Faramir Fiction Archive

Legacy (NC-17)

Written by Carla Jane

30 March 2004 | 95430 words

The jewels that Éowyn had gifted Faramir with had brought a fair price, but bribing sources of only minimally helpful information was using a good chunk of his funds. So it was that Faramir had been reluctant to part with the coin but he had been forced to take a room at an inn this night. The weather outside was horrendous. Even if he didn’t want the shelter, since the cold rain and overwhelming mud fit his mood so well, the horses were in need.

Since he had paid for it however, Faramir wasn’t about to completely waste the opportunity to dry out and warm up. He installed himself in a booth not far from either the bar or the fire and sipped at a bowl of broth while his heavy cloak sent up steam as it dried. What he couldn’t decide was if sitting this close to the chattering patrons at the long bar was a good thing or a bad thing.

The topic of conversation among the customers was the royal house of Gondor, which was a rather common occurrence over the last few months. Soldiers, merchants, and even farmers seemed to find the upheaval in the White Tower endlessly fascinating. Everywhere Faramir went he tripped across such discussions, although most were foundless gossip rather than anything useful to his purpose.

“I heard this thing had wings like a dragon and it swept in and carried off the crown prince without so much as a by your leave. I would’ve thought a dragon would’ve taken the princess. I hear she’s a right pretty thing.”

“I’ve a cousin whose wife’s brother was there the night it happened,” One of the better dressed drinkers declared. “He told the truth of it. It’s nothing more than Prince Boromir running off with a lover. Rumour has it the old king was diddling his son and the boy had his fill of it. The king, he yelled it out clear as day to everyone in the room.”

“Boromir is mine!” A silent voice rang inside Faramir’s head making him hunch and shut his eyes against the memories of that terrible day.

“Well, I say we’re better off without the likes of that on the throne.”

Faramir tensed, about to speak up when another man took up the argument for him. “That’s just a disgusting load of garbage. I saw the Prince Boromir once. He was sparring some of the local watch. He’s a right proper lad, the best soldier I ever saw. Not but a stripling he was then, no more’n sixteen… and he took on all ten of the local men one at a time and knocked every one of them down in a fair fight.” The speaker coughed. “Boromir would’ve made a damned fine king. He wouldn’t take no nonsense from the outer territories… it’ll be a hard thing when the other boy takes the throne. Every lord with a hill to stand on and four soldiers will be causing trouble once the king passes on… and who knows if the younger one will be able to keep them in line… the army’s going to suffer without Boromir at the head of it. You’ll see.”

“That may well be, but my cousin’s wife’s brother was serving at the meal and he heard it. He heard the king shouting it out with this man, fighting over the prince… and he says it sounded just like two roosters squabbling over a hen. A hen, that’s what he called Prince Boromir. That don’t sound like the sort of man most soldiers want giving them orders.”

Faramir scrubbed at his forehead, shoving damp tendrils of hair out of his eyes. “No one has ever had him. No one ever will.” The inner voice ricocheted around inside his mind yet again. “He has always been mine. He will always be mine!” Faramir gritted his teeth and dug his fingers into his scalp under cover of his cloak. It was nonsense, nonsense he’d heard echoed in taverns, way-houses and marketplaces all around the kingdom lately, but still nonsense. Father had meant he held Boromir’s loyalty, nothing more. If the imaginations of the common folk saw something more in the words it was only because their own lives lacked intrigue and colour.

“Word of it was slow going out too. There’s places that still had their parties… celebrating the Prince’s twenty-first birthday. Young Boromir is disgraced… disowned… but they’re dancing about bonfires and toasting to the Prince’s health. We was celebrating finally having a man waiting on the throne instead of unbearded boy for a change… but low and behold, we’re back to now. The empire is resting on the shoulders of a couple of boys. That’s all we have if something were to happen to the king. Two boys barely old enough to ride out with the guard and useless girl.”

“I was at one of those parties.” An earlier voice chimed back in. “I felt like right proper fool later on when the news reached us.” His voice grew sly. “Mind you, there’s many a place that did it again this year, despite orders from Minas Tirith. I saw it myself… a batch of soldiers at a tavern… toasting to Boromir’s twenty-second birthday. Their commander was right there in the middle of too… not complaining, but leading the well-wishes.”

How could he have missed Boromir’s birthday? Faramir scolded himself for not even knowing where he had been that particular day. Somewhere in the mind-numbing grind of searching and travelling an entire year had slipped away. It was unthinkable. Faramir half wanted to listen to the conversation, but the demon’s voice was inside his head with father’s now, weaving its dark magic. “The duties you constantly demand him to perform strangle his spirit. He wishes to come away with me and be my lover instead.” It had meant Boromir’s princely duties; the travelling, the law-enforcing, the diplomatic duties. It had to have meant that. “Instead.” That one word tormented Faramir. Of course a love affair would be more fun than work. That’s all that word meant.

Faramir rested his head in his hands. He was just weary of travelling and never-ending disappointment. These flights of fancy were nothing more than his thoughts spinning in a circle and feeding off themselves. It was ridiculous. “This is much more to your liking than the other bed you are normally bound to, is it not?” That particular memory stabbed harder and deeper than any of the others, but it was the demon who spoke it, not father. A creature like that was nothing but a liar. It couldn’t be true. Boromir would have told him. No one was closer than Faramir was to his brother. He would have seen, would have known. Boromir wouldn’t have been able to hide something like that.

So what if Boromir was always having meetings with father right at bedtime? It was the calmest time of the day. It was likely scheduled that way so father could settle himself for the night by visiting with the one he loved best in the world. If Boromir took no lovers it was only because he had no time or energy for it. He had told Faramir that once. All Boromir cared about was his little brother and his country. Besides, father had picked a wife out for Boromir. Faramir was supposed to have collected and taken the girl to his brother before the mess occurred.

The men were still gossiping, but Faramir could listen to no more of it. This line of speculation never failed to turn his stomach and give him screaming nightmares for the next few nights. He didn’t dare listen. They had nothing to say that he hadn’t heard a hundred times before in a hundred different locations. No one seemed to be able to tell him anything useful. No information on what the demon was, where it had come from, or where it might dwell was forthcoming. Everyone was too preoccupied by the reasons for Boromir’s disappearance and the terrible mood the king had been in ever since.

Maybe it was time to sneak back into Minas Tirith. Éomer might have found something out. He or Éowyn might have some bit of information that could put Faramir on a different path, one that lead to answers instead of more hateful gossip.

“Imladris misses the elves. That’s why it’s always winter here these days,” Aragorn explained the blanket of white and silver all around them. He stood behind Boromir, wrapping his arms around his lover’s chest and holding tight. “Even when the grass of the plains of Rohan is brown and brittle from the high-summer heat, Imladris remains frosted over.”

Boromir kicked a small chunk of snow off the arching stone bridge with the toe of his boot. It fell into the icy water below them, dissolving immediately. “There is a terrible sadness about this place.” A dull shimmer of light glinted off the ice that decorated the waterfall.

“It was already autumn here when my mother first brought me to Rivendell, hoping to hide me from the curse of our line. I believe that it was I who caused the winter to fall upon this land,” Aragorn whispered. “The leaves finished falling and the snow came when my destiny caught up to me and set the elves to flight. Elrond took his children went west. Imladris mourns.” Aragorn’s warm breath puffed against Boromir’s ear.

“Are they all gone, the elves? One of my teachers insists a few still linger, but everyone else claims the last of them left the shores of Middle-Earth before I was born.” Boromir felt unnaturally heavy and slow-witted today. He had since he’d awoken this morning… or was it evening. Looking up at the sky showed him silvered branches. Boromir had to blink several times to focus his eyes beyond the glistening boughs and absorb the fact it was the moon he saw and not the sun. It was strange, spending so much time in twilight and shadow. Boromir couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt the welcome heat of the mid- afternoon sun on his face.

Aragorn, as if sensing the effort Boromir was putting into gazing upward, turned Boromir around so they were face to face. Cool fingers traced over Boromir’s features, making his lashes flutter and his eyes close. “A very few remain,” he continued vaguely, most of his concentration on his lover rather than on his words. “But whether they were of Mirkwood or Rivendell, they have all withdrawn to Lothlorien and seldom step outside that enchanted wood.” Aragorn leaned in to brush a kiss over Boromir’s lips. “I thought I loved an elf once… back before my Argonui husk grew weary and I needed to renew my gift into this body. Arwen turned away, broke her troth with me, when she saw the change. She chose to leave with her father and brothers, claiming I wasn’t myself any longer once I had melded with my ancestors. Her’s was the last ship to sail from the Grey Havens.” Aragorn’s arms tightened. “But you, my love, you are more dear to me than she ever was.”

Drawing back, Aragorn took Boromir’s hand and tugged. “Come,” he urged, leading the way off the icy bridge and back under the concealment of tangled branches. They walked a slippery, littered pathway where the tree trucks crowded close. Aragorn didn’t stop until the gloom was all pervading, turning everything grey and shadowy. In a bit of open ground, Aragorn dragged his lover down to the cold earth.

Boromir felt, rather than saw, the slab of rough stone that Aragorn pressed his spine against. A silent statue of female figure loomed above them like a sentry. The stone and frozen soil gave him chills, even through the heavy fur cloak that draped over his shoulders.

Aragorn however seemed immune to the cold. “I’ve a gift I wish to give you, my love.” With a few graceful movements, Aragorn kicked off his boots and stripped off his leggings. When he settled once more it was to straddle Boromir’s lap. Aragorn’s odd cape flowed, spreading out to shelter them both, creating a pocket of warmth within its considerable folds. Fingers plucked at the ties over the crotch of Boromir’s trousers.

“What are you… AH! Aragorn!” Boromir’s question was cut off by a moan and a wracking shiver as his pants were yanked down and Aragorn’s cool fingers slipped inside to curl around his cock. “I can’t… “ Boromir attempted to part his legs in welcome, but his clothing hadn’t been displaced far enough for that.

“No,” Aragorn murmured softly against Boromir’s lips. “This time I want you to come inside of me, love.”

Boromir’s only verbal response was a whimper and his body quaked. Blood raced and his hips jerked upward of their own accord. The reaction made Aragorn inhale deeply. His lips parted and Aragorn’s open mouth traced a path across Boromir’s jaw and downward until it pressed to the racing pulse at the side of his arched neck.

Their bodies shifted, Aragorn controlling the movements. Bare skin slid and coaxed. Boromir’s erection nestled briefly between the cheeks of Aragorn’s behind. Boromir was shaking violently at the prospect of penetrating another body for the first time in his life.

Aragorn tightened his behind, laughed softly at the noise that broke his lover’s lips, and then readjusted himself higher. “It’s all right, my darling one.” He whispered against the skin of Boromir’s throat. Reaching a hand back, Aragorn held Boromir’s erection steady so he could sink slowly down upon it until he was seated against strong thighs.

“I can’t, I’ve never… I don’t know how… I… Oh Aragorn! It feels so…”

“Shush love. Let me.” Aragorn rocked slowly at first, shifting into broader movements as Boromir strained against the action. Aragorn’s cloak was shaken back as he reached around Boromir to dig his fingers into Gilraen’s crumbling memorial for leverage. The cold air shocked against fever hot bodies, a delightful sensation.

Roughing sensitive skin to pink with the flats of his bottom teeth, Aragorn waited impatiently as Boromir’s passion roused ever higher. He threw himself into the simple pleasure of bodies crashing together. A beginning wail and the quaking of Boromir’s body was the signal Aragorn was waiting for. Just as Boromir’s spine started to arch up into orgasm, Aragorn bit down hard. Liquid fire filled his mouth and his body at the same time, jolting Aragorn’s system deliciously. A scream of shock and intense pleasure from Boromir made the treat all the richer. Aragorn swallowed as his lower muscles clenched down around twitching flesh.

Boromir spasmed, striking out for half a second, and then clutching Aragorn even tighter. Fingernails dug in, cutting skin. Several, even more violent shudders ripped out of Boromir before he went limp underneath his lover. Aragorn gasped, forcing himself to unlatch from Boromir’s exposed throat and licking his lips so as not to lose a single precious drop of blood. He wiped at the corners of his mouth with his thumb, and then sucked the digit briefly before leaning in to lick at the trickle of blood that still leaked from Boromir’s bitten throat.

Moving quickly, Aragorn gathered up his lover. Aragorn had never taken such a deep draught of his lover before this and it would be days before he could dare to take any more. His pants were abandoned. Boromir needed to be returned to the warmth and comfort of Barad-dur immediately so he could be tended by the hobbits and restored to full strength. With the right brew in Boromir’s system and the euphoria that would have come from both the bite and the sex, the prince would most likely write the last few moments of their tryst off as his imagination running amok.

Éowyn’s fingers moved restlessly. She plaited a braid into Éomer’s long, wheat-gold hair, and then finger-combed the tangle back out again. Every now and again one of them would shudder and clutch at the other as their heart-rates settled and sweat cooled. Éomer’s touch was bolder. His finger-tips ran over the curve of his sister’s bare hip. When the action brushed over a ticklish spot, Éowyn caught his wrist and dragged it up and away.

“You’re making me shiver.” The complaint was breathy and playful.

“I like making you shiver.” Éomer traced his touch over her lips.

When she licked in response, Éowyn could taste herself.

“I wish…” Éomer began. “I want the rest, Éowyn.” He caressed her cheek. “This is wonderful. Your mouth, your hands… but please Éowyn…” His brow furrowed.

“No.” Her head shook. “We can not risk a baby. I’ve told you, again and again. If you want that, you’ll have to go to someone else.”

“You know I don’t want anyone other woman. I love YOU.” His declaration was fevered and Éomer’s fingers spasmed as if they wanted to seize and hold her tight.

Sighing, Éowyn rolled onto her back. “We have to convince Faramir to come home, love,” she stated. “I’ve gone through it, looked it all up. We need Faramir.”

“It’s not fair.” Éomer sat up, his expression dour. “It’s a small step between a brother and a half-brother.”

“It’s a step enough to be legal, dearheart,” she insisted. “With father gone and Faramir on the throne, Faramir and I can marry… then children won’t matter any more. He’ll give you the Riddermark. You and I both know he will. I’ll spend half the time there and half the time in Minas Tirith. You and Faramir can travel to see each other as well. We’ll all share. It won’t matter whose baby I have. We can say its Faramir’s even if it your’s… and either way our children will inherit one kingdom or the other… if not both.” Éowyn shifted up so she could lean against her brother’s strong back. “I know you love Faramir, and he loves you too. This will work, Éomer. It’s the only way it will work and no one will be hurt. Not you, not me, not Faramir.”

A pout pulled at Éomer’s lips. “And would you have us all share one large bed, Éowyn? Would you lie to one side and urge me to kiss our brother for your entertainment? It wouldn’t surprise me if you asked it… and I would do it… I would do absolutely anything to make you happy.” His shoulders shrugged. “I love you, Éowyn, but sometimes I hate what’s happened between us as much as I can’t live without it.” Dark, piercing eyes turned on her. “There’s been a sinister spark growing in you since Boromir was taken… something mysterious and sharp, something more than a little frightening, something that reminds me you are our father’s daughter. “

Éowyn frowned. She should have stopped at just that one time, but she had summoned the demon twice more since then to take care of tasks that were beyond her skill and payment had to be made. The first time Éowyn had felt the monster’s teeth sink into her wrist it had terrified her. The second time was something else entirely. She sighed at the memory, closing her eyes. The second time she had called it to her with an eagerness that frightened her in retrospect. If Éomer could see a change in her, then it had to stop. That had been Denethor’s mistake. He’d lost too much of his inner essence to the demon. He had lost all perspective. If she was going to avoid that same trap Éowyn knew she must not use the creature again.

“I’m sorry love,” Éowyn reached out to stoke Éomer’s cheek. “It’s just the trial of setting things in motion. If we can just coax Faramir home one more time and keep him with us.”

“And father? Do you suppose he is just going to fall down dead for no reason except that it will make things more comfortable for us?”

“I will see to Denethor,” Éowyn stated softly.

“Éowyn.”

“I will see to it,” she repeated. “He’s a horrible man, Éomer. You only know half of it. I can’t bear to burden you with it all but… oh Éomer, for what he has done to our country, to people who trusted him… to our mother.” She leaned in and kissed her brother gently. “I worry sometimes that he might… now Boromir is gone… I am sometimes afraid he will bore of those faceless children he’s been using and turn his attention on you or I, my love.”

“Don’t worry yourself over me, Éowyn. I should be safe,” Éomer soothed. “Apparently I look too much like our dead uncle and not enough like my brothers. I should cut my hair, however. The last time we were alone together Denethor forgot himself briefly.” Éomer shuddered at the memory of his father attempting to fuss over him in much the same way Éowyn had been doing just a few moments ago. The remembrance of his father toying with his hair and murmuring about how like a girl’s it was, made him shudder with revulsion. “I threw him against the wall and told him if he ever touched me like that again I would cut his balls off. He passed it off as a jest, all too aware that I am the only son he has left in the Tower right now… but I knew he was furious.” Éomer laughed grimly. “I must admit to a fear though. If Faramir hadn’t run off it would be him rather than servant boys filling Boromir’s place. Denethor speaks more urgently of having Faramir found and hauled home with every passing day.” He sighed. “We can’t let that happen, my love. I do not think if our brother would have the strength to stand up to our father. Faramir is a gentle soul and too much in awe of Denethor. “

Éowyn nodded in agreement. Faramir could not return to the Tower while Denethor still sat on the throne. It wasn’t safe for their brother to come back, but she ached for his return. Her entire world had been made up of herself, Éomer and Faramir for too long. There was gaping wound in her heart that grew more painful with every day of separation from Faramir. There was only one solution. “We can not continue to live under his rule, Éomer. It will be the ruin of all three of us. I know a way to get rid of father. No one will know it was me behind it. He’s a horrendous man with vile habits. If one of those habits costs him his life… so be it.”

“No!” Éomer caught at her shoulders and forced his sister to look him in the eyes. “I can handle father. I should be the one. I can take care of you. I don’t want you dragging yourself down to his level any longer. It’s ruining you. Please, Éowyn.”

“And would you have Faramir kept apart from us forever? Would you have our brother die alone on the road during this foolish quest to bring back Boromir… who would keep Faramir apart from us as surely as Denethor does?” Éowyn knew she’d hit the mark. She could see her brother wince away from the words. “It’s too late for Boromir. Father ruined him beyond repair before we even met him… but Faramir… oh Éomer. I know you love him as dearly as I do.” Éowyn leaned in to rest her forehead against his. “We need his gentle nature, his calm, his clever mind… and he needs us to be strong and do what must be done.”

“I could do it to protect you and Faramir. I know I should have done it already, but I thought… I will kill Denethor if that’s what needs to be done.”

“And everyone would know it was you for you are too honest to keep the stain of it off your face, my love.” Her smile was weary. “There is a way, Éomer. Neither of us will do it. I simply have to bargain with a force of darkness… not become part of it.” Éowyn stroked the soft fuzz on his upper lip. “When Denethor is gone Faramir will be able to come back to us safely and the three of us will be truly happy again.” She brushed a kiss across Éomer’s lips. Her tone shifted into a warm tease. “And I WILL see you kiss our brother, because deep in your heart I know you want to be with him as much as I do. We will close our circle once more and everything will finally be perfect, my love.” Éowyn licked the corner of his mouth. “I am actually quite looking forward to seeing your’s and Faramir’s lovely bodies tangled together… as much as I am eager to taste him myself.”

“Éowyn, do not talk like that.” Éomer turned his face away, his cheeks tinting rose under the bit of golden down. A sigh made his entire frame heave. “And will you promise me it will end with that?” he pleaded. “Once Denethor is gone and Faramir is home there will be no more tinkering with people’s lives. You’ll trust Faramir and I to handle it all… once things are the way they should be. You’ll go back to the way you were. Promise me, Éowyn. I hate it that you have been forced to dirty yourself.”

“Once you are on the throne in the Golden Hall and Faramir holds the White Tower…” Éowyn whispered out the reassurance, “I’ll leave everything to the two of you. I trust the two of you.”

Faramir’s temper threatened to flare up into fury, but he took a deep breath. After over a year of slamming into wall after wall of silence and ignorance, he should have grown accustomed to disappointment but each time was as brutal as the first few. This particular trail of aged wise men, old medicine women, retired soldiers, ranting maniacs, rumour, speculation, and complete nonsense had dwindled down to this. Faramir stood outside a collapsing cottage on the outskirts of Dol Amroth only to be told that the man he had come to see had died a week ago.

The looming possibility that Faramir would have to go back to Minas Tirith and start all over again on another trail was crushing. Faramir wasn’t even certain that he would be allowed into the upper tiers of The White City after his last, disastrous, visit there. If father was away from Minas Tirith it would be easier. Éowyn had told Faramir that she would do everything in her limited power to help with his quest. A message from her might get Faramir back into the Tower so he could ransack the archives yet again.

“Excuse me, sir…” A provocatively dressed girl plucked briefly at Faramir’s sleeve before backing away again. Bells jangled at her ankles as she moved, the symbol of whore in this part of the country.

“No… thank you.” Faramir offered up a weary smile. He readjusted his worn cloak. “I’m not looking for company.”

The girl smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “It ain’t that, sir. I’ve a message from someone for you.” She took a few steps to draw Faramir away from the tumble-down shack. “I’ve a gentleman caller who sent me to tell you something.” Darkly shadowed eyes looked all around them. “The gentleman said to tell you that he’d be willing to have a little chat with you over at The Tipsy Mermaid… providing you promise to keep his information confidential.”

“What gentleman?” Faramir couldn’t bring himself to get too excited. The girl could just be drawing him somewhere out of the way so she could rob him.

Her voice lowered so it was barely audible. “Lord Imrahil, sir. Your mother’s brother, your lordship. He says he’ll talk to you, right quiet like, but not at the manor… and he’ll be denying everything he tells you if you bring his name up to your father.”

Closer now, so he could hear the girl, Faramir realized she was prettier and healthier than a girl in her line of work from this part of the city should be. “Take me to him.” There was no longer any reason for Faramir to linger where he was. Of course, she could be leading him into some kind of trap, but Faramir had been in a fair share of tight squeezes since leaving home. A fight would almost be a relief right now.

That last thought made Faramir frown in annoyance at himself and how far he’d fallen since Boromir had been taken from him. Fighting wasn’t going to help. Hopefully Imrahil would, however. The Lord of Dol Amroth was of an age with Father. Perhaps information that Father had been unwilling to share could be gained from the meeting.

Aragorn felt the tug at the edge of his awareness that told him the chant of summoning was being recited, but for the first time since the dawn of his servitude, Aragorn made a king of Gondor wait. By the time Boromir was safely wound in enchanted sleep the call was a blazing ache that was quickly devouring Aragorn from the inside out.

With a vicious twist in the fabric of the world, Aragorn took a step and found himself in the centre of Pelagir’s bustling splendour, on the balcony of one of the tallest building in the ancient holding. Denethor was leaning on the railing, glaring down at the city’s evening lights. It was the work of only a moment for Aragorn to absorb the situation. The city wasn’t the problem, nor was any great matter of state irritating King Denethor. It was the piece of paper clutched in his fist that had raised Denethor’s ire this night.

Aragorn took note that a harshly-used, blond servant boy lay, barely breathing in the king’s bed. Éowyn had been Denethor’s next intended conquest before Boromir’s abduction, but that option had been discarded quickly enough. Denethor’s Rohan born offspring had proven far less compliant than Boromir. Denethor would have been forced to use obvious violence, rather than trickery and coercion if he wanted to have Éowyn in his bed. “I see you are using more diplomacy in handling your two younger children than you employed with the elder ones. Young Éomer is proving far more difficult to manipulate than your first heir ever was.” Since the king’s offspring were to be the topic of tonight’s meeting Aragorn wanted the power of the first words.

“Imrahil met with Faramir,” Ignoring Aragorn’s taunt, Denethor threw the crumpled report at Aragorn. “Kill him.”

Aragorn smiled. He halfway considered departing to carry out the instructions without clarifying the order. Denethor having Faramir killed would certainly put an end to Boromir ever wanting to return to the world of men. Still, it might break Boromir down too far, and it would certainly enrage Denethor.

“Should I kill Prince Faramir or Lord Imrahil, my King… or both of them?” Aragorn teased.

Denethor glared, a truly poisonous frown marred his features. “Don’t you play games with me, spawn of darkness. Kill Lord Imrahil. You know that is who I meant.” Denethor amended the order a heartbeat later. “But find out how much he told Faramir first.”

“As you command, my lord.” Aragorn bowed his head in preparation of departing when King Denethor’s raised hand stopped the vanishing.

“Who told Boromir the secret?” The question sounded old and worn, like something that Denethor had been chewing on for a long time.

Truth was the only response Aragorn’s bindings allowed when confronted with a direct question from one of his masters. “No one told Boromir how to summon me, my lord.” Speaking quickly to forestall more clearly framed questions, Aragorn added, “I would suggest that you find a more secure hiding place for the journal that explains the way of me and describes my previous tasks.”

Denethor’s brows knit together and lowered. “The book is in my secret room,” he said softly.

“The room was discovered, my lord.” Aragorn rushed on, needing to distract the king from that line of questions. “Shall I return to you to be paid for my services as soon as Imrahil tells me what he has confessed to Prince Faramir, or must I wait for another summons, my lord?” Feeding on Boromir was addictive, but Aragorn was in need of a more substantial meal. Denethor’s blood was bitter by comparison, but a tiny portion of the king’s life-force would be surrendered in addition to the meal… that was what Aragorn craved.

“There is another thing.” Arms crossed and Denethor’s chin lifted. He drew himself up to his full, stately height and glowered at his demon servant. “I want him back. Give Boromir back to me.”

The response had to be carefully framed. “He was committed to me as part of a previous bargain by a legal heir of Gondor. You cannot revoke the deal, my king.”

“But he isn’t a Prince anymore.”

“He was when the bargain was struck.” Aragorn shot back, carefully choosing his words. “Boromir was payment for his own abduction. I will not release him. He is mine now.”

“But I need him,” Denethor hissed, his voice overflowing with torment. “Just for a night, just for a few hours. I will give you twice your normal feeding. I will come to Mordor if you will not bring him to me. I will willingly step into your territory. Just name your price.”

Aragorn’s head tipped to one side and he examined Denethor from the inside out. The king’s inner essence was riddled with fractures, stretched thin, brittle and dark. Denethor had already surrendered much of himself with his constant summoning of Aragorn. Aragorn had been better fed by Denethor than any of his previous incarnations had ever been by the kings they served. “You have little left to spare, my lord.”

“Then I will trade you,” Denethor offered. “Take one of the others… take all three of them, just give me back Boromir.” He swallowed. “I will release you. There must be a way. I will check through the book. I recall that there was a way to release you from your service to my house. Would that be payment enough for Boromir’s return?”

“In your youth you could have released me. When you first opened the book you could have chosen that path. You could have released me rather than commanding my service. Any of the kings of Gondor could have severed this vile binding… IF it had been their first command… but after the first order is given it is too late,” Aragorn explained. “We are bound now, my king. I will serve any other wish you might have, but you can not force me to return Boromir. That deal is concluded.”

The absolute hatred in Denethor’s eyes was actually quite delicious, Aragorn thought. “If that is all, I will go and tend to Imrahil then report back to you promptly. I have a lover waiting at home and I greatly desire to return to him.” The taunt was admittedly, rather foolish, but Aragorn did enjoy the way it made the king flinch and glower.

“Fine. Come back to me once you’ve disposed of Imrahil. We aren’t finished yet, demon.” Denethor waved dismissively at Aragorn but his expression betrayed that his mind was working hard at what their next encounter would involve.

Boromir was surprised to find himself alone when he awoke. Aragorn had been there every other time that Boromir had opened his eyes, usually stretched out beside him in the bed. It was decadent, Boromir thought. He had slept more over the last little while than he had ever allowed himself before in his entire life. The unbroken rest must have done him even more good than usual last night, because his mind felt clearer than it had in days.

A crimson robe flowed across the foot of the bed like a river of blood on the black sheets. The narrow window let in a shaft of late afternoon light. A tray sat on the table, as usual. Grapes, cheese, rolls and several carafes of liquid sat waiting. Water, wine and some kind of cider most likely filled the elegant bottles.

Pulling on the silken robe, Boromir padded over to the table. “ARAGORN?” Boromir called out as he picked up what smelled like apple cider. It seemed he was always thirsty lately. He took a drink straight out of the wide-topped vessel than sat it back down again. Silence filled the room.

Frowning, Boromir walked over to the wall with the window and began pushing aside the swaths of fabric. There should be a doorway behind the draperies. Although the portal had never seemed to open to the same place twice in a row, Aragorn easily exposed an arch from behind the concealing curtains whenever he pushed them aside. All Boromir could find, however, was plain black stone. He tried every bit of the wall, tearing some of the fabric down in his annoyance, but nothing was revealed except the shaft that lead down to the kitchens. Not able to believe it, Boromir circled the room yet again, yanking down every bit of concealing cover, but it was a fact. Only the window and serving shaft broke the solid rock of the walls. It made no sense. If there was no doorway then how did Aragorn get in and out of the room? The window was too narrow and the shaft would be too small. Boromir frowned at the piles of drapery. There had to be a way. He, himself, had left the room with Aragorn several times, usually to wander into weed-strangled ruins or deserted wilderness.

Not knowing what else to do, Boromir tugged at the call rope that Frodo had showed him when he first arrived. The lifting box was slow to arrive. When it finally filled the hollow, Boromir was surprised by who was inside it. This new servant was similar in size to Frodo, with the same sort of unruly curls, but he wasn’t Frodo. This one’s features were more pointed and he wasn’t as softly pretty.

Bright eyes went to table immediately. “But you’ve not eaten a scrap,” he protested. “It’d be a waste to haul it off.”

“Where is Aragorn?” Boromir asked. “Where is the door? How do I find the stairs?”

The young man blinked in surprise. Looking up at Boromir, he shook his head. “The master, he comes and goes without normally accounting to us, yer lordship. The master, he tells Frodo sometimes… but he’s down at the bottom of the tower with Sam tending to the animals right now so I can’t ask him… Frodo that is, not the master.”

“And how do I get down to the bottom of the tower, little one?” Boromir persisted.

“Well…” The servant squirmed and made a face. “It’s out the kitchen door and down as far as the steps go.”

Boromir kept his tone level with some effort. “And how do I get to the kitchens?”

Lips pursed. “I’m in doubt you’ll fit into the lift, yer lordship.” His thumb hooked toward the shaft. “So I don’t rightly know. You’ll have to ask the master.”

“Child…” Boromir began.

“Pippin, yer lordship. I’m Pippin.”

“Pippin,” Boromir corrected himself. “Perhaps you could scoot down and fetch Frodo up for me. Tell him that I’d like to know where Aragorn has gone… and that I’d like some proper clothes so I can leave this room.” Exploring in just the robe he wore wouldn’t be very comfortable.

The young man’s head started nodding immediately. “I can do that. Now you just tuck in your meal and I’ll see to it.” Pippin climbed back into the box. “The rolls have got cinnamon baked into them today. They’re especially good.” He tugged at the call rope. “And that’s the last of the grapes until the master fetches more… but we’ve got some pears that Sam candied just yester…” His voice became muffled as the lift began to lower.

As much as Aragorn wanted to be fed, spending time with Denethor was a torturously high price. Weighing each word before he spoke was annoying. Dancing around Éowyn’s involvement in Boromir’s abduction was fast becoming a bothersome task. The old king had further complicated things by sending Aragorn off in search of his wayward middle son after the task of killing Imrahil was accomplished. At this rate, Aragorn realized, Boromir was going to be awake, completely aware, and annoyed before he could get back to Barad-dur.

Faramir was standing by a stream feeding his horses bits of apple between drinks of water when Aragorn finally managed to pinpoint the prince’s location. It appeared as if Faramir was travelling east, back toward Minas Tirith, or perhaps even Mordor… considering that Imrahil had long ago deduced that Aragorn made his home in that general direction, a realization he had shared with Faramir.

Denethor had asked for the young man’s location, but the king hadn’t put any limitations on Aragorn about interacting with Faramir. After a moment’s consideration, Aragorn decided to manifest rather than just take note of the area and return to Denethor. Neither Denethor nor Éowyn had forbidden Aragorn to have contact with Faramir, and a plan was forming inside Aragorn’s mind that might prove quite interesting.

Aragorn’s appearance startled Faramir into grabbing after the hilt of his sword, but as soon as the prince realized what exactly had materialized beside him, his hand fell away from the weapon. Eyes narrowed and Faramir’s lips thinned into a frown. “You.” That single word held more virulence than any obscenity he could have voiced.

Smiling at the hatred in Faramir’s voice, Aragorn casually petted at the nose of the saddled horse. “This animal was a royal gift, although its owner was in no position to surrender it to you… so perhaps you should return it?”

“I’d like to,” Faramir’s tone was cautious. “If you would just tell me where exactly my brother is, I will bring it to him without delay.”

All black eyes pinned Faramir and Aragorn gave his most predatory smile. “Have you taken this time to think, little boy? I seriously doubt that you are completely aware of all the intrigues involved in my removal of Boromir from Gondor.”

“So Boromir is not within the boundaries of Gondor?” Faramir seized on the scrap of information.

Aragorn couldn’t help but chuckle. “You didn’t listen. You refuse to absorb a word of what was said that night, don’t you, pretty one? Your mind simply can’t accept what it heard so you’re trying to block the entire evening out.” he teased. “Your father came right out and told you that I couldn’t enter this country without an invitation. Your father said a great many things he didn’t mean to share with an audience that night.”

Not willing to travel down that line of thought yet again today as he did almost every night as of late, Faramir snapped, “I have no desire to gossip with you, beast. If you’re here to tell where Boromir is, spit it out. If you’re here to taunt me, begone.” Faramir’s chin was raised in a show of arrogance but his anxiety was easy to see in his eyes.

Gliding closer, Aragorn caught Faramir’s face between his thumb and forefinger. “Even now your father attempts to buy Boromir back at the cost of you, your wicked little sister and poor, besotted Éomer. He wants Boromir returned to his bed so badly that he offered me all three of you in exchange.”

“Monster!” The furious accusation was loud, but shaky, as if Faramir realized the truth of the statement but simply couldn’t accept it. “You’re a filthy liar!” Fists swung wildly without any success. “Father would never…” The denial hung unfinished as Faramir tried to strike out again and again, but the attack was useless. Aragorn contained him easily. Looking sickened, Faramir attempted to retreat from the situation instead.

When Faramir tried to pull free Aragorn caught a handful of thick reddish-blond hair. “You are sweeter than the first honey of spring, my pretty prince. One would think you far too innocent and honourable to have sprung from the loins of Denethor the corrupt. If I didn’t smell the blood of my line in you I would swear that your mother somehow cuckolded the king.” Aragorn brushed his whiskered cheek against Faramir’s, closing his eyes in pleasure at the combined scents of repressed terror, anguish and virtue rising from the young man’s skin. The action caused the prince to tremble and flinch away as much as Aragorn’s grip would allow. “Tell me, Faramir, how badly do you want your brother freed? Would you offer yourself in trade?” Aragorn nuzzled at sun-browned skin.

“Yes.”

“So quickly you offer,” Aragorn teased. “Without knowing what services I might demand of you. Are you so eager to withdraw from this world into mine?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Faramir’s whisper was tainted with staggering disillusionment and almost two years’ worth of misery. “Nothing matters anymore.”

“How delightful of you to offer… but you should know, young one, Boromir doesn’t want his freedom. He has no desire to leave my side. Boromir is my lover,” Aragorn announced in a smoky murmur. “His body melts under my every touch. My arms are his salvation after a lifetime of abuse from your father. Your brother has found his calling and it isn’t as a lord of Gondor… it is with me.”

“It’s a trick. You’ve done something to him,” Faramir accused. “Nothing matters more to Boromir than Gondor.”

“Come see for yourself,” Aragorn invited. His grip turned into a caress that made Faramir shudder and turn his face away. “We are in Mordor, in the tower of Barad-dur. You should visit us, pretty prince. I know what it will do to you… watching your golden idol of a brother draped over my bed… writhing on the sheets and spreading his legs wide in invitation… like the basest bottom-tier whore of Minas Tirith. I know the thought of it burns through you like a branding iron. Do you want to listen to him scream out his pleasure and beg me to mount him as I run my tongue up the inside of his thigh? Come see, Faramir. Come to us. Come.” On that last word, Aragorn vanished.

Faramir practically fell over at the sudden disappearance. He quaked, dropped down into a crouch, wrapped his arms over top of his head and put every scrap of willpower he possessed into containing the wail that wanted to tear out of his chest.

True to Aragorn’s expectations, Boromir was in a foul mood by the time he got back to Barad-dur. The room was in ruins, bare walls exposed and the bed overturned. Boromir was huddled in a nest of displaced fabric, tracking the sky’s change through the window. Aragorn’s hobbit servants were all upset. The mess Boromir had made of the table, crockery, and food had especially disturbed the halflings.

There was no chance for Aragorn to manifest in the room when Boromir wasn’t looking since the prince had his back to a wall and his attention was knife sharp. Aragorn had to content himself with appearing in clear view. Realizing that he couldn’t hide the magic, Aragorn made a spectacle of it instead. Solidifying from smoke to a solid form in several long breaths, he smiled down at Boromir.

“What are you?” Boromir’s question was softly spoken.

“I’ve told you that already. If you chose not to listen or believe…” Aragorn shrugged fluidly. The movement made his long cloak ripple and swirl about his leather boots.

“I’ve been counting… trying to count, trying to puzzle it out,” Boromir corrected. His bottom lip was torn and swollen from being chewed. “I can’t seem to figure out how long I’ve been here.” Reaching up he pulled at his hair, bringing the length of it forward. “This hasn’t seemed to grow. I don’t recall shaving, but I haven’t grown a beard.” His frown deepened. “I was shaving every other day to keep my cheeks smooth.” A hand extended. “My nails haven’t gotten any longer either.” Curious eyes lifted. “You never change either, not a bit.”

A smile pulled at the corner of Aragorn’s mouth. Frodo, Merry and Pippin had never complained aloud about having to tend Boromir in his sleep, or about heaving his heavy body this way or that, but the halflings’ expressions had betrayed how difficult the task was.

“But we’ve gone out dozens of times, maybe more,” Boromir argued. “We’ve had… we’ve… made love more times than I can count.” His cheeks darkened vividly. “I must have been here at least a month, maybe longer.” He pulled the blanket around his shoulders tighter. “When I woke up alone and tried to leave I realized what you’ve been doing. I haven’t felt like a prisoner, but that’s what I am, isn’t it? I’m nothing more than a house-pet to you, am I? I am a toy that waits here for your amusement.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong.” Aragorn padded over to kneel before Boromir. “I love you. You stimulate me, my golden one. You rouse me like nothing else has done in years upon years.”

“I can’t live like this!” Shaking away the gathered fabric, Boromir surged forward to shove at Aragorn. “I’ve obligations.”

“No, you don’t.” The push hadn’t even budged Aragorn in place.

“I’m a prince of Gondor. My land, my people… my brother…” he protested. “My people need me. Faramir needs me. I need him.”

It would be easy to be cruel, Aragorn realized, and perhaps even amusing as well. A part of him didn’t want to hurt Boromir unnecessarily, but the words had to be said. “Your father denied you, my love. Before all the nobles and staff of the White Tower he disowned you. You are not a prince. You have no land, no people. Your brother will rule after your father dies. You can take comfort in knowing that Faramir will be a better king than Denethor ever was… better than you would have been.”

Boromir’s head was shaking. Aragorn placed a hand on either cheek to stop the movement. “Your place is here, dearest one, at my side…” A kiss was stolen. “In my bed.” Aragorn had to contain a laugh at how similar Boromir was to his brother. Faramir had also worn that same expression of shocked disbelief when he struck out at Aragorn just a short time ago.

“I AM NOT YOUR WHORE!” Boromir roared, one fist impacting against Aragorn’s mouth.

“No, you are my lover.” Aragorn, knocked back onto his behind, reached up to daub at where his teeth had torn open his lip. “You were Denethor’s whore. Would you rather go back to that position? He would be more than happy to have you.” A thin trickle of blood ran across Aragorn’s fingers and began to inch down his wrist.

Expecting another outburst, Aragorn was pleasantly surprised to realize that Boromir was speechless. Glowing green eyes were locked on the blood smearing Aragorn’s skin. Boromir’s mouth opened and closed quickly. He swallowed convulsively.

“You really are an amazing creation, my love. You swing a sword like you’re dancing. You ride, fight, run, and make love with every fibre of your being… but you think with your heart and your gut, not your mind. Which can be an excellent trait in a captain but it is a very bad thing in a king. That’s always been the way of it with you. It’s where your strength lays, Boromir. Trust what your body says. Listen when it tells you what it wants.” Extending his hand so the trail of crimson was clearly displayed, Aragorn smiled. “Tell me, my love, what do you want most in the world right at this moment?”

Boromir licked his lips. “I’m thirsty,” he whispered. “I want… I want some wine.” The declaration lacked intensity.

“It’s not wine you want. It’s not salted broth either,” Aragorn recited quietly. “It’s hasn’t been spiced cider or red meat that you’ve been craving since our second kiss, my love. You may not have realized it, but you’ve been wanting something quite particular… something you’ve only tasted in my kisses until now.” His arm tipped and the drip-trail grew longer and thinner.

Aragorn’s forearm was seized and Boromir dragged him closer. With an expression of sickened bewilderment marking his features, Boromir raised the limb and dared a cautious lick across the pads of Aragorn’s damp fingers. A groan so deep that sounded as if it had ripped up from his toes, welled out of Boromir. A shudder wracked him briefly then Boromir set to cleaning every speck of the drying blood off of Aragorn’s fingers, palm and arm.

Within a breath of the very last lick, Boromir threw himself backward. He stared at Aragorn with an expression of horror and covered his mouth to contain the instinctive desire to vomit because of what he had just done.

“No, no, no,” Aragorn murmured soothingly. “It’s all right. It’s nothing to fret over. A few small tastes aren’t going to ruin you, my love. I’ll stop you well before you drink enough to make you like me.” Aragorn’s cloak was shrugged off and he reached down to pull his shirt up and off in one graceful movement. “A little bit more won’t hurt you.” Reaching up, Aragorn dragged a fingernail across his own skin, just above his left nipple. “Come, my love. It’s what you need, what you want. It will quiet the screaming inside your mind. I promise.” A thin line of blood beaded up.

One drop, heavier than the rest began to run downward. Boromir’s gaze was locked on the dribble of crimson. His breath caught and his body strained as if wanting to dive forward but held back by invisible chains.

“Taste me, beloved. Please.” All it took was for Aragorn to reach out and stroke gently across Boromir’s jaw. The action broke Boromir from his state of indecision. He launched himself forward and began to eagerly lap at the small wound.

The cut closed up quickly enough but Boromir was too enflamed by then to break off his oral attack on Aragorn. His enthusiastic attentions traced up and then downward again, mapping out every bit of Aragorn’s skin. If the material of Aragorn’s pants were any less solid it would have torn under Boromir’s frantic attentions.

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