Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 30: MORNING CONVERSATIONS

Shortly before dawn Arwen woke to the sound of Boromir’s voice. At first she thought he was simply talking in his sleep, then she realized that it was much more than that. Laying a careful hand on his head, she heard other voices answer him. Their words soon identified them to her and she knew he was communicating with his brother and, to a lesser degree, with Éomer of Rohan.

Having learned much of scrying and direct mind-to-mind communication from her grandmother, she had few qualms about listening in. It was soon clear to her that most of what they shared was the fact that Boromir was now with Estel and they were all happy about it, though it was mostly just emotions rather than whole thoughts they shared. Leaning back and letting the men return to the privacy of their dream- talk, she thought about this latest development. Legolas had hinted about this, but he took too great a joy in teasing Arwen to give up his knowledge easily.

As Boromir’s dreams came to a stop she gently pulled Estel closer to her, turning his face so she could kiss him awake. “I must leave now or my father will be scandalized, my love,” she whispered into his ear when he opened his eyes. Telling him of Boromir’s dreams could wait until he returned from his scouting mission.

“Your father knows exactly where you are, my heart,” he smiled at her words. “But it is best not to give Erestor any more fuel for his gossip, though I’ve never heard him say a word about you.”

“He’d best not,” Arwen said, her eyes flashing. “I know all of his secrets, he wouldn’t survive the payback.” With a soft laugh and another kiss, she quickly made her way from the room.

Sighing heavily, Aragorn looked down at the man he held in his arms. Green eyes smiled back at him, making it impossible for him not to respond with a kiss. “You may rest here as long as you wish,” he whispered. “I have to meet with Elrond and hope to set out before full light. You can even use the guest room I showed you yesterday if you want. I know you won’t get much privacy with Legolas.”

“I am not used to privacy, unless you count my recent journey,” Boromir laughed. “I thank you for the offer, my liege, but I seem to be more comfortable in the company of others. Even if they are strangers or elves, or strange elves.”

“Legolas is unlike any other elf I’ve ever encountered so I guess he would fit your description,” Aragorn laughed, thinking of his friend. He quieted again as he looked into Boromir’s eyes. The man had his father’s features but his coloring was from his mother’s family. While most Gondorians were pale of skin, black of hair and gray-eyed, Boromir was almost golden. His skin was tanned from exposure to the elements and maybe a bit of Southron blood, his hair like the brightest spun gold; those amazing green eyes betraying tiny flecks of gold this close. Aragorn couldn’t help but think that he was a vision of the Valar given flesh to brighten these dark days.

Knowing that he should be preparing for his journey, Aragorn couldn’t help but claim one more kiss. Which led to another, deeper kiss. As strong calloused hands moved up his back and pulled him over Boromir’s body, he could only moan in pleasure. With his legs now firmly settled between the younger man’s thighs and their erections snug against each other, he let himself be guided to gently sliding across the sweat- slicked body below him. As quick as his arousal had overcome him, the slow pace kept him at a fever pitch that did not allow completion. They had not broken their kiss yet and their breathing was forced harshly through their noses. Aragorn’s hands, wrapped tightly in Boromir’s hair, pulled them even closer together.

He’d never known he’d wanted this, needed this so much. Most of his adult life had been spent on the trail or in precarious political positions that did not lend themselves to the time or place for carnal pleasures. Encouraging touches led him to taking control of their movements. He raised one of Boromir’s thighs and felt for the bottle of oil on the bedside table. Even here Boromir had complete control of his muscles and it took only a light coating of oil to have him ready. Aragorn sank smoothly within the tight passage with a groan of pleasure.

Halting for a moment, Aragorn closed his eyes to block out the erotic sight of the golden man beneath him, which threatened to undo him. When he had himself back under control, he looked down at Boromir laying spread out beneath him as he began slowly moving with deep thrusts. The green eyes looking back at him were heavy with lust, urging him to move faster. He couldn’t resist their wordless plea and braced himself on Boromir’s shoulders, feeling the younger man’s legs enclose his waist.

“Yes, my liege,” Boromir cried out, throwing his head back in ecstasy, the sight and feel of him bringing Aragorn over the edge as well.

Aragorn collapsed across the younger man, relaxing into his much larger body. As the muscular arms enclosed him, he felt safer than he had for decades. This man who held him had made it clear that he would follow and protect him wherever he led.

“I need to leave,” Aragorn said, trying to make his body move from its comfortable position. “Elrond will be expecting me soon.”

“Let me help you prepare, my liege,” Boromir said, pressing a kiss to the underside of Aragorn’s jaw.

“Have you forgotten already?” Aragorn asked as he forced himself away from the warm embrace. “I asked you to call me Estel.”

“I’ve not forgotten, Estel,” Boromir said, barely chastened, the name on his tongue sending shivers down Aragorn’s spine. “But I have waited so long for you, it gladdens my heart to call you liege.”

“I guess I can forgive you then, Boromir,” Aragorn smiled. “Come, if we don’t leave this bed now I will be too strongly tempted to stay all day.”

The ranger was surprised at how quickly Boromir cleaned and dressed him, and then got all of his travel gear ready. He had only to look in the direction of an item and the younger man had it placed where it belonged. If this was what he had to look forward to as king of Gondor, he might enjoy fulfilling his destiny.

Boromir was pleased to be of service to his liege. It strengthened his purpose and he could feel the joy returned through the connection with his brother and, to a lesser extent, Éomer. Lately there had also been the harsh sense of tears, vague and shadowy, which he’d thought at first came from Faramir. But now as he worked, he knew it could only be Éowyn who was isolated in her own home, dealing with the enemy face to face each day. He worked efficiently in aiding his liege, hoping that soon they would be returning to Gondor.

“That room you gave Boromir was a disgrace, Erestor,” Legolas said as he braided Glorfindel’s hair. “I’m sure Elrond didn’t know and would punish you if I’d given in to my urges and told him.”

“I find that hard to believe,” the black-haired elf said as he reclined on the bed watching the two blondes.

“What?” Legolas asked, pausing in his work to glare at the smug counselor. “I know you would have been punished.”

“Not that, Legolas,” Erestor smirked. “I just don’t think you’re really capable of resisting any of your urges.”

Glorfindel started snickering at these words and received a tug on his hair for his efforts.

“Don’t start, Glorfindel,” Erestor continued. “You’re the same.” He began running a hand down his smooth naked body, pausing to lightly stroke his slowly rehardening cock. “I’ve never seen two more licentious sluts,” he pretended to ignore the two blondes as he turned ever so slightly to show his body off to best advantage. “I can only imagine how bad you both would be if you were released from service so that all of your time were your own.”

Looking at each other for a moment, Glorfindel and Legolas considered ignoring the other elf. Then, without a word, they turned back to watch and listen to his display. Erestor was always hard to ignore; in this mood, it was nearly impossible.

“I had to put him in that small remote room because of you two,” the raven-haired elf continued. “He barely slept as it was, if he had been any closer, you would have kept him up until you’d all been late to the council. Then Lord Elrond would have rightfully held me to blame.” Rising to his knees, careful to make sure all the important parts were fully displayed to his audience, Erestor moved one hand down the now exposed cheeks of his firm ass, pausing to pinch and stroke in a way he knew made the other two elves salivate. His other hand cupped his balls so that they were held like an offering to his companions. “I could see it now,” his voice husked. “Glorfindel would be behind him and impale him with that devastating rod he uses on everyone.” At his words, three of his own fingers dove into his waiting hole, still wet and loose from their earlier activities. “Legolas would be spread out beneath him, pushing his hungry backside onto that enormous cock,” Erestor’s other hand moved from his balls to his hard and dripping cock.

“Such sluts,” he whispered, a challenge in his dark eyes. “I can just imagine what depravities you two would perform upon the poor Steward’s son.”

The two blonde elves didn’t even look at each other as they moved in concert to tackle the teasing brunette. This was an old game of theirs and each knew the role that Erestor had assigned them with his lusty description.

The eastern sky was just beginning to brighten with the coming dawn. Elrond stood watching the stars fade as he waited for his foster son’s arrival. There had been times of strain between them through the years but that had all been resolved by time and love. Estel was as precious to him as his own children. A kind and sweet-natured child who had grown into a determined and caring man. Of all the humans he had known in his long life, Aragorn was the only one he felt deserved the hand of his beautiful daughter in marriage. Not that he had ceded to the idea easily.

He was confident that Aragorn, Legolas and Gandalf would make excellent escorts for the hobbit who had chosen to carry the ring. However, the Gondorian and the two younger hobbits were another matter. He also needed to give the dwarves an answer on whether one of their number would be accepted into the group as well.

“You worry too much, Ada,” Aragorn said as he entered the room. “We will do what we can and hope, the Valar willing, that it will be enough.”

“It seems you are finally following Arwen’s counsel, Estel,” Elrond laughed as he turned away from the balcony to embrace his foster son. “If only all on your future quest were as intelligent in their choices.”

“You need not worry about Boromir,” Aragorn told him firmly. “Not only is he a seasoned warrior, but he has sworn himself to my service.”

“There is also the matter of Merry and Pippin, Frodo’s cousins,” Elrond added grimly, still not entirely convinced about the other man. “Not to mention that Gloin is insisting his son Gimli accompany you as well. There is still not complete trust between elves and dwarves. That incident with Thranduil didn’t help and since Legolas is his son I’m afraid I will have no choice but to accept.”

“Gimli is a fine young dwarf, with nearly a century of experience as a warrior for his people,” Aragorn countered. “ I think we would be well served with his company. As for the hobbits, you should have learned from Bilbo, they are much hardier than they seem. If anyone has a chance to get close enough to the Black Mountain to destroy the ring, it will be one of them. If you had seen them holding off the Nazgûl, you would have more faith in their abilities.”

“Even so,” Elrond agreed. “I will try to have confidence that you and Gandalf will be able to keep the expedition on track. Hopefully, farther than Gondor.”

“I cannot promise to go farther, Ada,” Aragorn said in sorrow. “What good would it do to destroy the ring if all the world lay in ruin? If the situation allows, I will go with the ringbearer all the way to Mount Doom. But I will not abandon the people of my fathers for any longer than is absolutely necessary.”

“Of course, Estel,” The half-elf agreed. “Duty is what will see us through these dark times.”

“I want you to grow your hair long,” Faramir told Stefle as he brushed the sweat from his face. Running his hand through the stubble that the man kept his hair limited to and then across a smoothly shaven face he continued, “Maybe a bit of a mustache as well. I know you’d look good.”

“I have been encouraged to keep well trimmed,” Stefle said with a smile. “It seems that I bear a strong physical resemblance to my father, a man whom the Steward disliked intensely.”

“He will just have to live with the reminder,” Faramir said firmly. “It’s not like he has a fondness for either of us anyway. It might even serve as a further distraction.”

“As you wish, my Lord,” Stefle acknowledged.

“You don’t have to if it really bothers you,” Faramir reassured him. “I would just like to see you that way at least once.”

“It isn’t a problem, you know I’d do most anything for you,” Stefle pressed a kiss to Faramir’s chin before changing the subject. “We need to send someone to Éowyn. From all of Brinel’s reports, she has learned a lot, but I think trying to face someone with Gríma’s skills and experience on her own is asking too much.”

“Of course, whom do you have in mind?” Faramir asked, going over the list of candidates in his own mind.

“I would like to go, my Lord,” Saphron said from where she lay in the bed beside him. “Stefle wishes to keep me here, but there are others with as much skill as I. Even you, my Lord, are better at some things,” she said with a smile. “Our poor princess languishes away all alone and a prisoner in her own home as well. She has never met you and only knew our Lord Boromir a few short days. There are many things I could share with her that would ease her waiting.”

“You have been the one who has kept all of the wards empowered here so that we are safe from sorcerer’s spells and the evil that seek s to overcome us from Mordor,” Stefle said.

“Analil has trained in setting the wards for nearly as long as I and is much better at it. She is not distracted by all of the other errands you have me tend to, Stefle,” Saphron responded quickly. She sat up and leaned across Faramir to press soft kisses to his face and neck. “I will miss you dreadfully, my beloved Lord,” she whispered to him, “but I am called to do this, I know that I will be the best choice to help her.”

It was impossible for Faramir or Stefle to dispute her words. She was dear to all of them and known for her levelheaded decisions. Pulling her fully into his arms, Faramir kissed her brow, making no attempt to hide his tears. Having Saphron near was almost like having a piece of Garus still at his side, but he couldn’t deny Éowyn the best aid he could send her.

“I will miss you also, my beloved friend,” he told her. “I expect you to take good care both of you and return to me whole.”

“As you wish, my Lord,” she answered. “So it shall be done.”

“My son seems to have become unstable since his brother left,” Denethor confided to Mordel, checking the knots in his bindings. “It is a good thing that Borril is so competent.”

“Yes, indeed, my Lord Steward,” Mordel agreed as he stretched just a little bit to let his limbs settle into the uncomfortable position the Steward preferred him in. “He seems quite sensible and amenable to logic. I’m quite sure we can count on him in need.”

“If only Boromir would return,” Denethor said, stepping back and admiring the effect of his servant hanging suspended from the rack in the middle of the room. The chains hung empty beside him. There was something about the wet leather that cut into flesh as it dried that made this more satisfying. He would have to cut them away when they were through, being careful not to leave marks where others could see them, but Mordel would make sure there were more bindings to use at their next session.

“It will be a great day for all of Gondor, my Lord,” Mordel said, hoping fervently that Saruman’s assassins would be successful at permanently stopping the Steward’s oldest son. He lived in terror of Boromir’s return, knowing that he would be recognized as the traitor he was by the man. Their only encounter years ago was burnt into his memory and he knew Boromir would not have forgotten either. The first strike of the whip sent white-hot pain across his back and drove the threatening memories from his mind.

“It will be followed by many more great days,” Denethor hissed as he looked at the broken skin that displayed his effort. He knew he couldn’t do too much damage or he would be without his best servant’s aid while he recovered. Maybe he would have him procure a warm body to take his place on the rack. Someone younger and blonde, he did enjoy a nice, young blonde. “Of course, if he takes long enough, maybe Faramir can be safely neutralized so that he doesn’t lead his brother astray in the future.”

The whip delivered another burning stroke across his back at the Steward’s words. Mordel allowed himself to cry out before answering. It would not do to let the man know how high his limits were. “That is an excellent idea, my Lord,” he managed to whimper. “We might be able to do something to aid in his downfall. Nothing overt but I think we can set a few things in motion that will discredit him among his peers.”

“Tell me more,” Denethor whispered as he walked around his hanging servant, trying to decide if he should mark his front as well.

They’d been parted for over a month, trying to cover all of Rohan by dividing their forces. Théodred hadn’t questioned Éomer’s unexpected arrival in his camp, alone in the middle of the night. He knew that the bond his cousin shared with Boromir and Faramir sometimes drove him and he always gave what comfort he could. Someday soon this long war would be over and the connection between his cousins and the Steward’s sons would be essential in helping to rebuild their two countries. Or they would all be dead.

“You are too generous to me, my Prince,” Éomer whispered as he trailed kisses down Théodred’s chest. “You don’t even complain when I wake you in the wee morning hours.”

“How could I bring you to task for your impetuousness, cousin?” the younger man hissed as his body arched beneath the expert hands. “It pleases me and gives me solace at our long exile from Meduseld.”

It was a long while before Éomer spoke again, his mouth being occupied with sliding over his young cousin’s chest. His hands worked the strong, almost hairless body beneath him with all the skill he’d acquired from years of male lovers. They both needed this contact and neither would comment later on how sweetly Théodred surrendered to his older cousin’s ministrations.

“I’m sure we will see our home by spring, my precious one,” Éomer whispered in Théodred’s ear as he covered the younger man, one knowledgeable hand reaching between his legs to prepare him. “We will either ride into Edoras in triumph or lie in our own simbelmyne-covered tombs.”

“Yes,” Théodred hissed in answer as his cousin entered his quickly prepared passage. “I grow weary of this game we play with the wizard and his minion. I hunger to return home.”

Thrusting hard into the welcoming body, Éomer could sympathize with his cousin. Even though he was at home here in the wide expanses of the Mark, he missed his sister’s company, not to mention that of the two men he had grown to love as well as his own family. He immersed himself into his building release, letting the physical activity draw forth all of the repressed emotions of their long exile. It might still be months, but he was sure that all would finally be settled before the last of the snows had melted from the peaks of the White Mountains.

Their climax was greeted with cries of victory, for they had the surety of youth about who would win all in the end.

Sitting next to her uncle feeding him the hearty gruel, which was all he could manage most mornings now, Éowyn watched Gríma through her lowered lashes. There were signs of new drugs in whatever concoction Gríma had been feeding him, but her abilities were beyond strained to try and figure antidotes. Brinel had taught her much but hadn’t finished before her death. She could only hope that at least one of her messages made it to Gondor and that there would be some sort of replacement sent. If not, she would just have to muddle through on her own, losing ground steadily to Saruman’s lackey.

Yet, there had been a lightening of her heart lately. She suspected it was because of Boromir’s efforts abroad. Brinel had been teaching her meditation techniques, which helped her to ‘hear’ the nightly communications between her intended husbands and her brother. Since she had been almost completely cut off from her brother and cousin for over a month, she had no one to compare notes with, so she could only guess.

“You are looking exceptionally well this morning, your Highness,” Gríma said from the other side of her uncle. “I’m sure our king is gladdened by the sight of you.”

“As I am well pleased to attend him,” she answered in an aside, keeping her attention seemingly focused on Théoden. “You know how much it means to me to be here with you, uncle?” she half-questioned, wondering if his failing perceptions would catch the double meaning of her words. Besides being her king, her uncle was a second father to her, having raised her since her own parent’s death. But she was horse born, meant to spend her life in freedom on the Riddermark not locked away in some walled city like a sacrificial virgin.

Gríma caught her meaning, all of it. He’d watched as her eyes began to lose the light that had drawn him to her in the beginning. For the millionth time, he cursed himself and Saruman for all the evil they did bringing her this distress. That faint gleam of hope that had been lit by Boromir’s visit burned his resolve as he saw the almost-smile that ghosted her lips. He did his duty to his master, but kept his eyes open for any chance to aid his princess.

“You always bring the sunshine with your sweet face, Theodwyn,” the king said, his eyes somewhat rheumy and his voice weak.

“Thank you, my King,” Éowyn said with a half-laugh, half-sob. “I must tend to my ladies; please, excuse me.” Handing the bowl and spoon over to a nearby servant, she made her way quickly from the room. Her haste was so great that she didn’t even notice Gríma following her.

It had been over a month since Théoden had last mistaken her for her mother. That he did so now only pointed out to her how much ground she was losing without Brinel there to aid her. Closing the door behind her as she entered her room, she leaned back against it stifling her sobs against a clenched fist. Slowly she slid down until she sat on the floor trying to regain her iron control. Berating herself for weakness, she resolved to harden her heart against her uncle’s growing feebleness. Even if no one ever came to rescue her from this prison that was her home, she would not fail in her duty.

Leaning against the door, Gríma pressed an ear against it, biting the blood from his lips at the sounds he heard. Knowing that he was the cause of her distress almost brought his own tears. He knew that he was in a position to slow the advance of Théoden’s illness. Mordel thought that he had things well in hand in Gondor, especially with the implied distrust between Faramir and Boromir’s two oldest heirs. But Gríma’s experience of the older brother’s magnetic personality and the knowledge of the younger’s ruthlessness when necessary, led him to believe that there was no chance of such dissension. Any heirs who did not come up to the standards and purpose of the Steward’s sons would not be in positions of power. Not that he had shared these thoughts with Saruman or his Gondorian counterpart.

For his princess, he would ease back a bit on his potions. It was the magics of Saruman that were having the worst effect anyway. Maybe, if her faint sign of cheer were anything to go by, he would soon be able to alter his plans altogether. As he straightened and walked away from the door, glad that there was no one in the hall to observe his emotional lapse, he resolved to do what he could for her. Even if in the end it would only mean his own ruin.

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