Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 28: FEAST

As Legolas escorted him to the great hall, Boromir felt his stomach tighten at the thought of seeing Aragorn again. He knew he had to settle whatever differences were between them as soon as possible. There was too much at stake.

When Aragorn saw them coming down the hall, he knew that Legolas had not made any explanations to Boromir. Stepping forward, he intercepted his future Steward. “I would have a word with you, Lord Boromir,” he said, placing his hand on the other man’s arm.

“Of course, my liege,” Boromir said without hesitation, willing to do whatever was necessary to make his peace with his future King.

The title made Aragorn shudder as he guided Boromir to a side room. At the same time, it gave him comfort that he might not have totally lost Boromir’s loyalty. “I’m sorry that I didn’t make myself known to you last night,” he began.

“There is no need to apologize to me, my liege,” Boromir interrupted. “It is my duty to serve, not to stand in judgment.”

“I need you to understand me,” Aragorn interjected, unsure of how to deal with the unflagging devotion. Rivendell was not as formal as Gondor and even the years he had served Ecthelion had not prepared him for this.

“Of course, my liege,” Boromir responded, clearing his mind and preparing to listen to Aragorn.

“It surprised me when I saw you last night,” Aragorn began, feeling a chill go down his back at the rapt attention he was receiving. “I had no intention of insulting you or rejecting your service.”

“You are my liege,” Boromir told him. “Nothing you do could insult me, I am yours to command.”

The look in Boromir’s eyes made Aragorn unsure of himself. He could think of nothing he had done to earn such unbridled devotion. Everything he had heard of Boromir spoke of a stubborn leader of men who bowed down to no one, not even his father. Yet here the man stood surrendering his will to him.

“It is late,” Aragorn said, unable to think of anything else at this time. “We can talk tomorrow. Maybe we can meet in your room?”

“I’ve accepted an offer from Prince Legolas to stay with him,” Boromir advised. “I can let him know if you would rather I didn’t.”

“No, that should work out quite well,” Aragorn waved the offer away. “Legolas can be discrete and probably has the best suite in all of Rivendell. You will be quite comfortable there and our privacy will be assured. There is a special feast tonight in honor of Frodo’s recovery, as well as your and Prince Legolas’s arrival. Let us go eat and I will tell you what happened after you left the council.”

The fatigue from his long journey and depression at being parted from his brother, as well as the earlier events of the day, fell away from Boromir as he spoke with Aragorn. As they left to go to the room, he was advised of the decision to destroy the ring and the only method of doing so. That the sad little hobbit had volunteered to carry the ring when arguing had broken out astounded him, almost as much as the idea that those present would agree to such a thing. “He is much stronger than you might think,” was Aragorn’s comment as they moved to their seats in the great hall.

While more formal than the Mirkwood elves, those of Rivendell were casually relaxed compared to Minas Tirith. Denethor had always insisted on strict formality at meals, especially those of any importance. Aragorn was seated at a side table instead of the main one where he would normally sit with his foster father and as the future king of Gondor. The reason seemed to be the hobbits, five in all, who seemed to look to him as their guardian.

Boromir sat on Aragorn’s right, where he would sit as his Steward. Arwen, who sat on his left, was introduced to Boromir as Aragorn’s betrothed and Elrond’s daughter. Legolas, completely forsaking even the little bit of formality of the house, sat next to Boromir sneaking his hand under the table frequently to fondle the Steward’s heir and flirting shamelessly with everyone, including the dwarves. The hobbits sat across the table from them, the Erebor dwarves sitting next to the old hobbit, Bilbo.

The dynamics of those gathered at the table were unusual, to say the least. The dwarves were craftsmen, miners and not big on table manners. Their beards made such splendid food catchers that Boromir was convinced that they only behaved this way to show their dislike of certain elves. The hobbits seemed oblivious to the undercurrents, the two youngest talking quickly and in tandem. They regaled Boromir and Legolas, the two newest arrivals to Rivendell, with the tale of their journey from the Shire.

As he listened, Boromir gained respect for the little men. They’d come from their pastoral home and faced people-eating trees, Barrow-wights, and even the Nazgûl without losing their nerve. He could tell that much of the journey had frightened them, but they had continued any way, strong in their sense of duty. That the younger hobbits intended to accompany Frodo the rest of the way to Moria was obvious. It was easy to fool himself into thinking of them as children with their small stature and friendly natures, but many brave men that he knew would have balked at the thought of what they had already faced, let alone what they still intended.

It caused a pang of homesickness to watch Sam tend to Frodo, reminding him of how Garus had tended Faramir. Despite the good food and drink and the better company, he dearly missed his beloved brother and all those who made up his family. ‘Tomorrow,’ he assured himself, ‘I will do what I can to hasten my own return home.’

After the meal, the hobbits and dwarves rose to follow Elrond and Gandalf as they led the Lady Arwen from the room.

Aragorn and Legolas were deep in conversation and slowly going in the opposite direction from the others. Boromir rubbed his face with one hand and wondered what the elves would think if he just slept here for a while. He’d slept in much worse places, and would be here ready for breakfast.

A lovely elf maiden came to his side and addressed him. “You look tired, my Lord, perhaps you would care for a little restorative drink? Something to see you through the rest of the festivities.” She arched an eyebrow at him, and held out a small glass.

Bemused and intrigued, he took the drink and swallowed. It tasted sweet like fruit, but none that he could name. It also worked very quickly, making him more aware of the room around him. Most of the feasters had departed; only elves seemed to be left in the room. And Aragorn.

“There is dancing and more, if you would follow me,” she told him, rising and taking his hand in hers. Aragorn and Legolas were both moving in the same direction, so he let himself be pulled along.

When he asked her name, she laughed and gave him a decidedly mischievous grin. “This is no time for names, my Lord. Not until after.”

They came to a large room filled with soft lighting and sweet, seductive music. The musicians were scattered throughout the room and would change from time to time. There were several drummers who played steadily, like a slightly elevated heartbeat. The singers were likewise scattered and seemingly random. He couldn’t understand what they sang, and felt that each sang somthing different, but it blended together perfectly. They weren’t dancing like the court or country dancers he was used to either. Instead, each one seemed to dance their own dance, but they touched and slid against one another sensuously and without restraint.

He’d never seen anything like it, and desperately wanted to join in. His guide, still holding his hand, pulled him into the seductive press. Locking her eyes with his, she kissed the palm of his hand. Then she guided him past her, rubbing her body against his, and lightly pushed him into the dance.

The drums pulsed in his blood as he flowed through the room. He knew what this was leading to, though he’d never done this before. His hands touched others and he was touched by others’ hands. Bodies pressed and slid across one another. For an endless time he danced with the elves, happily sharing himself with them.

The drumbeat increased a little and hands began catching at clothing, pulling it loose, easing it off. Contact grew more intimate, caresses and kisses pressed to bare flesh.

Some of the elves had flasks of oil, which they poured over their companions. Boromir gasped, as he was anointed front and back by two elves. They spread the oil with their hands and bodies over every part of him, touching him intimately, spreading it on his cock and deep into his ass.

He found himself at the center of the room surrounded by touches. A beautiful elvish woman was nearly climbing him until he took her hips in his hands and raised her so she could wrap her legs around his waist. He lowered her onto his rock hard cock while she licked, bit, and kissed his chest. From behind her, a tall elf leaned into them and kissed his mouth greedily, his hand running through Boromir’s hair. Behind him another male pressed close and slowly pushed his dick up Boromir’s ass. He was covered in bodies, and he stood almost still, to feel the hands, breasts, penises, and other flesh wherever it touched him. His body screamed for release, but he held back, wanting it to last as long as possible.

A firm hand turned his head and he locked gazes with Aragorn over the shoulder of the woman impaled on his cock. Aragorn’s hands joined his at her hips, adjusting her position. Then he felt the other man’s cock slide into her against his. The feeling was so intense he nearly lost control. Instead, he moved his hands so that his fingers interlocked with Aragorn’s, and they began moving the woman’s hips together. Around them, voices began to cry out with completion.

Boromir was hyperaware, he could feel each touch, even though most of his attention was on the other man whose dick caressed his deep inside the elvish vagina.

Their eyes, half-lidded with passion, were locked and their movements were synchronized. Soon the woman was crying out in release, her flesh contracting around them. On the edge, Boromir leaned forward, inviting Aragorn’s kiss. When their lips met, he began to cum, long and hard.

As they slid out of their female companion, strong elvish hands took her, carrying her nearly unconscious form to a low couch. Strong hands also touched and held them, as if to keep them safe from collapse. Boromir untangled his fingers from Aragorn’s, laughing joyously. He took the other man’s face in his hands, kissing him passionately, deeply, thoroughly. Then, with another laugh, he turned to find another lover, reveling in the touching, unwilling to let this end just yet.

Aragorn watched Boromir with surprise, trying to keep his knees from giving out. He knew of the other man’s long journey and earlier fatigue. He’d even approved the restorative given to him, but was amazed by his stamina. He had already been here for over three hours, and showed no sign of flagging.

He saw Legolas reclining on a nearby couch and moved to speak with him. “If he fights even half as well as he fucks, we have little to fear from any foe,” Legolas said as Aragorn approached, a movement of his chin indicating Boromir, who was again covered in people. “Have you ever seen a cock that big? I think Mareil is out for the night from getting stuffed by the two of you at once.”

‘I didn’t know he was so big until it was too late to stop,” Aragorn replied. “Elrond and the others are expecting me to join them soon. And Arwen won’t forgive me if I don’t rescue her. Will you keep an eye on our companion? We don’t want him to get too exhausted.”

“It is a pleasure to watch him,” Legolas replied, “almost as much fun as having that cock of his.”

Aragorn noted the lustful look, and smiled at his longtime friend. “Just remember, we need him still alive.”

“I think you need worry for me more.” He gave Aragorn a quick kiss, then pushed him toward the door. “Go, Arwen waits.”

Legolas returned his attention to Boromir. He’d never seen anyone like him before; so strong and tireless and horny and sexy. He watched for an endless time, as everyone seemed to want to touch and be touched by the man. Though some of the elves were taller, none were as broad and muscular. Boromir would hold one or more of them in his arms completely clear of the floor, kissing them, thrusting into them with his unbelievably large cock. He was still on his feet after two more hours. Legolas started making his way toward him, and was relieved to see Boromir eased down onto a couch by those around him.

Legolas stood to the side and watched as elf after elf impaled themselves on the man. Boromir no longer had orgasms, just one unending erection. His eyes were glazed, but his hands and mouth still moved to good purpose on any elf flesh they encountered.

As enthralling as the sight before him was, Legolas realized it was time to stop. It had been hours since Aragorn had left, and Boromir had to sleep sometime. Easing through the elves pressed around him, he took the man’s hand and began to pull him to his feet. In elvish, he told the others to let the man go. As much as they wanted to keep him, the Prince of Mirkwood commanded obedience, and this was his party.

Robes were placed about their shoulders, and he led the bemused captain from the room.

“I would like to stay longer,” Boromir said, running his free hand through his hair, the other still held by Legolas.

“You need sleep,” the elf told him, amazed by the man’s lucidity.

“I know,” he said,” where are we going?”

“My rooms, they are just around the corner, you won’t be bothered there and your things have already been moved.”

“I like being bothered.”

“I could tell,” Legolas opened the door to his rooms and led the man inside. “You need sleep though.”

Boromir glanced around the large sitting room, and followed Legolas into a bedroom, with a huge bed in the center of it. He casually slid the robe off his shoulders and began removing the one the elf wore. “I’ll need to get rid of this.” He said, drawing Legolas’s attention to his hard cock. He picked the elf up and carried him to the bed, “then I will be able to sleep.”

Soon they were in the center of the bed, Legolas on his back beneath the man. He was almost helpless as Boromir’s hands and mouth seemed to be everywhere on him at once. Expert fingers prepared him for the enormous cock, which slowly entered him.

“What did they give you?” Legolas groaned as Boromir pierced him with slow, deep thrusts.

Taking the elf’s cock in one hand and working it with great skill, he laughed. “I can do this forever, I have no need for elvish drugs.”

“So you have done this before?” the elf asked, trying to keep coherent.

“Not with so many, three, four others at the most.” he answered with an evil grin, and then lowered himself so he whispered in the elf’s ear. “But, I have gone for days.”

“Please, Boromir,” Legolas begged. “Don’t make me wait.”

Boromir increased his speed, making the bed creak dangerously. Then, with a twist of his hand and slam of his hips, he brought them both to a most incredible and satisfying climax.

The man slept. Legolas found himself returning often to the bed. Boromir smelled strongly of sex, sweat, and his own unique scent, which the elf found to be irresistible. He even rubbed himself against the man occasionally to capture it on his own body. He hadn’t been this lust crazed in centuries. Tracing Boromir’s scars with his fingers, he recognized those made in the repeated performances of the Númenorean sword dances, which he hadn’t seen done properly in over a thousand years. Boromir’s scars were perfect. Whoever he danced with was a master from the first cut, making him wonder whom it could be and who had trained him.

Many of his other scars were obviously battle wounds, some grievous and life threatening, others barely worth note (except that Legolas had a strange attraction to scars). There were intriguing bite marks that lined his collar bone both front and back, there were also a few scattered here and there about his body. The elf’s experienced eye told him that they were all made by the same person who was definitely a lover and male, some of them being made before this person was fully-grown. A beautiful rendition of the White Tree of Gondor was carved into his chest, topped by seven stars in a close copy of the tattoo on his right shoulder. The initials in the bole of the tree were intriguing as well and done in fine Rohirrim script.

Of course, the three tattoos on the inside of his hip said a lot about who his favorite lovers were. The oldest was his brother’s coat of arms, then Éomer of Rohan, and last Éowyn of Rohan. Legolas assumed Faramir had made the bite marks, and he was burning with curiosity about the relationship with the children of Eomund. He had plenty of experience with his own brothers, but nothing lasting, and even his father had succumbed to his seduction a couple of times. But sisters were a whole different proposition, too much danger of damaged offspring. There were always alternatives, most of which he’d used.

The largest tattoo, the seal of the king of Gondor, gave Legolas the most deliciously wanton ideas. He wondered if Boromir understood that it signified him as property of the king. He fantasized that he could convince Estel to sell his Steward, even though he knew he never would.

When Aragorn stopped by to meet with Boromir, Legolas was sitting next to him on the bed, counting the scars on his back again. He went swiftly to the other room so that they wouldn’t disturb his sleeping guest.

“So, how many scars does he have?” Aragorn asked, with a slight laugh.

“Many more than you, my friend,” Legolas responded. “Some of them are very interesting, as well.”

“Such as?”

“There is a complete set of scars from doing the old sword dances,” was the answer. “They are so perfect it’s hard to tell how many times, but he’s been marked at least two dozen times, probably more. In the last year, he’s done all five. Wouldn’t that be something to see?” he exclaimed. “I haven’t seen a worthy performance in a very long time, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything this perfect.”

Aragorn laughed at the elf’s enthusiasm. “So you think his fighting prowess might equal the other dancer’s?” he asked remembering doing the dances and how hard it was to find a worthy opponent among elves, let alone men.

“He would have to be close, you can’t be that good on your own. I wonder if he would be interested in doing a dance or two with me. “ The elf started to rise, looking towards the bedroom, then with a rueful smile sat back down. “I don’t think I’ve been this fascinated with someone in quite a while. He doesn’t feel anything like his father, though there is a strong physical resemblance. Where Denethor repulsed, he draws me.”

“I feel it too,” Aragorn told him. “He is everything Denethor could never be. There is nothing cold about Boromir.”

Rising to his feet, Legolas went to the doorway and looked at the man in his bed. Seeing that he was still sound asleep, he rejoined Aragorn. “I think I’m in danger of becoming obsessed,” the elf admitted. “I even like his tattoos.”

“If he lives up to even half of his reputation, he would be worthy of your interest,” Aragorn told him. “I only know of one tattoo, the seal of Gondor. What are the others?”

“There are three more in the hollow of his hip, three coats of arms. They belong to his brother, Éomer of Rohan, and Éowyn of Rohan,” the elf said. “I think they are his lovers, though I’m not sure how that would work. He also has a few small decorative bits to accentuate the tree carved into his chest.”

“Rohan allows extended marriages and families, though it is not common knowledge outside that country,” Aragorn admitted. “Brothers or sisters are common in such unions, but a brother and sister is very rare. They obviously have some sort of arrangement worked out.”

“I’m sure I’ll find out eventually, getting to know him will be an adventure in itself,” Legolas said. *

Halfway through the night, Boromir began dreaming. He pulled Legolas close and began caressing him. “I miss you,” whispered the voice in his ear.

Looking at the man, Legolas saw that his mind was far away and let himself relax into the sweet embrace. Running a hand across the bearded face, Legolas thought of the contrast between the gentle touches and raging passion this man had already displayed. Then all thought passed from his mind as he was pulled into a deep kiss.

Boromir began making love to him, so much more than just sex. Only he wasn’t the true object of the man’s desire. His senses picked up the dreamlike presence of another. It was intoxicating, this being caught as a surrogate lover.

Rolling him over onto his back, Boromir slid his cock deep into his ass with only a little spit as lubrication. Startled by the rough invasion, Legolas arched beneath him. There was little pain for him though, as he often had this kind of sex, even though the man’s cock was much larger than he was used too. As he relaxed into the man’s movements, Boromir’s whispered endearments became louder.

“Faramir, my love,” he called. “I need you, brother.” Then he began moving with long, hard thrusts that drove all thought from the elf’s mind.

The climax was just as searing as it had been the first time, but now the elf felt the undeniable presence of Boromir’s dream lover. It felt as if his very soul was being intertwined with the other.

Faramir sat up in his bed, his body covered in sweat and semen. This had been the clearest dream he had ever had with his brother. He had seen his brother’s face clearly, but he’d seen someone else as well. There was no doubt in his mind that there had been an elf in his brother’s arms. One he recognized from a book in the Great Archives.

Washing and dressing quickly, he decided that he still had a couple of hours before his father needed him. He wanted to find the book.

Faramir looked at the illustration in the book he was holding. It was a well-done portrait of a beautiful elf. The caption said ‘Legolas, youngest son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood’. The accompanying story claimed him to be the best archer in all Middle Earth, and the most beautiful and sought after of all the Sindarin elves, and was dated three hundred years earlier. Idly studying the elf, he could almost feel the long blonde hair and smell the soft skin. He wondered if his brother’s companion was an elf such as this.

“I doubt he is with the Mirkwood elves, and hope he hasn’t fallen in with this one,” his father said from behind him. “I remember hearing about him when I was young. He was well known as troublemaker, always showing off and seducing men and women. Several wars were nearly started because of him.” Denethor shook his head in disapproval.

“Surely he has reached Imladris by now,” Faramir said in Sindarin, not really thinking about his words. “I wish that I had gone with him.”

“What did you say?” Denethor asked, angered by his son’s use of the elvish language.

“Sorry, father,” Faramir said, bowing his head and closing the book. “I only hope for Boromir’s safe and swift return. All this thought of elves has been distracting.”

“With the imminence of winter, I’m sure you can throw off your distraction and put your mind to better pursuits,” the Steward said angrily. “Let your brother deal with the elves, you have your own duty to attend.”

“Of course, my Lord Steward,” Faramir answered in a subdued voice. All the necessary preparations for winter had been attended to, but he didn’t want his father to begin to suspect that he knew exactly where his brother was.

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