Faramir Fiction Archive

Legacy (NC-17)

Written by Carla Jane

30 March 2004 | 95430 words

Éowyn looked around the shadowy room with an expression of disgust. She felt the need to get rid of some of the clutter Denethor had collected over the years, but she wasn’t quite certain the best way to dispose of the things without drawing attention to herself. For the moment, Éowyn had contented herself with shoving the worst of it into one of the large trunks, covering it with the parchment that detailed the renovations to Meduseld, stamping it all down with her foot and closing the lid. Upon realizing what exactly was crusted on the fabric of Boromir’s old clothing, Éowyn hadn’t wanted to touch the soiled garments. Even more disturbing was finding not only a pair of Faramir’s breeches, but also one of her own undergarments in the pile. They, like all of Boromir’s clothes, were marked with what appeared to be Denethor’s dried seed.

It wasn’t as if she needed the book about the demon to perform the chant any longer. She had memorized the words of calling by the second time she had used them. Still, no one, most especially including Éomer was likely to wander across her by accident within the safety of Denethor’s hidden room. Éowyn just needed to summon the creature, demand a simple service of it, and then send it away. Her brother didn’t need to know she’d broken her promise not to employ the demon ever again, not if she worded her orders correctly, Éowyn reasoned.

Taking a deep breath, Éowyn began the call. The first recital of it now flowed as easily as second and third. When silence fell once more, Éowyn backed up to put her spine to one wall and waited. Aragorn never usually made her wait more than a few minutes, although he never again came as quickly as he had appeared the first time she had summoned him to her service.

A creeping worry began to wrap around her heart as the time stretched. Could it be that she no longer had control over the demon now that Denethor was dead? No, that wasn’t possible. Éowyn had done the research. She was certain she’d figured it out the way of things after Éomer had questioned her about this very problem. Until Faramir was first crowned, and then had at least one child to begin a new family line, she should still be considered in the direct line of succession. She should still be able to call and command the damned creature. Even then, if she were the queen, Éowyn was fairly certain she would still maintain her power of the demon.

Worry was just growing into panic when the hint of darkness that preceded Aragorn’s arrival finally began to coalesce by the table. There was a conspicuous fury sparking about him when he turned Éowyn’s way. “What do you want now, girl?” His tone was cold and biting and his eyes were pure black and glowing.

Swallowing, Éowyn drew herself up to her full height and stared right back at him. Her chin was lifted and she crossed her arms over her chest. “The first thing I expect is for you to show the proper obedience that a slave owes its master,” she snapped out.

“You are not, and never will be ‘my master’, girl. You are nothing more than a child who has happened across a very dangerous toy, and can’t resist playing with it for as long as the owner is unaware of your theft,” Aragorn hissed. “The kings of Gondor are the only men who can ever claim full ownership over me… and you, little girl, can never be king, no matter who you happen to spread your legs for.”

It took all of Éowyn’s control not to snatch up the nearest heavy object and fling it at the demon. The act would achieve nothing except to embarrass herself. “I have a job for you,” she cut straight to the task. Talking with Aragorn was a waste of precious time. “And I want it done swiftly. None of your piddling around like you’ve done about delivering my message to Faramir… or taking your time about coming when I call you.”

“Faramir got your message. I made certain that it was delivered. It was done even before I saw to picking out and arming your assassin,” Aragorn snapped right back at her. “If Faramir chooses to ignore your summons, it is no concern of mine. I envy him the option.”

Blue eyes narrowed and Éowyn studied her magical servant. She knew in her heart that he had done the job he had bargained to perform. There was no way he couldn’t have. Denying the deal would have ripped the demon’s essence apart. Still, it was hard to believe that Faramir had simply chosen to ignore her plea for his return to Minas Tirith. “No more notes. You will find, tell him about Denethor, and MAKE him come home.”

“Make him?” Aragorn repeated in a disbelieving tone. “MAKE the future king of Gondor… my one true master… MAKE him do something. You must be mad, girl?”

Éowyn’s breath escaped in a shaking huff. “Denethor told him nothing. I am the only one who knows your chant of summoning. If I don’t teach it to Faramir, no one will… and if I cease to call you as well… what will you feed on then, demon?” she glared. “I’ve read the book, cover to cover. You could get by on the ordinary blood of your descendants for a time… but wait a generation.” Éowyn sneered. “Without at least one call and feeding by every king of Gondor and you diminish. You have to be fed by the king at least once in every lifetime or you will waste away to nothing, never able to die, never able to recover. A pitiful wraith of shadow and dust without the ability to affect anything, merely to watch the world change and suffer in silence.”

Aragorn’s lips pulled into a sneer, but he didn’t respond verbally.

“So…” Éowyn began again. “You will find Faramir. You will inform him of his impending coronation, and then you will force his return to Minas Tirith,” she listed. “Do you understand me?”

“Better than you can imagine, little girl,” Aragorn growled. “I will have him in the saddle and riding toward Minas Tirith within a day if all goes well. Will that suffice?”

“No, it won’t,” she countered. Now the choice was upon her, Éowyn couldn’t help but feel the need for a speedier resolution. “Can’t you just… bring him back… like you took away Boromir?”

“You would have me reveal myself to Faramir? You would have me reveal that YOU have commanded this retrieval to both Faramir… and to Éomer, who told you not to deal with me again?”

“It’s not my first choice, but we’re running out of time. I’ll explain it to them somehow. Just do it.” Éowyn’s patience was gone. Éomer was going to see the bite Aragorn inflicted no matter. At least this way, they would have Faramir home with all possible speed.

Aragorn’s head inclined. “Tomorrow evening. I should be able to deliver him to the White Tower by tomorrow evening.”

Éowyn wanted to complain, but she held it in. It was only fair she allow the creature some time to search for Faramir, since she had no idea where to tell him to start looking. “Fine.” She lifted her wrist in offering, aware that he would likely decline it, but hoping it might be enough.

“Your throat. I won’t take anything less.”

She glared for a moment before lifting her own hair out of the way so he wouldn’t have an excuse to touch her more than absolutely necessary.

They had been in the middle of a lesson of sorts when Aragorn had suddenly stilled, his head cocking to one side as if listening to a distant call. Aragorn had muttered a low curse, something that included Éowyn’s name. Dismissing Faramir from his attention, Aragorn had banished the divide between the two chambers with a wave and paced over to kneel on the elaborate bed that held Faramir’s brother.

Faramir had watched, fascinated, as Aragorn had crawled over the massive mattress to hover above Boromir. Bending over Boromir, Aragorn’s actions had been more than simply affectionate, but rather, almost worshipful. Fingertips had traced over Boromir’s closed eyes and face.

“I suppose I should have the halflings come up and tend you, my love,” Aragorn had said in a soft whisper. “But this is actually quite flattering to your features.” A thumb brushed over the hint of a pale moustache and beard that were just beginning to decorate Boromir’s face. “Your father would have hated it, so perhaps you should grow it out, like your brother has.” As if finally acknowledging Faramir’s presence in the room, Aragorn’s eyes lifted. “I could wrap him in an even deeper sleep, but I shouldn’t be gone too very long… and you’ve earned this, I suppose. Be careful with him if he awakens, pretty one.”

“I will. You know I will.” Faramir had promised easily.

The pledge had made Aragorn smile grimly. He had dropped one more kiss on unresponsive lips before eeling backward off the bed. A cloak had seemed to sprout from his shoulders, drifting out to wrap around him and Aragorn’s eyes darkened to black. Faramir had realized immediately that he’d seen exactly that vision in his nightmares since childhood, and then Aragorn had vanished.

Pacing over, Faramir stood by the bed for long moments. It seemed almost impossible that after all this time Boromir was finally here within reach. Faramir’s head had been spinning with all the rules, history, and news that Aragorn had been imparting on him, but everything they’d been speaking of faded to unimportance as Faramir sat down on the edge of the bed.

Moving with a desire he couldn’t explain even to himself, Faramir caught the edge of a tangled black sheet and pulled it gently away to reveal Boromir down to his hips. The lines of his body weren’t cut as precisely as Faramir remembered and he was strangely pale. Boromir’s skin was also marked in several places by bruises that surrounded small dark wounds.

“He’s feeding on you,” Faramir murmured, more to himself than anything else. Leaning over, he touched the most severe of the abrasions, the one at Boromir’s throat. The contact made Boromir sigh and turn his face to the side, as if to allow easier access to his neck.

Mouth dry and fingers shaking, Faramir edged closer. His touch drifted downward, skimming Boromir’s collarbones before daring lower. Expecting hard muscle, Faramir stared in fascination as his palm traced over unbelievably soft skin. Ribs were mapped out before Faramir smoothed over Boromir’s stomach. A faint trail of golden-brown hair began just below the cup of Boromir’s navel. It thickened to the beginnings of a proper patch just where the sheet shielded anything further from view.

Another, deeper sigh dragged Faramir’s eyes up from that too-intriguing path to Boromir’s face. Hazy green eyes studied Faramir from under heavy lashes. Boromir smiled sleepily. His hand rose with near impossible slowness to brush at Faramir’s cheek. As fingertips stroked downy fur, Boromir’s expression took on a confused overlay. “… odd dream…” the observation was faint. Boromir’s thumb brushed over Faramir’s lips. “You’re still beautiful, even all grown up.” His eyes closed again even as Boromir tugged gently to pull Faramir into a kiss.

Protesting wasn’t even considered. Faramir fell into the embrace eagerly. All too aware of his promise to be careful, Faramir tried to control himself but Boromir’s lips parted so sweetly and his tongue coaxed the kiss deeper. Faramir surged closer until he practically covered Boromir like a blanket.

A pleased noise vibrated Boromir’s chest and he slipped a hand inside the thin robe that Aragorn had clothed Faramir in. The loose garment gaped open, allowing Boromir to smooth his palm all the way around until it rested at the small of Faramir’s back. Fingers caressed without urgency. A leg lifted and curved around Faramir, taking the sheet with it. The silky fabric was warm with the heat of Boromir’s body.

Faramir groaned his arousal into Boromir’s mouth. The delving kiss seemed to be going on forever, not that he minded. Never in his life had Faramir been so expertly, so thoroughly kissed. He never wanted it to end, never wanted to Boromir to realize that this wasn’t just a dream. When Boromir finally pulled back from the kiss, Faramir couldn’t help but whimper his disappointment.

“Faramir?” Boromir’s gaze sharpened, his brow just beginning to furrow. The hand caressing the base of Faramir’s spine stilled, while the other lifted to touch Faramir’s face. Boromir’s touch traced out his brother’s features. “Faramir, am I dreaming?”

The temptation was there to say ‘yes’ and press down for another of those soul-destroying kisses, but Faramir knew that would only delay the inevitable. “I’m here, Boromir. You couldn’t return to me, so I came to you this time.”

“But…” Disbelieving fingertips drifted across Faramir’s baby-fine beard, moustache and the other changes that spending two hard years on the road had done to his face. “You haven’t been eating. You’re as thin as a late-winter buck.” Forcibly reminded by the observation that he had both an arm and leg wrapped around his brother, Boromir tensed in embarrassment and made as if to squirm away from the intimate pose.

“Boromir…” Faramir moved to contain his brother without giving the impression he was trapping him. “It’s all right, Boromir. Please. Don’t pull away from me. You don’t have to hold yourself back from me any longer. We’re not children anymore.”

“You’re only sixteen.”

It was Faramir’s turn to frown. “I’m eighteen,” he corrected. “Look at me, Boromir.” Faramir’s head tipped to one side. “How long do you think it’s been since Aragorn took you, Boromir?”

He licked his lips and his expression crunched even further. “I don’t know, maybe a few months. I gave Aragorn a message for you. He said you were likely just busy and you would get back to me eventually.”

“No, no, no. Two years, Boromir. It’s been two years. I’ve been looking for you all this time. I’m eighteen,” Faramir repeated.

All the breath was shocked out of Boromir. “Where is Aragorn?” Confusion was transforming into a mix of anger and remorse. “I’m sorry, Faramir. I’m so sorry. I thought… where is Aragorn?”

“I told you to be careful with him, Faramir,” Aragorn scolded gently from off to the right, making both brothers turn that way.

“Tell me it’s a mistake,” Boromir requested in a faintly desperate tone. “Tell me it’s just a twist of magic, Aragorn. Tell me it hasn’t been two years.”

One black-shadowed shoulder shrugged absently. “I could. Do you want me to lie to you, my love? I will if that’s what you want. I could convince of you whatever you’d prefer to believe.”

“I want the truth,” Boromir demanded, pushing upright.

“The truth.” Aragorn sighed. “The truth is that you’ve been happy here for two years, happier than you’d ever been before, my love… my light. The truth is I saved you from your father, brought you back from edge of destruction, healed you and loved you.” He paced over and planted one knee on the bed. Faramir was pulled into Aragorn’s circle of attention. His tone dropped to a rumbling growl. “The truth… is that your father is now dead, that all of Gondor is waiting to crown a new king, and that Éowyn has charged me with returning Faramir to Minas Tirith by tomorrow evening.”

“WHAT?” Faramir’s response was explosive.

“Really, Faramir…” Aragorn began in a weary manner. “If you want to be a decent ruler, then you’re going to have to start paying more attention to details. I have called you ‘my king’ at least three times since you arrived here and referred to Denethor in the past tense at every turn. Did you think I was just choosing my loyalties?” Aragorn’s lip curled. “I can’t choose anything. I serve the king of Gondor first, and whichever of his damned heirs calls me by way of the chant. I’ve no choice. I can’t say ‘I’m not in the mood today, call me again tomorrow’ or ‘I’d rather not follow that order, it’s too vile’. If I’m called, I go… or I’m ripped apart from the inside out.” His tone was disdainful. “We just spent three hours going over the rules of my bindings. Did you understand none of what I told you?” Aragorn settled himself on the bed. He started to reach out for Boromir’s hand but broke off the action at the last moment when Boromir drew away from the display of affection. Aragorn’s expression chilled to stone in response.

There was a long pause as each of them seemed to be sifting through their thoughts.

“I listened,” Faramir finally acknowledged in a soft whisper. “I heard every word.” His gaze drifted from Aragorn to Boromir, then back again. “I understood.” Faramir forced himself meet the demon’s eyes despite how terrifying he found the act. “I was never trained for the kingship. I could never be the ruthless commander that father was. I’m not the soldier that Boromir is. The people don’t adore me like they do him. I may not have Éomer’s aggressive nature or Éowyn’s ability to manipulate,” he admitted. “But I’m not above taking good advice when it’s given. I do listen and I’ve spent two years learning to read people.” Faramir shifted his attention to Boromir and his expression softened. “You love my brother and you’re doing everything within your power to make him happy. So I’m guessing that you told me what you did in order to protect this relationship you have with Boromir. You need me to know how to command you. Why?” Faramir looked at Aragorn. “I think you have a plan. Stop trying to trick me into doing what you want and just tell me what you’re up to. My willing cooperation can only improve your chances of succeeding.”

“I should have been more specific,” Éowyn complained in a low voice. “I should have specified an exact time for Faramir to be delivered.”

Her grumbles lifted Éomer’s attentions up from the papers strewn across the council table. “What you ‘should have done’… is you SHOULD HAVE listened to me when I told you not to deal with that leech ever again,” he snapped. Several of Gondor’s senior officers were waiting on Éomer to look over the maps and missives laid out before him and give them an answer about shifting the positions of several companies of men. The men in question were loitering at the far end of the massive chamber, near the doorway, and Éomer couldn’t help be feel as if they were watching him just a little too intently. He wanted to send the outside to wait, but was worried that would suggest he was afraid of them.

Éowyn dropped into the chair beside him. “This is all nonsense. I just know it is,” she whispered, gesturing to the nearest of the parchments. “They’re testing you, looking for any excuse to judge you unfit.” As more nobles and officers flocked to Minas Tirith in expectation of a coronation, both Éowyn and Éomer were growing progressively more short- tempered. “If Faramir doesn’t accept the crown within the next few days there’s going to be trouble with the soldiers. Having the demon fetch him here was the only practical option.”

“Using that ‘thing’ is asking for trouble,” Éomer rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “But I suppose you’re right. The sooner I’m done with all this nonsense and on my way back to the Riddermark the happier I’ll be. Faramir can have this damned empire. It’s nothing but a great stone yoke. I want out from underneath it and far away.”

“We have to stay a little while,” Éowyn reminded him. “Long enough to see to it that Faramir is in control of everything… long enough for a wedding… long enough to justify a baby.” She turned one of the maps with a fingertip. “You’re right. This is just nonsense. Moving a company from here to Dol Amroth is completely unwarranted. The army is up to something, love.”

Éomer sighed. “I’ll tell them no… to all of it. If anything, we should be moving soldiers out to the further territories. Most of the lords of closer holdings have small units already… and all of those nobles are here in the city and prepared to declare themselves for Faramir.”

“Unless the captains of the army mean to argue the succession,” Éowyn supposed in a very soft voice. “Then taking over some of the more important holdings would be high on their list of priorities.”

Éomer cursed and raised his eyes to look at the huddled grouping by the door. A quaver in the air caught his attention instead. His expression of confusion caused Éowyn to swing around and look toward that same spot.

“It’s the creature,” Éowyn let out a curse, all too aware that the soldiers were now going to witness the encounter.

Aragorn solidified slowly, his cape billowing about him even more than usual. A truly terrifying smile marked his face. “My lady, as you requested… I provide.” The left side of his cloak pulled close to Aragorn’s body and Faramir was revealed with a flourish.

Éowyn was out of her seat and half-way across the room when Aragorn’s right arm performed a similar twitch. The sight of Boromir stopped her cold. Éowyn’s mouth dropped open and she let out a strangled note of protest.

Aragorn stepped backward, distancing himself from both the brothers so not only Éowyn and Éomer could see who stood there, but the soldiers by the doorway got a clear view as well. “Boromir is mine to do with as I please, by your own bargain, my lady.” Aragorn responded to Éowyn’s unspoken anger and astonishment. “I choose…” There was a noticeable, almost apprehensive pause. “I choose to release him… to return him.” The statement rasped, as if it were tearing Aragorn’s throat as he gave it voice. He took two more steps backward. His eyes devoured Boromir, clearly memorizing the sight, before shifting to Faramir. Aragorn absolutely blazed with a dark inner fire.

“You read me. You know I meant what I promised,” Faramir addressed Aragorn in a soft voice. “Trust me.”

“It seems I have to, don’t I… my king.” Without any further courtesies, Aragorn wrapped himself back up in his trailing cloak and vanished.

“Faramir…” Éomer pushed past his sister to close the distance and catch at his half-brother’s upper arms. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.” Feeling no resistance, Éomer dragged the other into a crushing embrace. Faramir was tense for only a breath, and then he let himself return the show of affection. When they finally parted, both young men were smiling.

Keeping one hand resting on Éomer’s shoulder, Faramir turned so he could see both Boromir and the small group that lingered at the end of the chamber. The soldiers were staring, stunned into stillness. “My brother is home,” Faramir began in a loud voice. “And will be taking command of the armies of Gondor for me… as of this moment.”

That announcement caused much blinking and a few quizzical murmurs. Boromir drew in a steadying breath. He purposefully straightened up before performing a deep bow in Faramir’s direction. “If my king gives me permission, I will see to announcing your arrival and setting things to order in your Tower.” His voice boomed out for the benefit of every part of their audience.

“See to it, my Captain. I have much to discuss with Prince Éomer and our sister.”

Boromir’s boot heels clicked as he whirled around. His own cloak lifted as he made the sudden movement revealing his crisply pressed officer’s uniform, which was in direct contrast to Faramir’s softer court garb. “Follow me,” the order clipped out as strode out the door. One gloved hand gestured that all the assembled soldiers should accompany him.

“Faramir, I suspect you’ve been mislead about certain things,” Éowyn began, still keeping her distance.

“Let’s take this elsewhere,” Faramir cut her off. “I think father’s private library would be a cozy place for a chat, don’t you, little sister?” Without waiting for her to agree, Faramir drew Éomer along behind him as he walked over to the doorway.

Aragorn had sifted through Faramir’s thoughts, examined Faramir’s intentions, and done what he could to assure himself that this was the right course of action. Aragorn now had to let himself trust the young man, and that was the most daunting part of the task. A hundred things could go wrong with the plan, not the least of which… Faramir could simply change his mind.

It was habit that caused Aragorn to materialize in Boromir’s now empty bedroom. Aragorn had grown accustomed to being welcomed home by Boromir’s sleepy smiles and open arms. The room’s emptiness was infuriating. A gesture tossed the table and chairs against one wall, but the clatter of breaking dishes and the crack of wood wasn’t nearly satisfying enough. Aragorn’s eyes rested on the discarded crimson robe that lay across the foot of the bed. It was the first thing to burst into flames.

Not content with allowing the fire to spread at it’s own pace, Aragorn’s arm waved. A blaze consumed the whole of the bed in seconds. The draperies that concealed the black stone of the tower were quick to catch. The fabric rippled and lifted in the tremendous heat of the growing fire.

Aragorn glared one more time at the fast-charring wreck that had been the bed he shared with Boromir, and then took himself away from the room with a thought. There was no way for the blaze to escape the tower room. It would burn itself out in time. Once all the fuel was gone everything that marked Boromir’s time living in Barad-dur would be turned, appropriately enough, into cold ashes.

His next stop was the courtyard at the very base of Barad-dur. As expected, the servant that Aragorn had the least contact with was down there grubbing about in the less-than-fertile dirt. Aragorn wasn’t in the mood to explain himself or listen to the chatter of his halfling servants.

Samwise obliged him by keeping his face down and speaking as few words as possible to the master of the tower. “Yes, yer lordship.”

“Boromir is gone and I won’t be having any more guests. I’m done with the lot of you.” Aragorn’s open hand gestured toward the outer wall surrounding the tower. A watery, green-tinted hole formed, and then expanded rapidly. The half-circle was six-feet high and fairly wide when it stopped growing. “This portal will only remain open for two hours, so don’t waste any time. It only allows passage one way, so don’t try to come back for anything in tower or leave anything alive behind yourselves and expect it to survive. Send whatever you wish through ahead of you… the animals, anything of value you desire. Let the others know,” Aragorn snapped out the instructions. “You’re not my problem anymore. I’m leaving.”

If this were Frodo, he might have asked where the portal lead or what happened to Boromir. Merry or Pippin might have pestered Aragorn with silly questions like ‘why?’ or ‘what about the silver- ware?’. Sam knew better. With the end of twelve years of servitude finally dangling before him, there was no way the hobbit was going to waste any time questioning his luck. He just nodded his head and mumbled “Thank y’, yer lordship,” before scuttling off to fetch his companions.

Turning in place, Aragorn took two steps, ripping across the land so he ended up in another part of Middle-Earth entirely. His choice was made unconsciously, but Aragorn wasn’t surprised to find himself in the frigid heart of Rivendell a moment later. That he appeared on the grave-site of his long departed mother was, however, a bit revealing. His Aragorn body was only the latest in a long line of shells he had inhabited since Isildur, but the memories of this one lifetime were recent and still vivid. He blamed part of their unique essence on being fostered by the elves. So many of the older personalities that he had taken over were too similar. Most of them had been born, grown and been married within the simpler culture of the Dunedain.

Perhaps he should have gone elsewhere, someplace with bustling life and colour like Harad, but Aragorn suspected it would have been too tempting to strike out in such a place. Controlled destruction of lives and property had its place, but completely senseless destruction was a waste of resources. Considering his mood, it would be random violence that would quite likely erupt. The fear and doubt he felt right now were uniquely painful sensations. It was one thing to depend on the untouchable king of Gondor for sustenance, it was quite another to allow someone he couldn’t even spy on to determine whether or not Aragorn would ever be happy again.

Entering Gondor without being called or while fulfilling a chore was forbidden, impossible. Even spying within the claimed boarders of that land was beyond Aragorn’s reach unless it was done under supervision. He was blinded, isolated and more than a little doubtful of Faramir’s promises. He couldn’t wile away the time in dreams, either, for Aragorn didn’t sleep. All that was left was thinking and worrying.

If Éowyn had any doubts that Faramir knew everything, those doubts were completely shattered after he led them through the mirror and into Denethor’s secret room. Faramir had to drag Éomer when they started through the hidden entrance, suggesting that Éomer had never come this way before. That was some small consolation to Faramir.

Aragorn had told Faramir all about this room and its contents, but it was more than a little difficult to conceal his awe than Faramir thought it would be. “Full light!” The command sounded steadier than he felt.

The globe at the centre of the room glowed to its maximum brightness, illuminating every dusty corner of the grimly decorated room. Faramir’s upper lip curled at seeing the oddities trapped in jars and desiccated creatures nailed to one wall. He was impressed, however with the colourful map Aragorn had explained to him. It was minutely detailed with constantly shifting lines and marks to illustrate the placement of troops and local boarders. Apparently the gleaming ball on the table was another tool that Denethor had used to watch his kingdom, but since Éowyn knew it only as a magical light, that would be the only use Faramir would put it to while she was here.

Faramir circled the room once looking over some of the odd tools Aragorn had told him about, establishing right at the start that his half-siblings now had to wait on his pleasure. By the time he looked back at them Éowyn was fuming and Éomer was staring down at the toes of his boots. “The first thing I have to know…” Faramir began. “Éomer…”

Hearing his name, Éomer looked up. His expression was tainted by shame.

“Did you know, Éomer? Did you know right from the start?” Faramir tried to keep his own face blank, but it was difficult. He was desperately hoping that all of Éomer’s actions hadn’t been calculated to deceive him.

Éomer swallowed, his head twitched but he managed to refrain from looking to his sister. That would suggest even more strongly that he had conspired with her. “Not at first. Not while you were still here in the Tower.” A breath hissed out. “Not before Boromir was taken.” His eyes attempted to convey sincerity. “I know what he meant to you… what he means to you. Éowyn didn’t understand, but I do. She didn’t mean to hurt you like she did, Faramir. It was a mistake.”

“What she meant to do was hurt Boromir,” Faramir’s voice raised. “Do you think she meant for him to just go off and live in a cottage by the sea? She expected that Aragorn would rape Boromir… and likely kill him eventually.” Faramir’s anger had been two years in the building and finally he had a clear target. Rounding on Éowyn, Faramir let himself shout as loudly as he wanted. No one would hear them in this chamber. “You bargained with Boromir’s life. You used his body like it was coin… to buy his own rape and murder!” Faramir’s hands clenched. “You knew everything. You knew what father was doing to him… the years of… of…” His voice failed briefly. “But still you sold Boromir off like a whore, like a slave. He’s your brother. Your own flesh and blood. If you could do that to him… what could Éomer and I possibly mean to you?”

“Faramir, that’s…” Éomer attempted to interrupt, without success.

“Boromir is not my brother. He was never MY brother, anymore than I was HIS sister,” Éowyn screamed back. “At best he ignored me as if I was no more than a servant, at worst…” she sneered rather than complete the sentence. Catching her breath, Éowyn began again in a tone that attempted to ingratiate her to Faramir, “You’ve got to understand, my love. You and Éomer are the only people I the world that matter to me. Everything I’ve done has been for the two of you.”

“LIAR!” Faramir accused. “Everything you’ve done has been for yourself. If you cared at all about me, if you’d considered my feeling for even a moment, you would have known. You should have realized what Boromir meant to me. If he’d died, if I hadn’t found him… it would have killed me.”

“What a load of rubbish!” Éowyn’s laugh was cold. “Boromir is nothing… was nothing but a bully and Denethor’s whore. The only reason you followed him around was because you didn’t know any better. You would have gotten over it once you were home and with the people who really cared about you, once you and I and Éomer had a chance to live without him and Denethor hanging over us like carrion birds. The world certainly wouldn’t have missed Boromir. This country will be better off with you on the throne than it ever was with Denethor or ever would be with Boromir. I did everyone a favour by taking him out of the line of succession.”

Backing up, Faramir stared at Éowyn, unable to relate this bitter young woman with his sweet little sister. There was a frightening lack of humanity in her eyes that Faramir had only ever seen in one other person. It was as Denethor were looking out of Éowyn’s eyes. “How many times have you called him?” Faramir demanded suddenly.

“What are you talking about?” Her tone was a cold hiss.

“Aragorn… how many times have you called him to you? How many times have you had to pay him with your own soul?”

Éowyn’s chin lifted and she glared across at Faramir. “I’ve done what I’ve had to do, for you, for Éomer.”

“He steals a part of you away every time you feed him. That’s what he lives on, not just blood… his master’s essence. The thing that makes them human. That was what made father the way he was… all those years of commanding Aragorn made him a monster. Aragorn absorbed more of our father’s soul with every feeding and our father became the creature.” Faramir stared at her. “It’s affecting you already, drying you up from the inside out. I only wish I could blame that first time on the effect he has… but that first time… when you sold Boromir… that was you. That was all you.”

“I know she’s used him at least five times… but it’s likely twice that much,” Éomer caught hold of Éowyn’s upper arm. “I told you not to use it. I begged you not to call that monster any more.” His head shook. “Even I can see there’s something wrong with you.”

“So now you turn on me as well!” Éowyn screeched at her brother. “After all I’ve done for the two of you, after all I’ve put up with, after all we’ve been through together!” she shook him off. “Someone in this family had step up and fix things. Someone had to do all the dirty work so you and Faramir could stay o’ so clean and noble.”

“Éowyn, that’s enough.” Éomer’s tone was stern.

“No, it’s not. I’ve had enough of this mewling. I don’t have to put up with this. I don’t need either of you. I have my own resources.” An evil smile pulled at her lips.

“Éomer!” Faramir snapped, demanding attention. “You are my legal heir at this moment. I, Faramir, son of Denethor, the rightful ruler of Gondor have no sister. I deny Éowyn. Witness that.”

“NO! NO! Don’t you dare!” Clear panic marked Éowyn’s cry.

“Witness it, Éomer. If you want to save your sister’s soul, witness it,” Faramir prompted. “You have to stop her from using Aragorn ever again if you want to save her, Éomer.”

“EOMER! NO!” Éowyn wailed.

Eyes shut tight, Éomer’s face dropped, but his voice was still audible. “So witnessed, my king.”

With a scream that quaked both men from their toes to their heads, Éowyn turned and ran out of the room as if all the legions of the legendary Saron were at her heels.

Éomer looked up at Faramir, a shattered expression on his face. “I love her, Faramir. I know you want to kill her right now, but she’s everything to me. You have to understand that. Everything Boromir is to you, Éowyn is to me. Please Faramir, please understand.”

“I do.” His nod was tight. “But you’ll have to marry another woman. You’ll have to marry someone, Éomer. You and I both will have to take wives, whether we want to or not. There will have to be children,” he said in a choked voice. “If Éowyn has a child by you, I won’t acknowledge it. It has to come from another woman. I promise to give YOUR firstborn the Riddermark, Éomer, no matter what happens with me and mine… I swear that your firstborn son will rule as a king in the Riddermark when his time comes… and Gondor too if I don’t have a child of my own… but not if it’s born of Éowyn. You have to swear to me that she’ll have no power of any kind… ever. She’s dangerous, Éomer.” Faramir caught at the shoulder of Éomer’s tunic. “Swear it, or I will hunt her down and kill her for what she did to Boromir.”

“Maybe I can save her, help her recover herself, bring her back to what she was,” he bargained.

A weary sigh shook Faramir. He suspected it was a lost cause, but then, most everyone had told him that looking for Boromir had been a waste of his time. “You can try it… if that’s what you want, but she’s to have no power.” Faramir repeated the warnings. “No child of her’s will ever be legally acknowledged as your heir… either as your son… or as your sister-son. Swear it, Éomer.”

“Yes. All right. I swear it.” All the breath seemed to leave Éomer. If Faramir hadn’t caught him, Éomer would likely have collapsed to the floor.

Holding tight, Faramir whispered into his half-brother’s ear. “Stay. Stay until after the coronation. I want you here… but keep her out of my sight. Keep her away from me… away from Boromir.” He kissed the curve of Éomer’s ear. “Then take her to Edoras and never speak of her to me again. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Éomer squeezed once before releasing Faramir. “I have to go find… I have business to tend to.”

Nodding, Faramir sighed. “Come see me again once your… business… is settled away. I have missed you, Éomer. I do want a chance to spend some time with you before you leave.”

Éomer’s head inclined. “My king…”

“My brother,” Faramir corrected.

Boromir’s gloved fingers ran absent strokes back and forth across the cold stone tomb he stood beside. The thing seemed massive, re-enforcing his deceptive memories of his father being at least seven feet tall and built like a fortress. If the cover of the crypt wasn’t sealed, Boromir would have risked cracking the rock to shove the lid off and see for himself that Denethor was really inside it. It wasn’t enough that he been told, and told again, that his father was rotting away inside this stone box. Boromir wished he could believe it to be true all the time, not just during the day when myriad duties and the sheer volume of people in the White Tower overwhelmed him. Boromir wanted to believe in the dark of the night while he lay in the rooms he’d inhabited since turning twelve. That was when Boromir needed to be certain Denethor was really gone, and that’s when it was hardest to believe.

He had actually considered reversing their childhood roles and running to crawl into Faramir’s bed demanding protection from nightmares, but Boromir didn’t dare. The innocence between them was gone and it would be too small a step from holding onto Faramir for comfort to falling into another kiss like they had shared in Barad-dur. Besides which, Faramir was in the king’s chambers now, and going to Denethor’s old bedroom by choice wasn’t something Boromir was eager to attempt. His compromise so far had been to doze in his own sitting room chair with the cloak Aragorn’s servants had provided wrapped around himself. The faint scent of smoke and Aragorn that clung to the fabric was likely just Boromir’s imagination, but it was enough to stop both Denethor and Faramir from invading his dreams for a few hours, long enough to prevent exhaustion from overtaking him during the rest of the time.

“Boromir…” Faramir appeared in the doorway to halls of the dead, a distant figure blocking sun-lit archway. “We’re waiting for you.”

“Sorry,” he responded without moving away from the tomb.

Three days of feverish, almost non-stop activity had brought them to this. The streets of Minas Tirith were lined with people awaiting the procession from the heart of the city to Pelennor Fields for the crowning. The courtyard of the White Tower was filled with magnificently decorated horses and riders. Every person within leagues, from the lowest tavern pot-boy to lords of the empire, were now waiting for the king and his chosen Captain to saddle up beside Prince Éomer.

“I can’t,” Boromir shivered. “Go on ahead. I’ll wait for you here.”

“Why can’t you?” He stepped into the cool building. “Would it help if we postponed this, did it later?”

Leave it to Faramir to keep the whole of the empire waiting while he found out what was wrong with his brother. Boromir had to laugh, but the sound wrenched as it emerged, hurting. Fingers spreading, Boromir pressed at the stone under his hand, wanting to absorb the inherent calm of the unmoving rock into himself. “I miss him.”

“Father?” Faramir’s tone was disbelieving.

“ARAGORN!” Swinging around, Boromir roared out the name, needing to hear the way it echoed up and down the hall of the dead. “ARAGORN!”

Faramir flinched away from the wails, frowning. “Not yet, Boromir. We’re not ready for him yet.”

Another chuckle tore out of Boromir’s throat. So the coronation, a thing the whole of the empire desired could be delayed on a whim, but Faramir would not rush this other part of the plan. “I slept away a good portion of two years… now I can’t manage to rest for longer than three hours at time. I’m tired, Faramir. I hurt all the time. My hands will sometimes shake for no reason. I can’t do everything I did before without gasping for air. It’s too loud here, too cold, too bright. The food makes me ill. I’m not the man I was two years ago. Everyone must see that.”

“No one expects you to fight a war within the next month, Boromir. You’ve time to find your stride again.” Faramir crossed the expanse between them. “Just by being here you’ve already inspired the army… and the people. I’m just the future king. Your name is the one being shouted from one neighbour to the next outside this tower… all through the land I suspect. I’ve heard it whispering all around me. Boromir is back. Boromir is supporting the new king. If Boromir says Faramir should be crowned then it must be all right.” His smile was self-deprecating. “Everyone adores you.”

“I’m tired, dear one.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was the best Boromir was able to articulate. “I feel brittle… like I’ve been turned inside out and shattered. I miss Aragorn.”

“Soon. I’ll call him soon,” Faramir appeased. “Just give me a few more days and I’ll call him.”

“He’s waiting on us. You promised.”

“And I WILL call him as soon as things settle into a normal pace. He’s lived for centuries, Boromir. I doubt he’s even noticed this small a bit of time.” Approaching cautiously, Faramir pulled Boromir into a careful embrace. “Mayhaps you could come stay in the royal suite tonight. I want you to see how it’s changed… that all sign of father is gone… that we’re making this place ours, not his.” Their foreheads touched. “I could do with some of your stories after all this time, Boromir. I missed you… every hour of every day.” As he spoke, Faramir shifted, putting them cheek to cheek. “I missed you beyond reason.”

“People will talk.” Boromir sighed, but there was a tone of indulgent surrender to the sound. He never could refuse Faramir anything.

“I spent two years chasing you down, brother mine, the act of a madman some might say. Nothing else could shock them more.” Faramir petted golden-brown hair, twisting a tag of it around his fingers. “I need your company, Boromir. The king’s suite is never going to feel like home, not until you’ve spent time there, not until I can close my eyes and remember you laughing there. Come spend the night with me. Please.”

Those words sent an indecent shiver of sensation crawling up his spine, but Boromir couldn’t bring himself to refuse the request. Nodding his assent, Boromir turned them both in place. “There is a parade waiting on you, little brother. Let’s get that crown on your head.”

Counting heartbeats had given way to counting minutes, which had given way to counting hours. Aragorn couldn’t tolerate the thought that he might have to advance to days. Being still wasn’t calming him down; if anything it was making him even tenser. His muscles flat out refused to hold the pose any longer.

His icy shell cracked and fell away from his body as Aragorn rose out of the crouch he had held for three days. Something was twanging across his nerves. It wasn’t hunger. That would have been easy to appease. Sitting so quietly in the cold had completely blunted his appetites. That was the main reason Aragorn had chosen this retreat. The need that was upon him now was both more elusive and far stronger than simple hunger. It wasn’t a call from the royal family, although it had a similar flavour too it.

Stretching caused the last few flakes of ice to fall away from his body. A heavy exhale raised only the merest wisp of steam even in the chill atmosphere of Imladris. Aragorn’s body was almost as cold as the surrounding air. He had hoped the temperature would subdue his mind like it did his body, but that wasn’t working. Staying here was no longer an option.

The sensible thing would have been to go immediately to Dunland and seek out one of the villages that hosted a fair number of his son’s descendants. The urge to eat would be upon Aragorn as soon as he heated back up. Still, it was impossible to resist the path he chose. A single step took Aragorn to the foot of daunting murky-grey barrier that reached up into the sky. This wall, that only Aragorn could see, stretched out both ways as far as his eyes could see. The claimed boarders Gondor’s land might be just lines on a map, or rather flexible invisible boundaries to the people hereabouts, but to Aragorn they were as solid as the walls that surrounded Barad-dur.

Pressing an open hand to the barrier, Aragorn stretched out his senses for an echo of what had roused him a few moments ago but the odd vibration had vanished as quickly as it had startled him to complete awareness. Balling up his fist and hitting at the thing accomplished nothing. Aragorn couldn’t contain the ironic chuckle. He had held Faramir away from Boromir in such a similar manner only a short time ago. The chuckle turned into a strangled noise of frustration. Fear was quickly overrunning his thoughts. Aragorn realized that exactly the same activity as he had teased Faramir with might be playing out beyond his reach. Boromir’s adoration of his little brother was staggering in its intensity. Aragorn was certain that it would take only a little effort from the young king to seduce Boromir, and only a bit more effort to convince Boromir that everything he had felt while he’d been with Aragorn was nothing more than a trick on Aragorn’s part.

Falling in love not something he had ever allowed himself before Boromir. It ached, worse than anything had in all the long memories of his many hosts. Human memories were mercifully blunted by being drawn into the meld with Isildur’s many shells. In demon form he had taken countless bodies to bed but had never dared to grow attached to any of them. He had collected, kept, and played with countless men’s and women’s bodies since Isildur for periods of days, weeks or months, but eventually all of them were either discarded or died.

Lovers were another matter, one that had to be avoided at all costs. Lovers invariably recoiled in fear and disgust upon realizing what he was. Lovers left. It had happened every time the demon took over a new shell… family, friends and lovers of the human that he had been would always turn away, leaving the demon of Gondor alone.

“Bastards!” His hand hit the barrier in a fit of useless temper.

Aragorn should have known better. He should have refrained from immersing himself in Boromir’s sleeping mind and simply settled for the simple pleasures of the flesh but he hadn’t been able to resist. Éowyn had been right, but only to a point. It was Denethor’s soul’s influence that had drawn Aragorn into trying those first few dives into Boromir’s memories and dreams, but the feeling had been so vibrant that Aragorn hadn’t been able to resist repeating the experience again and again. By the time Aragorn had realized he was addicted, it was too late to stop. He’d fallen in love, much to his own horror.

“DAMN YOU. DAMN YOU BOTH!” Aragorn had absolutely no recourse against betrayal so long as no one invited him inside the boarders and brothers stayed safely within Gondor. If Faramir decided to abandon their bargain there was nothing Aragorn would be able to do about it.

There was a small settlement on the Harad Road that Aragorn frequented over the last age. Occasionally it would be swallowed up, concealed behind the shifting boundaries of Gondor, but not this year. Considering it’s proximity to the border, news of what was passing inside the empire could usually be heard there. Aragorn tried to groom a spy based out of this village every generation, for those times when invitations into Gondor weren’t coming often enough and he needed another way to be kept up to date. During Denethor’s reign, however, Aragorn had let the habit lapse. Reading everyone’s mind when he was called into Gondor to perform some task or another was far simpler than waiting on some skulker to slip and out of Gondor.

It was a small mercy that he didn’t have to walk up to the local bar-keep and demand ‘what news from Gondor?’ like a common tinker. Aragorn ghosted into the edges of the crowd, more shadow than substance, and began sifting through minds at random. The task was surprisingly fruitful in some ways. News of Faramir’s return to Minas Tirith was on almost every mind. There had been a very real threat that King Denethor might have grown weary of peace and set to expanding Gondor’s boarders south if he’d lived much longer. Faramir was thought to be the least hostile of Denethor’s sons. There was much jubilation in Harondor over Faramir’s scheduled coronation. The prospect of Prince Éomer taking the throne had been worrying the people of the south, especially since Éomer had just spent the last two years as part of the forces who had been manoeuvring in Ithilien.

Still, for all the plentiful thoughts of Gondor that were floating about the room, there was nothing substantial or specific. It was all rehashings of; Faramir is finally home and to be crowned immediately, Boromir ‘the disowned prince’ is acting as the new king’s captain, and, of course, there were a few speculations that old Denethor had been assassinated by one son or another. There was little to do with just Boromir, however, which was all Aragorn wanted to hear about right now.

The only bit of news that surprised Aragorn was of another sort entirely. It seemed that Denethor had barely been entombed before several southern families had sent representatives to Minas Tirith in expectation of the crowning of the new king… most with unmarried daughters in tow.

Aragorn withdrew from the tavern in a worse mood than when he’d entered it. Hunger was gnawing at him now he was warmed up and active. To hunt for food he would have to go north once more. Considering the distances involved, there would be nothing to feed his mind in that direction, only his body. The people of Dunland and Minhiriath purposefully avoided any contact with Gondor, still angry over the break between the line of Stewards and the original royal line an age ago.

Fingers flexing, Aragorn tried to recall any pockets of his descendants that had mixed with bloodlines which might have produced a tall blond, rather than the usual dark haired, lean-bodied men of the Dunedain. Perhaps finding a Boromir- substitute, seducing him and killing him afterward might ease his pain. Aragorn had grown too accustomed to drinking at the moment of orgasm. He ached for his lover, desperately wanting everything he had been getting from Boromir. It was going to be intolerably difficult to re- learn to feed off of strangers once again.

The scent of it had drawn Boromir half-way across the feasting hall. Some noble who had come up from Umbar weeks ago on a ship had brought cases of wine with him, along with piles of other luxuries. The wine in question was being offered up to anyone who cared to try a sample, only to earn wrinkled noses and semi-polite refusals of second cup. The rest of the crowd might not know why they found the drink distasteful, but Boromir realized immediately what had attracted him. There was a faint undertone of blood in the ruby-red wine.

Thrilled by Boromir’s show of interest, the Umbarian lord had quickly given Boromir several goblets of the drink. He had also provided two full bottles, and he had taken the opportunity to introduce the master of Gondor’s armies to his younger sister. The girl was persistent in her attention and it took Boromir most of an hour before he could escape.

Clutching the two black, glass bottles, Boromir attempted to find his way through the blur of colour and noise celebrating Faramir’s coronation. He wanted away from the press of crowds. Boromir wanted to take his newly found treasure high up the tower until he could find a place to safely drink himself the rest of the way into a stupor. The celebration was rather uncontained, however, it spread through the courtyard and several floors of the palace as well. Some rooms were harder to navigate than others. Whenever Boromir chanced upon a knot of soldiers or territory representatives he had to stop and attempt to be polite. Those sorts seemed to consider Boromir ‘their’ prince and they wanted to show it, usually with more wine and too-hard slaps on the back.

Boromir was almost free when a shout echoed up the stairway behind him. “Boromir!” It was the only voice that could stop him when he was this close to freedom.

“Boromir!” Faramir’s step was still surprisingly light considering the lateness of the hour and all he had gone through today. He caught up and tugged playfully at Boromir’s cape. “Have you had enough then? Are you ready to call it a night?” Noting Boromir’s grimace, Faramir caught his brother’s hand. “I have too.” Taking a couple steps, Faramir tugged. “I could do with the quiet of my suite. Come up with me.”

“Faramir…” Boromir held back, blinking to hold his focus on his brother’s face. The bottlenecks clutched in his other hand clinked. “Mayhaps another night would be better. I’ve drank far too much this evening. I would be pitiful company.”

“And yet you still wish to drink more…” Faramir teased, indicating the bottles his brother held. “I don’t recognize those label markings. You’ve made a discovery and I insist you let me share it with you.” Moving upward, Faramir tugged, pulling Boromir along behind him.

Weary of both thinking and struggling, Boromir let himself be led up the stairs. It wasn’t until he found himself right outside the door to the royal suite that Boromir’s heels dug in, halting them both. Eyes un-naturally wide, he stared about and his chest tightened up. The landing hadn’t changed. The doorway hadn’t changed. Every mark on the floor that Boromir recalled studying in fine detail remained the same.

“I don’t want to tonight. Don’t make me. Please. I’m tired. I don’t want to.” Breath racing, Boromir baulked about entering the rooms, although he didn’t dare struggle against the grip on his wrist. That was forbidden.

“Boromir… you’re cold.” A warm palm smoothed from Boromir’s forehead down to his cheek. “What’s wrong?”

His attention still fixed on the door, rather than the speaker, Boromir swallowed heavily. It wasn’t until a firm hand caught his chin and turned Boromir’s face that his gaze wavered. Blinking, he let out a surprised breath. “Faramir? What are you doing up here? Father will take a switch to your behind if he catches you up here.”

Faramir’s expression was bleak. “If he wasn’t dead… I’d kill him myself for what he did to you.” The threat sounded twice as chilling, coming out of Boromir’s sweet-tempered brother. “You should have told me.”

“You’re just a little boy,” Boromir countered in a tiny whisper. “I’m the oldest. I can handle Father. I’ll make sure he leaves you alone. It’s my job to take care of you.” Green eyes flicked nervously toward the stairs then back to the door. “Go downstairs, please Faramir. I’ll see to father.”

Faramir cursed vividly. Stretching, he threw open the doors without releasing his hold on Boromir. “He’s dead. He’s gone.” Tugging his brother after him, Faramir stepped into the room. “This is mine now. FATHER IS DEAD! Please, Boromir. I won’t stay here if you can’t walk in here without shivering. Shall I gut the tower and move the throne to Osgiliath or Linhir? I’ll do it, if that’s what you need,” he offered. “I need you with me. I’ll do anything I have to keep you at my side.”

It wasn’t just new furniture, or just the tapestries on the wall being changed, everything about the room was altered. The heavy, dark red and purple velvets had been removed and Denethor’s collection of ridiculously expensive decorations had vanished. Someone had seen to changing the entire feel of the room. It was all white, greens, and pale, lightweight wood.

“It’s another one of the things I suppose I have to give Éowyn credit for,” Faramir murmured quietly.

“He’s gone.” Boromir looked about in amazement. “He’s really gone.”

Faramir laughed. “The rest of the empire settles for seeing this damned crown on my head… but leave it to my brother to need to see that the royal suite has been redecorated.” He smiled and paced over to one set of wide doors on the far side of the sitting room. “Here too… the bedroom has been all fixed too. Will you look, Boromir?” Faramir opened the way. His tone dropped to a husky whisper. “Will you come into my bedroom, Boromir?”

Stomach clenching, Boromir turned to look in that direction. Faramir was a truly beautiful vision, standing in the half-open doorway with his arms wide. His tousled red-blond hair was held in place by a circlet of what looked like pure sunlight. His eyes were bright and inviting and his cheeks were tinted rose by emotion and the candlelight that lit up both the rooms. “Why?” The question whispered out of its own accord.

Faramir sighed, backing up. “Because you want to,” he answered after a moment. “I want you to… there’s nothing I want more in the entire world… but don’t, not because of that. Only come in here if you want to, Boromir. I’ll understand if you don’t.”

“We’re not going to do anything,” Boromir qualified, even as he edged into the portal that had once terrified him.

“I’m not asking for anything except your company, Boromir.”

Nodding, Boromir entered. The bottles in his hand were set carefully on a nearby table then he turned to close and lock the doors, driven by years of training.

“It really is an amazing room.” Faramir paced around, his fingers brushed shutter after shutter, pointing out the lavish multitude of windows. “It’s the biggest bedroom I’ve ever been inside.” He avoided the bed even as he circled around it.

Boromir, in contrast, walked right over. “Mercy…” His hand wrapped around one spindled poster, practically caressing the wood. “Do you remember it? This is mama’s, Faramir. It’s the bed out of mama’s old room.” Boromir couldn’t help but smile. He had asked father about the set once and had been told it had been sent away. Curiosity prompted him and Boromir gave into the urge to jump into the middle of it, testing to see if the bed felt how he remembered it. True to his memories, the mattress welcomed him with unbelievable softness.

Flinging his arms out to either side, Boromir let his body go limp. “This was the best place in all of Gondor,” he mused aloud. “There’d be quilts heaped around us in the middle of winter and all three of us would curl up here with warm cider and cookies.” Boromir smiled. “In the summer, Mama’s bed was covered with silk and a breeze was always blowing in the window. Mama would talk about the sea… and rub powder over your back when the heat made you cranky.” His eyes closed and a frown creased his expression. “You were born in this bed, Faramir. It disappeared while mama was down in the house of healing. I know. I snuck into her room the day after she died and it was already empty and getting cleaned.”

“That was a long time ago, Boromir.” The mattress jostled slightly as Faramir climbed onto the bed with his brother. “A lifetime ago.” Moving with almost painful care, Faramir crawled up the bed until he was beside Boromir. “I have trouble remembering her sometimes… but you’re everywhere. You were always there.”

Boromir sighed. “You were mine. Mama was too tired to hold you when you were first born. She told the ladies to give you to me. They said I was too small, but mama insisted. She knew I’d be careful with you, that I’d take care of you… always.”

“You did, Boromir. Now it’s my turn.” Reclining, Faramir rested his head on his brother’s shoulder. The mithril circlet was gone and his hair fanned freely. Draping an arm over Boromir, Faramir rested his open hand over his brother’s heart. “I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

Turning his head was a lazy movement that felt like it took ages to complete. Boromir pressed a kiss into the untidy waves of hair. “I love you too.” When Faramir’s touch began to inch slowly downward, Boromir felt each slight movement in perfect detail, even through three layers of cloth. He opened his mouth, meaning to protest the un-brotherly caress, but Faramir’s head tipped at just that moment and Boromir found his lips moving against Faramir’s brow.

“I know we’re all tangled together… and I know it can’t stay this way,” Faramir whispered. “But it’s just for a little while. After all we’ve been through, we can spare just a little time before we take up the weight of the empire.” His fingers petted gently.

“Faramir…” Boromir’s one arm tightened, holding the other man against him. “We shouldn’t do… OH! Faramir!” A firm hand cupping Boromir’s groin stole away any objection and all rational thought. The much beloved body in his arms wriggled and Faramir’s mouth captured Boromir’s in a heated kiss. Wrapping both his arms tight around Faramir, Boromir rolled onto his side so he could hug him close. The hug gradually turned into an aching grind of body against body.

Faint whimpers escaped Boromir’s throat, but he held the kiss. As long as he concentrated on the kiss, then Boromir could convince himself to ignore the fingers plucking at the clasps of his vest. When cloth was pulled open and peeled away from burning skin, Boromir just squeezed his eyes more tightly closed and sucked at Faramir’s lower lip. Faramir’s taste was wonderfully unique, with an undertone of honey. Boromir happily lost himself in the gentle haze. It was all too easy to yield and flow under Faramir’s hands. He didn’t have to own up to the fact that he had been the one to toe off his short boots, it was just part of the mist they were floating in. The gradual disappearance of his breeches could be written off as more of the same magic.

“Boromir…” The name was gasped out when Faramir broke off to gasp for air. “Oh, Boromir. I…”

“Shh…” Fingers pressed to rapidly bruising lips.

A shaking breath exhaled against Boromir’s skin, but Faramir submitted to the request for silence for a time. His attention dropped and he set to tracing down Boromir’s throat with his open mouth. Boromir’s open vest was pushed back and off, to be lost in the tangle of sheets. His elaborately decorated court tunic and simpler chemise were caught and dragged the rest of the way up until they were pushed up and off.

Faramir let out a faint noise of distress. As Faramir kissed each one of the bite marks still showing on Boromir’s body the skin tingled in response and he lifted into the contact. Breathless, almost pleading, gasps accompanied each twist of Boromir’s body. When Faramir drew back to tear at his own complex outfit, Boromir whined. The word ‘please’ seemed to form on his lips, but it wasn’t given voice.

“Damn thing!” Faramir couldn’t contain a small curse as material tore and he finally able to fling the top half of his outfit to the floor. The bottoms would have been easier if he’d remembered to get rid of his boots first, but eventually Faramir’s body was bared. Falling forward onto his hands and knees, he stopped, poised above Boromir. “Open your eyes, Boromir. Please. Open your eyes and look at me. I need to know you see me.”

Boromir inhaled deeply, bracing himself, not certain how his body would react if he forced himself to acknowledge what was happening… and with whom. The vision he was gifted with when he finally managed to look up was breathtaking. Faramir was smiling sweetly enough to break Boromir’s heart. He was gilded by candlelight and looking every bit a vision from a dream come to life. “Faramir,” the name whispered out. He might have given voice to the most profound endearment known to man, considering the way Faramir’s expression lit up.

“You know it’s me.” Still smiling, Faramir lowered himself cautiously, dropping his mouth to Boromir’s quivering chest, while allowing a single hand to skim down and warily stroke the silky skin of Boromir’s shaft.

“Yes… oh, Faramir.” Boromir couldn’t keep from threading his fingers into his brother’s tangled hair. He moaned and twisted as Faramir planted damp kisses all over his chest while gentle fingers toyed with his hardening erection. Hot breath tickled and Boromir’s nipples peaked. Half-expecting to be bitten, Boromir found the eager suction that closed over each in turn was just as staggering.

Too soon and not nearly soon enough, Faramir’s mouth dragged lower. By the time Boromir could feel Faramir’s unsteady exhalations over the head of his cock a continuous moan was rumbling through him. It seemed impossible that his sweet brother was about to do it, but a moment later, Faramir’s mouth closed over stiff, straining flesh. Boromir’s head slammed back into the mattress and he arched up into that wonderful sensation. Shudders wracked through him.

The suckling was messy, and quite unskilled. Small rivulets of moisture ran down, soaking the expensive sheets, and tormenting the skin it tickled across. Faramir’s obvious delight in the act more than made up for his messiness. His tongue moved with care, finding every sensitive spot and letting Boromir’s shivers and groans guide him.

Faramir shifted lower and his other hand was freed. Those fingers traced worshipfully over the curve of Boromir’s hip, over his thigh and teased down the crease of his leg to brush Boromir’s sack. Instinctively, Boromir parted his legs, pulling them up slightly at the same time. His heels dug in as a finger tickled back further so he could tilt his hips up in offering. All movement from Faramir ceased except the barest rub of his fingertip.

Breathing shallowly, Faramir lifted his mouth slowly, sucking gently as he pulled off. A barely bearded cheek rubbed at the inside of Boromir’s leg. “Should I?” The finger pressed just a small bit, easing into the crease of Boromir’s rear.

“Faramir.” Boromir’s fingers tightened in his brother’s hair. His body rocked slightly.

“Tell me if it’s what you want. This is only about what you want,” the plea was puffed against tender flesh.

“But do you want to?” Boromir hissed. “Tell me. Do you want to?”

An open mouth pressed to the skin on the inside of Boromir’s leg. Faramir nuzzled, groaning. His finger dared a little further. His voice was meek when it finally emerged. “Only if you want it,” Faramir whispered from between Boromir’s widely parted legs.

“Do you want me like that, Faramir?” Boromir persisted. “You don’t have to ask. You could just take it, just have at me… maybe if you don’t say it then it’s not real. Maybe it would be better that way.” His head was spinning and something deep in his chest ached.

“I want…” Faramir lifted his face. His chin was gleaming. “I want everything… everything you’ll let me have… but I don’t know how.”

A long exhale quaked Boromir. “Come here, come up here.” Even as Faramir crawled up his body, Boromir shifted to wrap his legs around the lean form. He cradled Faramir against him, bending with a flexibility that spending two years do little else but having sex had gifted him with.

“Don’t we need something?” Faramir’s inquiry was strained.

“Not if you go slowly. Not if you’re careful.” One heel hooked into the small of Faramir’s back. Boromir’s other leg was bent up and out in a position that might have been painful if Boromir was completely sober. Both of them were breathing shallow and fast. “Do it, Faramir. Push into me. It’s all right.”

Faramir whimpered and trembled. A dull pressure, that seemed far too high at first, made Boromir squirm. The breach, when it came was like a flash of lightning tearing through Boromir’s body. He had to fight to keep from tensing up, to keep from either dragging Faramir hard against himself, or shoving him violently away.

“Slowly. Slowly.” The caution was only the tiniest puff of sound but Faramir seemed to hear it. The long, measured slide that followed had both of them panting and sweating before it was half over. When Faramir’s hips finally drew flush with the curve of his ass, Boromir groaned and dug his fingers into Faramir’s upper arms. There was a truly terrifying aptness to the moment even though Boromir was certain no one in the world would understand.

Faramir’s face was shining with moisture and he looked as though he’d been cut to the core by a burning blade. Boromir saw wonder, a pleasure so intense it must hurt, and strain on the face above him.

“I’m fine. It’s good, Faramir. It’s right.” The assurances were cooed out. A shiver quaked through Boromir. “Pull back, love, just a little and then push again.”

An unclassifiable sound accompanied the small movement. Faramir’s whole body shook. Boromir tightened the leg he had wrapped around Faramir’s hips and rocked against the slight thrust.

“More.”

That simple word seemed to shock vividly through Faramir. Gaining confidence with each small jolt, it wasn’t too very long before he was throwing his entire body into each thrust of his hips. Boromir’s clutching hands fell away after a time, thrown wide. His shoulders shoved against the mattress and he groaned constantly, a pleading, needy sound. In the impossible ‘now’ of sex, Boromir wasn’t certain how long their bodies crashed against each other. He wasn’t even sure when desperate, constantly growing need tipped into the blaze of a long, wracking orgasm… but it did. Just when Boromir thought he might burst into flames from an overabundance of sensation, Faramir stiffened, nearly screamed and all but burrowed inside Boromir with each of his final stabs.

The tremors of coming down had their own special pleasure to them, as well. Holding Faramir tight in his arms while both of them shook and tried to catch their breaths was intoxicating. It seemed every second breath out of Faramir was a meltingly sweet “I love you”. Snuggled tight up against Faramir, his body heavy with satisfaction, Boromir drifted off into dreams the like of which he hadn’t had in years.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/legacy. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!