for prudes.
Author’s Note: Boromir at one point presents himself and his brother under fake names. When Aragorn (Thorongil) thinks of them, it is by the fake names he is given by Boromir, when they look at things from their point of view, it’s Boromir and Faramir. It might just get confusing at a point, but bear with me :P
Archivist’s Note: This story is accompanied by an illustration by the author.

Written for the 2008 Midsummer Swap.

Request by Laurëlóte: When Faramir gets word that Boromir has not returned from his latest diplomatic mission he sets out with two of his rangers towards Harad to find him. (Bonus points for one of the rangers being Malblung doing his best father figure act) Aragorn is a wandering ranger who has either: found Boromir and is taking care of him, OR offers to help find him. Boromir and/or Aragorn pairing. R rated or above please. Fluff should follow much angst on Faramir’s part.

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„Sweet boy, come in
I am the dark side of you
Die for my sins
Like the
One once did
Cinnamon bed
For your unashamed appetite
A figurante
This dance will hurt like hell
Oh, bare grace misery
Just a child without a fairytale am I”

(Bare Grace Misery — by Tuomas Holopainen)

Chapter 1

Faramir’s wounds hurt, even days after they had been inflicted upon him, and he had to sit very carefully, because even his butt was bruised. But this time he had had it coming. He had managed to annoy Boromir, whom he worshipped, and he had received the beating of his life. Moreover, he understood now, he had almost given away vital information, thus jeopardizing Gondor herself.

In another world, nothing would have justified the harsh treatment, but in this one, Faramir’s behaviour could have cost them the safety of Gondor.

Boromir had been crying bitterly as his arm kept coming down to deliver blows to his little brother’s naked back. But it was either that or letting Denethor judge him for betrayal, which had only one punishment in Gondor.

They had not had the chance to say goodbye, and Faramir knew how heavy with grief his brother’s heart had been as he had ridden out of Minas Tirith at dawn on the following day.

Something was making him restless. It was as if his mind had been numb and now it was struggling with something, needing to push it out and away.

By the time night fell and the Steward’s second son lay himself gingerly down into his lonely bed, he knew what his state of mind meant.

He fell asleep in his own cold sweat, tossing and turning almost until dawn, when exhaustion caught up with him.

In the morning, his mind was troubled by what it had seen in slumber, but it was also made up. He would ride out to find him and bring him back. Gondor’s most precious jewel had to be returned to its rightful home. Boromir could not fall! Gondor would follow him into ruin, but before that, Faramir would fade from grief. Boromir was his entire world.

The outpost was quiet and all things seemed in their place. Faramir spoke the words in the darkness and the stone wall began to move, allowing him entrance. Mablung greeted him, and even by the light of the small torch, the older man was shocked by the state his captain was in. The haunted expression on Faramir’s face made the questions die upon his lips, so he saw to getting Faramir someplace warm and safe to rest after the road. He boiled water and put herbs in it, hoping the infusion would help the young lord.

Mablung had been a Ranger for a long time, and although he was the oldest of the company, he did not object to young Faramir being their captain. This was not a prissy aristocrat who worried about how his lace sleeves flutter in the wind. Faramir had grown up among them, doing the hardest chores, scraping his knees and taking blows and wounds just like they did; he had bested them all one by one and on the day Mablung had fallen to the ground with the tip of Faramir’s sword pointed at him, they had all known the little one was ready.

Even bruised and marked by deprivation, Faramir was a fair lad, perhaps too fair for their fate. They were Rangers who dwelt in the wild for months, who ate what the forest gave them and slept in the same clothes they fought and bled in. Faramir was a modest, deadly-accurate and effective warrior. No one had ever seen him lose his temper and inner balance, especially not in battle, when he fought as if killing was the first thing he’s learnt, even before breathing. In everyday life though, and Mablung did worry about this part, Faramir was incredibly shy, almost fearful, avoiding the company of young men his age and that of maidens. To his knowledge, Faramir still did not know a woman’s touch, and he had obstinately refused touches of men, be they offers for comfort or more.

The weathered Ranger could not help feeling protective of their young captain. Although he trusted Faramir’s instincts and keen senses, at times Mablung wished he could give him back something of the childhood the young lord had gone over, being thrown directly into training and battle very early on.

Mablung had children of his own in a few villages around Minas Tirith, children he loved dearly, and although they had grown up with less clothing and food on their tables, it still broke his heart to see his lord’s son not knowing how to spin a circle or how to carve a horse out of a piece of wood. So he did his best to “pamper” Faramir as much as their mission allowed, waking him up last, making him infusions when he was cold and showing him how to play the flute. The other Rangers were snickering good-naturedly on such occasions, but Mablung did not care, not when his reward for the small efforts was Faramir’s beaming smile.

Now, looking at the poor state Faramir was in, the older Ranger wanted to hold him and somehow take his obvious pain away. He knew that if it had been him instead of the young captain, he would have cursed and screamed loud enough to upset the gods. Faramir was livid from the effort of reining in his reaction to the pain he was in.

The reason he had ridden out in his condition had to be dead-serious. Boromir.

“He is missing, Mablung. He was supposed to return to us three days ago. He has fallen on Haradhrim land, I must get him back!”

“You shall not go alone. It is dangerous and risky. Ohtar and I are coming with you.”

“Nay, I cannot ask that you risk you lives for a personal pursuit of mine.”

“A personal pursuit, my lord?! Boromir is the future ruler of Gondor! He cannot be left behind to perish in a wild forest!”

Faramir did not argue further and snuggled deeper into the wolf skin Mablung had wrapped him in.

Chapter 2

After the brief hours Faramir allowed himself to rest, but only after understanding that he would be of no use tired, he snapped awake and looked around, for a few moments forgetting where he was.

Then Mablung came into view, bringing a hot infusion made of some refreshing herbs.

Faramir obediently drank it and after gathering what they needed for the road, the three Rangers left the safety of their outpost in search of the Steward’s lost son.

Faramir’s mind was racing with thoughts of what could have happened to Boromir. He might have been held hostage by the Haradhrim, being tortured or submitted to deprivation and humiliation, or left to leave and then hunted down like an animal in the woods; they might have left him for dead in some ravine or… perhaps they had buried him under some unmarked tree, not even bothering to check if he was dead or still alive… Faramir almost cried as he walked behind Mablung, but he quickly composed himself and reassured his mind saying that the connection he shared to his brother was still there, intact, and in his heart he knew Boromir had called to him for help and that his brother was waiting for him, needing his help.

Sometimes his very hard to bear gift – the visions – actually paid off.

Faramir could only hope he was right.

Since they had left on foot, not wanting to worry about the horses as well, they only managed to cover a small distance, the part of the forest where everything was relatively quiet because they were still very close to land they controlled.

However, as soon as they approached the main road to Harad, they became more alert to odd and off noises around them. Faramir felt watched.

It proved, in the end, that they were – an Orc arrow flew right past Faramir’ nose, burying itself into a nearby tree on his left.

Orcs? Since when did Orcs prowl those woods freely? The thought crossed Faramir’s mind swiftly as he drew his first arrow and released it toward the source of the threat.

They have either left a trail of corpses through the villages of Harad they crossed or… – and the thought alarmed him more than the imminent fear of death – Harad has made an alliance with the lord of Mordor.

Now he knew he had to live; someone had to warn his father and the military council!

Although he fought fiercely, he could not prevent Ohtar from falling; the Ranger had been tricked and overpowered – they were seriously outnumbered.

“Faramir, behind you!” Mablung shouted and Faramir avoided an Orc’s blade which nearly impaled him, watching powerlessly as the blade slid into Mablung’s side… The old Ranger had turned to defend his front, and as Faramir had moved out of the way, his back had remained uncovered…

Faramir froze into place, watching the blood gurgle out of his old comrade’s mouth as Mablung fell to his knees.

“Run, Fara, save yourself!” the Ranger spoke with great difficulty, the words costing him his last strength.

Faramir ran back into the safety of the thick forest into the direction he had come from and the more he ran, the more he sped up, not looking back, feeling tears streak his cheeks.

He had just lost two comrades, one of which he called friend… he had been a Ranger for a while now, he had not been made a Captain the day before and he had seen men fall – yet none from his company; not good, warm Mablung!

He saw the entrance to a cave, camouflaged behind some fallen tree trunks and smaller rocks and he climbed toward it, hoping that whatever had dwelt in there had long died or migrated towards richer hunting grounds. Just to be on the safe side, he drew his short sword and carefully stepped inside.

The smell of blood hung heavily in the air, mingling with the scent of fresh mud and… something else, Faramir could not name it, but the scent was familiar. As he advanced and the scent got stronger, he recognized it. Gondorian healing salve! Every soldier carried a small box with him, and because it was made from herbs which only grew in Gondor, the smell was unmistakable. Faramir had used it himself so often in the recent past! He blushed at the thought that in most of those cases, it had not been for healing purposes.

The next few steps took him around a curve inside the cave and lying on a bed of leaves and twigs on which he had spread his rain cloak, lay his brother Boromir, barely recognizable from the massive injuries…

Chapter 3

Faramir quickly knelt next to Boromir, shaking him in disbelief. As he did so and heard the pained growl leaving his brother’s chest, he noticed the bloody arrow tips lying around all over the cave floor. They were new and had fresh blood on them; he counted three or four and his heart stopped in his chest before it could resume its beating. The fact that his brother had survived such an attack was a miracle! Whether Boromir would survive to see other battles seemed highly unlikely.

But he would try, he had to! He could not lose his brother! If Boromir died, his life would become pointless and there would be no reason for him to go back to Gondor.

He could hear the sound of falling water somewhere deeper into the cave and he quickly got up, getting to work and going to bring some water. He discovered there was a creek which came from the ground, and the water was warm instead of ice-cold. It also smelt funny and Faramir recognized the smell of healing salts. He might just be lucky, at least this one time…

He worked as fast as he could, and paid attention to every detail in his brother’s body language, searching for signs of pain or clues to how extensive the internal damage was. To his luck, Boromir seemed only high on his body’s natural means of fighting pain. He checked and double checked for the tissue damage characteristic to poisoning, but it seemed that his brother was merely feverish. There could be a number of other reasons… Faramir was undecided, until Boromir’s squirming attracted his attention to his brother’s groin. His decision was made in the fraction of a heartbeat. He threw off as many layers as he could before he began to work, bringing all he needed close to where Boromir lay.

Once the wounds were disinfected on the outside, as Faramir thought it best not to upset the by now mending flesh, he applied some healing salve all over the wounded areas. Even after doing his best to clean and mend the wounds, his brother was still watching him with burning eyes, fixing him in an obvious attempt to not attract his attention to the obscene tent in his leggings.

But Faramir had spotted that long ago and intended to make good use of it. From his position, straddling Boromir, he lowered his hips and ground them against Boromir’s groin, smirking at the moan his gesture elicited.

Boromir had not yet spoken, probably to spare his energy. The sweat that had broken out on his forehead and chest told Faramir the older man was trying to cope with unspeakable pain – which was normal, considering how many arrows he had taken.

He knew just the way to help Boromir fight pain. Reaching behind himself, he unlaced Boromir’s leggings, letting the thick shaft spring forth into his hand and smiling at his brother’s relieved gasp.

Next, he made a show out of shimmying out of his own clothes, keeping only his thin shirt on, and without wasting any time, he went back to straddle his brother, loving the feel of skin on skin and rocking gently against Boromir, who lay there watching him and biting his lips in anticipation.

His brother’s green eyes were glazed with pain, but also dark with arousal, which was most intriguing and… flattering. Faramir was aware of the effect he had on his brother, but until now he had not known the extent and depth of it.

After the most cursory of preparations – he had always liked it to hurt a bit, in the beginning, as it gave it more meaning in his mind – he guided Boromir’s swollen manhood into his own tight body, sighing in pleasure as he felt the thick length slide all the way in, inch by inch, then he set a slow, hypnotic pace, eyes riveted on Boromir’s awed face. By the look in his brother’s eyes, the older man surely must have thought he was hallucinating.

Faramir leant forward and laced his fingers with his brother’s, murmuring:

“Nay brother beloved, ‘tis not a dream. I am for real, and you live, thank Eru.”

He bent his upper body even more so he could kiss his brother. He was met with hungry, flaky lips which reached for him, devouring.

They had always been each other’s addiction. They each had their reasons, some pure and some others less so; Faramir knew his own and did not question Boromir’s. It was enough for him to know that no one and nothing on Arda held more sway than him over his brother’s every move and thought. It was the same in his case, for Boromir, but he had had to save a bit of reason and an alert corner of his mind so they would never be caught, hurt and separated.

The nannies had understood them, when they were little; they had seen five year-old Boromir, skinny and frail, carrying baby Faramir around and looking after him with the utmost care and concentration. Not once had the child dropped or hurt his baby brother in any way.

They had all been shocked to find the brothers healed each other just by the simple fact of being together, going through the same thing. Boromir had caught a stiff cold once, and they had consigned him to his bed. Baby Faramir, now one year old, had cried until he had become blue in the face, and Denethor himself, kept awake by the vigorous screaming, had put the baby into the sick brother’s bed. Come morning, the two were both sleeping peacefully, their breathing synchronised, any trace of the cold now vanished.

It had happened many times since then. Faramir would take away Boromir’s fears and doubts, and the older brother would blow tenderly on skinned knees that fixed themselves in a matter of hours, not days.

Faramir could remember their first night as lovers more clearly than he could remember any of the more recent events. He had been fourteen at the time, tingling all over and restless on that night. Something invisible had led him to his brother’s room, finding Boromir in prey to what seemed a very painful state, as the older brother had been flushed and sweaty when Faramir had laid eyes on him. And, as he had discovered when he’d climbed into bed with his brother, Boromir had been naked under the veil-like sheet.

The young Faramir had looked at his brother’s body with the eyes of a poet – seeing it in an idealized light, the sight had stolen his breath and any trace of sense. If it was so beautiful, how could any of it be wrong?

Had anyone come into the room then, asking Faramir whether it was day or night, he would have been unable to say; all he could have said would have been “Boromir”.

His brother had been rubbing himself against the sheet below him, as if in prey to a full body itch, but Faramir did not care what it might have been, as long as he was completely absorbed in following every flexing of his brother’s well-sculpted, but still lithe and elegant body. He had moved to sit against the headboard, watching as the sheet covering Boromir kept sliding off more and more; soon it would reveal all of his brother’s nude form to his entranced eyes.

He had been pulled lower, into a half-lying, half sitting position, his brother using the scrawny chest as a pillow, resting against Faramir for long moments, as if listening to the restless flutter inside Faramir’s chest would soothe him… and it had, apparently, only not for long.

The rest of the night had been blurred out and romanticized by Faramir’s young mind. He could not remember details of how he had ended up with his legs around Boromir’s hips, how Boromir had done to slide inside him so painlessly and what he had done to make him feel like their souls were spilling into each other, becoming one. There had been no attribution of guilt in the light of dawn, but only Boromir touching his lips to Faramir’s chest, where the heartbeat could be seen thumping against the ribcage. In one way or another, they had always known they were inseparable.

Since then, they had woven an intricate web of deceit. For Denethor, for the nannies, for the servants and the soldiers they fought alongside with. Not a soul in this world could ever find out… Bolted doors, twisted keys in covered keyholes, whispered endearments and censored displays of affection made up their secret code.

Chapter 4

The diffuse light coming from the inside, as well as the sounds of what seemed to be two beings gasping for breath told the Ranger his little hideout had been uncovered. He had two options: look for another shelter for the night and waste precious resting time with making sure it was as safe as his known lair or killing whatever creatures had occupied his cave.

He slithered along the walls, with the intent on ambushing the creatures which were most likely fighting over the night’s kill. As he peeked around a corner, his breath caught in his throat and for a moment his blood forgot to flow at the sight he was presented with.

In his long errant life, he had come across many strange things… and soldier’s comfort had been something he had often seen among his comrades, but what he was now witnessing could hardly be called by that name…. though that was the closest idea the Ranger could relate to right now. The men’s things, scattered all around them, hinted to them being warriors, and by the coat of arms engraved on the breastplate which lay almost within reach of him, they were Gondorians. The Ranger filed that information away for later use and continued to look, mesmerized, as the younger one ground himself against the other in a hypnotic, carefully chosen rhythm. The young one’s shirt had slid down his shoulders, but his arms were still in the shirt’s sleeves, and though the thin silk was see-through, it did preserve some mystery, as it descended low enough to conceal the spot where they were joined.

The arousal on the lying man’s face was obvious… but the Ranger also saw the greenish sheen of perspiration, the erratic breathing whose rhythm changed following a rather irregular pattern, the oval-shaped pupils, the dry tongue which was darting out to moisten even drier lips… Plus, there was blood seeping from fresh wounds, which, although they shone with a layer of salve, did not show any time of closing, and on the cave floor he could spy, among the warriors’ discarded things, at least three broken arrow heads. Orc arrow heads.

To him, all that put together could only mean one thing: the poison had already begun to attack the main organs and was beginning to show on the outside. He could not waste more time. A split-second decision was made and the Ranger carefully made his presence felt by walking loudly in the men’s direction, taking his time as he went around a corner along the rock wall, making sure they could preserve their decency upon their encounter.

„Pardon me, my lords, for intruding on this cold night.” He began, slightly bowing his head and lowering the hood of his cloak. „I thought my cave was a well enough hidden secret, but I see I was wrong. My apologies for disturbing your evening, but I am tracking down a company of Orcs which have crossed into these forests over the Harad borders. They carry poisoned arrows, with the mission to test a new, deadlier mix. I see one of you is injured quite badly and I would ask for permission to look at the wounds. This new poison acts fast and leaves permanent damage.” He said, kneeling by the injured warrior’s side. „I am Thorongil and I am a Ranger, but I have been trained as a healer by Elrond the Half-Elven. Perhaps I can help before it is not too late.”

„We thank you for your consideration… but as I am sure you have noticed on your way here, the Orcs have been slain, at the cost of my two companions’ lives” Faramir spoke in a low, controlled voice. „And my brother’s wounds have been taken care of…”

„Brother, please!” Boromir cut in, speaking with great difficulty. „I want him to take a look.”

The Ranger removed the sweat soaked shirt, examining the entry wounds in silence.

To Faramir, it was awkward. He had this nagging feeling that control had been taken from him, because as soon as this mysterios man had walked in on them, Boromir had been entranced by him, trusting him instantly. That did not please him and only spelled out more danger to be on the lookout for.

„Pardon my little brother, my lord. He means well, and in these times it is not prudent to trust strangers.” Boromir said, smiling up at the stranger. „We are soldiers in Gondor’s army. I am Aradhel and the little one is Eramir…”

Faramir’s eyes grew wide with surprise for a moment, but he quickly controlled his reactions. His heart beat faster as he realized Boromir did not trust the stranger so easily, as he had feared. It was a good thing if the Ranger did not know they were the sons of the Steward.

He took the time to study the man. What had drawn his attention from the very beginning were his eyes. Clear, icy blue eyes, far too wise for the man’s apparent age, the look in them one of undaunted pride and regal attitude. This could not be a mere Ranger!

The second thing „Eramir” noticed were the man’s hands. Clean, graceful, expressive and skilled. There were faint calluses on them, which indicated the use of a bow, but the hands were not weathered and used.

All in all, the Ranger did not seem to be just that, a humble Ranger. A spy perhaps? But on whose side? Why would he insist on helping them, if his mission or interests came first? Why waste time on them? Why was he helping them, instead of chasing them away from what he claimed to be his hideout?

Faramir’s mind worked hard to weigh all the options and to consider all the information he had gathered.

„My lord Eramir, have you used the water from the warm spring to cleanse the wounds?” the Ranger asked.

Faramir nodded.

„And you have smeared the wounds with this salve?” Thorongil picked up the small, half-empty jar from the floor of the cave.

„Aye, I have. It is healing salve, it mends poisoned flesh. Every Gondorian carries a jar with him.”

„I am afraid I need to use something stronger. I have found an herb which removes the poison from the body… I shall have to make an infusion of it and your brother should drink it.” Thorongil said.

Faramir nodded and let the Ranger take the plant from his pack, helping him prepare the infusion. When it was ready, he ordered:

„You drink first.”

Smiling, Thorongil drank a cup.

„It actually tastes acceptable, for a medicine.” He said.

That smile… Faramir felt a shiver rush down his spine. There was wisdom and nobility in the man’s features, in the way they lit up when he smiled… nay, this was not a spy for the enemy. Perhaps he was an envoy from the elven realms. Faramir knew that elves usually did not interfere with affairs of Man, but now, with the growing shadow from Mordor, the elves had begun to inquire, at the same time trying to keep their intervention at a benign minimum.

And there was something else… recognition? His mind was sending him flashes of visions… but they were far too quick and diffuse… unrelated. Nothing made sense any longer, except for the current feeling of reassurance settling in. The sensation was a first in itself, and on top of that, Faramir could feel it being relayed to him through Boromir as well. His brother was warming up to the Ranger as well… right then, the steward’s youngest son would have paid serious gold to see what was on his brother’s mind. He hated being intrigued.

Thorongil patiently waited for Boromir to drink all the infusion, scrupulously monitoring the changes in the wounded man’s condition. They spent the night in silence, keeping the fire down to a minimum, so they would not attract enemies, speaking only when necessary to preserve strength and stealth… and somehow, by the time Anor was rising, painting the cave entrance golden, Faramir was entranced, listening to an old tale of elven bravery as it was being told to him by Thorongil. The Ranger’s voice was immaterial and silky, like the wind whispering through the rock corridors long before elves of the first age named the elements wind and rock.

Looking at Thorongil, he had this strange feeling of seeing long forgotten ancestors and no one in particular, but the knowing eyes studying him back were warmed by a genuine smile… and to Faramir it seemed like he was bared to the man’s scrutiny down to the last recess of his soul.

When he went to check on Boromir, he was surprised to find his brother almost completely healed, the arrow wounds on their way to closing and scarring. As he got ready to stand and leave, he felt his brother’s hand, which had regained its strength, gripping his forearm and holding him in place, kissing him in the addictive way Boromir reserved for the rare occasions when they were alone and safe. Understanding passed between the brothers; no words were needed as the fire burning in Boromir’s eyes was lit in Faramir’s blue orbs as well.

It became obvious to the young captain that the mysterious Ranger had, without a doubt, saved his brother’s life. Had Thorongil not come forth about the Orcs’ mission of testing the new poison, Faramir would now be watching the light die in Boromir’s eyes. And that would bring about his end as well.

Chapter 5

He found Thorongil sitting on a rock a bit further away from them, smoking his pipe in silence. The Ranger, although deep in thought and quiet, seemed in prey to great turmoil. Faramir dropped to one knee in front of him, close enough so the Ranger would feel his personal space invaded.

„I’ve been meaning to thank you, Thorongil. Your skill and wisdom have saved my brother’s life, and for that I am infinitely grateful.” Faramir began.

„He is everything to you, that is obvious.” Thorongil commented, removing the pipe from his mouth.

Faramir watched the Ranger’s face and found it rejuventated somehow. The lines on the man’s face had disappeared and he now looked – amazingly – just as young as Boromir. As his fascination with this man and his gratitude peaked, Faramir found himself almost in the man’s lap, kissing him desperately.

There was a second, perhaps the longest one in Faramir’s life, when everything could happen. He had never let himself be so vulnerable in his whole life; he had never given so much of himself – Thorongil could turn him down and crush him like an insect. He had no way of knowing if his offer would be met with the usual desire men felt for him, or with distant coldness. Thorongil had been unreadable in this respect, and he had seemed unfazed by the obvious, albeit questionable closeness between the brothers.

Yet Thorongil’s hands came to rest on his waist, pipeweed-flavored lips opening to allow Faramir access. Ah, victory. It was almost a disappointment, that even this one gave in so easily to temptation. But then, who could blame him? The temptation was designed to be irresistible.

Hands fumbled with laces, clasps and frogs and, unexplainably shy, Faramir gasped as he touched soft warm skin which was not Boromir’s, for the first time. It brought a strange sense of relief, to see the man pulse and heat up just like them, as if in the back of his mind Faramir had expected him to not be as human as he first appeared to be.

They made their way to where Boromir now waited, doing visibly better compared to the previous day. He had eagerly gone to the back of the cave, bathing in the warm stream, washing away the traces of grime and poisoned sweat. As soon as the Ranger and Faramir sat down next to him, Boromir smiled and reached for Thorongil’s wrist, urging him closer and wasting no time in snaking a leg in between the Ranger’s, effectively pinning him down, at the same time making sure the Ranger did not feel trapped.

He was older than the two of them, true, but they had no way of knowing what his limits were. True, he was a Ranger and many things were said about the relationships forged between Rangers in the wild, but this one did not fit the idea of a Ranger they had got from books and other accounts.

While Boromir loosened Thorongil’s clothing, Faramir kept him distracted by kissing him, no longer keeping the touches light and shy, but throughly enjoying making the Ranger gasp for air in between kisses.

„How…?” Thorongil got the time to ask in between kisses, not fully understanding what the young warriors wanted from him. He had never considered approaching a man that way, and he was not ready to accept he might be wanted by another male… but, and this was a major but, there was something about the two brothers. The same thing which had made him stray from his plans and stay with them, helping the older one just so he could pass the time studying the younger one.

Eramir had caught his eye from the very first moment. True, when he had laid eyes on him, Eramir had been in the throes of passion, writhing on top of his brother with his eyes closed, looking elf-like in the faint moonlight coming from outside. But even after that, it had been obvious that, both brothers being special, each in his own way and together as well, Eramir had a certain… glow to him. He was also disarmingly young for his role and position. Thorongil had seen the hilt of the boy’s sword, had seen the runes carved on his bow. He was a company leader, at such a young age. Either things in Gondor were more desperate than he had surmised, or the little one was a nobleman’s son. Or both, who knew?

Right now the brothers had complete control of his body. Never would he have guessed firm muscle and narrow hips would elicit such reactions from him, or that the sight of Eramir baring his body for his eyes to enjoy would spark such dark desires in him. It was as if… he felt strangely protective of the boy (who tried hard to pass as a man, but failed miserably because of his elven looks, hairless maidenlike skin and long, auburn curls), but at the same time he had the irrepresible urge to capture this moment and what it offered to him.

Aradhel’s hand had found its way inside Thorongil’s breeches, stroking him with practised moves. They both knew that part was hardly necessary, not with Eramir now standing naked before them.

Aradhel let him go for a few moments, taking his brother’s hand and helping him straddle his lap, making sure Thorongil could see his hands slide down the young one’s back, over the firm little butt.

Boromir looked up at his brother, seeing no trace of reserve or apprehension. Together, no one and nothing could break them. Reaching for the salve, he uncapped it and coated his fingers in it, taking his time in preparing the little one, making a show of it for Thorongil’s pleasure.When he looked over to their „guest”, Boromir saw the man was not touching himself , probably not knowing it was not just tolerated, but also expected of him to do so, but instead his eyes were riveted on what the two brothers were currently doing.

As Faramir bent forward, briefly kissing Boromir to let him know it was alright to proceed, the older brother nodded at the Ranger, who knelt behind Faramir, grasping a long silky auburn strand, moving it aside so he could kiss the white neck he thus uncovered.

To his shock, Thorongil felt a greased hand grabbing him, guiding him into the tightest, hottest… heaven he had been allowed into. His breath was stolen from him and all the blood rushed to one part of his body, making him dizzy and high. He still did not understand how he had come to be in that situation, but he for once decided not to overthink things, so he could enjoy them. Boromir’s hand was still on his manhood, thoughtfully gripping the base of it and squeezing hard, which was a most inspired move, because the older man would have come as soon as he had been accepted by the young beauty’s body.

Next, when he thought there was no more he could feel, he was proven wrong by the delicious pressure-panic of Aradhel’s shaft pushing in alongside his. Eramir gave a small mewl between them and went still, but only for a few short moments, rearing up against Throngil’s body and melting against him. The Ranger’s arms simply wrapped themselves around the lithe body, caressing where they reached, gender preferences long forgotten in the midst of such an intimate connection. It was an instinctive gesture of tenderness sprung from primeval instinct. Thorongil would have said something, anything, but he was too awe-stricken to do so. All things which came to his mind seemed to only serve in ruining the moment.

It was Boromir who began to move, sliding in deeper, then pulling almost all the way out, eliciting pleasure-filled sounds from both his brother and the Ranger. Soon, all three of them found a rhythm which suited them, wanting to draw out the experience for as long as possible.

Faramir felt his control wane first, from the overwhelming pressure and the sensations coursing through his body, but also from his unlikely lover’s hesitant, but loving and delicious touches. His head fell forward in abandon as orgasm wracked his body, Thorongil biting into his shoulder as he came as well.

The Ranger froze in the midst of his climax as his peripheral vision caught sight of something he had not hoped he would see again in his life.

A small sign at the back of Eramir’s head, right under the hairline… a sign he and his long-lost love had left on their newborn sons’ skin using magic dug up from scrolls of the First Age. She had wanted that, for both her sons, wanting to preserve her people’s tradition and to deny her unjust husband the claim over her children.

Denethor had become Steward of Gondor, and with the gain of this position, he had lost all trace of gentleness. Only Finduilas, his frail wife, knew he was unable to sire any offspring… and for that, he hated her. But he needed heirs, so he did the one thing a wise breeder does when the line is threatened: he brought in a male from another lineage… And once the deed was done, he had ordered Finduilas’ mate killed. The steward’s sick wife had called on a few favors from guards and elves and thus the man had been saved, but condemned to exile.

Now, as he beheld the lily-shaped pearly sign on Eramir’s skin, the Ranger realized he not only knew the truth, but it did not affect him in the least. He could only love the young man more. And he could bet there was an identical sign on Aradhel’s skin as well.

Coming down from his high, he pulled away, lacing his breeches up and letting the brothers cuddle. There was something bestial and simple about them together; they seemed perfectly content to be alone against the world. Probably they were just responding to having been thrown in a world of lies and deception, without even their mother to teach them how to protect themselves without shutting the rest of the world out. He could not begrudge them their unbrotherly bond – it was all they had. For now.

Much later, after Arda herself had gone through a whole cycle of change, Elessar looked at his Steward who stood before him… he had but one son left alive, and he hated himself for not having spoken sooner. Tonight the veil of secrecy fell and there would be no more borrowed names and aliases. Tonight the trail of tears ended for Faramir; an entire world had fallen around them, and Faramir could mourn it, as he did his brother, every waking moment. But tonight he would have his father’s arms around him to offer the much longed for comfort.

~end~

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