Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 24: ACROSS FIELD AND RIVER

Giving in to their urging, Boromir spent a final night with his escort when they reached the river, even though he could have traveled considerably farther before dark. They’d all grown up in the Eastfold and knew the land well, except for the forest. That they avoided, saying that it was cursed and none who entered it returned. Instead, they rode the open territory between the forest and river so that they could see the approach of any friend or foe.

Boromir felt that he would have liked to explore the old forest. Its darkly hanging branches reminded him of the Druadan forest close to Minas Tirith. He wondered if there were Wild Men in Fangorn as well, if that were the reason the Eorlingas feared it. In the heat of the summer sun, he would have enjoyed walking the shaded pathways denied him by his companions.

Now, as he continued north, he was leaving the forest behind. There was another forest in the distance that tempted him even though he’d traveled far enough that it was much cooler than he was used to. He’d already been away from home and his beloved brother for sixteen days and hoped that he could find a shortcut somewhere to take him over the mountains. He rode closer to them as he went, watching carefully for signs of the old roads that had once crossed the Misty Mountains. By nightfall, he’d had no luck and was not looking forward to spending his first night alone.

A smile crossed his lips briefly as he fully realized that this would be the first night he’d ever spent alone. There was not a time when at least one small cot lined the edge of his bedroom so that a servant was close by in case he wanted anything. Laughing at his memories of his father’s admonitions on coddling his brother, he knew he was the one who had truly been pampered. He looked for a campsite, glad of the gelding Éomer had loaned him for his journey. It had been trained well and would alert him of any approaching danger so that he could sleep at least part of the night.

Making a cold camp he rested against his saddle, knowing that orcs were most likely about this close to the mountains. As he closed his eyes and relaxed into his heavy cape, he thought of Faramir so far away in the White City. Or maybe he was in Ithilien or checking the fortifications along the Anduin. There would be little need for him to go west from the city, they’d spent a good portion of the last two years preparing the folk of those areas for his eventual departure.

Passing into a light sleep he saw blue eyes watching for him, felt battle hardened hands reaching for him. Every night they had been in contact with each other and so far distance didn’t seem to affect their bond at all. The loneliness of his journey was eased in the mental embrace of his brother.

Watching the advisors idly bicker over small issues as they read the reports necessary to approve the current plans, Faramir realized that he was angry. Boromir was alone in the wilds of the north and all they could think about was how to feather their own nests. They had expected the first signs of discontent to start surfacing about a month after the heir’s departure. It was not anything serious yet, but he could see the growing push in the attempts to undermine his authority. There was a barely perceptible tightening of his jaw as he rose to his feet, channeling the anger.

“There has been enough arguing over this, my lords,” he said, drawing their attention. “Nothing has changed since Boromir left. Neither the Steward nor I have the time to waste rehashing what we all decided months ago. We are not going to change any of the apportionments unless there is a significant reason to do so.”

“Are you sure the Steward would agree with you, my Lord Faramir?” asked Lord Merril, the grandfather of Boromir’s oldest heir.

“That is why he asked me to preside over this meeting,” Faramir answered. He had been expecting the older man to start pushing him eventually. “Of course you can always petition him for a change if you have doubts.”

“I don’t really think that will be necessary,” Merril answered, feeling the pressure from the younger man’s cold gaze. “At least not yet.”

Smiling at his words, Faramir leaned closer to the recalcitrant lord. “I sent for your grandson, my Lord,” he told him. “He is hoping you can join him for lunch after our meeting; it has been five years since you’ve seen him after all. I’ll have one of my servants show you the way if you wish.”

“I’ll be delighted, my Lord,” the older man said, wondering what it meant that the young man had been called from his military command on the Anduin.

As Boromir reached the lower slopes of the mountains, he realized that he would have to either travel through the foothills or try to cross them here. The forest on his right didn’t appear forbidding, but his horse wouldn’t go near it. He also had the feeling of being watched and couldn’t get himself to approach it.

Magic, is what he thought. There were places where elves dwelt that were closed to men. Pausing in the fading rays of the sun, he looked up the steep slopes before him, trying to assess his best course. Near the top of a rocky outcrop several miles away he noticed movement in the shadows of the mountains. As he focused on the spot, he saw the distinctive marching pattern of a troop of orcs.

It took only minutes to determine that they were headed in his direction, which meant that his choices had changed. Most likely orc scouts had spotted him and the main group would trail him through the night. Even though he was much faster than they were since he was on horseback, they could probably tire him if he didn’t move away from his current goal. Stifling his anger, he turned back south to skirt the woods, moving toward the east, hoping that he could cross the Anduin somewhere and return to his path.

There was no way for him to tell how far he would have to detour before he could turn north and west again. The maps he carried were vague as to the extent of this forest and its name. Some claimed it as Lórien, others as the Golden Wood, and his elvish was too weak for him to know if they both meant the same. Again, he wished that his father had continued his protests and put him in the position of being able to justify bringing Faramir along. The younger man’s knowledge and company would have been most welcome in this trek through the wilds. It wouldn’t have served Gondor, but it would have served him very well.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I Uncle?” the young man called from the doorway of the small study, breaking into Faramir’s dark thoughts.

“Of course not, Borril,” Faramir called, rising from his desk. “You are just the relief necessary to interrupt an otherwise unhappy day.” He embraced his nephew heartily.

“I have convinced Grandfather Merril to return home to Lebenin and let me take over as family representative here at the capital,” Borril said happily.

“It will be great to work with you when I’m in the city, nephew,” Faramir told him before kissing his brow. “I know I can count on you to help keep everything in order here for us when I have to go to Ithilien. Boromir would be proud of you.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Borril said, performing the little half-bow that had become a trademark of the children of both Boromir and Faramir. “I live only to serve Gondor and your praise is the fuel for my soul.”

“I assume you would like your brother and cousin to join you here in Minas Tirith?” Faramir asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, uncle,” Borril smiled broadly at the idea. “I have missed them since I was summoned to attend you here.”

“I’m sure they have missed you as well,” Faramir assured him. “I will be turning over much of my work to the three of you so that I can devote my time to the military. You will be housed in Boromir’s house in the sixth ring, I’m sure you remember the one?” he asked with a smile.

“Yes Uncle, I remember,” Borril answered. “It is a shame that Lani and her people have left the city.”

“If we can hold it, they will all return, nephew,” Faramir reassured him. “We all have our parts to play and yours will be especially difficult. There will be people who will approach you and attempt to coerce or buy you. You know what to do when that happens and Stefle has assigned servants to you who are specially trained to deal with the situation. Trust your instincts as I do and everything will work out.”

“I’ll handle it just like I did last time, Uncle,” Borril said with a wide grin. “There is nothing that will prevent me from doing my duty.”

Both he and his mount were near exhaustion when Boromir finally found a place to cross the river. The orcs had been following in the distance and he had yet to shake them. He wasn’t entirely sure the orcs were following him or if he had just happened to be traveling along their intended trail. As forbidding as the forest had been to him, he knew it was even worse for them. Elves lived in there; he had caught glimpses of them occasionally. If he survived his journey and the war that would probably follow, he would make a point to come back and thank these elves for their courtesy.

Here the water was too fast and deep for his pursuers, but not beyond his horse’s ability to swim. Once they had reached the other side, he headed as swiftly as possible into the east. Until then, he intended to make it to shelter of some sort so that he and his horse could rest.

An hour later, he found the crumbled remains of an ancient fortification that had a fresh spring and a little shade. First checking to make sure the orcs weren’t traveling by day, he unsaddled the horse and took his ease for the rest of the day. There was a spot where he could watch the approach from the river and still be concealed from observers. With the horse’s sharper hearing and smelling ability augmenting his position, he felt safe enough to rest until near dusk.

There was no doubt in Denethor’s mind who the young man was that now took Lord Merrill’s seat at the council table. Even though he was dark-haired and pale like his maternal grandfather, he had Boromir’s eyes and smile. He also seemed just as willing to use that smile. It brought a pang to his heart as he thought of his heir. A surge of resentment also made him promise himself that this boy would never replace his son.

The meeting went better than previous sessions. With Merrill gone, most of the argumentative and delaying diversions had ceased. Some of his cronies were still there but they followed Borril’s lead, as they had his maternal grandfather’s. As the meeting broke up, the young man waited respectfully for Faramir to bring him forward for introductions. This was something Merrill had been in too much haste to leave Minas Tirith to do himself.

“Father,” Faramir began, bowing slightly as he always did. “I would like to introduce you to Lord Borril of Lebenin. His grandfather has asked him to represent his family here in Minas Tirith.”

“If it is your will, my Lord Steward,” Borril said, going to one knee and bowing his head low.

Denethor was surprised that he didn’t claim kinship, as was his right as the oldest legal heir to Boromir. “If you choose to serve Gondor and work to keep our lands safe from our enemies, you are welcome in the halls of the White Tower.”

“I live only to serve, my Lord Steward,” the young man answered, remaining in his position at Denethor’s feet.

“Then you may rise and join the ranks of my advisors, Borril of Lebenin,” the Steward instructed him.

“Thank you, my Lord Steward,” Borril said as he rose, his smile brightening his hazel eyes. “You give great honor to my house.”

“You need not be so formal here, my boy,” Denethor told him, succumbing to the young man’s flattery.

Faramir backed away, leaving Borril to work his charm on the Steward. When he had still been young, the two brothers had seen that Borril had his sire’s charm and had trained him to use it for the best advantage of the family. The boy had followed in his parent’s footsteps in taking oath with them to serve Gondor and the king as soon as he’d reached his majority. This was one of the many reasons he’d been kept in the line of succession for the Stewardship.

There was much for Faramir to do to plan for the eventual offense of Mordor and now he had one less worry, as Borril seemed to be almost as good as Boromir in handling the Steward. The only problem was that he reminded Faramir far too much of his beloved brother whom he now only saw in dreams. It brought the painful ache of their separation to shadow over every waking thought.

The orcs had headed towards the north as soon as they’d crossed at a ford further upstream from where Boromir had crossed. He’d taken advantage and rested that night before heading further east and then north himself the next day. He was sure that he was now traveling south of Mirkwood and the tower of Dol Guldur. Even though he was sure the Witch King was south at Minas Morgul, he had no wish to test that theory.

Several days brought him around the southeastern edge of the forest, making him feel it was safe enough to start going north again. He still kept his distance from the trees, even though it was as hot as ever he’d felt in his home to the south. The tales of the monsters in southern Mirkwood were not anything to take lightly. He hoped to find some human settlements by the time he reached the River Running in eastern Rhovanion.

He reckoned that he had been traveling a month and a half to two months. It was easier than he’d ever thought it would be to lose track of days in the wild. Nightly, he dreamed with his brother and knew that all was as well as could be expected at home. But the pain of their separation was a constant ache that drove him to complete his journey as soon as possible.

He missed the companionship of other men and of women, but it was nothing like the urgent longing for Faramir.

“My Lord,” Stefle addressed Faramir, as he lay back alone again in the huge bed.

“It is well, Stefle,” Faramir told him with a smile, looking out the open doors leading to the balcony. Somewhere in the distance Boromir was alone in a cold camp. “I am well, there is no need to worry on my behalf and my dreams tell me that my brother is well also, just lonely.”

“I’m not used to you sleeping alone, my Lord,” Stefle said sitting on the side of the bed. “You have sought no company since he left Rohan, only done what duty has demanded of you.”

“It is enough,” Faramir assured him. “I hear him sleep and would rather not disturb him. It makes me feel closer to him; anything else is a distraction. If it would make you feel better, you may sleep here and see if you can hear him in your dreams, as I know you have a time or two.”

“I would be grateful, my Lord,” the servant said as he curled up against Faramir’s side and rested his head on his shoulder. His worry wasn’t completely soothed, but he knew the contact would ease Faramir’s heart as well as his own.

Pausing at the top of the hill, Boromir looked down at the walled town nestled into the center of the valley. It was large enough to boast of an inn, which he spotted immediately. The sight made him glad that he’d taken the time to clean himself as well as possible that morning. He didn’t want to look like too much of a ruffian when he rode in. Urging his mount forward, he hoped they spoke common or at least one of the few northern languages he could stumble along in.

The guards at the gate gave him only a cursory inspection before letting him enter. There had been plenty of orc signs in the area and Boromir was fairly sure that most men banded together here in self-defense. There was little more than mild interest in his person, which let him know that other men of Gondor had come this way. He was well aware of the scattered exodus of those who had no close ties to his country. There was no reason to begrudge such folk, most had already lost all that was important to them before they left.

The inn’s stable proved to be more than adequate and he left the gelding eating in its stall, sure that his tack was secure since it rested on a stand within as well. No one would be able to reach it unless the horse allowed, and it wasn’t likely to. Stowing the rest of his gear in the room the landlord provided, Boromir went to check out the inn.

A huge pot hung over the fire in the common room, filling the air with the tempting smell of meat stew. As Boromir took a seat at a large table with his back to the wall, a serving maid came quickly to see to his needs. In almost no time he was provided with stew, bread and ale; richer fare might unsettle his stomach after so long in the wilds. There were few in the room, as it was not quite dinnertime for most, but those that were there were soon gathered around the golden newcomer who was generous and friendly to all.

Long before nightfall, the inn was overflowing with customers and the landlord told Boromir that all else he wished was on the house. It was as if a feast day had suddenly brought everyone out to celebrate. Even the headmen of the village joined him, regaling him with the tales of their village. Each one was proud to relate all of the local news and rumors of what was happening in the surrounding territories, especially since Boromir was such a good listener.

Boromir had been somewhat surprised that his reputation had spread this far outside Gondor, but pleased as well. As those around him had recognized his name; a few of the refugees had even come forward and confirmed that he was whom he claimed. It gave him greater ability to learn what he wished, though he had to be very circumspect when it came to answering questions about why he was so far away from home.

By the time most of the locals had returned to their homes, Boromir had a very good understanding of where he was and also where his goal lay. The village was on a crossroads where the bravest or most desperate of traders could travel from Rhun to Esgaroth, if trading with men. The Iron Hills were northeast and a road led there as well. To the west, the Old Forest Road led straight through Mirkwood across the Misty Mountains and directly to Rivendell.

The direct route was closed to him though. About the time he was leaving home, war sprang up between the evil that inhabited Dol Guldur and the wood elves of the northern forest. Thranduil, who was not known to be friendly to travelers at the best of times, had warned everyone off. He didn’t wish to take the time to differentiate between who was on which side. No one who entered Mirkwood had come out since. There were none remaining who were willing to challenge the ‘Wild Elf of Mirkwood’.

That left the route north through Esgaroth, then turning westward across the far northern end of Mirkwood. This usually took nearly a month, longer if there were difficulties, which there always were. Fortunately, there was a caravan leaving in two days that would be more than happy to have his company. No one would refuse the chance to have an extra sword on their side in these dangerous times.

Even though he chafed at the extra time the detour would take, he was glad to once again be in the company of men. There were women as well. The town was not large enough to support a whorehouse, but the serving maids at the inn and a couple of the serving men, as well, often plied that trade. Boromir knew that his brother would not begrudge him if he spent the majority of the next two days getting to know each one of them. After all, he had just spent well over a month without the comfort of another’s touch.

Leaving the common room with a plump wench on each arm and a likely fellow following, he was surprised by the landlord’s oldest son. “If you would please, my Lord,” the young man said, blushing. “My room and bed are much larger than yours,” he stuttered hopefully.

“I would be honored,” Boromir said with a wide grin, urging the young man to lead the way. His only worry was that the four would have the stamina to last the night with him. He had been in the wilds for a very long time.

When Faramir’s eyes started to glaze over, Stefle immediately knew what was happening. Signaling the Steward at the other end of the table that his son was no longer able to participate in the late afternoon meeting, he began helping him from the hall. Since Faramir was mostly coherent, Stefle was sure that he had time to get him to his room. He was also sure that this indicated that Boromir had finally reached a town at least.

Denethor’s eyes narrowed as he watched his son being led from the room. He wasn’t pleased at what looked to be a sign of weakness, but everyone knew that Faramir’s visions could take him at any time. It made him glad the Borril was there to distract everyone and keep the meeting on track. The young man had become ever more useful and pleasing to the Steward. He was always biddable, but carried himself with a brash confidence that inspired trust.

The Steward was glad that he had this grandson here to comfort him while Boromir was gone. He even ignored the knowing grin that appeared on the young man’s face as he watched Faramir leave. Fully aware that others were watching both of them, he returned his attention to the business at hand. Though he didn’t want to show that there was any discord between him and his youngest son, it would be nice to have Boromir’s heir as an ally. It was even possible that Borril might be the leverage he needed to regain some of the power he’d lost in recent years.

There was no way he could have hidden the fierce joy in his heart as he saw his uncle’s eyes begin to glaze over. Unlike most of those present, he knew exactly what it meant. Now maybe the lines of worry that had begun forming around Faramir’s eyes would fade a little. It cheered him and a quick glance across the table at his brother, Calinir, confirmed that he was also aware of why their uncle had left. Their cousin Calin stood at his shoulder and returned Borril’s gaze with almost a frown.

The byplay between the three was noted by all those present, making them glad that their youth would help mislead those who didn’t know them into making erroneous suppositions. It would make their task of ferreting out traitors to the crown that much easier. Already, each of them had been the recipient of veiled offers of support if they should choose to reach for more power. Even though Calin was only the son of a serving woman, his father’s rank made some think he could be tempted to more.

Since all three had been raised far from Minas Tirith, few expected them to be loyal to the Steward’s sons. Fewer still knew of the tattoos they each bore on their right shoulder, just as all their parents did.

Calinir and Calin had been conceived on the same night, in the same bed and were born the same way, together. Their mothers, mistress and maid, were close from childhood and had convinced the lady’s husband to take them both, in the manner common in the Riddermark. Being a lord of eastern Anorien, a good friend of Boromir’s, and familiar with such ways, he was easy to convince when confronted with two beautiful women. They were amongst the first to swear allegiance to the Steward’s sons and join their following. The two cousins couldn’t have been closer if they’d been twins, wherever one was, the other was close by. But their different temperaments and constant ribbing led outsiders to believe otherwise; many thought that Calin was just a servant.

Borril’s mother was the only child of Lord Merrill, whose husband, Draymor, had been chosen for her by Boromir. He was a landless lord then, Boromir’s second-in-command, and much closer to his captain than most knew. The ambitious Merrill accepted him after he’d been convinced that he would gain neither of the Steward’s sons and he saw the sizable amount of prize money Draymor gained from tournaments and captured enemy treasure. The first night promise of Boromir was also part of the agreement.

The three boys had become fast friends when they’d been fostered to Lossarnach for training. Felong, who had taken on the task of training them as warriors, had also housed special tutors sent from Minas Tirith. Before they returned home, they were well schooled in much more than just the arts of war. While they were deliberately kept from the capital, Boromir and Faramir both visited them as often as possible. Their role in Gondorian politics had been set by their birth, their temperament and their loyalty.

When Borril was finally able to use the secret passages to go to his uncle, it was almost morning. As he came through the hidden door into the large bedroom, he was pleased to see that his earlier guess had been correct. For the first time in weeks Faramir was using his bed for more than just sleeping.

Pausing beside the bed, he bent to whisper in his uncle’s ear. “I love you both,” he said, hoping his message would carry across the miles to his sire.

He had been twelve and newly arrived in Lossarnach when he’d followed Draymor, whom he had always called ‘ada’, into his sire and uncle’s room and saw them in the middle of having sex. The main surprise was that they didn’t stop at the intrusion and that there were already several other people in the room.

“Why don’t they stop, Ada?” he’d asked when they’d sat down at a paper strewn table.

“Because your sire is a great rutting beast who can’t go longer than a couple of hours without, son,” Draymor had answered him, sorting through the papers before him.

“Why don’t they wait to be alone, like you and Momma?” he’d wanted to know as the two finished. The servants were cleaning them and bringing clothes for them to wear.

“They are never alone,” his ada had said. “Not here, not anywhere. Even when you were conceived, your grandfather insisted on watching to make sure who your sire would be. So why should they wait?”

“It’s not like we do it everywhere or in front of everyone,” Faramir had said from the bed. “Few are allowed access to us at any time and your ada is one, though he might have shown a little more discretion in bringing you here.”

“He will see you two sometime as you have both chosen for him to follow in your footsteps,” Draymor had returned, unrepentant. “Let him see now what the life of the heir apparent is like.”

“I whore myself so that any who follow me will have a different life,” Boromir said, crossing the room wearing only a pair of pants. He pressed a quick kiss to Borril’s brow before giving Draymor a much wetter greeting, making the boy’s eyes widen in surprise. It was obvious even to him that they were closer than most men. “And I whore my brother as well. Of course, it helps that we enjoy it for the most part.”

As he remembered his sire’s words, he also thought of the times since he’d been in the capital that his uncle had been called upon to serve in first night rights and bonding rituals. Borril knew Faramir really hadn’t wanted to, but felt duty bound to do so. As he’d been an official witness for some of the rites, Borril could tell the difference.

Sitting at the desk, he began making notes of what had transpired in his day. Soon he would have to attend the daily meetings and give the Steward excuses for his uncle’s absence. Even though they hadn’t discussed it, he was sure that Faramir would be in no condition to do anything other than lie abed. And maybe do more of what he was doing now.

The only one who had even come close to keeping pace with Boromir through the night had been Noll, the landlord’s son. Even now he was still almost coherent beneath Boromir as he slowly moved within Noll’s aching ass. Boromir’s hand held the young man’s cock in a firm grip so that he could stop him from achieving his release until he wanted him to. As Noll’s body arched up uncontrollably, Boromir once again applied just enough pressure to deny him.

“Please,” Noll begged, now so lost in desire that his hands could no longer remain in one place. “My Lord,” he cried out as Boromir released his cock and grabbed his legs, folding his body over so that he could sink deeper into the young man. His words became incomprehensible as he was finally overcome by Boromir’s attentions. Only a few more strong thrusts had them both reaching their climax, Boromir resting his head on Noll’s shoulder as he listened to his brother’s cries echoing in his mind. Dimly caught were the words of love from Borril, which made his heart lighter.

As he rolled to his side, holding Noll close to his chest, he felt relieved that Faramir had allies with him in Minas Tirith. But it made him miss home almost more than he had before. He pulled one of the women against the young man’s back and, sliding from where he lay, pulled the other so that she was against his front. They would probably sleep the day away, but he was hungry and wanted a bath. He pulled on his pants and gathered his clothes in his arms, wiping his chest as clean as possible with his undertunic.

The landlord, who had been somewhat alarmed by his son’s cries, was waiting in the hallway. At Boromir’s appearance, his eyes widened and he began bowing compulsively. “Is there anything I can do for you, my Lord?” he asked as he backed down the hall before the half-naked warrior.

“I need food, a bath and clean clothes, my good man,” Boromir answered cheerfully, not showing any fatigue from his night’s activities.

“Of course, my Lord,” the landlord told him, brightening at his guest’s good mood. “Perhaps a couple more wenches to help you? Though I don’t know if we can find clothing in your size.”

“The wenches would be a delight and I could use a good long soak, so if someone can clean and mend my clothes while I bathe,” he reassured his host.

“Yes, that’s a splendid idea,” the man agreed, turning to bustle away. “If you would follow me, there’s a tub almost full in the bathing room and I can have one of the stableboys finish it.”

As Boromir followed him, he hoped that the stableboy wasn’t too young. He still had a lot of energy to work off and he didn’t think two wenches would be near enough.

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/warriors-of-gondor. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!