Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Title: Warriors of Gondor
Author: Hel (helthehorrible@yahoo.com)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir with various others
Warnings for these parts: explicit sex, chanslash, incest, het, slash, violence, blood, abuse, gore.
Notes: A vambrace is a piece of armor that covers the forearm.

Work in Progress

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Part 1: BROTHERS

Waiting in his mother’s sitting room, Boromir tried very hard not to show any of the impatience he felt. For months she had been telling him that he would have a new brother or sister, and now the time had come. His father was in meetings, and would only come once the child was born, his time too important to waste on birthing pains.

Finally, the door opened and Boromir was summoned within. His mother placed the infant in his arms. “This is Faramir, your brother,” she told him. “He will need you to love him and keep him safe.”

The infant in his five-year-old arms was beautiful and precious to him at first sight. “Ah, mother, how could I fail to love one so fair?” he asked in all innocence. “I will always keep him close.” He placed a kiss on the baby’s brow, and smiled at its soft sigh.

At that moment Denethor entered the room, and heard the words of his eldest son. He looked down at his two sons. Boromir had an expression of such love and awe on his face that it twisted like a knife in his father’s heart. “You must not coddle him,” he said harshly. “There is no room for weakness in the men of Gondor. There is no need of it in any son of mine.”

Already defiant, Boromir held his brother closer. “I will not coddle him father, I will teach him to be the greatest warrior ever.”

Boromir walked with his little brother holding tightly to his hand. At the ten-month old Faramir’s waist was a sheathed sword, scaled down to his size.

“Look mother,” he called to her as she lay in her sickbed. “I have given Faramir his first sword.”

Finduilas smiled wanly at her two sons. “How wonderful, Boromir,” came her faint voice.

“I’m taking him with me to my riding lesson. Father will see that he will be a great warrior,” he added, picking him up and placing a kiss to his brow, smiling at the toddler’s soft sigh.

The Rohirrim horsemaster smiled at the precocious six-year-old and allowed him to spend half his own riding lesson teaching his younger brother how to ride. Boromir had found a small saddle in some old tack and cleaned and repaired it himself just for this purpose.

When he returned his brother to his wet nurse, she gasped in horror at the very real blade in the sheath.

“He must get used to wearing it,” Boromir assured her. “I will keep it with me since it frightens you and put it on him whenever I have him. He is already learning how to use it,” he told her. He smiled at her, and then kissed his brother’s brow, hugging him when he sighed.

Watching his mother’s maid put neat stitches in the gash in his arm, Boromir held his three-year-old brother on his lap. Faramir watched her progress with tears in his eyes, his bloodied sword in his hand.

“I will be all right, brother,” Boromir said, trying to comfort him. “Nelda has made it all better, now it doesn’t hurt at all. I should have blocked you quicker, it will happen sometimes.”

Not quite believing his words, the younger boy brought the blade across his own arm. He gasped in surprise at the sharp twinge of pain, but Boromir was right, it wasn’t nearly as painful as when he’d skinned his knees.

“What do you think you are doing?” Nelda said sternly, taking his arm and examining the wound. “It is not a good idea to start cutting yourself up. Before you know it, there will be plenty of others willing to do it for you. Your father would take your sword away if he knew you did that.”

The threat of their father subdued both boys. “I’m sorry, Nelda,” Faramir said, his words very clear for one so young. “I won’t do it again.”

She looked at them, both so brave and solemn. “There are bad times coming, my little loves,” she told them for the millionth time. “You need to be strong warriors to keep our people safe. So use your weapons wisely, don’t make your father take them away for carelessness.”

They nodded at her words and agreed to be more cautious. The cut on Faramir’s arm was shallow, so she just put a little salve on it before sending them off to clean their weapons.

She almost felt guilty for encouraging the boys so much, but her visions had always led her true. They would need every advantage they could get.

Their special place was a secluded garden that few knew about. It was here that Boromir brought his brother to practice the new fighting techniques he’d been taught. Their father refused to let Faramir be trained with his older brother, so Boromir cajoled and bribed the teachers to at least allow him to watch. It was not as if it was forbidden; Denethor just claimed that Faramir was too young.

“You are not too young if you can do it,” Boromir insisted to his brother as he guided him through a complicated serious of moves in the sword dance he was learning. The five- year-old was graceful beyond his years, having been constantly urged by his beloved older brother to practice his swordsmanship. They moved together gracefully, both enjoying their time alone.

When they were finished with the exercises, they wrestled and played for a while, making good use of their private time. Soon they would have to visit with their mother, who barely spoke or even opened her eyes any more, followed by seemingly endless hours with tutors. Then they ate with their father in the formal dining hall and spent most of their evening listening to adult conversation, learning the ins and outs of court life.

Boromir worked as quietly as he could, cutting through a piece of paneling that separated his room from Faramir’s. The angry yelling of his father still ringing in his ears, as he had ordered him to send his brother back to his own room. It had been over an hour before he’d felt it was safe enough to sneak into Faramir’s room and hold the five-year-old in comforting arms. That it had been the older brother who wept most was not a mystery to either of them. Faramir had always had the love of his big brother, never really knowing their ailing mother who had just died. Boromir missed her terribly, and Denethor’s lack of understanding was hard on the ten-year-old.

So he sat here secretly making a hidden passage between their rooms, ensuring that they’d never have to sleep alone again.

Faramir sat at the knee of the old woman as she described the new servants that had been brought in to work in the White Tower. He listened to her carefully; he didn’t want to see his brother upset by another gossipy maid. From now on all those who looked after Boromir and him would be loyal to them alone, not their father. Nelda had looked after them when their mother was still alive and it was only their father’s forcing her into retirement that had left them vulnerable to the new maid.

Nelda had come to Minas Tirith with Finduilas, but had married into the family that was amongst the oldest of retainers of the House of Hurin. Her many children and in-laws also worked in the White Tower, so she came every day to consult with them. Faramir had come quickly to her summons, for she had always taken care of his brother and him.

“Your brother doesn’t even see anyone but you and your father,” she told him. “You are the center of his world and your father is the one who controls it. Everyone else is just background.”

Faramir smiled at the thought of his brother. Boromir was his world, the one he adored. “I will see them for him, Nelda,” he said. “He can be the great warrior and I will watch his back.” Pausing thoughtfully he added, “Someone will have to clean our rooms this afternoon; he made a mess cutting up the wall. Maybe they could even make it into a real hidden door, so that father can’t find it.”

“A good idea, my little lord,” she agreed, proud that, once again, he had proven himself wise beyond his years.

The brothers listened to the wizard with round eyes as he told them tales of dwarves, elves, dragons, orcs, and brave adventures. Though orcs were all too common a problem in Gondor, the first three were so rare as to never have been encountered by the sons of the Steward. They were not sheltered children and at seven and twelve, had watched battles from a distance, at their father’s side. This was the first time Faramir had seen Mithrandir, and Boromir’s recollections of him were hazy.

Their father’s stern frown and caustic remarks chased them away from the wizard’s side.

Faramir snuck back into the room as soon as the coast was clear and approached the gray figure. “Are there books that tell of these stories?” he asked. “I can read quite well, and share them with my brother when father isn’t around.”

Mithrandir smiled at the boy and took him through the great archives and grand library, explaining how the books and scrolls were arranged. Or at least how they were supposed to be arranged, as such things never stayed straight for long.

Faramir took two books with him that the wizard recommended. Later, he kept his brother awake late into the night reading some of the stories aloud.

The next day, after fighting practice, riding practice, archery practice, finishing his lessons with his tutors, and Boromir’s final approval that his time would be his own (right after a formal supper with their father), he sought out the wizard amongst the great archives. He coaxed him into more stories by assisting him in finding the documents and records he was looking for.

For the next couple of weeks, he spent every spare moment with Mithrandir, happily pursuing the histories of Middle Earth.

When the wizard departed, he thanked Denethor for the excellent help of his youngest son and was surprised to see the boy blanch at his words. The tightening around the Steward’s eyes and mouth told him that he had made a serious mistake. The Istari pretended not to hear the harsh words Denethor said under his breath as he walked away, knowing that any interference on his part would only make things worse.

When the three reached the father’s study and the door was closed, Denethor hit Faramir with a blow that knocked him across the room. Shocked by his father’s actions, Boromir went to his brother’s aid.

“No,” their father told him. “Leave him, he should be beaten for defying my wishes.”

As Denethor began to remove his belt, Boromir turned and stood between his father and brother. “Then you need to beat me, I allowed him, nay, encouraged him to help the wizard.” He was unwavering as he confronted his father.

“Do not cover for him, it will only make him cowardly,” Denethor said angrily.

“There is nothing that Faramir does that I do not know about,” he replied firmly. “He is my responsibility, I am to blame if he does wrong. I thought you wanted the wizard gone as quickly as possible, I didn’t know there was any harm in helping him,” Boromir stated firmly.

Faramir sat on the floor, bleeding from his nose and mouth. He’d taken worse on the practice field, but those were to be expected. This was beyond his understanding. He’d always felt his father’s coldness toward him, but had no idea it could erupt into violence so easily. He fought to hold back his tears. He loved his father and yearned for him to care for him. Now he felt with certainty that he never would.

Denethor backed down at Boromir’s words. He knew his older son was right, and could only turn away from the accusing glare. “Then I will leave it to you to make sure that he stays in line. I suggest he avoids the wizard in the future, their kind always makes trouble, especially that one.” He walked away without apology, leaving Boromir to care for his brother.

Faramir hid behind the tapestry that concealed the door between his room and his brother’s. He watched his brother slowly remove the clothes from the man before him. It had even been Faramir’s suggestion that he would be a good choice from the myriad of women and men who sought his brother’s bed.

As the favorite son of the Steward of Gondor, and the champion of the yearly tourney, Boromir was very popular. Even though he was only fifteen, and had yet to be tried in battle, he was considered an adult and would soon be sent to learn warcraft in the field. In the past, manhood was judged at an older age, but with the death toll growing yearly, and the great need for more warriors, that had changed. The brothers had been having a most interesting week. Each night Boromir had taken up a different offer, all under their father’s approving eye.

The man went to his knees and began taking Boromir’s cock in his mouth. His technique was very good and Boromir was soon gasping in pleasure. He pulled him up and moved him onto the bed. It didn’t take long for Boromir to mount him and begin long, slow thrusts. When he was finished, he rolled to his side to catch his breath.

“My father always checks my room before he goes to bed,” he told him. He has warned me not to have anyone in here.” It was a blatant lie, but there was only one person he wanted to spend the night in his room. Of course, it was the one person his father didn’t want there, Faramir.

With a reluctant sigh, the man dressed quickly and left. Boromir locked the door behind him, and held his arms out to his brother. Faramir was in his brother’s arms before the man’s footsteps had receded down the hall.

“You could have kept him for a couple more rounds,” he admonished. “He had a quite nice ass.”

“His breath stank,” Boromir replied. “And father kept me away from you all day.”

Faramir kissed his brother’s lips. “You will have to ride out to battle soon, Boromir. I don’t think father will let you take me with you.” He kissed him again. “Unless, maybe I dress as a camp follower and come along that way?”

“No, I will miss you terribly, but I would have you safe at home until you can ride at my side as a fellow warrior,” Boromir told him. Kissing his brow, he smiled at Faramir’s soft sigh. “Come to bed, we have to be in meetings all day tomorrow.”

“We?” Faramir asked, walking with his brother to the bed.

“I told father that you needed to attend too. You are his son as well and have just as much need to know all this useless stuff.” He pulled him up into the high bed with him.

“I already know more of that ‘useless stuff’ than you do,” Faramir said pressing soft kisses to his brother’s face.

“Then he will see how smart you are. He will have to start acknowledging your existence,” Boromir told him, wrapping his arms around him.

Faramir became still and gave him a serious look. “I’m not so sure it’s a good idea to force me down his throat.”

“Nonsense,” Boromir said. “You are my brother, and worthy of every consideration I receive. He will come around when he sees how good you are.”

He knew his older brother was wrong, but forbore to tell him. Their father had never liked Faramir. He could feel the anger radiating from him when he saw Boromir giving attention to him. This could easily turn into a disaster, but he would keep his silence. They played and wrestled for a while before Boromir used his larger size to pin Faramir to the bed.

“It is time for sleep now. We have to rise early tomorrow,” he said, pulling his little brother into his arms and covering them both with the blanket. He kissed Faramir’s brow, and waited for his sigh, before continuing. “Sleep my love, let us dream together.” And as simply as that, the younger boy fell asleep, Boromir following soon after. Both of them safe and warm in the place they most wanted to be.

Waiting until Boromir finished and rolled off Maran, Faramir entered the room and walked to the bed. He had sent her to his brother to tighten the bond between her family and his, as Nelda had instructed him. Maran, her granddaughter, was of the oldest family of retainers for the House of Hurin, and this had been part of that bond for centuries. Any child born of such unions would be raised in status and keep alive their fealty.

“What are you doing here, Faramir?” Boromir asked, surprised that he hadn’t waited until he sent the young woman away.

“Maran doesn’t mind me, brother,” he answered, climbing into his brother’s bed. “Besides, she will mind cleaning the bedding less if she gets to sleep in it.” He cuddled up next to him, pushing sweaty hair out of his face.

Boromir was uncomfortable with this change in their routine until Maran rolled against him and put her arm across him and her hand to Faramir’s cheek. “He is right, my lord, I enjoy his company and would love to sleep here,” she said.

Deciding to accept the situation, Boromir kissed his brother’s brow and pulled them both closer. It made the bed much warmer.

Two weeks later, Faramir knocked on the door to his father’s study and entered when he heard his father’s permission.” Is there anything you wish me to do today, sir?” he asked, keeping his face as neutral as possible.

“I don’t think you need change your schedule because your brother is gone,” he answered. “Except there is no need for you to join me for this afternoon’s meetings. I think you can stick to attending to your lessons unless I call for you.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered. “May I be excused, sir?”

Denethor studied his youngest son intently for several minutes. The boy met his gaze levelly, without a hint of emotion. There was no sign of the weakness that he had convinced himself was there. “You are dismissed, for now. But I may send for you later,” he told him, even though he had no intention of doing so.

“Thank you, sir,” Faramir replied and then, bowing respectfully, left the room. He waited until he was in a private anteroom before he allowed himself to breathe easily for a few moments. So far his father had given him no surprises, but he might do anything just to catch him off guard.

Now he had to hurry to the stables to apologize for not restabling his horse that morning when he’d returned from seeing his brother off. The horsemaster was understanding and urged Faramir to hurry so he wouldn’t be late to weapons practice. Boromir would only be gone a few days, and Faramir intended to avoid any trouble in the interim.

That night as he lay drowsing, he heard his brother’s voice. It was clear as if he were lying next to him. He allowed the dream to pull him under completely. Boromir’s arms enfolded him, his loving voice in his ears. He sighed as his lips kissed his forehead, and fell asleep as he was told.

The next morning he woke with a smile, sure that he had heard his brother in his dreams.

Four days later, Faramir waited beneath the outer wall of the city for his brother. His last dream had told him that Boromir would be arriving in the gray light before dawn. He was out of sight from the main gate, about a mile north on the Great West Road, when he heard the sound of a lone horse approaching at speed. Loosening his sword (just in case) he watched the rider come round a bend in the road. There was no doubt in his mind from the first glimpse that this was his beloved brother.

As their horses came next to each other, Boromir pulled Faramir off his horse and onto the front of his saddle. Their arms went around each other. “We have about five minutes before the rest of the company gets here,” Boromir said. “I’ve missed you so much, if it wasn’t for the dreams I wouldn’t have made it.”

“I’m so glad that you have them too,” Faramir replied. “They have kept me sane.” They held each other, speaking quietly until they heard the others approaching. Faramir whistled for his horse and slid into the saddle when it was close enough.

They fell in next to the company commander as the troop reached them. “So, your brother was waiting for you,” the older man commented.

“As I knew he would be,” Boromir answered.

The ride to the White Tower was long. Most of the company leaving them near the main gate, more at each gate after that. They rode through the slowly rousing city, until they finally came to the seventh gate.

Only the commander was with them now, as they handed their horses over to the waiting grooms. He left to report to his own commander. When Faramir made to leave for his own morning duties, Boromir grabbed his arm.

“You will stay with me, little brother,” he smiled. “It will be all right to upset your schedule for one day.”

Faramir resolutely walked with him into the tower and to their father’s study.

Denethor was pleased to see his oldest son, and angered by the presence of the youngest. He tried not to show his conflicted emotions, but no one was fooled. At his father’s invitation, Boromir sat in a chair in front of the huge desk to give his report. Faramir stood beside him, and Denethor pretended not to notice how Boromir stroked his arm.

When he had finished, Boromir sent Faramir to prepare his bath, so he could have a few private words with their father. “So, how did Faramir do at council meetings while I was gone?” he strongly suspected that he wouldn’t like the answer.

“I’m sure he’s told you that I excused him from attending in your absence. I don’t have time to tend to a child during them,” was the almost defensive answer.

“He is no mere child,” Boromir said. “He has never done anything for you to have such distrust and animosity towards him. While I’m sure he can find other ways to profitably use his time, it makes quite a negative statement about our family if you suddenly exclude him. We had agreed that he continue going to the meetings while I was gone. How can I concentrate on my own duties in the field when I can’t be sure how my brother fares?” Boromir was becoming angrier as he spoke, making a great effort to calm himself he continued. “He did not tell me that you had excluded him. He never complains, but I was sure of it from his very lack of anything to say on the subject.” He paused again and drew a deep breath before continuing. “Why, father?” he asked, pain clear in his face. “Why would you break faith with me and cast my brother aside like this?”

Denethor had no answer for him. He turned his face away in shame, unable to put into words what drove him to make such decisions. “It is difficult for me,” he said at last. “Let us start again. Spend the rest of the day with your brother; tomorrow we will discuss our future plans.”

Boromir rose to his feet and looked at his father with concern. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

There were many thoughts that ran through Denethor’s mind at the question, but none of them suitable to share. “I just need to think about things,” he said.

Faramir had the bath water just the way his brother liked it. Towels, oils, soap, and other supplies were arranged within easy reach. The oversized tub was almost a permanent feature in Boromir’s room. Both brothers liked being clean and it was only fitting that the younger serve the elder in this manner. Even Denethor approved.

Locking the door behind him, Boromir made his way to the armor stand in a corner of the room. Faramir began undoing the buckles and ties, then lifting the heavy plate armor from his shoulders. He removed the rest of his armor and his boots. After pulling his padded under tunic off, he carefully began checking his brother’s body for bruising and galling. Boromir tended to ignore minor sores, so Faramir checked for them often.

Soon he had his brother naked and in the tub. He loved washing Boromir, running a soapy cloth over his skin, touching him everywhere. After thoroughly washing his brother’s hair, Faramir climbed into the tub and sat on his lap.

Boromir began washing his brother. It made him happy to be able to do this. He’d helped bathe him as an infant, and had completely taken over by the time he was five. “Who washes your hair when I am gone?” he asked.

“Maran, that pretty serving girl you brought up here,” he told him. “She asks about you a lot, I think she is besotted. But she does a good job of it. I think if I weren’t so young and innocent she might be interested in a little more.”

Boromir laughed at his feigned look. “Young and sweet you are, my brother, but innocence is not something I’ve left you. All too soon you will join me on the battlefield, where it would only be a burden.” He kissed his forehead, reveling in the soft sigh. “Maran is a good choice. Should I thank her for caring for you?”

“Yes, brother,” he whispered.

“Tonight then. Father has given us the rest of the day to ourselves. Let’s go eat and then to the practice field. I want to see how lax you’ve gotten in my absence,” he teased. He watched Faramir rise from the tub to get their towels, his movements graceful beyond his years. Then he looked away, realizing that the sight was making him hard, and he had promised himself that he would wait until his brother had reached the proper age before going any further than a few kisses or caresses with him.

The armsmaster eagerly turned the other students over to his second to marshal for the two boys. Although Boromir’s five-year age difference and heavier build made him practically loom over his brother, Faramir was fast and agile. The other fighters around them tended to stop their own practice sessions to watch them.

Boromir pushed his brother to his limits and beyond, never holding back. Faramir spent much of their sparring time dodging and diverting his brother’s heavy sword strokes. Their fighting styles differed greatly; the older brother, with sword and shield, used his considerable strength and the younger, with sword and long knife, used his quickness.

After nearly an hour Boromir finally let his brother rest. There was very little that could improve on his technique, all he needed was for his body to grow into his skills. Although Boromir hadn’t reached his full growth yet either, he was big enough and strong enough to overcome most men. In fact, it had been some time since any had been able to defeat him on a regular basis. They thanked the armsmaster and went to put their armor and weapons away.

In their private garden they spent an hour practicing the sword dances, followed by a few hours of playful wrestling. Knowing that soon they would be forced into adulthood in an ever more dangerous world, they took as much advantage as they could of the few remaining bits of their childhood.

Faramir’s anger nearly blinded him as he walked down the narrow alley. The girl he accompanied seemed unaware of his rage, as almost everyone else would be. He’d learned to conceal his emotions well, dealing with his father. The girl, no older than him, had been offering herself for sale to men who should have known better. His unexpected appearance had frightened the men off, for in Minas Tirith all knew the youngest son of the Steward of Gondor.

As they neared the end of the alley, they heard screams of pain and an angry man’s voice. The girl tried to pull away but Faramir wouldn’t let her go. Without knocking, he entered the house, releasing the girl when he’d closed the door. In a corner of the sparsely furnished room were several younger children whom she ran to huddle with.

With barely a glance in their direction, he continued through the next doorway. The painful welts on his own back spurred his anger as he saw the large man kicking the boy on the floor. Without a word or hesitation, he attacked. He drove his foot into the man’s stomach with all the force he could which, even though he was only eleven, was enough to knock the man off his feet. As he fell, his head caught the counter edge with a loud crack. Faramir leaned over him, noting the impossible angle of the man’s neck before turning to comfort the boy on the floor.

A short time later he sat in Nelda’s kitchen with the boy, who was a couple of years older than he was. The city watch had come and easily accepted his story of the man tripping, once Nelda had arranged for the evidence of violence to be removed. She finished cleaning the abrasions on the boy, who was named Garus.

“I think Garus would make a perfect body servant for your brother,” Nelda told Faramir. “Of course, you will have to train him. It would be best if you start right away.”

“Yes, Nelda,” he answered, holding Garus’ hand and noting the grateful look in his eyes.

Faramir followed his father into his study. He had been late that morning to a council meeting; his horse had thrown a shoe on his return to the White Tower after seeing Boromir off. Now he was trying to prepare himself for the punishment he knew was coming. The punishments had been getting progressively worse in the two years since Boromir had insisted that their father include him in council meetings.

Without expression he leaned over his father’s desk, taking the liberty of grabbing the opposite edge. As the first blow from the long thin cane fell across his back, he went over the moves of the first sword dance in his mind. It helped him to separate himself from the pain and keep from crying out. That his silence would make the punishment last longer he suspected, but he couldn’t bring himself to give in. Each blow felt harder than the last, and they were placed randomly from his shoulders to his knees. At least his clothes would help prevent them from breaking the skin, though of course some would.

There were no words exchanged. The only sounds were the slight whistle of the cane through the air and the impact against his body. Denethor would occasionally grunt with the force he was putting into his blows. Faramir put all his concentration into keeping quiet and breathing evenly.

When his father finally stopped, he waited for him to leave the room before he moved. Experience had taught him that Denethor might start again if he didn’t wait.

He found he was having trouble unlocking his fingers from the edge of the desk. The sound of the door opening behind him almost made him jump in fear of his father returning.

“Faramir,” called the voice of Maran. “We saw ‘him’ leave, we’ve come to help you.”

Garus carefully put his hands to Faramir’s upper arms. “Help him free his hands,” he told Maran, seeing that the other boy couldn’t do it himself.

Faramir couldn’t restrain a whimper as she pulled his hands free and Garus helped him stand.

“Maybe if you cried out he wouldn’t hurt you so bad,” Maran said.

“My father loved to hear us scream,” Garus disagreed. “It was how Lord Faramir found me. Here, hold onto me, my lord,” he told him.

When they laid him on his bed, Faramir began drifting in and out of consciousness. Gentle hands carefully cut away his clothes and applied salve to his back.

“Someone needs to tell Lord Boromir,” Maran said, shocking him awake.

“No,” he said sitting up and almost crying out at the pain of his movements. “My brother must never know, it would break his heart. I couldn’t bear that. You must promise me,” he demanded.

“But, my lord, he could make him stop,” Maran entreated.

“What if they came to blows over me? I could never live with myself if that happened. Besides, he might find worse ways to punish me. You don’t think he sent your grandmother away just because my mother died? You would all be in danger of his wrath.” He gave her a pleading look, “With your help, I can deal with this, please don’t let my brother know.”

“I will say nothing, Faramir,” she whispered. “Lay back down and let us care for your wounds. Some of them are bad enough to scar.”

He hurriedly lay back down; Boromir had already questioned him once about a mark on his back. “You can both stay with me tonight,” he told them. “Your comfort is what I need most.”

Faramir looked at the older boy before him dispassionately. His back burned from the beating his father had given him for fighting with this new fosterling from the west. The stranger was a bully and had quickly picked up on the estrangement between father and son. But he had never met Boromir, and had no knowledge that he had specifically forbidden Faramir from allowing himself to be bullied.

“You think my father’s punishments will make any difference, Delomar?” he said quietly, advancing on the larger boy. “He can beat me every night and I will be here to defeat you every morning.” So saying, he came closer.

Looking for help among the others in the training yard, Delomar backed away. The only ones present were the other boys; even the armsmaster and his assistants were strangely absent.

Faster than could be dodged, Faramir kicked him squarely in the groin, dropping him to the ground. He stood watching, waiting. “Get up,” he said.

Slowly, the older boy regained his feet. Taking a swift step forward, Faramir punched him in the stomach. Pushing him upright with the other hand, he hit him again in the same place, bringing him to his knees. Faramir took him by the hair and turned his head so he looked into his eyes.

Delomar swallowed convulsively at the cold look in the younger boy’s eyes. “I gave you a chance yesterday and you wasted it. I’ll give you one more now. If this happens again, you won’t be walking away,” Faramir released him, pushing him to the ground.

“If you can’t keep yourself in line you’d better have your father send you somewhere else.” With that, he left the older boy crying in the dirt.

Part 2: DISCOVERIES

“Have you talked with your father about your dreams?” Mithrandir asked Faramir as he scaled the giant bookcases to get the volume that the wizard needed. “He has dreams too, although he has never sought advice from any wizard I know of, except possibly Saruman.”

The boy’s snort of disgust brought the Istari’s head up to see Faramir drop down the shelves with frightening speed, an oversized book under one arm. “I do not talk to him unless I have to,” he said, landing easily and handing the book over to the wizard. “I’m sure his temper would not be improved by learning that I, and not Boromir, am the main recipient of the dreams the men of our line are known for. He’d probably feel that I was somehow to blame.”

There was such bitterness in the boy’s voice that the wizard put a comforting hand to his back. He was startled when Faramir jumped away from him, hissing in pain. “Are you all right?” the Istari asked.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry yourself,” he answered.

“Are we not friends, Faramir?” the old man asked in his most kindly voice. “Won’t you trust me with one more secret, as I have trusted you?”

“You promise not to interfere or tell Boromir?” he questioned.

“If that is your wish,” was the prompt answer.

He was almost relieved to let an adult in on the secret he had hidden from everyone except his most trusted servants, who knew all his secrets anyway. Making sure that Garus was still making himself busy in the doorway, to signal any untoward approaches, he loosened his tunic to show Mithrandir his back.

The wizard was shocked; he couldn’t remember seeing worse marks. They crisscrossed his back and he could see that they went down below the waistline of his pants. “They must be very painful,” he forced out, remembering his promise. “I think I have a salve that will help them heal quicker and take away the pain.”

“That doesn’t really bother me, just as long as they heal before Boromir comes home,” Faramir said, shrugging his shirt the rest of the way off so that his scars showed.

His eyes widening in surprise, Mithrandir noted the carefully patterned marks of the Númenorean sword dances. “You dance with your brother?”

“Father doesn’t know that he trained me too,” Faramir told him, remembering past slips.

“I won’t say a word,” the wizard answered. “But just the same, I will make sure you get a supply of that salve I told you about.” He paused, shaking his head in disapproval. “You really should tell your brother. Boromir is the only one who can reason with him.”

Faramir’s determined expression convinced the wizard to drop it for now.

Boromir watched the party guests with disinterest. That the party was in his honor for his eighteenth birthday meant little to him, though he had been able to get his father to give him a birthday wish earlier that day. His father’s displeasure at what Boromir wanted almost made Denethor refuse, but he would have had to break his own word. So Boromir had received a promise of a little more freedom for him and his brother, whom he had yet to tell.

The person he cared about most was nowhere to be seen. Faramir had been strangely distant in the week he’d been home. They still dreamed together when they were apart, and Faramir still came to his bed when his lovers had left, but there was something wrong. Something Faramir was keeping from him, and he was going to find out tonight what it was. With all the skill of one born to court life, he escaped the room.

Locking the door to his bedroom behind him, he went through the hidden door to his brother’s room. Faramir sat in his bed reading, his back against the headboard.

“You left the party early,” Boromir said, as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“So have you,” was the impish reply. But Faramir’s smile seemed a bit forced.

Boromir reached over and pulled his brother into his arms. “What makes you so sad and distant?” he asked. “I miss you so much when I’m gone, but when I’m here, you are closed away from me. Tell me brother, what is wrong?”

Faramir curled into his brother’s arms and fought to hold back his tears. There was so much that he yearned to share with his brother, but dared not. “My dreams of late have been rather dark,” he finally forced out. “I was able to talk to Mithrandir about them and he said as I get more used to them, I will be able to control them better. It will be all right, Boromir, I can handle this. But I don’t want to bother you with my small problems.”

Boromir kissed his brow, smiling at the soft sigh. “You are everything to me, my brother,” he said into his hair. “I can’t bear it when you are unhappy. I have news that might cheer you up.”

“You always cheer me, brother,” Faramir said. “Tell me your news.”

“Father has agreed to let me have final say over whom we wed,” he announced triumphantly.

Faramir looked at him in surprise, then lost control of the tears he’d been holding back. “That is such welcome news, brother,” he said between sobs.

Taking his chin in his hand, Boromir turned Faramir’s head so he could see his eyes. “What is this about? Has he said something to you?” he asked. Faramir tried to look away, but Boromir was insistent. “Tell me.”

“Father told me that he planned to send me to Rohan. The king’s sister has borne a daughter. He said I would serve better as a tie to bind our two peoples together.”

“If ever I decide you should marry a princess of Rohan, or anywhere else, she shall come here. I am parted from you too much as it is,” Boromir kissed his brow as he spoke. “You are my life, dear brother.”

Faramir was glad that Boromir didn’t pry any more, he felt bad enough concealing things from him and didn’t want to have to lie to him. They cuddled together beneath the blankets, talking of small matters until they drifted asleep.

Boromir woke in the darkness disorientated. His thoughts were hard to gather, partially from the hot wet mouth that was enclosing his cock. As his hands encountered soft hair, he realized who it was.

“Faramir, no,” he gasped, even while his dick told him otherwise. “We mustn’t.”

Faramir just gripped his hips harder and pushed down so that Boromir’s cock slid into his throat. It was too much for him, making him come long and hard. Faramir swallowed all his brother had to give before climbing up and giving him a deep kiss.

“I’ve been dying to do that for so long, Boromir,” he said in his ear. “Please don’t hate me for giving in.”

“I could never hate you, my brother,” he told him. “But you are too young for such things.”

“If I can do it, then I am old enough,” he quoted Boromir. “This,” he said wrapping a hand around his brother’s cock, “ is a much gentler weapon than those I have used since I could walk. And this,” he thrust his own erection against his side, “proves that I can. All that is left is whether you want me,” he told him.

“Faramir, I want you, but you are too young and my brother,” Boromir said, but was unable to resist his sweet kisses.

Faramir bit him hard on his collarbone. “I am not too young,” he said, as he licked the blood from the bite. “I don’t care that we are brothers, it only makes me love you more.”

Boromir rolled them over so he was on top. He lost himself in a long, deep kiss. “You are too much for me,” he said as he ground his hips into his brother’s, rubbing their hard cocks together. “I want you so much.” He couldn’t stop himself, having secretly dreamed of this for years.

Their hands roamed each other’s bodies, their mouths locked together. Both wanted more, much more, but Boromir couldn’t bring himself to allow it. Still, the movement and closeness was enough to bring them both to climax.

Curling together, they shared a sweet kiss. “Go to sleep, little brother,” Boromir told him, kissing his forehead.

The sound of the door closing softly, as if in stealth, brought Boromir awake suddenly. He sat up, his hand automatically reaching for his sword. Faramir also woke, but he recognized the intruder from the sounds of her hurried steps.

Cautiously relocking the door, she hurried to the bed. “Your father is asking for you, my lords,” she told them in a subdued voice. “His servant, Galmar, is about in the hallways, spying. Garus distracted him so I could sneak in here to warn you.”

Blushing at being caught in his brother’s bed, Boromir set his sword back against the wall. Thinking quickly, Faramir put an arm around his brother and kissed his cheek. “Take Maran to your room, brother,” he told him. “You even have time for a quick romp while I dress. The noise will distract Galmar,” he added at Boromir’s bemused look. He gave him a push and began climbing out of bed. “Hurry,” he whispered.

Maran was already headed towards the secret door. Boromir looked at his brother, then down at himself, the dried cum and love marks obvious on both of them.

Faramir handed him his sword and leaned into him to whisper in his ear. “Don’t worry brother, Maran will put everything right when we have gone down to breakfast. She can be trusted,” he took Boromir’s limp cock in his hand, stroking it to hardness and giving him a most unbrotherly kiss. “Now go do your part and make her scream with pleasure.”

Still not completely awake, Boromir made his way to his own room to follow his brother’s instructions. He enjoyed sex with Maran. The memories of the previous night, along with what his brother had just done, made him harden even more. Maran was already naked on the bed waiting for him.

A short time later, Faramir checked his appearance in the mirror, and then left his room, locking the door behind him. Hearing the loud noises coming from his brother’s room, he stopped to rap on the door sharply. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Galmar, his father’s personal servant and snoop, peering from behind a partially closed door. “Boromir, we are late,” he called.

The sounds continued for a few moments more, followed by loud cries of completion. Soon Boromir opened the door, wearing nothing but a smile. “Help me dress, brother, I completely forgot the time,” he said, pulling Faramir within the room.

The younger brother picked out clothes from the wardrobe while the older one gave himself a quick wash at the basin in the corner. Boromir’s dressing was aided by his brother, and occasionally hindered by his groping. Laughing and swatting playfully at Faramir’s hands, he noticed Maran watching them. She gave him a wink and an approving smile. Wondering at his brother’s ally, he finished the last of his dressing.

The morning had gone well, despite their tardiness to breakfast. Denethor had just signed a new, more favorable trade agreement, and was pleased enough to give Faramir some of the credit. He even released the brothers to spend the rest of the day as they pleased.

As they entered their private garden, Boromir noticed the familiar trunk and two of the young men Faramir had trained as their personal servants waiting for them. “What is this, brother?” he asked, as the servants opened the trunk and began arranging its contents on the ground.

“For your birthday, I thought you might like to do a sword dance with me,” Faramir answered, his voice going husky. “One we can finish to its proper conclusion.”

At Boromir’s nod of approval, the servants, Garus and Stefle, began removing the clothes from the two brothers. They applied oil to their skin before dressing them each in a tight, confining garment that was barely more than a loincloth. When they finished, they placed matching swords side by side in the small clearing and went to guard their privacy.

The brothers began stretching, their bodies close together, mirroring each other’s moves. They took their time, letting the mood build before they went to take up their swords. Standing back to back, they leaned into each other for a moment before beginning the dance.

There were five dances and this day by unspoken agreement they did the third, which was Boromir’s favorite. Developed centuries before by great fighting champions of Númenor, the dances were training exercises for advanced swordsmen. They required absolute control of one’s weapon and body, as there was bloodletting involved. This dance contained twenty-six complicated passes for each participant, half of which required the marking of their opponent/partner. Each mark was at a vital spot, which could kill or cripple if done incorrectly.

They danced together with great skill and grace, having practiced constantly for nearly eight years and having done the full version of each dance with live steel several times, except for the conclusion which was not an exercise in battle, but in gentler arts meant to bind two warriors closer than brothers. As each stroke met and cut soft and previously scarred flesh, or passed it by like a breath, they drew closer to each other. Their movements were slower than usual, each wanting to make it last longer, but any onlooker would think they moved with blindingly fast speed. This was one of their chief joys, moving together in the ancient patterns. It was one of the few things they did without restraint, without conscious thought. Bright steel licked out, leaving behind thin red lines that barely bled.

In this dance they matched each other in moves, Boromir leading his brother. As they closed together for the final moves, his hand slipped just the barest amount causing a slightly uneven line. Faramir was unfazed by the mistake and placed his final cut perfectly over the ones he had made in previous dances. They let their swords fall to the ground from their outstretched hands, the razor-sharp blades sticking firmly in the ground.

Moving together now, they reached for each other with hands and mouths greedy for contact long denied. Boromir cried out as Faramir licked the blood and sweat from his chest, guilt making him want to stop but unable to resist his brother’s advances. Some part of him had always wanted this, but he did not feel comfortable with it. His mental image of his brother was of a child, not this aggressive creature who would not be refused. Grabbing his brother’s head and kissing his mouth, Faramir rubbed his body against him. There was no retreat for Boromir.

The ties to their pants were easily overcome by seeking hands. Faramir pushed his brother to the ground, straddling his waist. Pressing hungry kisses to his chest, he moved back until his ass was pressed against Boromir’s cock. Sitting up, he raised himself, preparing to slide down the pulsing erection, but Boromir grabbed his hips and rolled them both over.

“No, Faramir,” he told him, pinning his body to the ground. “I cannot go that far, not yet.”

“Please, beloved,” Faramir begged. “I am more than ready. I burn to feel you in me.”

“I am not ready, Faramir,” Boromir told him, burying his face in his neck, “please, do not ask this of me, not yet.” His whole body shook and Faramir relented.

“I love you, Boromir,” he told him, pulling his head up so that he could look in his eyes. “Forgive me for pushing you. We will do whatever you allow.” Then he kissed him until they were both gasping for breath. “Do not stop, Boromir,” he whispered. “I need to feel you against me.”

They both shuddered as Boromir began rubbing his body against Faramir, the passion of the dance already changed to a stronger passion. He couldn’t stop, not even if he had really wanted to. Faramir grabbed his hips and pulled him closer, crying out in pleasure. Again, they both found their release in each other’s arms.

As he lay with his brother cradled in his arms, Boromir began to wonder about the servants who had served them this day. Never before had he really thought about them except at need, but this day they had been prominent in their aid. “How do you know that we can trust Maran or these others with our secrets?” he asked Faramir.

“Do you remember Nelda?” his brother responded.

“Of course,” was his quick reply. “She cared for mother and sometimes us when we were little.”

“When she retired,” Faramir started, not even hinting at the forced retirement. “I still saw her regularly when she came to visit her family who still worked here. They are of the oldest retainers of the House of Hurin, and loyal to our family from before the Stewardship. She has advised me on choosing the most discreet and loyal servants to serve our personal needs. Most, such as Maran, are of her own family. A few, such as Garus, I found on my own, but let her pass judgment on them before I brought them here.”

“I have noticed Garus,” Boromir said. “He seems very devoted to you.”

“He and his siblings were orphaned,” Faramir told him. “I brought him here to serve us and placed the others with Nelda. She takes very good care of them and he can see them often. He is grateful, I suppose.”

“I think there is more than gratitude in his eyes,” Boromir said laughter in his voice.

Faramir put a hand to his brother’s cheek and looked in his eyes. “You are gone so much and I truly hate sleeping alone,” he responded. “You have spoiled me, brother.”

“So Garus and Maran share your bed when I am gone,” Boromir kissed him as he spoke. “I had worried about you being alone in the night. I’m not sure that I’m not jealous. They get to hold you more than I.”

“You are always first in my heart, brother,” Faramir whispered. “I only exist as a shadow when you are gone. I am only truly alive in your arms.”

Faramir followed his father into his study. It had been such an innocent comment, that Boromir would soon be returning for his birthday. Why it should anger his father so was beyond him, but then, his father angered so easily lately, especially with him.

“So, you think yourself so important that your brother should abandon the defense of Gondor for you?” Denethor took up the thin cane from beside his desk. “Strip,” he ordered his son. “It is past time you learned your place.”

Reviewing the moves in the sword dances in his head, Faramir did as he was bid. He knew it was useless for him to argue. He bent over the desk as he was ordered, and endeavored not to make a sound.

This was new. Before, he had had the protection of his clothes; now the thin wood sank deeply into his flesh and he could feel the blood flow. Still, he put all his strength into not showing any emotion or making any noise. As the pain increased he concentrated on the exact moves of fifth dance, which was the most complicated and drew the most blood. This helped him to keep his control until his body finally had enough and he passed out.

When Boromir arrived for his brother’s birthday two days later, he was surprised that he wasn’t at the Great Gate to meet him. There was a messenger from his father, though, and he was constrained to spend several hours giving reports before he could get away.

It was after dark when a third search of his brother’s room revealed his brother to him. “Faramir!” he called, when he saw him laying face down on his bed. “Why have you been hiding from me?” He placed his hand on his brother’s back when he spoke and was surprised by the painful hiss and flinch. Lighting more candles and lamps, he brought them closer to the bed. Helping Faramir up, he began removing his clothes and then the bloody bandages covering him. There were no words for the shock he felt at the appalling wounds, their nature obvious.

Boromir wept as he treated his injured brother, blaming himself for letting this happen. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I should have done something, seen this coming.”

“No, it’s not your fault, I’m the only one to blame. Please, Boromir, don’t cry, I can’t bear it when you cry. I will be all right, it’s not much worse than some of the other times.” Faramir stopped speaking as his brother froze.

“What other times?” he asked, his voice low and deadly.

“Don’t do anything, Boromir, really it’s my fault.” He threw himself into his brother’s arms as he started to rise. Wrapping his arms around him, he held him tightly. “He is our father, don’t do anything we both will regret. Please, brother, I beg you.”

Boromir put his hands to Faramir’s back and they were immediately covered in blood. “You’ve started bleeding again, lay back down,” he urged him.

“Only if you promise not to do anything, please, Boromir.”

“I will not strike our father, but I will talk to him tomorrow. This will never happen again.” He lowered Faramir to the bed. “ I should take you to the healers.”

“No, I don’t want anyone else to touch me,” Faramir begged. “I look worse than I am. If you help, I will be fine in a few days.”

“Will you be good enough to ride?”

“Ride where, Boromir?”

“I’m taking you with me. You are old enough, and good enough with a sword.”

“Really?” he asked joyously.

“Yes, really, I will be able to keep you safe.”

Faramir’s face darkened slightly at the thought that he had to be protected from his father. “I love you, Boromir. I will follow you anywhere.” He leaned forward and gave him a very unbrotherly kiss.

Boromir briefly returned the kiss, and then eased him back to the bed. “You are in no condition to be getting either of us worked up,” he said with a smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Boromir barely slept that night. Worry for his brother and anger at his father made him restless. Faramir occasionally cried out in his sleep, so he would stroke his cheek and whisper words of comfort.

As dawn brightened the room, he dressed carefully. He bore no weapons, not even the dagger he had worn almost every day of his life.

He had always been an obedient son, except when it came to Faramir. Since he’d first held him in his arms he’d felt responsible for his welfare. His father’s attitude toward his brother was unreasonable, and puzzled him. And now he had to confront him, again.

The door to the breakfast room revealed that his father was alone. “Faramir is late again,” Denethor said grimly. “Have him sent for.”

“No,” Boromir answered. “He will not be attending any meals until he is well enough to sit without making his injuries bleed.” He stood before his father.

“You would defy me?” Denethor asked.

“He is my responsibility, he has always been mine. When he is well enough to ride, I will take him with me,” he answered.

“You are out of line. I will not tolerate it.” Denethor began to rise from his chair.

Boromir took a step back and spoke firmly. “He will leave here with me as my armsman when I return to my company, or as my fellow outcast. In this thing, father, I will not be moved.”

Denethor felt a surge of pride as his son made his declaration, but it didn’t abate his anger. “You have coddled him like a girl, the simplest orders seem to be beyond him. Go ahead and speak to the armsmaster; he can tell you of his constant tardiness and absences. If you have to take him into battle, he could get you killed trying to protect him. Is that what you wish?”

Boromir’s face reddened in anger. He knew that his father was trying to provoke him, trying to poison him against Faramir. “There is nothing you can say that will change my mind. I have faith in him and I know he won’t fail me.” He looked at Denethor with steel determination. “Nothing will come between us. He will always come first, even before myself.”

The words were like a slap in his father’s face. He’d never been able to deny Boromir anything, and now he was being relegated to a lesser place than the son he despised. Denethor’s thoughts went back to another time when he had taken second place in his own father’s opinion. The years he had been forced to follow the advice of Thorongil. He turned away from his eldest son. There was nothing to contest. Then, as now, he had lost.

“I will expect you both to behave in a manner befitting the sons of the Steward,” he told him in defeat. “I’m sure there is somewhere else you want to be, I will excuse you from today’s meals. Your brother shall henceforth be your concern, as long as proprieties are met.”

Boromir felt a great lifting of his heart. He didn’t hesitate, but hurried to the kitchens to arrange for the day’s meals for his brother and himself. Servants followed him back to his room with a huge breakfast, which he shared with Faramir. It was near bliss to be alone together. After he applied more salve to the welts and bruises, they had a leisurely meal. He even fed his brother with his own hand as he lay on his stomach. Faramir was exhausted by the news and the meal. Boromir kissed him and went about the day, summoning Garus to watch over Faramir.

First, he visited the armsmaster to ascertain his brother’s fitness for battle. Here there was no surprise.

“Your brother is a most excellent swordsman, and his talent with the bow can only be equaled by the elves, if them,” the man gushed. “Of course, his recent accidents have cut into his training time rather drastically.” He did not add that it was a mystery that one so graceful in arms could be so clumsy in private. Boromir spent several hours in practice and training, before returning to the White Tower.

At lunchtime, he applied more salve to Faramir’s back before he shared a very pleasant meal with him. Faramir couldn’t sit, so Boromir took great pleasure in sitting beside his bed and feeding him by hand, as he had at breakfast.

They spent the afternoon in hushed conversation, Faramir occasionally drifting in and out of sleep. Boromir sat on a low stool so that he could easily kiss or caress him. This was not how he had planned to spend his visit, but this time of privacy was welcome. If only his brother weren’t injured.

They had dinner, Boromir again feeding his brother. There was a marked improvement to the cane cuts when he applied more medicine; even the bruises were fading fast.

“You are doing better than I had hoped, “he told him.

“It’s because you are here,” Faramir responded. “I always heal better with you near.”

Boromir lay down next to him, their faces close together. “I want to be with you, more than anything,” he kissed his brother’s forehead instead of the lips that drew him. “Sleep now, my beloved, so you can get well.”

Faramir smiled at him and closed his eyes. In moments, he was sleeping soundly. It was something Boromir had always been able to do, put his brother to sleep. He knew that as long as he stayed near, he wouldn’t wake.

Boromir got up from the bed and began going through Faramir’s wardrobe. He wanted to make sure he had plenty of the right kind of clothes for traveling. Then he found other things to occupy his time, stopping frequently to check on his brother. He would kiss his brow to hear his soft sigh.

A quiet knock brought him quickly to the door. It was their father. Boromir stepped back far enough so that Denethor could see into the room but not enter it. Faramir lay naked and turned slightly so that all of the marks on his back were clearly visible. Denethor winced as he saw his handiwork for the first time since the beating. He had never before seen the results of his actions against his youngest son and, for the first time, felt shame at what he had done.

Blushing, he stepped back from the door and turned his face away. “There is some trouble in Ethring.” At Boromir’s stubborn look, he raised a comforting hand. “I will take care of it. You stay here and run things, there are plenty of people to help you.” Pausing, he looked into his oldest son’s eyes, “Continue taking care of your brother. I will leave at first light, and will be gone at least two weeks.” With that, he turned and walked swiftly away.

Closing the door, he saw that his brother was awake. “So we get some more time for me to heal. What brought that on?”

“He saw,” Boromir told him. “I made sure he saw what he has done.”

Within days, Faramir was well enough to sit for short periods of time without undue discomfort. He had meals in the dinning hall with his brother, and began going for short walks. As soon as he was able, Boromir had him join any meetings and help him in administrative duties. Many of the counselors were surprised that he actively sought his young brother’s advice, and frequently followed it. At first, it appeared to be an act of indulgence, such as they had heard Denethor accuse Boromir of. Soon, though, they realized that Faramir was wise beyond his age, and made decisions much the same as his father would.

By the end of the first week, Faramir was back at weapons practice. Boromir watched him, sometimes stopping him to make sure he hadn’t opened any of his wounds.

Two weeks later, Faramir lay face down on his brother’s bed while Boromir applied salve to his almost healed back. Their day was over, barring emergencies, and there was plenty of time before they need worry about sleep. Boromir started at his shoulders and worked his way down, taking his time, with many side trips and detours. The cane marks had faded to scars, and for the first time he noticed older scars.

“Promise me you won’t keep things from me any more,” he said into Faramir’s ear. His hands slid between his brother’s thighs, bringing a moan of pleasure. “I want you to always tell me everything. I want to know all your secrets.”

Pulling Faramir over onto his side, he began rubbing his chest. He lay beside him and kissed him deeply. Faramir ran one hand through his brother’s hair; the other, he brushed through the beard he had started wearing. Boromir moved his hands around to Faramir’s back and pulled him close. The contact of their naked flesh made them both groan.

“Promise me, Faramir, and I will give you what you have been begging me for.” He thrust his hips against his brother’s, causing their hard cocks to rub against each other. One finger slid into Faramir’s ass as Boromir licked and sucked his neck.

“Please, Boromir,” Faramir cried out, grabbing his brother’s hips. “I’ll tell you everything, daily, hourly, minute by minute if you wish. Don’t make me wait any longer.” He was peppering his face with kisses as he spoke. “I’ll even keep a journal, if that is your wish.”

“Yes,” Boromir said thickly. “A journal, where you will tell me everything, every detail, promise me.” He rolled so that Faramir was on his back and he was between his legs. Pushing Faramir’s knees up to his chest, he poised his cock at his brother’s ass. “Promise me.”

“I promise, Boromir,” he said breathlessly.

Boromir thrust forward just enough to put the head of his hard cock into Faramir’s tight ass. “Every day,” he said through clenched teeth. “Promise me.”

“Yes,” he cried out. “I promise, every day. Please, Boromir, please, I can’t wait.”

Boromir began sinking his cock onto him slowly. The long awaited contact was almost too much; he had to stop once he was all the way in. Faramir groaned loudly and Boromir grabbed his cock, squeezing it tightly, just in time to keep him from coming. They looked at each other, breathing heavily. Boromir realized they would not last very long no matter what they tried. His cock twitched inside Faramir, whose cock twitched in his hand with the same beat. He pulled almost all the way out and thrust back once, moving his hand in time, and they both climaxed.

Boromir lay down on his brother, supporting much of his own weight on his arms. Faramir’s hungry lips claimed his, his hands pulling him closer, his legs wrapping themselves around him.

Suddenly they were both hard again, and moving. Boromir strove to make it last, while Faramir was wildly bucking, caressing, biting, and kissing. Grabbing his brother’s hips and rising to his knees, Boromir took control of their movements. He made slow, deep thrusts into his body, angling his hips just so. Faramir cried out his pleasure with each penetration, his brother mastering his body.

Both became lost in the sensations, in each other. Their eyes locked together, their breathing synchronized. Boromir’s hips thrust into his brother’s tight passage, his hands pulling him closer. Faramir’s legs wrapped around his brother’s waist, pulling him closer, his hands stroking his own cock in the same rhythm. It went on endlessly, forever.

Finally, their pace quickened, the thrusts harder and they both came with loud cries. Boromir collapsed next to his brother, pulling him into his arms. They lay together holding each other.

“That was even better than I dreamed,” Faramir said, when he had caught his breath.

“Better than it’s ever been for me,” Boromir added. “You are always the best, my love. Next time, you will do the same to me,” Boromir told him.

“I love you, Boromir,” Faramir told him as he kissed his face. “You are so good to me.”

A short time later, Faramir was thrusting deep into his brother. They whispered words of love and caressed each other. Their earlier activities had taken the urgency out of their copulating. It lasted longer this time, both of them well sated when they finished.

Denethor returned after nearly three weeks. The brothers had all their preparations made for their own departure. There were last minute changes made as a result of their father’s journey, but soon all was ready.

Reviewing the decisions that had been made in his absence, Denethor saw no need to reverse any of them. Although his mouth tightened grimly when his counselors told him how much of a role his youngest son had played, as soon as he had recovered from his mysterious illness.

The relationship between him and his sons was strained, and he could see they were closer than ever to each other. Denethor’s feelings of isolation and habit had him still making caustic remarks to Faramir, and favoring Boromir. He tried more often to temper his comments, but his antagonistic feelings were still there.

He let them ride out, just the two of them, with the horses and supplies. Even though the countryside wasn’t completely safe, his sons were warriors. Boromir, at nineteen, was almost legendary with his sword. Faramir, at fourteen, was lethal with both sword and bow. They were unlikely to encounter a foe they couldn’t defeat or outsmart.

Wandering through their rooms after they had gone, he chased off the servants who were just starting to clean them. He took note of the differences in how they kept their rooms. Faramir’s room was very neat, even the bed was made, while Boromir’s looked like a storm had hit it.

He sat on the edge of Boromir’s bed and looked around the room. He missed his sons, though he couldn’t quell his resentment of the youngest. The pile of clothes beside the bed seemed overlarge, until he recognized the tunic Faramir had been wearing the night before. Rising he picked through the pile seeing that it contained both sons’ clothes from the night before, including undergarments. Turning back to the bed, he pulled the bedding back and saw multiple stains upon the sheets. He’d seen them retire to their own rooms the night before. Looking at the wall that separated the two rooms, he saw an odd shadow, a stray breeze moving a hanging. Crossing over to the wall, he found the hidden door behind its tapestry.

He was appalled and enraged. If, at that moment, Faramir had stood before him, he would have killed him. It was surely the sweetness of his younger brother that had led Boromir astray.

Leaving the room, he tried to calm his thoughts. Things might not be as bad as they looked. Boys experimented when they were young, and this was, most likely, just a passing phase. The access door had probably been installed long ago; there were many secrets in a tower this large and old.

Part 3: PATROLLING THE WEST

Faramir was overjoyed to be riding with his brother. They were bringing a string of horses and supplies to rejoin Boromir’s company in Lamedon. They rode at a steady pace, hoping to meet up with them within the week. In the interim, they planned to enjoy their time alone together.

Each night after they made camp, Faramir would spend a few minutes writing in the journal he’d promised Boromir. When he finished, Boromir would read what he had written. After eating their dinner, they settled down on their blankets. The warm spring air caressed their nude bodies as they lay together on their pallet. Boromir ran his hand down Faramir’s back, glad that the wounds from his beating were undetectable to his touch. He applied healing oil to his scarred flesh. “Are you saddle sore?” he asked as he reached his butt.

“Just a little,” Faramir admitted.

Boromir thoroughly massaged his ass cheeks, running his thumbs down the cleft between them, pressing lightly at the puckered opening. When Faramir was gasping in pleasure, he moved down to rub the backs and insides of his thighs.

He then pulled Faramir over so that they faced each other. They exchanged hungry kisses and caresses. “Let me possess you,” he whispered in his brother’s ear. “I want to be deep inside you, my beloved one.”

Faramir wrapped his legs around his brother’s waist. “Yes, take me brother.”

He used some of the oil he’d brought to slick his cock, then he began slowly pushing it into his brother. They both cried out, it felt so good. Boromir pulled Faramir’s knees up so he could go deeper. They were too impatient to go slow, and only a few thrusts brought them both off.

Boromir rolled over onto his side, bringing Faramir with him. They both laughed, not in the least worried about how quick it had been. That had only been the start.

After they had rested a while, Faramir urged his brother onto his back. He slid his oiled cock into his ass as he slid his knees under him. Boromir’s raised lower body looked so enticing that it inspired Faramir.

Leaning forward, he put his elbows on the insides of Boromir’s thighs, pushing them to the side. Then he put his hands under the small of his back pulling up. Boromir watched in amazement as Faramir hunched forward and took the head of his cock in his mouth. The feeling was incredible, his brother’s cock in his ass and mouth on his own aching erection at the same time.

Faramir was ecstatic that his idea worked. It felt so wonderful, his cock buried deep in Boromir’s ass, Boromir’s cock in his mouth. If he were any less limber, or Boromir’s cock any shorter, it wouldn’t have worked. Sucking at his cock and pulling with his hands, he encouraged Boromir to move between their points of contact.

Boromir gripped Faramir’s thighs and began slowly thrusting up and down. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but the eroticism had them both at the edge quickly. Boromir cried out as Faramir swallowed his completion, while filling his ass with his own.

Boromir held his brother close, kissing his brow, to hear the soft sigh. “You didn’t hurt yourself?” he questioned as Faramir stretched beneath his hands.

“It was a bit cramping, but not painful,” he answered. “If I get much taller I won’t be able to do it, though.” He grinned mischievously at him. “So, we better do it as much as possible while we can.”

They rode swiftly to their planned rendezvous, anxious to rejoin Boromir’s company. Faramir was a little nervous, but Boromir tried to calm his fears by describing his men. He even told him which of them he had taken as lovers, and the details. Faramir felt no jealousy towards his brother’s lovers. He had taken too much pleasure in the past from watching him with both men and women. There was also the sure knowledge of whom his brother’s heart belonged to.

They spotted the riders before noon of the sixth day, Boromir’s coat of arms flying beneath the flag of Gondor. Happy as he was to see them, they were joyous at his return. Draymor, Boromir’s second in command, clasped his arm warmly as they met.

“So this is the brother you have told me so much about.” He gave Faramir an appraising look, and seemed to like what he saw.

Faramir, for his part, sat tall in the saddle apparently at ease on horseback, his weapons all in easy reach. His whole appearance so much like his older brother that it was uncanny. The only difference in their armament was Faramir’s two bows, one a long bow, wrapped with its quiver of arrows for riding, and a short horseman’s bow ready at his back with its own quiver of shorter arrows. Also, Faramir wore a long knife, or half-sword, instead of carrying a shield like his brother.

They all rode together to their planned camp. Boromir had Faramir hand off the string of horses and bade him to ride in the shieldman’s position, beside and slightly behind him on the left. He wanted there to be no doubt in anyone’s mind where his brother belonged.

Of course, there are those who always have to push and test their boundaries. After they set up camp, Faramir went to find some of his and Boromir’s personal belongings that had gone astray. He quickly looked through the stacked trail bags, not seeing the distinctive pack that had been a gift from his brother. As he turned back toward the main camp, he noticed five men standing around the missing bag. Their obvious leader stood holding Faramir’s journal in his hand.

As the youngest and disfavored son of the Steward of Gondor, he had been forced to prove himself many times. As the well-loved brother of Boromir, he’d been given every tool to do so. Used to being younger and smaller than most of his opponents, he had plenty of confidence in his ability to take care of this situation.

Casually he walked over to where the men stood watching. “If you are done going through my personal property, I would like to have it back now,” he told the leader.
The man, who stood a good foot taller than him, curled his lip in a sneer. “And who’s going to make me?” he said.

Without hesitation, Faramir acted. A quick hard uppercut to the solar plexus, followed by a kick to the back of the knee, brought the man to the ground. Putting his knee on the man’s chest and taking his throat in a strangling hold, he leaned close.

“I have no patience for thieves or bullies,” he said. “I will let this one time slide, but you will not get a second chance.” He waited a moment until he was sure there was no doubt that he could and would back up his threat, then rose to his feet. Picking the journal up from where it had fallen, he indicated that one of the stunned men watching should carry the pack to the tent he shared with his brother.

“Is he as good with weapons?” Draymor asked, looking over Boromir’s shoulder from within the tent.

“He’s better,” was the satisfied answer. “And even better at other things.”

“Will I get a chance to experience any of these ‘other things’?” he asked, running a hand under Boromir’s shirt and across his well-muscled back.

“We’ll ask,” he told him.

When Faramir entered the tent, he noted the look in his brother’s eye, and the echoing one in his companion’s. With admirable restraint, he told the man where to place his bag and dismissed him. He went about the business of getting food and serving it while listening to the report of what had happened during Boromir’s absence. After he cleared away and cleaned the dishes, maps were brought out and plans were made for the patrols for the next few days.

Faramir wrote in his journal while they talked, pausing frequently to listen, and occasionally to comment on their plans. Then all had been decided, the maps put away, and Faramir’s journal placed before his brother.

Boromir ran his hand up Faramir’s arm. “Draymor would like to stay and welcome you properly, little brother,” he said huskily. “Would you like that?”

Faramir had never before been allowed to share one of his brother’s lovers, and wanted to, desperately. “Yes, brother, I would like that very much.”

Boromir pulled him close for a rough kiss, “Good, let me read what you have written for me.”

Suddenly shy, Faramir looked across the table at Draymor. The other man’s lustful look filled him with confidence. He had always been well rewarded for his sexual aggressiveness, so he rounded the table and approached him. Feeling his brother’s eyes on him, stopping in front of Draymor he leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. Remembering all the times he had watched his brother, he made sure that none of his movements blocked Boromir’s view.

He put his left hand in the man’s hair so that he could angle his head for maximum effect. With his right hand he began opening Draymor’s clothes. They kissed and stripped each other slowly, Faramir guiding their movements, and occasionally pausing to look at his brother. It didn’t take long for Draymor to realize that Faramir was showing off for Boromir, and he found the idea highly erotic.

Boromir hadn’t been able to read a single word of the journal, his eyes locked on the scene before him. He’d never watched anyone have sex before, and his talented little brother knew how to put on a show. Urging Draymor to his feet, Faramir went to his knees and took the larger man’s cock in his mouth. Boromir knew how good that mouth felt, his own erection throbbing as the outline of Draymor’s cock showed clearly through Faramir’s cheek. He pulled back slowly until only the head of his cock was still in his mouth. Then he plunged forward again, taking him all the way back in. Faramir’s hands were busy too, one massaging the hanging nut sack and the other working his ass.

Draymor’s knees sagged as he had an almost overpowering orgasm. Swallowing quickly, Faramir finished him off and guided him back onto the chair.

“Come here,” Boromir told him, he had had enough of watching. He pulled Faramir into his arms, kissing him. They exchanged hungry kisses and caresses. Faramir opened his brother’s pants, pulling his cock free. He quickly wet it with his mouth and then began impaling himself on it.

Draymor watched, astonished, he’d always had to use plenty of lube before he could take Boromir’s huge penis. Faramir slid down easily, both of them crying out at the wild contact.

They moved swiftly together, unwilling to wait for their release. Unable to stop himself, Faramir leaned forward and bit his brother on the collarbone, drawing blood. It brought them both to climax, Boromir pulling his brother close. Embarrassed by the new raw bloody mark he put on his brother, Faramir turned away. Boromir turned his face up and licked a trace of blood from his lips before kissing him deeply.

“Don’t worry, little brother,” he told him. “I have received worse wounds than that, and none nearly so pleasurable.” There was a small line of bite marks on his collarbone, but this was the deepest. Boromir ran his finger across them. “I like it when you mark me Faramir, don’t ever stop.”

Draymor was surprised by the combination of roughness and tenderness between the brothers. The time he had spent with Boromir as second in command and sometime lover had shown him an able leader who was good in the sack, even if he was very dominating. Of course, his attitude let anyone close to him know that the relationship between him and his brother was different.

His thoughts were interrupted when Boromir looked up at him and asked, “Do you want to see something really special?”

Minutes later he was astounded to watch Faramir fucking his brother’s ass and deep-throating his cock at the same time.

“Orcs,” the scout said. “About fifty of them. They’re hiding out during the day, but at night they come out and raid the local villages.”

“We could try and ambush them on their way back to camp,” said Draymor. “Or try and find their camp and get them during the day.”

“They’re using caves, we’d like as not be wiped out if we tried to get them in there.”

“Maybe we could use something for bait and lure them into a trap,” Faramir suggested.

“About the only thing to keep them out past sunrise is the chance to snack on a human or two, and I’m not willing to volunteer for that duty,” Draymor scoffed.

“I will,” said Faramir.

“You’ve never fought orcs,” his brother told him. “Maybe next time. Let’s try to set up an ambush. I want their movements watched, we’ll try to catch them close to dawn.”

Standing at his brother’s side, Faramir felt excitement and fear mingled. The scouts had signaled that the orcs were heading straight for them. Since it was still dark, he’d left both his bows with the horses. As they heard the enemy approach, Boromir leaned closer and kissed his brow, bringing forth a sigh. “Fight well, little brother,” he said in his ear.

None of the stories he’d ever heard came near the reality of battle. The fires that were lit as the trap was sprung barely illuminated their opponents. In the flickering light he cut and thrust against the monsters he faced, not sure if it was better that he couldn’t see them in detail or not. They were hideous, clawed hands and fanged faces, their blood burning his skin where it touched. Growling and roaring their foul language, hurting his ears. And the smell, worse than anything he could have imagined. But all this was at the back of his mind as he moved into the fighting rhythm he had been trained to since he could walk. It came much easier than he had thought it would, bothered him even less than the one man he’d already killed. Maybe it was that he fought such foul creatures.

The battle was over in minutes. He looked first for his brother, who was looking for him. They exchanged grins, and then Boromir went about the business of assessing damage. Faramir cleaned his weapons, and then followed his brother. When Boromir ordered the orcs burned, Faramir moved to go help pile the bodies, but his brother stopped him.

“You have done well, little brother,” he told him. “We can go celebrate tonight.”
Blushing, Faramir helped with the clean up. They found the cave entrance the orcs had been using, and blocked it, before returning to camp for a meal and a nap. In the afternoon they moved their camp, setting up near a large village.

As evening fell, Faramir followed his big brother to a house at the edge of the village. The woman waiting within was tall and beautiful, with long dark hair. She greeted Boromir with a very warm kiss.

“Lani, this is my brother, Faramir,” he said as the kiss ended.

She turned her attentions to the younger brother, kissing him as warmly. “He looks as wonderful as you have told me,” she said as she looked him over. “I hope you plan to share him with me. After you both have a bath, of course,” she added, wrinkling her nose.

Boromir pulled them both into his arms. “I would never tease you my dear, he is yours for this night. I will only join in if you ask.”

“Come let me bathe you,” she told them. The bathroom was huge for such a little house. At Faramir’s bemused look, Lani offered an explanation. “Your brother had this house built for me to my specifications. I do like my comforts.”

The tub was large enough for several people. She began helping Faramir out of his clothes. “I definitely want you to help me, my love,” she told Boromir.

He stripped quickly, and entered the tub. Her hands readily began helping strip Faramir, but this was slow and sensuous. He held his brother up as Lani removed his boots and then his pants. Lowering him to sit on the raised edge of the tub, he began guiding him in the removal of their hostess’ clothes.

“Welcome the appearance of her flesh with gentle kisses, little brother,” he told him. “Caress her breasts, lift them, feel their weight,” he whispered in his ear.

“Listen to her, watch her, and learn what pleases her.” He had to force himself to keep his own hands still, so as to not distract his brother.

Faramir had little time to be nervous between his brother’s instructions and the very willing and beautiful woman he was undressing. He loved the feel of her flesh, much softer and plumper than was popular in Minas Tirith. At times, only his brother’s voice kept him from losing control. His hands brushed her chemise from her hips as his tongue laved her belly.

“I’ve trained you well Boromir,” Lani told him, stepping back. “That is enough for now, I want you to get clean. I hate the smell of orc blood.”

Laughing, Boromir pulled Faramir into the bath with him. “We will join you when we’re clean,” he told her retreating figure. They washed quickly, Boromir bringing his brother to climax with a couple of rough strokes. “You want to be able to last a while with Lani.”

Lani waited lounging on the bed in a lascivious pose. Faramir sat on the edge, reached out and stroked her leg. He’d watched his brother many times with women and men, now he put into use what he’d seen, and what he’d learned on his own. Leaning over her, he began kissing her. Starting with short gentle pecks, he proceeded to long, deep, wet kisses. His hands roamed freely, varying from gentle to rough. Soon Lani was gasping in pleasure, unable to keep still under his ministrations.

Boromir watched from a nearby chair, proud and excited by his talented brother. Suddenly he realized how sexually aggressive Faramir was. Moving his whole body, he had taken complete control. Lani was helpless in his arms, just as Boromir often was.

Taking her hips in his hands, Faramir slowly entered her. He watched her face as she moaned and cried out uncontrollably. Long slow thrusts brought more cries, as he licked and nipped at her breasts and neck. Then he sped up his pace, going harder and deeper.

Lani was almost screaming as she started climaxing in a long orgasm that lasted several minutes. Finally he let himself cum, and rolled them both on their sides, holding her close.

Boromir got into the bed beside his brother, putting his arm across both him and Lani. Even though watching them had brought his own release, he still hungered for more. “That was so beautiful, brother,” he said, kissing the back of his neck.

Lani was regaining her breath, her free hand traveling restlessly between the two brothers. “I would watch you two now. I want to see Boromir fuck his little brother into oblivion.”

“Oh yes,” Faramir agreed. “Fuck me hard, brother.” He rolled onto his back, one arm sliding beneath Boromir’s waist, the other going to his hip, pulling him closer. “Take me now.” He wrapped his legs around him as Boromir moved over him.

Lani watched in surprise as Boromir thrust completely into Faramir with only a little spit as lubricant. They both cried out in pleasure as Boromir set a brutal pace.

“Harder,” Faramir cried, his hands clenching his brother’s arms to get better leverage for his counter thrusts. They went on for some minutes, their coupling fast and violent. Finally, Faramir reached up and pulled Boromir close enough to bite his collarbone. He bit hard, drawing blood as they both came.

Lani’s hand went to the tender bruise on her own collarbone as she watched. When Boromir rolled to his back, she noticed for the first time, the line of bite marks on him. The newest one deep and bloody. It excited her. She’d never engaged in any rough sex and wasn’t sure she really wanted to. But watching was a different proposition.

“Let me see you bite him again,” she said to Faramir.

He sat up and leaned over Boromir. “Can I have another taste, brother?” he asked, kissing the newest mark.

“Oh yes,” he groaned. “Give me more.”

As he bent over his brother, she was distracted by the scars that covered Faramir’s back. Boromir had sent her a letter telling her about what had happened, but the sight was still shocking.

“Yes, mark me,” Boromir said as he was bitten again, regaining her attention. His cock sprang erect with his groans.

She crawled across Faramir and began lowering herself onto Boromir’s erection. Leaning forward, she kissed the bite marks. “You both are so beautiful, so sexy, I don’t know if I can get enough.”

Faramir watched them for a few moments before moving between Boromir’s legs. He rubbed Lani’s back urging her to lean forward across his brother. With one hand on her back he slowly guided his newly erect penis into her vagina next to Boromir’s cock.

Lani started panting, at the incredible feeling. She would have expected it to hurt, but there wasn’t any pain, just increasing pressure. ‘How could a boy know so much?’ she asked herself. Her eyes rolled up in her head as she began orgasming, all control lost.

Pulling Lani to his chest, Boromir locked eyes with his brother. He could feel him moving against him in her spasming heat. It was unbelievably erotic and only his brother’s commanding gaze kept him from losing his own control.

Finally Faramir was all the way in. He stopped, giving the other two time to adjust. Lani lay panting on Boromir’s chest, her initial orgasm over. He guided Boromir’s hands to her hips and they started moving again. Suddenly they were over-heated again. The brothers were moving Lani’s hips; Faramir was making short thrusts and withdrawals. It took very little time before they were all climaxing.

Faramir drank deeply from the water that had been hidden in the shade of the large boulder. Binding the cut on his forearm, he looked down his back trail to see if his trackers were in sight yet. He took his vambrace from his belt and put it back on his forearm. Boromir was going to be mad at him for cutting himself and leaving a blood trail for the orcs. But he wanted to make sure they would all follow him.

Bird calls and whistles sounded from the woods, signaling the approach of the orcs.
He started up the steep trail behind him. Stopping at a wide sheltered ledge, he recovered the bows he had hidden there. He strung the longbow, and surveyed the gully below, waiting for the signal to fire. It was nearly dawn, and he already could make out colors.

Suddenly the orcs were pouring out of the woods in a black flood. Their enraged growls made him extremely aware of being alone. The signal finally sounded and he began picking off what looked like the most dangerous orcs.

The sound of loose gravel falling brought him around to see Draymor landing beside him on the trail. The man leaned back to avoid Faramir’s arrow, grinning at him. Without pausing, Faramir turned back to the approaching enemy and continued the slaughter.

“You are so in trouble,” Draymor told him, as he drew his sword and looked down the trail Faramir had come up earlier. “Boromir saw you bleeding down the trail and sent me down here to back you up.”

“I’ll be fine,” Faramir said through gritted teeth. “I know what I’m doing. I’d have to lose a lot more blood than that to slow me down.” The longbow was soon out of arrows, so he switched to the short bow. Its range was shorter, but the orcs were close now.

“There must be a couple hundred of them,” Draymor said as even more orcs came out of the woods. “Looks like I’ll earn my pay today.”

The orcs had reached the base of the hill and were crowding up the narrow trail. Faramir shot the last of his arrows and turned to join Draymor. There was only enough room for one person at a time on the narrow trail; the blood-crazed orcs were knocking each other off the cliff face. There were still too many of them to be complacent about their approach.

As the first orc reached the ledge, the full light of the sun reached them. The monsters cried out in terror and pain, cursing the two before them. Most of them began fleeing, only a very few continuing to fight. As the last belligerents fell, Faramir attempted to follow the retreating foes.

Draymor stopped him with a strong hand on his shoulder. “Boromir wants you to wait here for him,” he said, before descending the trail.

Faramir gathered his bows and quivers and leaned against a large rock to wait for his brother. Several troops passed by giving him admiring glances before his brother was at his side. This time there were no after battle grins, just a hard disapproving stare. Faramir saw the pain and fear in his brother’s eyes and it made him feel reckless and cruel.

“I have to gather my arrows,” he told him when he remained.

Boromir signaled him to proceed with a nod towards the trail and followed him down. Faramir was wracked with anger and guilt as his brother remained silent even as he assisted in gathering the spent shafts, and all the way back to camp.

He helped his brother remove his armor, and then they removed his. Faramir was soaked in sweat and held still as his brother washed him and removed the makeshift bandage on his arm. The wound wasn’t bad, just deep enough to bleed profusely until pressure was applied.

“How could you hurt yourself like this?” Boromir asked, tears in his voice as he kissed the cut.

“If anything had gone wrong you would have been torn apart. I don’t think I could bear to lose you like that.” He enfolded him in his arms, tears dampening his hair. “Did I make a mistake in bringing you with me?”

Faramir shuddered. “No, brother,” he answered. “I had no idea this would affect you so. I will be more careful and make sure you approve next time.” He kissed his face. “Please forgive me, Boromir. I can’t stand it when you cry.” Faramir began sobbing quietly into his brother’s shirt.

Kissing his forehead, he looked down at his young brother. Although he was almost a year younger than Boromir had been when he had first gone into battle, Faramir had little self-doubt. He was even somewhat cocky in the way he was so sure of his own abilities. The minor cuts and scrapes he’d gotten in previous battles were not enough to quell his self-assuredness. Of course, he was very good at fighting, Boromir had made sure of that.

“You have read enough battle lore to know that the unexpected can bring to ruin any plan. We will put this behind us, and you did succeed, so tonight we will let the men have a victory feast. But I will expect you to make it up to me for alarming me so.”

Faramir dried his tears and smiled up at him. “Thank you, brother,” he whispered. “I love you.”

Moving eastward into the vales of Lossarnach they came upon the hunting camp of Forlong. Boromir introduced his brother to the great hero, who laughed when he saw the boy. “I’m surprised your father would let one so young and sweet ride to battle,” he said through his guffaws. “He looks more like a catamite than a warrior.”

Boromir’s face hardened at his words, but Faramir’s laughter stopped him from any injudicious remarks. “That is priceless, brother,” he said. “I have no problem proving my worth, especially among our allies. What test would you have of me, my lord?”

“Your brother’s choice of you is good enough for me, my boy,” he answered. “But there are those in my camp who may presume upon appearances. Walk carefully young Faramir.”

“Maybe we should have a contest,” Boromir said. “My brother against any champion you choose, any test you choose.”

“Swords, wrestling, or,” Forlong paused for a moment, a wicked smile on his lips. “Perhaps we should see how good a ‘close companion’ he can be.”

Faramir smirked at the gray-haired man whose girth was far beyond that of anyone else he’d ever seen. “All three at once or separately?” he asked, swinging his leg over his saddle and slipping to the ground in a graceful movement. He was dwarfed by the older man, but smiled up at him cockily.

“Ah, to be an impetuous youth,” their host laughed. “Felong, my nephew, will meet with you, sproutling. Since he uses a spear, you can meet barehanded. Wrestling it is.”

The man in question stepped forth, nearly as big as his uncle.

Two falls out of three?” Faramir asked as he began handing his weapons to his brother.

“Of course,” his opponent replied, also disarming himself. He felt smug in his size and power as he stripped off his shirt. Turning he stopped in surprise as he saw Faramir remove his own shirt.

Scars covered his upper body, clean smooth lines made by a sharp blade, tears and ragged gashes, even teeth marks. This may be a mere boy, but his body spoke of trial by pain. Giving no sign that he noticed Felong’s examination, Faramir began stretching muscles made tight by a day in the saddle. This man was not so much bigger than his brother, with luck he would win.

A cleared space was marked out while the details of the rules were discussed. Soon Faramir was facing the much larger man. They circled each other and Felong made a rush which Faramir easily sidestepped, bringing him to the ground with a quick kick to the back of the knee.

Knowing that he could be crushed with ease if his opponent ever got a hand on him, Faramir moved warily. Felong was not going to underestimate the boy again; his pride was smarting from the first mistake. Again they circled around each other, seeking for weaknesses.

Feint and short rush, they kept in constant movement. Sweat poured down Felong’s face, stinging his eyes, he began to tire. Faramir still moved with ease, not a drop of sweat on his brow. Despair crossed the large man’s face as he realized that all the boy had to do was wait him out.

Seeing a slight misstep, Faramir moved to end the match. He dived for Felong’s legs, grabbing one in an effort to trip him. The man’s thighs were as big as his waist and he had to use his whole body to accomplish his goal. A shocked gasp went through the observing crowd as the big man fell.

But, Forlong gave a great laugh. “Arise, my nephew, feel no shame,” he called out. “You had no chance against one trained as he has been.” So saying, the graybeard ran an admiring finger down a set of repeating scars. “I would suppose that you both know the whole series of sword dances created by the champions of Númenor?” he asked Boromir.

“And much more,” the young lord agreed. “My brother and I practice regularly.”

Turning Faramir in his hamlike hand he examined the relevant scars, though he catalogued the others as well. “Practice, yes,” he added. “But, I can see that you have done the whole of all five dances seven times, flawlessly if your brother’s flesh does not lie.”

Actually, I slipped here,” Boromir said, pointing out a slightly irregular cut. “Though Faramir never has, he has a steady hand. He can demonstrate his archery skills at tomorrow’s hunt.”

As they sat around the fire that evening exchanging tales, Faramir watched Felong who seemed to be a bit despondent, despite his uncle’s words. Noting where his brother’s attention was, Boromir nudged him questioningly.

“I think he doesn’t quite forgive me for my victory, brother,” he whispered in his ear. “I would like a chance to make it up to him.”

“You want him,” Boromir stated, seeing the lustful look on his brother’s face.

“I’ve never seen anyone like him before,” he answered truthfully. “So big and hairy, he could crush me easily, yet he still moves with grace. You know I have trouble resisting new things or a challenge.”

Laughing, Boromir gave his permission. “But don’t be surprised or offended if he refuses,” he told him. “Their customs are different than ours.”

As Faramir went to waylay his prey, Forlong, whose sharp ears and eyes had caught the gist of the brothers’ conversation, was making bets with Boromir on his chances of success. Catching up with Felong just before he entered his tent, Faramir stopped him with a friendly hand to his arm.

At first the big man was suspicious, but when he looked at the young warrior before him his heart melted just a little. A few moments later Faramir returned to the fire and sat between Boromir and Forlong. With a wide grin the older man held out his hand to take his payment from the younger.

“He said he would be glad to, once I started growing a beard,” Faramir told them, with satisfaction.

With a laugh Boromir extended his hand and received some of his money back.

When they parted two days later, both brothers had become fast friends with the warriors of Lossarnach.

Putting the letter from his father on the table, Boromir leaned back in his chair with a sigh. They’d only been gone from Minas Tirith for seven months and their father wanted them home. There had been undertones of anger in the letter, but he knew of no reason for it. “Father wants us to come home,” he told his brother, who sat across from him reading his own letter.

Faramir had paled visibly and he looked up at Boromir with frightened eyes. “He knows,” he said in a whisper.

“Knows what?” the older brother asked, already knowing the answer.

“They were late to clean our room on the day we left, everyone was helping to pack the horses. He found our clothes and your bed. He found the door.” Faramir paused, searching for words. “He is discussing marriage contracts with our neighbors and cousins. There is talk of sending me to Rohan.”

Boromir rose at his brother’s words. “We must haste to the White City,” he said. “He made certain promises to me and I would see them kept.” At his brother’s hesitation, he turned to comfort him. “Do not worry that we are revealed to him. It was bound to happen eventually. I have been thinking on this for a long time and am sure that I can handle him.” He kissed Faramir’s brow, smiling at his sigh. “I will always look after you, brother,” he whispered in his hair.

Part 4: HOMECOMING

The two brothers rode the long and winding way through the city to the seventh gate. People cheered as they passed, news of their triumphs over the orcs to the west having been made known. They rode without their armor in sleeveless tunics. All could see they were strong and whole even though both carried many scars.

Denethor waited at the seventh gate to greet his sons. Then they all made a silent procession to his study where they could talk privately. He had rehearsed what he wanted to say many times. But the stoic look on his oldest son’s face warned him that any victory he achieved would be hard fought.

They had changed in the months they’d been gone, filling out more, their hair longer, Boromir’s beard thicker, and Faramir taller. As Boromir took his usual seat, he reached up and grasped his brother’s hand, looking at his father with defiance. So, now he knew that they were aware of his discoveries, and possibly his plans.

“You will be twenty in less than a month, Boromir, your brother fifteen soon after. I think it is time to start thinking about marriage,” he began, not giving Boromir time to give his usual report.

“There are no suitable brides of proper rank available, neither one of us shall wed any of our cousins. There has been too much of that and it is weakening our bloodline,” Boromir told him.

“You’re listening to that wizard again, what would his kind know of such matters?”

“I’ve used the evidence of my own eyes and wits. How many of them have the bleeding sickness, or lack wits entirely? So few live to be adults and many of those are sickly and never of much use. I will not allow it,” he said firmly. “The only female of proper rank that isn’t a relative is Éowyn, Eomond’s daughter in Rohan, and she is only an infant. It will be a several years before she is of marriageable age. With the fighting heating up from the south and east, I do not have time to look further for a bride. I will hold you to your promise that I can choose my wife, father. There is no need to rush into any marriage contracts at this time.”

“Our allies are starting to weaken under the continuous pressure of Mordor, a wedding could go a long way to raise everyone’s spirits.”

“A victory over our enemies would serve better, father. We have information about Haradrim troop movements in South Ithilien. There are many places where the right kind of attack could cause them serious damage. I was hoping you would let us establish several bases to strike at them.”

Denethor was completely surprised by Boromir’s idea, but not by the way he had taken control of the discussion. “We will discuss military matters later,” he told his son. “I think you should give more consideration to some of the marriage proposals we have received. Your brother could benefit from exposure to other cultures as well.”
“If there are no new offers from the last time I looked there is no point in it,” Boromir stated firmly. “Faramir stays with me. We have behaved with all due propriety, there are none who could criticize our behavior.” He paused, looking meaningfully at his father. “All men deserve their personal privacy, especially those who put their lives on the line to defend their country.”

Faramir found it hard to keep impassive at his brother’s words. He’d practically admitted to their relationship, and dared their father to expose it.

“If you wish us to move to a more secluded part of the tower, we can,” Boromir added flatly. “I wouldn’t want us to disturb your sleep.”

“Let’s keep things as they are for now,” Denethor replied, unable to meet his eyes, unable to risk further estranging the son he loved any more than he already had. “You two have had a long journey, we can discuss military matters later.” He couldn’t help himself; the thought of Boromir becoming more distant was too much. “My secretary has kept a log of the political developments. If you could read them over tomorrow, we can discuss them the next day. For now, go rest and enjoy yourselves. I have arranged for a banquet this evening to celebrate your return.”

Looking up from his desk he noticed a spreading red stain on Faramir’s tunic. It brought back shameful memories of his youngest son, bruised and bleeding from his own hand. “You have been hurt,” he said in concern. “A healer should look at that.”

“I will be fine,” Faramir said quickly. “It is nothing, father, an arrow wound, I’ve had much worse.” His voice trailed off on the last words. His father had given him worse injuries. Blushing, he looked away.

“We both have wounds to tend,” Boromir said rising. “We were almost ambushed on our way back, but Faramir warned us. He dreamed of it the night before and we were prepared.”

“You have farseeing dreams?” Denethor asked.

“Sometimes,” Faramir answered.

“We will talk of this later,” their father said. “Go tend your injuries. I will expect you at the banquet.”

They dressed each other’s wounds, the long gash on Boromir’s back actually the worst. Faramir ran his hand across Boromir’s chest. “You are amazing, brother,” he said, kissing his face. “Did you just get permission to fuck me or was I dreaming?”

“He has his priorities,” Boromir replied. “We have our priorities. All I have to do is make sure that we can meet somewhere in the middle.” He picked Faramir up by his hips. “I will do whatever I need to do to be with you.”

Faramir wrapped his legs around his brother’s waist as he was lowered onto his cock. “This is what I live for,” he whispered in Boromir’s ear. “Your beautiful body against me, in me, around me.” He threw his head back in ecstasy. “Boromir, I love you,” he said before leaning forward and biting his chest to stifle his scream.

Boromir sat next to his father at the high table. Faramir had left earlier to prepare a birthday surprise he’d arranged with Lani, who had arrived in Minas Tirith the previous week. Since his father wanted him closer to home, it was finally time to move her to the city.

Denethor was pleased to have so much time with his eldest. His capitulation over the marriage issue had brought them closer. He shied away from thinking about what he’d vaguely agreed to allow in the privacy of their rooms, but the lessening of tensions made him feel it was worth it.
Boromir snorted at the men performing the sword dance below them.

“Is there something wrong with their performance?” Denethor asked. He had made sure his oldest son was trained in the combat style that inspired the dance.

“Their movements are good, but this should be done in a practice field, not here and wearing such finery. There is supposed to be actual contact between flesh and blade at several points. But that would make a mess in the hall and possibly upset some of the dinner guests,” was his answer.

Watching the dancers twirl in their mock combat, Denethor could see the swords coming dangerously close to contact. “It would take a lot of skill to keep from doing serious injury in such a dance. I’m quite sure you can do it, but I don’t know of anyone else who could match you.”

“Faramir can,” Boromir told him. “We practice regularly, and have done the full dance several times in the traditional manner. We could show you if you like.”

He knew that Boromir taught his little brother much of what he learned. He hadn’t expected him to teach him anything so complicated and dangerous. That Boromir was willing to demonstrate this was rather daunting.

“I would love to see you and your brother demonstrate the traditional dance for us, Lord Boromir,” said Forlong, who had decided to attend Boromir’s birthday celebration. In moments, several others had expressed their interest and soon the following afternoon was picked as the time.

Boromir passed through the seventh gate, anxious to discover what pleasures awaited him. Both Lani and Faramir were very creative, so he knew it would be exceptional. Her house was fairly close to the gate, he had bought it and been readying it for her for over three years. Servants met him at the door and ushered him to the decadent bathroom.

Lani presided over the bath, her servants undressing and washing him. The beautiful young man and woman who attended him teased his body, while Lani fed him delicacies and a drink to restore his energy. When she led him to the bedroom he was completely aroused.

Faramir lay back on the immense bed in a seductive pose. The mirrors on all the walls and ceiling reflected his enticing image. Stepping closer, he saw the gold metal ring that encircled his penis and testicles, making them jut forward provocatively. He crawled onto the bed, all thought of anything but his beautiful brother gone.

Licking, biting, sucking and kissing his way up the recumbent form before him, Boromir paused at his cock. Running his tongue up the underside, he tongued the slit at the swollen end before swallowing the penis whole. Faramir buried his fingers in his brother’s hair as he moved his head up and down his swollen cock. His back arched as he lost control to Boromir’s hot mouth.
“Yes, brother, take me,” Faramir cried out.

The ring made his erection last much longer than normal, which made Boromir even hotter. He leaned to the side and began using his hand to stimulate his brother’s cock so that he could watch. When he finally achieved release, Faramir’s cock took several minutes to subside. Boromir watched as Lani reached over and carefully removed the ring, pulling out first his now limp cock and then each testicle separately. He examined his brother’s genitals noting a slight indentation where the ring had been and kissed the mark. Then he began kissing his body, slowly moving up to his mouth.

Lani watched the two brothers, waiting for when she might be wanted. The time she spent with them was usually as a facilitator for what they wanted to do to each other. Though she loved them dearly she’d never been ‘in love’ with either and was glad that her knowledge could enhance their pleasure. Boromir had rescued her from a boring existence as a common whore and she intended to devote her life to making him and his brother as happy as she could. Of course the house, the servants and the generous allowance helped her to make this possible.

Sliding a hand beneath his ass, Boromir found that Faramir had been prepared beforehand. They’d both been coated with sweet oil, making them slippery and heightening the eroticism.

Pausing for another deep wet kiss, Boromir rose to his knees and grabbing his brother by the hips, drove his cock all the way into his ass. He pounded into the tight hole, looking at the unbelievably sexy image of Faramir before him. It was a wild coupling and did not last long.

As they lay next to each other panting, Lani began smoothing another, sharper scented oil on Boromir. It made his flesh feel heated everywhere it touched, and brought his cock back to full erection.

“You are never going to forget this birthday, my love,” she told him.

Light filtered into the room from a high window. Boromir sat up suddenly, remembering the promise he had made to his father the night before. “Faramir, wake up, we have much to do today,” he said to his sleeping brother. “I promised father that we would perform a sword dance for him this afternoon.”

Opening his eyes and looking at the half erect cock before his face, Faramir tried to make sense of his brother’s words. Out of habit, he wrapped his hand around the penis and licked the end. “Which one did you have in mind?” he asked, sure he already knew the answer.

“Your favorite,” he replied. “Garus is getting our costumes ready, so we have about an hour before we have to be there.”

“An hour,” Faramir said, looking at all the fresh marks on his brother’s chest. “You look like you’ve been attacked. It might not set so well with father, but it does seem to inspire me,” he added as he swallowed the now fully engorged cock.

It took Boromir’s breath away to watch his brother, as liberally marked as himself, bob his head up and down on his penis. “I was attacked,” he groaned out, “by a sex fiend, with the most amazing mouth.” He groaned as his orgasm exploded into the hot mouth enclosing him.

Faramir and Garus carefully dressed Boromir in his costume. He wore leather pants that were skintight and had cut out sections to bare his flesh to his brother’s blade. Shin high boots covered his feet and a network of straps held the scabbard for his sword against his back. Faramir put the sword in the sheath and carefully checked everything over once more.

“I’ll be ready in about twenty minutes,” he told him.

“I’ll keep them occupied,” Boromir said, he kissed his brow and smiled at the soft sigh. Then he left to entertain the crowd with a brief history of this dance.

Faramir’s costume was much simpler, consisting of only a similar pair of cut out pants and the same shin high boots. He began stretching his muscles preparing for the dance. When he was ready, he grabbed his sword and had Garus signal Boromir.

At the awaited signal, Boromir cut short his oratory and moved to the center of the arena. He posed in a relaxed position, his hands open and empty.

Faramir strutted into the arena sword in hand, dancing in a tighter and tighter circle around his brother. He had complete focus on Boromir, the crowd nonexistent to him. This was the fifth and most complicated of the Númenorean sword dances. There were forty-eight moves for each dancer, thirty-two of which drew blood (not counting the opening phase, which encompassed the second dancer reaching the first).

Denethor watched his sons in the arena below him. Boromir was statue still; his head thrown back, eyes closed, an expression of almost ecstasy on his face. Faramir moved with almost inhuman grace, precise and perfect. It made his father’s breath catch in his throat. He moved so much like another figure from his past, one that he had loved and hated, that he felt himself become aroused at the sight. A small voice in the back of his mind wondered if that was at least part of the cause of his aversion to his youngest son.

Moving in close to his brother, Faramir brought his sword down in a quick move that sliced Boromir’s flesh across his chest. It bled just enough to make it clearly visible.

Boromir responded with a blindingly quick drawing of his sword and made a similar slash across his brother’s back as he danced away. They circled each other in such synchronized grace that it made those watching draw their breath in amazement. Swords flashing in the afternoon sun, they licked out to leave bright red trails on gleaming flesh. There was no flinching by either brother, their experienced hands knowing just how far to cut. This was their dance and they loved doing it.

Denethor gripped the arms of his chair tightly, his hands hidden beneath the long sleeves of his robe. His face was frozen, as he watched his sons in their feral dance. So beautiful and frightening, he correctly surmised that Boromir had begun teaching his brother this as soon as he learned it. He realized that he’d probably been teaching him everything he learned.

They were so very beautiful, so very frightening. The precision and grace of their movements accentuated by the flow of blood from all the shallow cuts they’d given each other. Moving much faster than the dancers of the previous night, they made their own music with the clash of steel against steel.

“I’ve never seen better,” commented Forlong, in a hushed voice. “They must have started early to be so good.”

“Yes, they did,” Denethor agreed, although he didn’t admit that he had had no knowledge of Faramir’s involvement. “They’ve always taken martial attributes seriously.”

With a move too fast to be really seen, Boromir’s left hand grabbed the back of his brother’s head and forced his sword arm up and back, before bringing his own sword across his throat, leaving a trail of blood. Faramir fell bonelessly forward in such a realistic fashion that many in the crowd gasped in shock. Leaning into Boromir, he slid down his body in an almost perfect imitation of dying. Only a few, including their father, noticed how his mouth trailed across the hard flesh as he came to rest on his knees, his face buried in Boromir’s belly.

Throwing his head back, Boromir stood in a pose similar to when he started, only with his sword in one hand, the other still tangled in Faramir’s hair. All was silent for a few moments as the crowd looked down at the now silent and motionless pair. Then, they began cheering at the amazing exhibition they’d just witnessed.

At Boromir’s tug, Faramir rose to his feet. Turning in unison they bowed first to their father, then to the others in the stands before leaving the arena to change.

Denethor excused himself and went to join his sons. While their performance was flawless, it had made him extremely uncomfortable. He had allowed Boromir almost complete control of his brother for many years. Looking back, he realized that there was much that he didn’t know about his sons. He’d been so busy running Gondor that he’d left the raising of the boys to others.
After their mother’s death there’d been no one person to supervise them. Since they’d rarely been in trouble, it had gone unnoticed. The nightly question and answer sessions at dinner had often been his only personal contact with them. He had chosen most of their tutors, though he had discovered that Boromir had hired some on his own.

Motioning the servant at the door out of his way, he entered the room and saw them. Faramir straddled his brother’s lap using his tongue to clean the cuts on his chest and arms. Boromir leaned forward and kissed his brother’s brow, a gesture that was so common that it usually went without notice. They both laughed at words too quiet for him to hear. Faramir leaned forward and licked his brother’s neck, and then tilted his head back baring his own neck. At the same time his hands were busily unfastening Boromir’s pants, which fell away from his hips, as the two side buckles were undone.

Boromir licked the exposed wound on his brother’s neck and lifted him up by the waist. Garus quickly cut Faramir’s pants away so that he was nude in his brother’s arms.

Denethor stood in the shadows watching. His sons were too engrossed in each other and their servant too busy to notice him. He wanted to leave, but couldn’t get his body to move.

It was shocking and sensuous to see them lubricate Boromir’s huge cock with their blood. Faramir sat down on his brother’s erection, his head thrown back, eyes glazed. Denethor was finally able to get his body to move, and left.

Boromir held his brother tightly to him. He wanted this to last and Faramir had a tendency to impatience. Pulling his head forward so that they looked each other in the eyes, he allowed him to start moving slowly. Their bodies rubbed together, their hands touching and stroking.

“You feel so good inside me, my beautiful brother,” Faramir groaned, as he rode the hard cock.

Boromir kept his brother’s body pressed tight to his, loving the feel of his cock rubbing against his belly. The taste and smell of blood and sweat added to the distinctive taste and smell of Faramir. Somehow the public performance had made him desire his sweet brother even more.

Garus had cleared a table, having been briefed by Faramir earlier. Sighting it, Boromir rose with Faramir in his arms and moved to lay him across it. Holding him tightly by the hips, Boromir pounded into his brother. Their joining was becoming more intense by the minute, neither brother wanting it to end.

Faramir put his hands above his head, reaching, and Garus grasped his wrists holding them to the table, knowing what he wanted. Arching his back and crying out, Faramir began shooting spurts of semen as he came uncontrollably. Boromir slowed his thrusts, but did not allow himself to climax yet. He bent over and licked the intoxicating mix of cum, blood, and sweat from his brother’s chest.

As Faramir relaxed completely on the table Boromir continued his now slow movements. Garus kept his hold on the younger brother’s wrists, watching the two people he loved most. Moving with slow long strokes, Boromir ran his hands over the relaxed body below him. Concentrating on Faramir’s reactions, he gently squeezed the already hardening cock. Arching his back, Faramir pushed against his brother and pulled his arms against Garus’ strong grip. He didn’t really want free; knowing this, Garus added more weight to make sure he couldn’t free himself.

As Faramir began to struggle more strenuously, Boromir grabbed his hips again, keeping the pace slow. He used more force as he switched his grip to Faramir’s knees, pushing them against his chest so that he could go deeper. The younger brother could only cry out in pleasure as he was held tightly to the table. Boromir increased the pace and Garus pushed Faramir’s hands against his shoulders to keep him from sliding across the table. They began to rapidly approach climax and the sight of Faramir’s cock pumping more semen uncontrollably between his thighs triggered the other two.

Garus quickly wiped himself and pulled his pants up as he went to check the bath for readiness. He turned back to announce the water ready when he noticed Stefle, who was guarding the door, signaling him. After a few quietly exchanged words, he went to tell the brothers about their father’s presence earlier.

The two brothers looked at each other in surprise. Faramir paled in consternation and Boromir started laughing at the news and his brother’s expression. “Don’t worry so much, brother,” he said between guffaws. “He knows that no one else could have gotten past Stefle, so we are still within the bounds of our agreement. He won’t say anything, not if we don’t.” Turning to Stefle he asked, “How much did he see?”

“You’d already started when he left,” was the answer.

“We’re still covered in blood and need to get clean. Go back to your post, Stefle; let’s finish what we were doing. I’m not going to let father’s prejudices stop us.”

He grabbed Faramir by the back of the neck and kissed him firmly. “Come wash me, brother,” he said into his mouth. “Let me wash you.”

Once he was safely locked into his study, Denethor got out the portrait he kept locked away. The artist who’d painted it had caught the essence of his subject perfectly. There was a certain indefinable air about the man that made him think of his youngest son. He remembered how he had wanted Thorongil so badly, only to be refused repeatedly. That his father had always chosen the other man’s council over his own had been like salt in the wound. He had come to hate him, though his lust for him never abated.

Propping the portrait on his desk, he sat back in his chair and opened his robe. Taking himself in hand he thought back on this man who had been, and still was, his secret obsession. His controlled grace, and effortless ability with any weapon he took up, so much like Faramir’s. The same impassive expression gave no hint of the thoughts behind the blue eyes. The lean well-muscled body that was only enhanced by the many scars was very similar to his youngest’s. Today had brought it all back, his desire and his pain.

Looking at the picture, he slipped into a favorite fantasy. Thorongil tied helpless to his bed, forced to do what ever he wished. His eyes heavy lidded with lust, he imagined how it would feel to run his hands over that lean chest. He was filled with visions of Thorongil bathing, having sex with one of the elves who visited him here, always unaware of the Steward’s son watching him. Or perhaps, just uncaring.

Before Denethor’s father died, Thorongil had simply disappeared, not even allowing the satisfaction of throwing him out. As he neared his climax, he pictured the arrogant man spread across his desk as he beat all the superiority out of him and took him with violent force. His body began his release and he closed his eyes to savor the feeling. At the peak, unbidden, came the picture of Faramir bleeding on that same desk, so beautiful and vulnerable.

Faramir had a discussion with his father about his dreams. They met in a quiet corner of the library, neither of them comfortable with being alone together in Denethor’s study. The Stewards of Gondor had a long history of farseeing and visions. Denethor had had his share of both. He was able to advise his son on many of the ways of controlling and interpreting the dreams, but their discomfort with each other got worse the longer they sat alone together. Faramir felt a strange and frightening undercurrent from his father. One that made him want to get up and run away, though he kept his feelings well hidden behind his usual impassive mask.

Denethor couldn’t stop the stray thoughts from the day of the sword dance; the vision of his sons consummating their lust for each other, covered in sweat and blood. The image that had burned itself into his mind later in his study still with him no matter how hard he tried to bury it. He wanted to flee from the thoughts that plagued him, to flee from the too tempting young man in front of him.

So they had a stilted conversation that ended as quickly as they could end it. Much that should have been said left out because they couldn’t bear each other’s presence.

Denethor surprised both brothers by staging a large celebration for Faramir’s fifteenth birthday. By the custom of their people, he was now considered an adult and as eligible for marriage or other adult activities, if he hadn’t already been in the field as a warrior, he would have been sent now. He even received a few requests to take first night honors with some of the noble families attending. Denethor gave him a beautifully made dagger. The sheath and the blade were engraved with the coat of arms of the House of Húrin on one side and Faramir’s coat of arms on the other. It pleased his father that he immediately fastened it to his side.

“He’s coming.” Faramir cried, as he sat up so suddenly that he nearly knocked Boromir from the bed. Chills raced up and down his spine and his breath was ragged in his throat. His instincts told him this was a real farseeing dream, but it was very different from the rest. Looking at his brother, who lay rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he laughed with the joy of the dream. “I’ve had a dream, my brother,” happiness evident in his voice. “A most wonderful dream.”

Sitting up and propping himself on the headboard, Boromir pulled his brother close, kissing the back of his neck. “Tell me,” he instructed.

“I saw the king, Boromir,” he said, his voice full of awe. “He was coming towards the Great Gate followed by a great army. But it was not for war as they had just returned from a great battle, defeating the forces of Mordor. He wore black mail trimmed with silver and a long white mantle clasped with a large green stone. In place of a crown, he wore a circlet from which hung a silver star. I could see him so clearly, brother. He was tall and lean with dark hair and blue eyes. At first I felt fear of him, he was so very noble and his gaze seemed to see my very soul. Then I felt your love for him, as strong as the love you bear for me, but different.”

The look on his brother’s face was so full of hope and joy that it took Boromir’s breath away. “Was this a true sending?” he asked.

“It was, brother,” he replied, turning so that his chest was pressed against his brother’s. “I can smell him in your hair, Boromir. Sweat and leather, and,” he paused, as if slightly confused. “Kingsfoil? Why would someone wear kingsfoil?”

“I don’t even know what it is, let alone why someone would wear it,” Boromir laughed, even though he, too, smelled sweat and leather accompanied by a sharp/sweet herbal scent. Taking Faramir’s face in his hands he looked into his eyes, thinking to tease him for his fancy. But for a moment it wasn’t his brother’s gaze he met. Blue eyes, yes. But dark hair, a thin face lined with grief and worries and desperately needing a shave, looked back at him. “Estel,” he gasped.

“Hope.” Faramir said at the same time.

“I saw him,” Boromir said in awe. “Tell me more.”

“There isn’t much more,” Faramir told him. “It will be a long time yet, I think. There is much pain and sorrow first. But when all seems lost, our hope will come. You said Estel, which means hope in elvish, why?”

“I think that is his name, or at least what some people call him, what I will call him. You say I love him?” Boromir asked, even as his own heart told him it was true.

“Oh yes, brother,” Faramir answered with a bright smile. “And he loves you, as if anyone could fail to love you.” He pressed his lips to his brother’s, in a deep loving kiss. “Wouldn’t it be so wonderful, my beloved brother, to no longer live in fear? To see our people prosper and the land bloom unstained by war?’ He gave a wry chuckle. “To have a king in Gondor, to sit on the throne.”

“Don’t tell father,” Boromir told him. “He would label us both traitors and cowards. Don’t even write it in your journals, it could be dangerous.”

“Would you hate it if the king did return?” Faramir asked.

He thought about it for a few minutes before answering. “If the king doesn’t return in our life time, I would still never rule Gondor. You are the one who is most fit for that position. Of course I will never tell father that, but once he is gone it will be our choice.” He paused briefly, to kiss his brother. “It is such a seductive thought, a High King in Gondor. I think I could be quite happy with that.” He pulled Faramir even closer until their bodies were pressed close from groin to chest. “You said he loves me, are you sure?”

“I know he does, brother,” was the confident answer. “It connects you like a golden ray of sunlight, even now.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I think he felt you, too,” Faramir answered. “You will know each other when you meet, or feel familiar with each other.”

“All my life foretold in dreams, little brother,” he said against his neck. “You have saved me more than once, and this new dream could save us all. I will do my best to watch for our brave king and bring him to his throne.”

“Then you will succeed, beloved brother, for you are the bravest of all men, I know you will bring ‘hope’ back to Gondor,” Faramir told him. “But I’m afraid we have many years of toil and pain before he finally comes home.”

“I would hurry time,” Boromir groaned as Faramir guided himself onto his brother’s hard cock. “But I couldn’t bear to lose one second with you.”

Faramir could not speak, lost in the joy of the dream and delicious sensations.

It had been over a year since the wizard had seen Faramir and he had changed considerably in that time. Mithrandir accepted his joyful hug and then held him at arm’s length to examine the changes. “You look much bigger and much happier than the last time I was here, Faramir,” he said. “I take it that you were able to overcome your problems?”

“With the help of my brother,” he said with a shy smile.

Mithrandir knew of the beatings the young man had endured, but had been powerless to stop them. When he had urged Faramir to seek his brother’s aid, he had refused. “And how are you handling the dreams?” he questioned.

‘Better all the time,” he answered. “Father even gave me some good advice.” Faramir paused, looking to check that Stefle still guarded the door. “There is a new dream that I sometimes share with my brother in part. My father wouldn’t approve of it.”

“Your brother dreams of this too?” the Istari asked.

“He shares many of my dreams to some extent, but he is heavily involved in this one.”

“Are you going to share this evil dream with me?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s not evil at all, even though father would denounce it,” Faramir said quickly, then leaned closer and whispered. “I have seen the king return to Minas Tirith to claim the throne of Gondor.”

The wizard paled at his words. “Whom have you told about this?” he asked urgently.

“Just Boromir, he wanted me to keep it secret. He dreams of him too, he even knows his name. He told me. . “

His words were stopped by Mithrandir’s fingers over his mouth. “Never speak it,” he told the startled young man. “Not even in private. His life would be in grave danger if the enemy knew he existed, let alone his name. There are eyes and ears everywhere.”

“Then you know him,” Faramir stated. “My brother and I are hoping to welcome him home some day, the sooner the better.”

“You are right that your father would disapprove,” the wizard told him. “Denethor hopes to see Boromir succeed him and would make him king if he could.”

“That is not what my brother wants,” Faramir said with confidence. “He has no desire to rule Gondor.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Faramir knows all the secrets my heart contains,” Boromir said as he entered the room. Putting his arms around his brother, he kissed his brow and held him close. The marks on their necks were visible above their high collars as they gave each other an intense regard.

Mithrandir had long suspected that their closeness would only increase as they grew older and knew the signs they openly displayed to him now. The look of adoration in the younger brother’s eyes was echoed in the elder’s, their body language clear to anyone who looked.

“You are looking well, Boromir,” he said.

“And you look the same as ever,” he replied. “I came to give you a hand as well.” It was obvious that he was more interested in his brother than anything the wizard needed.

“Your aid is always welcome,” Mithrandir answered. “But maybe you could tell me a little more about this dream first.”

“Tell him,” Boromir told his brother, looking to the door.

Faramir described the dream in detail, but leaving out the personal connection between Boromir and the future king. The wizard sensed his holding back, but chose to ignore it for now.

“There is very little I can tell you,” he said to the two young men. “There is an heir still alive, but the enemy hunts him still. When he can, he will return to Gondor, but no one knows when that will be.”

Though Mithrandir gave them very little information, they were somewhat satisfied with what he shared. Often he would tell them nothing at all, only making references to histories and books contained in the library and archives. For now, they would wait for their king and do what they could to ensure there would be a kingdom for him to claim.

Part 5: SKIRMISHES

The long line of troops marched in loose formation, as men will when weariness sets in from a long march and discipline is lax. Boromir didn’t know from how far they had come, but he was more than happy to end their journey here.

With a soft whistle sounding much like the lark’s call, he signaled the first stage of the attack. Arrows fell like rain upon the unsuspecting enemy, and their forces broke into wild panic.

Then, sounding the ‘Horn of Gondor,’ he led the charge over the small rise that had concealed them. The hidden archers slowed their firing to avoid hitting their own men, and those that wore armor and were trained to the sword began either making their way down to join the fray or preparing to defend the light fighters from the fleeing Haradrim. He saw Faramir as soon as he left the shelter of the trees. It had become his brother’s habit in these ambushes to start on the far side of the battlefield so that they could fight their way to each other. Sometimes it worried Boromir, but Faramir was hard to dissuade.

They rolled the Haradrim forces back easily. The heavy cavalry was unmatched by the foot soldiers, crushing them beneath their charge. Boromir’s sword cut through the enemy with the fire of his rage and lust for battle. There were few things he enjoyed more than spreading death amongst his enemies. Faramir moved through his opponents with machinelike precision, his emotions uninvolved in the rhythm of his dance of death. They were fire and ice, rage and dispassion and they caused fear in their enemies and joy in their allies.

It was hot bloody work, for there would be no taking of prisoners. An hour had passed before they had reached each other in the battlefield, mostly because they slowed themselves enough for their accompanying forces to stay with them. When the last of the enemy in their range was killed, Boromir bent down so that Faramir could grab his arm and mount behind his saddle. Riding to the previously chosen vantage point, they looked down at the slaughter below them. Faramir switched to his own horse, which was being held by the waiting couriers and fighters.

“There are too many of our men fallen,” Boromir said, his face grim as he calculated the losses. “We will have to find a better way.”

“If we send all but the fastest foot soldiers and archers back across the river, we can switch to a shoot and run strategy,” Faramir said, his face equally grim. “More of them will get away, but I think we can cut our own losses enough to make up for it.”

“Maybe,” Boromir answered. “But, let’s wait a while before we make a final decision. I want a full body count.”

They decided, with input from their father, to keep a sizable force of heavy cavalry east of the Anduin. The men they left in charge were canny captains, all born in North Ithilien, and familiar with the brothers’ chosen strategy and tactics as well as the territory. Most engagements were to be fought by the Ithilien Rangers, who could appear out of nowhere and melt back just as quickly. Satisfied with the arrangements, they returned to Minus Tirith where their father had summoned them.

Denethor had added another chair to his study so that both brothers could sit as they gave their reports. It was just part of the changes he had made to the room in an effort to rid himself of the visions he had had of Faramir. So far it seemed to be working, and he was able to conduct business with them with little discomfort. But it had been more than three years, which is how long this conversation seemed to be taking.

Boromir leaned his head back against the tall chair and closed his eyes for a few moments, his hand resting on his brother’s. It was late and they had been in the saddle all day. “There are really no changes to report, father,” he said without opening his eyes. “They take terrible loses, but we are being bled dry. At this rate, we will all be dead in just a few years.”

Faramir looked at him with worry; they’d had very little rest in the last few weeks. “Let’s see how our new strategy works, brother,” he said gently. “You might be surprised.”

Denethor watched his sons’ exchange with sympathy; they’d not taken any time for themselves in over a year. “All we can do at the moment is wait and see. However, I have an errand for you both,” he told them. “There are messages I need delivered to your kinsman, Prince Imrahil in Dol Amroth. Once he has read them, you should take counsel together and make decisions about the defense of the coast. I hate to part with both of you, but this is too important for me to be selfish.”

Boromir watched him from beneath half closed eyes as Faramir sat forward. “That is a long ride, father,” the younger brother spoke.

“I have made arrangements for you to make most of the journey by boat. It should give you time to rest, almost a vacation.”

Boromir sat up at his words, now fully awake. “When do we leave?” he asked.

“In two days, that should give us plenty of time to discuss everything thoroughly. For tonight we are done and, as you both look exhausted, I suggest you get some sleep.”

The bed was almost too soft as Faramir pulled Boromir against his chest. “I was hoping we could put this bed to good use, but you are tired. Maybe you will have more energy in the morning,” Faramir said, smoothing the hair from his brother’s face.

Boromir smiled at his words before rolling them over so that he was covering his brother. “I had a little nap in father’s study, while he was rehashing everything we’d already discussed,” he said in a growl. “I’ve been dreaming of you naked in my bed for months, I’m not going to wait any longer.” Stroking his brother’s body, Boromir ground their hips together.

Faramir groaned and pulled Boromir’s face closer for his kiss. “I don’t want you to wait, brother,” he gasped. “I want you now.”

Boromir chuckled at his impatience. He was always like this when they were together; wildly wanton, yet he’d seen him be so controlled with others that it was near torture. “What do you want, little brother?” he said as he nibbled at his neck. “Do you long for the feel of my lips and tongue on your hot cock?” He slid one hand between them and grasped their cocks pressing them even tighter together.

“Yes,” Faramir gasped, arching beneath him.

“Or do you want to suck me dry with your talented mouth?” he growled, licking a tender strip of neck. His left hand buried in Faramir’s hair holding his head captive, the elbow holding his weight. His right thumb rubbing across the crown of their cocks as his hand held them tightly together.

“Yes please, brother,” he grabbed at Boromir, out of control.

“Maybe you would rather have me slide my cock into your tight ass?” he bit down on the strip of wet neck and roughly stroked their cocks.

“Stop teasing and take me, please,” he grabbed at Boromir’s hips.

“I think you might want to drive your hot cock into me, little brother,” he whispered, increasing the speed of his stroking hand. “Oh yes,” he growled into his ear, rolling away just enough so that they could look down to where their cocks where side-by-side in his hand. “Your huge cock, look at how closely it matches mine, brother. How good it feels when they are pressed together.”

Faramir groaned as he watched hot cum begin spurting out of their two cocks. His hand joined Boromir’s to finish their orgasm.

“That felt so good, brother,” Boromir said, pushing him to his back again and biting one of his nipples. Licking the cum from his brother’s belly he moved down to his groin. Faramir cried out as his cock was engulfed in his brother’s hot mouth. The strong hand massaging his balls helped bring him back to full hardness.

Faramir buried his hands in Boromir’s hair and began thrusting into his mouth. Experience allowed Boromir to take all of his brother’s huge cock and he loved doing it. Relaxing his throat, he allowed Faramir to fuck his mouth freely while his hand left his balls and began readying his ass. His fingers were soon buried deep in their target, making the younger brother arch his back in ecstasy and climax long and hard down his throat.

Boromir rose to his knees and ran his hands over Faramir’s body as he lay panting below him. “You cum so beautifully, brother,” he told him. “I love watching you, feeling you.” He wrapped a hand around his own erect cock and held it in display. “Are you ready for this, my beloved one?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Faramir replied, arching his back again. “I’m always ready for you.”

Boromir held his hips tightly as he slowly entered his tight passage. He knew that Faramir would try to hurry him if he could.

When Faramir started to reach for his own cock, now hard again, Boromir denied him. “Pull your knees up brother,” Boromir told him. Clasping his knees to his chest, Faramir cried out at the deeper penetration his brother was able to achieve.

Boromir kept a slow pace but his thrusts were deep and hard, making Faramir cry out at each one. He kept going until sweat dripped off him and his brother was nearly incoherent. Releasing Faramir’s hips, he pushed his arms and legs aside so that he could rub his whole body along his brother’s as he pounded into him. Faramir wrapped his arms around Boromir and pulled him closer, biting his collarbone, but still managing to scream loudly as he came. The familiar pain brought Boromir’s climax.

“I think you woke the whole tower with your yelling,” Boromir laughed in his ear.

“I’ll just tell them that you were torturing me,” Faramir answered, kissing his face and pulling him closer.

Faramir’s scream, mixed with Boromir’s cries, startled Denethor as he made his way to his room. His hand shook as he pushed the door closed behind him. Leaning against it, he listened a little longer before turning towards his bed. The thought that he should have had them move their rooms vying with the image of them as he had seen them together.

He sat on the edge of his bed for a few moments before striding to the door and leaving. There was still plenty of work in his study and he knew he would be unable to sleep. He was not going to give in again to his baser desires.

Boromir started to rise as the counselors filed from the room, but his father signaled him to remain. He sighed, knowing that the upcoming conversation was likely to be unpleasant.

“Imrahil has a daughter,” Denethor began.

“I will not marry one of my cousins,” Boromir cut him off. “Neither will my brother.”

“At least you do realize he is your brother,” was the bitter reply. “Your relationship is far from typical.”

“Do you really want to argue over this, father?” Boromir queried, obviously irritated. “We do our duty, to you and Gondor.”

“Then where are the future heirs to the Stewardship? If you both die in battle, which becomes more likely every year, who will be there to take your place?”

“We have sons to replace us, father,” Boromir told him. “Among the nobility alone, Faramir has three sons and I have one. Their parents knew ahead of time and agreed that should the need arise, they would become our heirs. You signed the acknowledgement papers yourself.”

“It’s not the same,” Denethor said with a frown.

“You want me to give up my principles, father?” he asked. “If there were a woman available of suitable rank and age, one of us would be married to her. Until then, we will continue to produce children through first night liaisons and other requests, as is our duty and pleasure.” He sat forward and put a hand on the table close to his father. “I will not give up the one thing that gives me comfort in these dark times. The suite of rooms on the north side of the tower that our mother used would be very suitable for us, especially since there are no other rooms on that hallway.” Pausing he took his father’s hand. “It would be for the best, father. I know that our unorthodox behavior preys on your sensibilities. You know I don’t want to argue with you.”

Somehow Boromir could always sway him to his desires, he wanted to refuse but he couldn’t. “If that is what you want, then go ahead,” he said in defeat.

“You won’t regret this, father,” he told him. “I’ll make sure you won’t.”

There was a large balcony that looked to the north in the large bedroom. The brothers barely had time to instruct Maran and Stefle on where they wanted everything to go, for the changeover would have to happen after they left to Dol Amroth. But just the same, they slept on a pallet in the new bedroom their last night at home so that their father wouldn’t be disturbed by any noise they made.

The boat that took them downriver from below the fords at Ithilien was barely big enough to have a captain’s cabin. The captain gladly surrendered his room to the Steward’s sons, ignoring their refusals. They would spend the night at Eruin, a village located at the confluence of the River Erui and the Anduin.

Through the day, the two young men divided their time between helping the crew and practicing their swordsmanship. Once a party of Haradrim was spotted not far from the eastern shoreline and Faramir was able to display some of his ability as an archer. Even with the unsteady deck, he didn’t miss.

It was still light when they anchored in the small harbor and they could see another boat bearing the flag of Gondor in the harbor. On the dock were some of the men of Lossarnach, among them Felong. Boromir reached over and ran a finger down his brother’s beard as he saw the man watching them.

“It looks like you get to make good on your challenge, brother,” he said, laughter in his voice.

“Yes, it does,” the younger man agreed, waving at the men on the dock.

There were messages to exchange, but soon the two brothers found themselves in a noisy inn with Felong and a few of his men. They ate a hardy meal and drank their share of ale, trading stories of their exploits of the past few years. Felong would stall at times, looking at Faramir, who looked remarkably like his older brother, only a little lighter in build. They wore their hair and beards the same and wore similar clothing, though their weapons differed slightly.

Faramir was very discrete, only his brother aware of his veiled looks. As the inn began emptying, Boromir drew the attention of the other men at the table so that Faramir could approach Felong privately.

“Are you still interested in finishing our challenge?” he asked the older man, his face giving away nothing of his own thoughts.

“If you are, I have reserved a room at the inn,” Felong answered.

“Time has only made me want this more,” Faramir answered.

Without preliminary, Felong rose and led the way to a private back room. The only furniture was a table and chair and a large sturdy bed. Faramir began stripping, watching the other man who followed his example only a little more slowly.

“Have you done this before?” he asked.

“Only with women,” was the short answer.

The light of mischief lit up Faramir’s eyes as he responded. “Don’t worry,” he said with a grin. “I’ll be gentle, if you want me to.”

Felong looked at him in surprise, then laughed at his remark. Suddenly he didn’t feel as nervous as he’d been. He reached out and ran a finger down the younger man’s chest watching his nipple harden as he touched it. “I’ve never seen so many scars on a single person before,” he said quietly. “Do you collect them on purpose?”

“Only the dance scars,” he answered. “The rest came of their own accord. I never thought of getting them deliberately.” He ran his hands through the thick hair on the other man’s chest, remembering the downy/wiry feel of it. “I’ve never seen so much hair before, it feels so different.” He curled his fingers in the hair, running his thumbs over his large nipples. Leaning forward he took one of the nipples in his mouth, grazing it with his teeth. So close he noticed strange markings under the hair. “What is this?” he asked.

“My wedding tattoo,” Felong told him. “It is the custom of my people to mark themselves such on their wedding day so that we never forget our vows.”

“You are monogamous?” Faramir asked, stepping back slightly.

“I told my wife before we married of our challenge,” he said. “She agreed that honor demanded that I keep our pledge.” He moved his hand to the back of Faramir’s neck, running his thumb along his jaw. “I find I have been anticipating this more than I expected; I never thought I would enjoy this.”

“I enjoy both men and women equally,” Faramir told him, leaning forward again and claiming the other man’s lips. “Though I have one lover I prefer before all others.”

Words were forgotten as the younger man led Felong to the bed. He was rougher than he would have been with a maid, but still more gentle than usual. The thick body hair of the older man excited him with its novelty and softness. He pressed many kisses to his torso, and soon learned that the hair tended to catch in his teeth if he bit, but as his partner seemed to enjoy the bites, he continued them anyway. The room was filled with the groans of the two men as Faramir used knowledge from previous encounters to arouse Felong without mercy.

Taking the big man’s cock into his mouth, Faramir made sure he was ready for what he wanted next. After a few minutes of sucking the penis that was wider but shorter than his own, he was ready to go further. Rising up, he impaled himself on the solid erection bringing forth an uncontrolled gasp from the man.

Felong was surprised at the intensity of the moment, finding the experienced young man extremely tight. He was almost helpless under the rhythmic movements and found himself losing control. His body arched as he climaxed, reaching completion much quicker than he was used to.

As the man lay beneath him, his body relaxed from its release, Faramir used the oil he had placed on the edge of the bed to lubricate his next target. Felong watched him through half shuttered eyes as he felt the strong fingers breach his ass. He held still trying to keep from tensing up, wanting to keep his bargain with the younger man.

He pushed Felong’s knees up and began guiding himself into the virgin ass. With short thrusts, he slowly entered until he was buried to the hilt, then paused until he felt the passage ease around him. The older man’s eyes widened as he felt the fullness within him. Beginning with slow deep movements, Faramir watched his eyes widen even further and his breath catch in his throat. He had found the right angle.

Long moments passed and Felong felt himself hardening again. Increasing the pace, Faramir grasped the newly erect cock and pumped it to the same rhythm. His experienced hand brought the older man to completion just as he found his own release.

Faramir climbed up beside Felong and looked again at the tattoo half hidden on his chest. “This fascinates me,” he said. “I’ve never seen one before, how do they do it?”

“It’s done with a needle and ink,” was the reply. “There are several stands in the market at Pelargir where professionals ply their trade. My wife’s and mine were applied by our village healer, as is our custom.”

“I might like one,” Faramir told him, thinking of doing something for his brother. He rose from the bed and cleaned himself before dressing.

“I thank you for finishing our challenge,” he told Felong before kissing his brow. He left and returned to the common room of the inn in search of his brother.

Boromir was still talking with the men of Lossarnach; they’d been joined by some of the locals. Faramir sat next to him and joined in the conversation. It wasn’t long before they finished and returned to their cabin on the little boat.

“So did you enjoy yourself?” Boromir asked as they cuddled together.

“It was enjoyable, brother,” he answered between kisses to his brother’s face and neck. “But I’d much rather be with you.”

Boromir laughed and returned his brother’s kisses. “I love being with you best too, beloved brother,” he whispered.

They changed to a much larger vessel at Pelargir, one capable of crossing the sea. Leaving Garus to arrange for their baggage to be moved, the brothers went to take care of official business. There was little they needed to do other than exchange messages and both brothers received requests to attend to ‘first night’ duties for two of the cities leading families. Since the last duty would be attended to in the evening, they had the rest of the day free.

Laughing at his brother’s excitement, Boromir followed him to the marketplace. It was much like all the others they’d seen until they reached the row of tattoo booths. Faramir had read references to them in the archives, but the practice had mostly disappeared in Gondor.

There were six booths, each occupied by two artists and doing a brisk trade. They watched, as did many others, while beautiful designs appeared on their clients.

“I want one,” Faramir whispered to his brother.

“Some magical beast, I assume?” he asked, laughter in his voice.

“Oh no,” Faramir whispered with such emotion it caught his brother’s attention. “I want something to show how much I love you. A mark to let all who see it know that I belong to you.”

“I’m not sure I could get father to accept anything so blatant,” he laughed, though he was touched by the idea.

“I could have it put where few would see it.”

“Like your sweet ass,” Boromir whispered in his ear.

“I want to be able to see it,” he responded. “I think it would be better here.” He indicated a spot in the hollow of his hip.

“So what are you going to use?”

Faramir grinned as he lightly touched the scabbard of his brother’s knife. Like his own, it had his personal coat of arms in full color dyed and carved on it. “I think that will work fine.”

Boromir liked the idea. He liked it so much he decided that he would get one as well. “Which booth?” he asked. “I’ll join you.”

Carefully examining the work being done, Faramir made his choice. The brothers waited until they were finished with their current customers then asked forgiveness of the ones waiting, explaining that they had to leave early the next day. The peasants waiting would have gladly given up their places to the Steward’s sons anyway, but were pleased by their politeness and the coins they gave as recompense. They asked for privacy and the front awning of the booth was brought down to cover the entrance. The artists didn’t so much as blink at their request and went about the job with exquisite skill. In less time than they expected, the work was done and they examined it while listening to the care instructions.

As they prepared to go to their evening duties, Faramir turned to his brother in amusement. “At the rate we’re going, brother, the whole of the next generation of Gondorian nobility and half its peasantry will be our children. How will you argue father out of marriage then?”

“I’ll find you a wife,” he answered calmly, as if it was something he’d planned.

Faramir looked at him in surprise. “You will?”

“There are two things in this world that are more important to me than any other, you and Gondor,” he answered. “In that order. One of us must marry eventually; if I take a wife she might make a problem over our relationship. If you take a wife, it would be different.”

Thinking about the customs of precedence in their society and the attitudes of their peers, Faramir realized that his brother was right. “You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?”

“If I had to leave Gondor and never look on our city again in order to be with you, I would. You are everything to me,” he answered. “It’s all I think of.” He paused, a brief smile on his lips. “Except for killing our enemies.”

“Does father know how you feel?”

“I told him long ago,” Boromir replied. “Why do you think he backs down every time about the marriage thing and us?”

“I thought there were other reasons,”

“There are, but this one is the main one.”

Faramir put his arms around him and buried his face in his neck. “I love you, my beautiful brother. Each day with you brings me more joy than words can tell.”

“And I you, beloved one,” he answered kissing his younger brother’s brow. “More than anything in this world or the next.”

A tap at the door was a signal from Garus that they were starting to run late. “Let’s go deflower some virgins,” Boromir said. “Then I will meet you back here when we are done.”

“Don’t encourage me to hurry, brother,” Faramir said as he turned to the door. “Remember anything worth doing is worth doing right.” They had developed a reputation of being gentle with the maidens, although other circles spoke of their roughness as warriors.

The weather was fair and it was only three more days to Dol Amroth, though the brothers suspected it could have been quicker. The captain and crew grew to like them immensely in that short time as they helped whenever they could, as well as being friendly. They practiced their fighting skills every day and sometimes made the crew laugh with their antics, parrying each other while walking the rails in their bare feet and such. Neither seemed inclined to seasickness, though they didn’t go far from the shoreline, as they had to round the peninsula of Belfalas.

Their arrival in Dol Amroth was greeted with great fanfare, unlike the previous stops, so they both donned formal garb to proceed to the home of their kinsman, Prince Imrahil. They had never met before, but it was easy to tell the Prince apart from the others, as he stood with his wife at his side wearing the beautiful crowns of their rank. Imrahil could tell the brothers apart in their formal wear as Boromir wore the ‘Horn of Gondor’ at his side, something he usually only did in formal occasions and battle, habit and long warfare not yet welding it to his side. They were welcomed with all due respect and, after the formal proceedings, they passed from the great hall to the Prince’s private drawing room.

The brothers were pleasantly surprised as Imrahil dropped formality as quickly as he dropped the ornate crown on a side table. His wife excused herself after a serving wine to the three men, leaving them to talk freely. “My wife was sure you would change your mind about marriage as soon as you saw our daughter,” he commented. The young lady in question had been present in the great hall.

“If it were for beauty or person alone, neither my brother nor I would hesitate to claim her as our own,” Boromir replied. “But as you know from Faramir’s letters, there is more to consider. Both our mother and father are related to you and the bleeding sickness seems to be rather strong in Mother’s line, I think it had much to do with her early death. However, Théoden, king in Rohan has a son now, Théodred, born just two months ago. The age difference shouldn’t be too much of a problem and I would be more than willing to help with any negotiations”

“That is something to consider, and if not the son, then the nephew. He could be brought here as my heir if my wife bears me no sons,” he smiled at the two brothers. “Though Rohan is smaller than Gondor, I think my wife’s ambitions would be satisfied with such an arrangement.”

“What about your daughter?” Faramir questioned. “What does she want?”

Imrahil was taken aback by the question. “I’ve never asked, I barely see the girl. I’ve left that to my wife.” He blushed a bit at his lack of knowledge.

“I mean no disrespect, kinsman,” Faramir told him. “I just wondered. It seems that most of the nobility of our people do not consider the wishes of their children when it comes to marriage. Of course, political necessity dictates that.”

“That was definitely true in my case,” the Prince replied. “But it has worked well for me, we are quite happy together, my wife and I.” He looked to the brothers. “You do have plans for marriage? Rumor has it that Denethor has given you final say in the matter, Boromir.”

“Yes there are plans, though I will not reveal them yet,” he replied. “As for the rumor, it was a habit of my father’s to grant me a request on each birthday. For my eighteenth, I chose the right to make this choice. He stopped giving me such boons afterward,” he finished with a wry smile.

Imrahil laughed at his words. “I should say not, I’m surprised that he granted your request.”

“I did it publicly, he would have had to break his word before the gathered guests. That is something he would never do,” Boromir responded. “But it was not something I requested lightly, and I have the best interests of Gondor at heart. Even though there is no king to claim the throne yet, there are still heirs to the Stewardship. My methods differ from his but we still have the same goal at heart, the safety of the realm.”

“That is fair,” the Prince replied. He continued quietly preparing to move on to other business, not having caught the slip Boromir had made about the king. Faramir did, however, but managed to betray no sign, even though he was a bit taken aback at his brother’s unusual carelessness.

As they finished their conversation, Faramir noticed an unusual painting on one wall of the room. The quality wasn’t of the best, but the two subjects were rather startling. At first it appeared to be a man and woman, but closer examination showed it to be a man and a male elf. “Who are they?” he asked their host.

“Thorongil and his elf friend,” Imrahil answered with a smile. “He was instrumental in ridding us of the Corsairs that threatened our coasts for so long. I’m afraid your father didn’t care much for him. He wouldn’t even let us borrow the portrait his father had commissioned for the artist to use, so he had to do the best he could from memory.”

“I remember reading about him, but father forbade us to discuss him in his presence,” Boromir offered. “There was no mention of an elf though.”

“While he stayed in Gondor, several elves came to visit with him, but this one came more often than the others and sometimes stayed a while. There was a rumor that they were closer than just friends, but it was never proven. Not that it would have mattered to Ecthelion, your grandfather. He was his most trusted advisor, which I think bothered your father, though he tried not to show it. You haven’t seen the portrait?”

“If it still exists, father has hidden it away,” Boromir replied.

“What was the elf’s name?” Faramir asked.

“Alas, I never met the elf and he is only included here because of the artist’s fancy,” was the answer. “However I heard he was a great prince among elves and known for his fighting ability as well as his romantic conquests. There were even rumors that wars had been started over his amorous exploits, but you know how rumors are.”

Ever the good host, Imrahil invited the brothers to join him in a boar hunt once they had finalized their plans for the defense of the coast. It had taken less time than either party had thought it would. The Prince’s advisors were astute men who knew their craft and the brothers had studied warfare, including sea warfare, their whole lives. They were willing to acknowledge their own weaknesses and learn from the guidance of others. All in all, it had been a very successful week and they were ready for some physical stimulation.

There had been a problem with a great boar ravaging crops and even killing the hounds of one of the nearby villages, so they set out to kill the beast. Boromir was armed with a great boar spear, twelve feet long with a six-foot crosspiece four feet from the base. This was to keep the animal from running all the way up the spear and ravaging the man holding it. Faramir waited nearby with his long bow and some lances to finish off the beast once his brother had speared it.

They heard the hounds driving their prey and it seemed they were heading their way, so Boromir braced the spear against a large tree watching for any sign of their approach. They’d hunted boar before, but by all reports this was a monster, nearly twice the size of its kin. When it broke from the brush, they saw it was nearly the size of a pony, tusks as long as a man’s arm. It screamed in rage and charged Boromir who held the spear true, driving it just below the beast’s jaw.

Both brothers could see that there was not enough room for him to escape injury when the boar reached the crosspiece; the spear was too small for this size creature. The Prince’s hounds were tearing at it while Faramir drove one lance into its head, just missing its brain, then another into its ear, killing it.

But boars do not die easy and the beast still ran up the spear, reaching for Boromir in its rage. One giant tusk caught his chest revealing blood and bone in an instant as the giant crashed into him with crushing force. Faramir made to run to his brother’s aid just as another smaller, but still large beast, came into the clearing. Reacting on instinct alone, he drew his sword and knife and turned to face the charging animal.

As it reached him, he drove his sword through the top of its snout trying to avoid the razor sharp tusks. It pushed him backwards into the tree where his brother lay and twisting its head, caught his arm and part of his chest, knocking the knife from his hand as the impact knocked him unconscious.

Pain was something he’d taught himself to ignore at will, so his mind was clear as Boromir picked up his brother’s long knife and put the blade through the beast’s glaring red eye and twisted it until the gray of its brain leaked through the socket. Releasing the knife, he reached toward his brother, grasping his arm and pulling himself as close possible before losing consciousness.

Part 6: RESURRECTION

Prince Imrahil stopped suddenly in his headlong flight, the sight before him almost more than he could bear. The hounds had been gathered by the houndsmen, and the huntsmen had pulled the boars from the mangled bodies of the two men. At first he didn’t recognize them, the blood and gore disguising their features, but the servant working quickly and surely at cleaning and examining their wounds was easily recognizable. He felt stunned that both sons of the Steward had been so horribly injured in his care.

He moved to stand behind the man as he directed the healers and retainers in what he needed done. Wondering at the servant’s medical knowledge, he waited patiently, not wanting to distract him from his grisly task. One of the healers made to disentangle the brothers’ arms where the elder had obviously grabbed the younger and pulled them closer. “Leave it,” the man commanded sternly, stopping for a moment to make sure he was obeyed. Working with speed he began stitching together the muscles in Boromir’s chest, though Imrahil doubted that it would hold, probably laming his left arm. Then he took a flask from his pocket and poured a small portion of its contents directly on his work, whispering what sounded like an incantation under his breath. He left the skin over the muscle unstitched, pressing clean cloths offered by the attending healers over it, he moved on to work on the younger brother.

The huntmaster caught his attention, so he stepped away so as not to distract those working on the brothers. “Are there any other injuries?” he asked hopefully.

“None, your highness,” he answered grimly. “These two were alone when those monsters struck. I’ve never seen any so big in my life, it is a miracle they are alive at all.”

“They are the sons of the Steward, they are not like ordinary men,” the Prince replied.

They were now being carried away on stretchers and their servant came to stand before the Prince, waiting to be acknowledged. “Will they live?” Imrahil asked.

“Definitely, your highness,” was the quick answer. “But I will need to tend their injuries carefully if there is to be no lasting damage. I need them placed in the same room, even the same bed, if that’s possible.”

“Won’t they disturb each other if they get feverish?”

“They heal better when they are together, my lord,” he replied. “It’s always been that way and they need every advantage they can get now.”

The Prince nodded, having gained much respect for the man’s knowledge while watching him work. “I’ll send word ahead. What is your name?”

“I am Garus, your highness,” he answered, bowing his head in respect. “May I go with them now?”

“Of course,” Imrahil told him, admiring his devotion.

They dreamed. As so often happened whether together or apart, their dream was shared, but this was different than before. There was no sense of their bodies, no connection to the waking world, just the dream. This was bliss, so close together, closer than flesh allowed. Even the idea of them ever having been separate seemed beyond comprehension. This was where they belonged, their souls intertwined.

As the brothers were moved to the bed, Garus fussed over them, sparing no detail. Imrahil watched as Varnai, his chief healer examined their injuries. He was more than satisfied and complimented the other man on his work.

Smiling in gratitude, Garus continued with assuring the comfort and safety of his charges. When other hands reached to disrobe the brothers he stopped them, only allowing the removal of their weapons and boots. “This is my task,” he insisted in a quiet, but firm voice, and began clearing the room.

When only Imrahil and Varnai remained in the room, he began removing the rest of their clothing. Faramir was the least injured so he started on him first. Varnai helped turn him to remove his pants and the Prince gasped at the terrible scars crossing Faramir’s flesh from his shoulders to his knees.

“What caused that?” he asked without thinking.

Garus paused and looked him in the eye. “A cane,” he answered without inflection.

Remembering the cane Denethor had always kept in the corner of his study and the dark rumors of how he’d treated some of those under his control in the past, Imrahil shuddered. When they turned Faramir to his back again, he saw the almost healed tattoo and wondered why he had put it there. Then he realized that it wasn’t his own coat of arms, but his brother’s.

Boromir was harder to move, his injuries more serious. Imrahil helped them this time, noting that Boromir had his brother’s coat of arms tattooed on his body as well. By the time they were finished, Faramir had moved close to his brother. While they watched, Boromir reached out and pulled his brother up against him. Garus smiled down at them and checked to make sure that he hadn’t damaged his stitches.

“Where were you trained?” Varnai asked Garus.

“My lord Faramir trained me,” he answered as if it should be obvious.

“No, I mean in the ways of healing,” the other man tried again.

“I learned what I could from the house of healing in Minas Tirith so that I could help my lord when he refused to allow any other to tend his wounds. The wizard Mithrandir also taught me some of his ancient lore, as well as my lords Boromir and Faramir as they have much knowledge of battlefield injuries.” He shrugged before continuing, “Mostly I have learned from doing; they are brave warriors.” He covered them with a sheet. “They will sleep for several days, a healing sleep. You may tell the Steward that they both will recover.”

Imrahil sighed, thinking of Denethor. This was a most unpleasant task.

Prince Imrahil came as often as he could to check on the sons of the Steward. He grew to know and like Garus, whose constant attention and devotion to the brothers warmed his heart.

One day he came very early and caught Garus only partially dressed and was shocked that he was as dreadfully scarred as Faramir. “I see that you engage in battle too,” he commented, trying to make light of his discovery.

“Oh no,” Garus replied, ever honest. “I could never bring myself to harm anyone.”

“The Steward?” he asked, not wanting to believe.

“My father,” he answered, looking to where Faramir lay wrapped in his brother’s arms. “My lord Faramir rescued us from him.”

Imrahil knew that Garus had five younger siblings and that Faramir had arranged for their care. “He bought you from him?” he asked. It was rare, but not unknown.

“No, your highness,” was his answer, and he looked to the floor, his jaw hardening as it did when he would say no more.

His mind raced. Garus had been with them for over seven years and he’d mentioned that he was orphaned, his mother dying giving birth, no explanation for his father. So Faramir had been only eleven when he’d had taken custody of Garus and his siblings. Their father was dead, but Garus had said he’d rescued them from the man. He stopped there. He didn’t want to know any more than he already did, and would prefer to know less.

“How soon before they awake?” he asked changing the subject.

“I will try to wake lord Faramir today and let him decide when to wake lord Boromir,” he answered.

“Do you anticipate any problems?”

Garus shrugged and looked to the sleeping men. “They dream together, it may be very hard to call him from those dreams.”

The restorative drink was bitter and Faramir struggled, even in his dreams, to resist drinking it. Garus could have used some help but the only lure he could think of to bring his beloved lord out of dreams was their most closely held secret. It was never spoken of, never written, he only knew it because he usually slept with the two brothers when they weren’t on campaign and knew all their secrets. Cleaning up what had spilled, he rechecked the lock on the door and returned to the bed.

“My Lord Faramir, you must waken, the king needs you,” he whispered into his ear, knowing that duty was the only thing that could call him from his dreams. Faramir tossed his head and called out in denial as he heard his voice.

“Faramir, Estel needs you, you must waken,” he called softly. Suddenly he began twisting and turning. “No,” he cried out as if in pain, Boromir becoming restless as well.

Tears came to Garus’ eyes; he almost wished he could let him sleep forever. “It is time for you to wake and do your duty,” he said in a firmer but quiet voice. “You must take care of Boromir and prepare for the king. Come, Faramir, leave your dreams.”

Sitting up suddenly and grabbing Garus by the shoulders, Faramir finally awoke. He was breathing heavily and obviously confused. “What has happened, Garus?”

“There was a hunt, my lord,” he whispered. “You were both hurt.”

“I remember,” he said, as his eyes cleared. “Boromir?” He asked even as he turned to examine his brother.

“He was badly hurt, but I used some of the things I learned from the wizard. It looks as if he will be whole when he has healed.”

“Let me see,” he commanded already pulling at the bandages. Garus carefully helped him uncover the wounds, and then peeled back the skin over the torn muscle, which hadn’t been stitched closed yet so that they could monitor the healing of the pectoral muscle. The stitches that had been placed in the muscle had help it reknit, something that couldn’t have happened without some form of magic.

“Yes,” Faramir agreed. “Sew him closed and we will let him rest one more day. How long has it been?”

“Five days, my lord,” he answered.

“Father is probably beside himself,” he said. “You can send for Prince Imrahil when you finish.”

A few moments later there was a knock at the door. Faramir signaled for Garus to continue his work and struggled to unsteady feet to go unlock the door. It was the Prince and Varnai, so he gratefully let them assist him back to the bed.

“It is good to see you awake, Lord Faramir,” Imrahil said. “We were worried about you and your brother.”

“We will both recover, your highness,” he told him. “I will write a letter to the Steward and have Boromir sign it when I wake him tomorrow morning. He is a terrible patient and one more night of rest should let his stitches heal sufficiently so that he will not tear them.”

“I will have my secretary bring you copies of my letters,” he told him, and Faramir nodded gratefully at the offer. It would never do to send Denethor conflicting reports.

Denethor was beside himself with rage. Imrahil ‘hoped’ that Boromir would make a full recovery. He would raze Dol Amroth with his bare hands if he didn’t. ‘How could the fool let this happen?’ he asked himself for the millionth time. Wanting desperately to run to his son’s side, he knew that he couldn’t leave his duty behind. Chained to the burdens of his office, he almost regretted the cost of his power.

For the first time in many years, he decided to give in to his darker urges. To find relief he hadn’t sought since his marriage to the weak and mewling Finduilas. ‘At least she’d given him one son he could be proud of,’ he thought as he went to his study door. Galmar, his long time servant, waited without, as always.

All it took was a certain look, and with a nod of his head Galmar went to seek what his master desired. Even though it had been over two decades, there was no doubt that he would succeed. There were always those in every city, no matter how well governed, that were desperate and would never be missed.

“Wake, my beloved one,” Faramir whispered into Boromir’s ear, too low for any of the others in the room to hear, although Garus probably knew what he said. Boromir opened his eyes and immediately gripped the back of Faramir’s head and pressed a kiss to his brow. He folded his brother in his arms with a slight Grímace of pain. “I was so afraid for you,” he whispered roughly. “You were so still when I drove your knife through the beast’s eye.”

Imrahil’s eyes widened at his words; they’d assumed that Faramir had killed the second boar because of the severity of Boromir’s injuries. The heir of the Steward was a lot tougher than he’d thought, tougher than anyone he’d ever known. Still, he was glad that they had steered him towards finding a husband for his daughter elsewhere. There would have been trouble if she had been asked to share anything, let alone her husband.

“We are glad to see you making such a swift recovery, Lord Boromir,” Imrahil said. “I will be glad to inform your father.”

Boromir released his brother and made to sit up, stopped swiftly by a strong hand on his chest. “Do not make Garus’ efforts in vain, brother,” Faramir told him. “I would rather you heal completely.”

Studying his brother’s face for a moment, he remembered seeing his own ribs beneath torn muscle, the uselessness of his shield arm. “How bad is it?” he asked.

“If you are careful for just a few more days, it should be as good as new,” Faramir answered. “Garus was right behind us and was able to tend to it immediately.”

He looked to the servant who blushed at his usual post in the corner, out of the way. “He proves his worth again, brother,” Boromir said, making him turn even redder. “I will try my best to not destroy his work.” Garus shivered at his words, knowing that they meant so much more than anyone other than the three of them knew. It was his pleasure to serve them as well as his duty, but they knew everything about him and would reward him in ways no other could.

“I’m hungry,” Boromir told them. “My stomach is telling me I’ve been asleep too long.”

There was a general rush of people, some back to their own duties, Faramir and Garus to arrange pillows behind Boromir so that he could eat in comfort. The tension was gone, as it had become clear that all would soon be well again.

The young man had been thoroughly cleaned up. His blonde hair was trimmed neatly to just below shoulder length and his scraggly beard made presentable. After receiving new clothes, much finer than anything he’d ever worn before and a huge meal with plenty of wine, he was ushered up a long set of stairs to a room. He didn’t really know where he was, having allowed himself to be blindfolded to keep the secrecy of his temporary employer. He’d done it before, several times. Sometimes it was bad, sometimes good, but he’d never felt he had any other options for survival.

Once in the room, his new clothes were placed in a small chest with a few other objects that he was assured would soon be his. The center of the room was occupied by a large bed with no head or foot board, but with thick posts at each corner set with imbedded rings, some trailing chains. He felt the first signs of terror when a metal collar was fitted to his neck and fastened to the wall by a short chain. There was just enough room on the chain for him to kneel on the floor as he was instructed, then told to wait. He almost whimpered as the door closed behind the dour man who’d led him here and he was shut away into darkness.

As he had promised, Boromir lay still beneath the soft touch of Garus. He was always thrilled by the worshipful devotion of the man who straddled him. For his part, Garus regarded the older brother much as others would regard a god. Faramir had saved him and his fellow siblings from a horrible life, but Boromir had saved Faramir. He brought peace and safety into a life that had always been uncertain. And soul searing pleasure.

Slowly moving up and down on the almost painfully large erection in his ass, his hands ran lightly over the unbandaged portions of the body beneath him. Faramir pressed close behind him, his own erection sliding against his back as his hands fondled him with consummate skill. Groaning at the hot mouth that knew every secret of his body and was now concentrating on his neck and face, Garus surrendered all control to the two he loved most.

Using his right hand, the one concession they’d allowed, Boromir slowly stroked Garus’ cock. His eyes half closed with lust, he watched the two above him, their movements feeding his mounting desire. Garus was so tender and gentle that his full participation made them restrain themselves from their usual rough sport, which was a good thing for Boromir’s injuries.

Looking into his brother’s eyes, Faramir took hold of Garus’ hips and control of his movements. He began moving him just enough harder and faster to make him grunt with each down stroke. As he felt Garus’ approaching orgasm, he bit softly at his neck and thrust his own cock even harder against his back.

Garus didn’t make a sound when he climaxed, as usual he gritted his teeth and panted quietly, but he never called out or even groaned loudly. Boromir loved to watch Garus cum, his face Grímacing and all of his muscles contracting beautifully. His semen shooting hard as his ass clenched tight, it was amazing to watch, especially when it was his own cock buried to the hilt in him. It made him cum too.

Faramir guided Garus to the bed beside Boromir. Then he ran his hand through the semen on his brother’s stomach and chest, using it to lubricate his own cock. Sitting back on Boromir’s thighs, he began to stroke himself. It wasn’t often that he pleasured himself and even rarer that anyone watched. Garus put his head on Boromir’s shoulder and cuddled into him, as they enjoyed Faramir’s display. Their faces so close together and so intent that he couldn’t last long beneath their loving gaze.

“Come for me, beloved, “ Boromir urged. Faramir couldn’t resist obeying him, his semen spraying across both of them as they watched.

He lay next to Garus, but the servant pushed him gently away and rose from the bed. “That can wait, Garus,” Faramir told him, grasping his hand.

“I know, my lord,” he answered pressing a kiss to his fingers and continuing with his errand. The two brothers looked at each other and smiled, knowing that Garus’ sense of duty was unrelenting. He returned to the bed with a basin of water and cleaning cloths. He began with Boromir, even letting Faramir help, just a little, then cleaned the younger brother before rising from the bed and cleaning himself. When he had finished, he went to sleep at the foot of the bed, like he usually did, to avoid the rough horseplay the brothers often engaged in, but Faramir pulled him up to lie between them.

“We want to give you a gift, Garus,” Boromir told him. “What can we give you that will please you?”

“I have everything I want, my lord,” he replied.

“That is not good enough,” Faramir said. “Name something.”

Garus lay with his head on Boromir’s chest and Faramir’s arms around him. He thought about what he could possibly want. Looking at the tattoo on the hollow of Boromir’s hip, he made up his mind. “I would like a tattoo, one that shows that I belong to both of you,” he answered.

The lamp he carried was the only illumination as he entered the room. Hanging it on a hook, he went about lighting the candles and other lamps, giving no sign that he saw the young man in the corner. A slight tremor shook his hand as he noticed how closely he resembled the current object of his repressed lust. Except for the fear; the other would have betrayed no emotion at all. However, he waited in proper position with his hands behind his back. He had been well fed and plied with plenty of drink and he hadn’t soiled himself, even though it had been hours that he’d had to wait. It was good that he had some self-control, he would need it.

Finally, Denethor unhooked the chain from the wall and led the young man to the tiny chamber where he could relieve himself, and reattached the chain to the waiting hook inside, again closing him into darkness. There were still many preparations to be made. When he was finished, he returned to get the man in the darkened room.

Leading him to the desk that dominated one corner of the room, the one that used to be in his study, he had him bend over it and hooked the chain to the hook concealed just over the drawer. His hands started shaking again as he picked up the narrow cane, also formerly from his study. Pacing himself, he began bringing the cane down on the exposed flesh just hard enough to make beautiful red welts. It brought back such pleasant memories, only now he could take his time and truly enjoy the experience.

He placed his robe on the waiting hook and approached the panting young man. He hadn’t been able to retain control as his intended victim would have, but that only excited Denethor more as he imagined the other losing his control. Without preparation, the thrust into the tight hole, exposed for his use. The scream of pain and contracting muscles incited him to push harder and faster. Yes, this was what he wanted.

Over the next three days, they each wrote detailed accounts of the hunting incident for their father, each taking full blame for allowing themselves to become separated from the others. They did not reveal the seriousness of Boromir’s injuries, but told just enough to confirm Imrahil’s earlier reports and allay any of Denethor’s suspicions. With the letters out of the way, they collaborated on a design for Garus’ tattoo.

The brothers leaned back against the headboard of the bed, looking through a book of Gondorian heraldry they’d borrowed from the Dol Amroth library. Among the coats of arms were the detailed drawings and descriptions of the great seals of the noble houses. The most beautiful of all, to their eyes, was the seal of the king, which was commonly affixed to the king’s personal property.

“I really like this one,” Boromir said, admiring the design. “I want this one, after all I am property of the king,” he finished laughing.

“Father would not be impressed,” Faramir told him with a mischievous smile. “I want one too.” So they decided on a simple arrangement of their initials in decorative elvish runes for Garus and the king’s seal for each of them.

When Varnai and Garus judged Boromir fit to be released from bed rest, the brothers and their servant made their way to the marketplace where they’d been told there were many tattoo artists. They carefully observed the work being done and finally settled on an especially talented artist. Unlike most of the others, this one was a woman, her face showing the signs of a grim life, the dark skin and almond eyes of Haradrim heritage making her an exotic beauty. She spoke little as her hand moved skillfully between flesh and ink. Garus watched with rapt interest as each design took shape. All three men left with their chosen symbol on their right shoulder blade.

The darkness was terrifying. It was usually hours that he had to wait and there was no comfort at the end. The abuse he’d received at other hands paled into significance to what now filled his every waking hour. The beatings had been expected, as well as the rough oral and anal penetrations, but the constant fear and cruelty added a whole new level. One he had not expected.

The man was vicious in his appetites. As he watched in horror, the blood from the open wounds on his chest was used to lubricate the evil man’s cock. It sickened him and frightened him beyond anything he’d ever been through before.

In the week that followed, they sent a letter to their father informing him that they planned to leave the next week, giving them plenty of time to get back into shape. Each day they spent longer hours practicing and worked harder, pushing themselves. In the afternoon, when it became very hot, they would accept visitors in one of the many drawing rooms of the castle. They were popular and many requests were made for their company and services. So many that Faramir started a running joke with his brother about Belfalas soon having more of their offspring than Minas Tirith. Prince Imrahil was at first worried about them charming his daughter into indiscretion, but they always behaved with the utmost honor. He even found himself looking at them with more than just a friendly eye.

Faramir sat on his brother’s legs as he carefully removed the stitches from his chest. He would cut the thread with his knife and gently tease it from his flesh. At the same time, he rocked forward just a little, rubbing his hardening cock against his brother’s through their pants. He would lean forward and kiss the spot the stitch had come from, then kiss his brother’s eager lips. With each removal their blood became more heated, their kisses more passionate.

They were near halfway done and panting with lust, Faramir delaying his work for a moment to claim his brother’s nipple, when they heard a knock at the door. Both brothers groaned at the interruption as Garus found out who had come to disturb them so late at night. “The Prince,” he told them.

Faramir decided to retain his position as it hid their now raging erections with the addition of Boromir’s shirt in the appropriate spot. The bowl, filled with the remnants of the stitches was the only thing that saved Imrahil from full-fledged embarrassment as he saw the brothers on the bed. They were both flushed and heavy lidded with desire, their lips swollen and both showing obvious hickeys and love bites that hadn’t been there when he’d seen them practicing, bare chested, earlier. His hand shook, just a little, as he held out the letter he’d just received.

“An urgent message just arrived from the Steward,” he said, trying to hide his own slight arousal at the image they presented. “I thought I’d better bring it right away.”

“Thank you,” Boromir told him as Faramir took the letter and expertly cut it at the seal and handed it to his brother.

Boromir groaned and handed the letter to Faramir before turning to the Prince. “He has sent a special courier ship to bring us home. I’m afraid we must leave your wonderful hospitality as early as possible in the morning; duty calls.”

Rising from the bed, Denethor looked at pathetic wreck he’d left behind. Nearly two weeks of his attentions had made a great change in the young man Galmar had brought him. He no longer wept or screamed at his attentions, almost as he knew the one he desired would have behaved. But he was afraid he had broken the spirit of this toy, not reached new levels of tolerance.

It was a sad thing, but only to be expected. There were only so many indomitable young men in the world.

Galmar passed him on the stairway. He knew his servant would take advantage of the broken young man he left behind before inserting him in the next outgoing caravan. They had done this frequently at one time, but the pressures of family life had curtailed it. He would not risk his power and the respect of his sons, especially Boromir, for the pleasures of the flesh. He had only two days to cover his tracks before they returned, and he knew that Faramir sensed far more then he revealed. It was better to take the time to do this right. Saruman had once told him that men needed to vent their lusts occasionally, and that thought pushed the faint wisps of guilt from his mind.

The return trip was much faster and the ship’s crew much grimmer than the ones they’d come with. The captain was scandalized when the brothers added the tattoo artist, who called herself Saphron, and all her personal possessions to their own baggage. They had investigated her thoroughly when Garus had expressed an interest in her, finding out that she was an orphan, raised in the local orphanage from infancy. The offer of money and the guarantee of future work assured her willingness to relocate to Minas Tirith. The rest would be up to Garus.

The taciturn nature of the crew incited the mischievousness of the brothers. They didn’t directly interfere with the running of the ship, but they often practiced their swordsmanship in the rigging and on the rails. The Captain soon realized that they had no intention of obeying his orders to desist, claiming that if they were overtaken by pirates or an enemy ship they needed to be ready. Some of the sailors had begun to warm to them just a little by the time the small ship docked south of Osgiliath.

The population of Minas Tirith lined every street to welcome the brothers home. They were well loved and respected by the people of the city. At Boromir’s insistence they wore simple vests so that everyone could assure themselves that they were sound. The beasts’ heads on the cart behind them verified the tales that had been spread. It was a splendid display, filling those who watched with confidence in the two young men who had killed such terrible monsters unaided.

Denethor greeted his sons stiffly, his eyes widening slightly at the size of their trophies. Then he turned and led the way to his study, knowing they would follow. As they seated themselves, the Steward’s mouth tightened even more as he saw the new pink scars of their misadventure. His face turned to stone at the fresh bites and love marks they’d made no effort to conceal.

“Now that your little vacation is over,” he began, “we can get back to defending the realm. If you two can spare the time?”

The brothers groaned inwardly, knowing that there would be much suffering on their part for what they’d done. It would be a very long time before he allowed them any more time away from their duties. And he hadn’t even seen the tattoos yet.

It was quite late when they were finally able to go see what had been done in their new rooms. The suite had five separate rooms, all opening into the main sitting room. There were two adjoining bedrooms with a door and a private bath between. Each bedroom had its own connected study.

They lay in each other’s arms on the huge bed, which stood in the middle of the room. Wondering at the sadness he sensed coming from his brother, Faramir kissed his chin and ran his fingers through his hair.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“We were born in this bed,” Boromir said softly. “Probably conceived here too. I was sitting here on the edge when Mother put you in my arms for the first time. You were only minutes old, and I loved you at first sight.” He kissed Faramir’s forehead and continued when he sighed. “I kissed you just like that and you sighed. Laying here brings it back so clearly. It makes me wonder what she would think of us, if she would approve of our love.”

“I know she would, brother,” Faramir said with conviction. “Nelda told me that Mother would approve, and she had known her since birth. She said she would be proud of us both, we are everything she’d dreamed we’d be.”

Boromir wept at his words, overcome with emotion. He had adored his beautiful Mother, and she had always been kind and understanding. Her arms had always welcomed him and made him feel loved. The only remaining guilt to his love for his brother was the worry over her approval. “You’re sure?” he asked through his tears.

“I asked her before I touched you that night,” Faramir answered. “I knew that you would never be truly happy if you went against her wishes. I loved you enough to never make that move.”

“You are so much like her,” Boromir told him, kissing him again. “So gentle and loving, I wish you could have known her better.”

“Tell me about her, brother,” Faramir asked, and they lay there as Boromir shared his memories. Then the younger brother shared the stories Nelda had told him of Finduilas growing up. They could almost feel her presence there with them.

As they ran out of words, Faramir began to make love to his brother. It was slow and sweet, unlike any other time they had been together. They used their bodies to express the deep love in their hearts and the gratitude for having someone so close. They shared the joy of surviving whole in a world that became more dangerous every day.

Part 7: THE STRUGGLE

Darkness rose out of the east, moving in long tendrils as if sentient, one of which reached for the White Tower. Faramir stirred restlessly in his sleep as the dream continued. There were voices, tempting voices offering power unlimited. He didn’t want power, but they weren’t talking to him. The dark, twisted nature of the voices sickened and frightened him, and there seemed to be no escape.

Boromir woke to his brother struggling and crying out in his sleep. The dreams had been getting steadily worse over the last year. He waited patiently for it to run its course, knowing that Faramir would need comforting, hoping maybe he would finally be able to trace the cause of the nightmares. In the last month, they’d not had one night of undisturbed sleep and it was beginning to be a problem.

He couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he saw things, terrible things. That his youngest son had the same or similar dreams was obvious, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak with Faramir about them. He was even sure that Boromir at least knew about the dreams, maybe shared them as well. It was his own fault. The letter from Saruman had tempted him. He had looked, only for a moment, beneath the protective cloth at the palantir. Now they were all trapped by its siren call.

At least he might be able to spare his sons some of the torment. There were orc raids in Anorien, possibly augmented by a troll or two. He would send them to get the area back under control.

They’d tracked the orcs to several caves; probably all interconnected beneath the hills. There was definitely at least one troll in their company, so they didn’t dare explore inside them too far. Work parties of volunteers from the local villages were gathered to help collapse most of the cave openings and booby trap the rest. One very well hidden opening they left untouched, as if they hadn’t found it. Nearby, they dug pit traps and set up an ambush site. It had taken a week to find the caves and the work had been done in two days, large squads of warriors using bonfires were guarding the remaining cave entrances in the night.

For the first time in over a month, the brothers were able to sleep through the night undisturbed. It worried them that some malignant force was invading their home, and they were helpless against it. It was nice, though, to get a little rest. On the final day of trap building, they ordered all those committed to the ambush to rest for a few hours before sunset, including themselves.

Faramir ran his hands across his brother’s stomach, feeling the corded muscles and watching his cock grow to full erection. Kneeling between his thighs, he took the head of Boromir’s penis in his mouth, using his tongue to stimulate the slit on the end. The taste of his brother was delicious to him and made his own cock fill. Grabbing his hips, he took the entire penis in his mouth and throat as Boromir’s hands grasped his head.

Moaning uncontrollably, the older brother watched as Faramir began long, slow movements up and down his cock. He did it better than anyone else, one of the very few who could take all of him orally. There was little teasing, as they had limited time for this. Boromir allowed himself to release his orgasm, Faramir allowing much of his semen to fill one hand so that he could lubricate his brother’s ass for his own cock.

He was unhurried, but didn’t waste time, sliding himself in completely in one sure stroke. In the last couple of months, his exhaustion had kept him from being the aggressive one in their lovemaking and he wanted to make up for that lack. Claiming Boromir’s mouth, he began the swift, hard rhythm that they enjoyed the most. Pulling back from their kiss, Faramir kissed and licked his way across the firmly muscled chest beneath him, giving small bites randomly. Boromir caressed his brother’s body as he willingly received his engorged cock. He loved to feel Faramir move in him and wrapped his legs around his brother, bucking upward and moving with him. Their lovemaking was bliss.

Leaking precum from his newly hardened cock, Boromir knew he was going to reach completion soon. It had been too long. Sensing his brother’s readiness, Faramir gave a few extra hard thrusts as he bit down on his heavily scarred collarbone. They both cried out in their moment of ecstasy, reaching the peak together.

They had barely caught their breath when Draymor asked for admittance to their tent. He was their most trusted aide and would not disturb them unless there was great need. With a final kiss to his brother’s tempting lips, Boromir called for him to enter. In the five years since the boar-hunting incident, their relationship had become more or less common knowledge among the army, even though they still behaved with much discretion.

One of the work parties had suffered injuries when the pit trap they were working on collapsed on them revealing a previously unknown tunnel. They okayed the orders Draymor had given and added a few more of their own before returning to their rest.

There were no more interruptions before they had to dress and arm themselves for the evening’s work. This was something they had much experience in, luring orcs and sometimes goblins into well-planned traps. Although this would be the first troll they’d dealt with personally, they had been sure to refresh their memories on all the lore available on trolls. It would not please their father if they had another fiasco like the boar hunt.

The efforts of the previous night to keep the enemy contained paid off; the orcs were almost frantic to prey upon the countryside. Like clockwork, they followed the preset trail to where the brothers waited in ambush, a few falling into the traps that had been set to keep them aimed in the right direction. The brothers rechecked their weapons and the positions of their men as the signals from the scouts let them know precisely where their opponents were.

As the orcs filled the clearing before them, they waited for the entrance of the troll to signal the attack. With a roar of rage, two cave trolls entered the planned battle zone amidst the orcs. It was too late to change anything, so Boromir signaled the change in enemy numbers to the reserve units (at least they’d planned that far) and ordered the attack.

It was extremely messy. Except for the rawest recruits, they’d all dealt with orcs before, but the trolls were something entirely different. The bonfires made a lurid display as the great beasts swung their morning stars at anything that moved, even their own forces. The strongest men of the Gondorian forces were armed with oversized spears to stop the creatures, and archers peppered them with many arrows, though they had to be extra careful in the semi-light. Both brothers held a spear and, by unspoken consent, each advanced on a separate target.

Boromir ducked beneath the swing of the ball and chain planting his spear firmly into the monster’s belly. Several of the other warriors were also able to join him and they had it firmly trapped and dying under their control. By the luck of the draw, Faramir’s beast was larger, but he and the other spearmen managed to do the same, almost as quickly. It was an unbelievable bit of luck that they had caught them so quickly. Both creatures were staggering when an ominous crack announced the demise of Faramir’s spear and he fell into hitting range of the troll. The morning star landed against his leg with numbing force, and another sharp crack was concealed by the cry of rage as the monster fell forward on the youngest son of the Steward.

It was several minutes before Boromir was able to be sure of the death of his troll and the remaining orcs. Only then did he go to his brother’s side. His heart stopped as he saw a pale face, the only exposed part from under the dead beast.

“Get this thing off me,” Faramir groaned, lightening his brother’s heart.

In moments, they had it levered away and Faramir was able to breathe again. But Boromir frowned at the unnatural angle of his brother’s leg. The bit of bone sticking out of the shin only confirmed that it was broken.

Denethor was sitting in his study, staring at the hidden door that led to the secret room beneath the eaves of the tower, when the knock sounded. Brought suddenly from his bitter reverie, he called harshly for whomever it was to enter. The herald held forth a message from his orc-hunting sons, which he took gratefully.

Faramir had written the letter and Boromir had signed it, as usual. It gave a cursory story of what had happened, letting him know that full reports would arrive with his youngest son. A broken leg would put Faramir out of commission as a fighter for several months. Leaving him here at the tower, vulnerable. Burying his head in his hands, Denethor cursed all wizards and their machinations. He had begun to build a good relationship with his sons prior to looking at the cursed orb. The last year had been a nightmare, constantly resisting its call. Now he would be, for all practical purposes, alone with his youngest son, the orb, and the dark desires that had begun re-emerging.

It was an untenable situation.

Climbing the many stairs to the rooms he shared with his brother on crutches had been an ordeal he was not in a hurry to repeat. His father had sent word that he was to go immediately to his own rooms rather than report to his father’s study. What that foreboded, Faramir wasn’t sure and he hoped that it didn’t mean a return to the twisted relationship of his youth. This was the first time he would be at residence in the tower without his brother in over ten years. The first time since his father had beaten him so badly.

Boromir had been as aware of the undercurrents as he was. “Do not let him hurt you,” his brother had whispered in his ear as he gave him a parting hug. “I will return as soon as I can.”

Garus was carefully examining Faramir’s leg, making sure that it was set properly when his father entered the room. The haggard look on Denethor’s face startled him almost as much as the concern in his eyes. “How is the leg?” the Steward asked.

“It is healing as it should,” the servant answered, knowing the question had been directed at him.

Looking around the room at the small army of servants who were unpacking and otherwise attending his son, Denethor sat in the chair brought for him at the bedside. “I have finished your reports,” he began.

Faramir raised his hand to signal the servants to leave, but his father stopped him. “There is no need yet,” he said. “I want you to have a full day’s rest before we worry about any serious work.” With that comment, he began a long conversation with his son about the orc hunt and the state of the realm. As the younger man’s sleepiness became apparent, Denethor excused himself to let him sleep.

Once he was gone, Saphron who had accepted Garus as her husband and retired from general tattoo work to become one of the brothers’ most trusted servants, came forward from the side of the room. “He is dangerous to you, my lord,” she said. “He is holding back his demons, but if they escape, you will be the one to suffer.”

“That we all know,” Faramir answered, as she climbed into the bed. “It is how to help him keep them in check that is the mystery. I wish Mithrandir were here to advise me, but I have to make do with what little I know.” The three of them were alone in the room now as Garus sat on the other side of Faramir.

“There is a ritual I learned in Dol Amroth,” Saphron told him. “It won’t banish the demons, but it will help to control them. It is a painful and bloody rite, my lord.”

“Tell me,” he ordered, not much worrying about pain or blood, both of which he was very familiar with.

The tale wasn’t long in telling and sounded much less gruesome than many of his previous experiences. They agreed to perform it shortly after sunset that night. After all, he wouldn’t be able to sleep at all if the dreams came and his brother wasn’t there to comfort him.

Lying on a protective cover, Faramir watched Saphron and Garus make the final preparations for the ritual. They approached, each holding a razor sharp knife and sitting one on each side of him. Starting just above his wrists they began carving symbols into his flesh, pausing to kiss each one as they finished, an added bit that Garus had insisted on.

He gasped at each touch, feeling a surge of energy from both blades and lips. The sharp bite of pain registered more as pleasure to him. It was more and more difficult to remain still beneath their hands as his cock hardened and he became increasingly aroused. This he had not expected. Even though the sword dances brought forth arousal as hard bites could bring either arousal or completion, he had never associated pain with sex consciously before.

Knowing when the ritual would reach completion, he forced himself to hold back. The careful strokes of the knives reached his shoulders and continued down his chest, making him arch his back in pleasure. It felt too good, and he could no longer keep quiet beneath their hands. Saphron and Garus increased their pace, both feeling their lord losing control. His harsh cries echoed in the room as they inscribed the last symbols low on his belly and as Faramir climaxed, he felt a surge of energy rush through him and saw a blinding flash of light beneath his eyelids.

His body relaxed completely and he was deep into a dreamless sleep before the two servants had time to start cleaning him.

Pacing his room restlessly, Denethor wasn’t sure if he should stay here for the night or return to his study. He was almost painfully close to his son here, but the study held greater temptations. There was a strange energy he wasn’t familiar with coursing through him, keeping him from even sitting. Then, suddenly, he felt a draining and half staggered to his bed. It was as if he’d received a strong sleeping potion, and he found himself sinking into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It was midmorning when he finally awoke. Denethor had never slept so late before in his life. He felt refreshed and better than he had in over a year. That his son’s return had something to do with the lifting of the call of the palantir was obvious to him. But he would never ask, never share words on this. As he ate breakfast in his office, he ordered his secretary to take reports to Faramir from the last few weeks and inform him that he would be up later to discuss them. There was no point in risking further injury to his son’s leg by making him go up and down the steep tower stairs. And Denethor felt glorious, better than he had in a long time.

Boromir had to force himself to ride at a relaxed pace through the city. He was anxious to see his brother after their three-week separation and silently cursed the many gates he had to ride through to reach him. That the dark dreams had stopped was a blessing but he knew there was something that Faramir was holding back in his letters and in his dreams.

As he handed off his horse at the seventh gate, he stepped forward to the almost unbelievable sight of his brother standing at the top of the tower’s entrance steps, leaning on their father’s arm. It brought tears to his eyes seeing them so obviously at peace with each other. Embracing them both in a giant hug, he nearly swept them off their feet, shocking many of the courtiers present with this unusual display of affection in public.

At first appearance, their sitting room had been turned into a library and a messy one at that. Faramir had always had a penchant for reading and had not restrained his curiosity in his confinement. Boromir shook his head in mock disgust as he carried his brother (over Faramir’s many protests) into their rooms.

“I see that you have developed many bad habits without me here to guide you,” he told him. “I hope you don’t plan to live like this permanently. From the looks of things, there will not be room for me soon.”

“There will always be room for you,” Faramir said, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. “I have missed you so much.”

Placing his brother on the bed, Boromir kissed his brow before he picked up the waiting journal. He sat down next to him, leaning against the headboard, reading as the servants quietly put his belongings away. There were many entries for the three weeks and the majority of the servants were long gone before he finished, only Garus, Saphron and Stefle remaining.

Setting the book down on a bedside table, he turned to Faramir. “Show me,” he ordered.

The servants shuffled uneasily as the younger brother removed his long-sleeved tunic. Boromir ran a finger over the symbols carved in his brother’s flesh before bending forward to kiss one. “I don’t like it,” he said. “But if it works, I don’t see that there is a choice; at least until we find a permanent solution. Have you discussed this with father at all?”

“No,” Faramir replied. “I think it might be a very bad idea. I don’t know why, but I feel strongly about this. He hasn’t made any attempt to discuss this either, so I don’t think he wants to know.”

“We will leave things as they are for now,” Boromir said. “Hopefully, something will turn up soon. Is there any chance that I could take your place in this?” he asked.

Faramir shrugged and looked to Saphron. “It wouldn’t work as well, my lord,” she answered. “It would have to be done more often.”

“If you start to weaken at all, I will take your place,” Boromir said, nodding solemnly. “But for now, I would have you welcome me home properly.”

The servants left the room, leaving them to each other. Faramir pulled his brother closer so that he could kiss him deeply, his body arching up for closer contact. Boromir stripped his and his brother’s clothes from their bodies without breaking the kiss.

Using some oil kept ready for this purpose, he slicked his cock before lifting Faramir’s uninjured leg and thrusting into his ass. They both groaned and almost climaxed at the rough contact, it had been too long since they had been together. Slowly, Boromir began to move within the tight passage. He ran his hand up and down Faramir’s leg and kissed his welcoming lips as they both climaxed.

“I have missed you so much,” he said as he continued to kiss his face and neck. “If it weren’t for our dreams, I wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

“You are my world, brother,” Faramir whispered. “I want you more each day.” They both began to harden again as they stroked each other. Boromir claimed his brother’s lips as he moved once more deeply inside him. Wrapping his arms around his brother, Faramir’s body arched in ecstasy. There was no holding back as they got as close as they possibly could. Feeling his brother’s teeth bite into his neck, Boromir came again as Faramir’s semen spread between them.

Moving to the side, he traced the symbols that had been cut into his brother’s flesh, kissing each one as he did. The nightmares had ceased for him as well and he knew he had his brother’s sacrifice to thank for that. “I wish I could protect you from all harm, my beloved one,” he whispered.

“I would keep you safe forever, my only love,” Faramir whispered in return. “If only we could lock our bedroom door and keep all the world at bay. I would make love to you for eternity.”

They lost themselves in each other’s arms. There was nowhere else they wanted to be.

The dreams had started to return and Boromir had reluctantly agreed to allow his brother to participate in another ritual. He insisted on being there and had everything explained to him in detail beforehand, even though the account in Faramir’s journal was very explicit. Saphron insisted that he could only touch his brother’s face and no more, even this much was allowed only after much argument.

They began much as they had the first time, with only the addition of Boromir different. The first touches of the blades signaled a much stronger energy and they could see that both brothers were equally caught up in the ritual. The pleasure Faramir felt at the swift smooth cuts was echoed in his brother’s face. The vision of the knives dancing over soft flesh filled Boromir’s sight and danced in his brother’s mind. They were connected by the light touch of the older brother’s hands on the younger’s face in a way that transcended mere physical contact.

The brother’s breathing synchronized and they each became aroused as the rite continued. Saphron gave one worried glance to Garus, but continued; there was nothing else they could do. The rising cries of passion were almost frightening in their intensity as they progressed. This was much stronger than the first time. There was no doubt that Boromir was feeding his brother energy and what effect this would have on the ritual was unknown.

The final knife strokes were met with their cries of completion and a blast of energy that rendered both men unconscious. Garus and Saphron moved Boromir up beside his brother before cleaning them both, hoping that neither had been harmed by what they had done.

Denethor was frightened by the energy he felt coursing through him. He’d felt it once before, but not this strongly, not this out of control. Despite the urge to pace, he made himself recline on his bed, not wanting to be standing when the energy released. It seemed obvious to him that his sons had something to do with what was happening. That it quelled the call of the palantir was good, but he was worried about what they were doing and the possible consequences of their actions.

As the seemingly endless wave passed through him, he felt all thought of pursuing answers drown. There were some things he really didn’t want to know.

The sound of children laughing and playing echoed in the hallway as he approached the rooms he shared with his brother. In the middle of the sitting room, his brother rested on a low chair surrounded by children of varying ages. He was reading from a large book, making faces and funny voices for each character, the young ones at his feet laughing at his antics.

Spying Boromir in the doorway he paused to welcome his brother. “Look who came to visit me, brother,” he said happily. “Come join us while we finish our story.” Faramir cleared a space next to him and signaled Boromir forward, so he went to sit on the floor at his side, pausing to kiss his brow first. He wrapped one arm around his brother and took hold of one corner of the book with the other hand, freeing Faramir to hold him.

The children soon relaxed at the brothers’ show of affection and the wonderful story they were listening to. Before long, they were sitting on Boromir as if they had known him forever. He found it pleasant to be cuddled by children and his brother as the tale unfolded in his brother’s animated way.

They ate lunch on a blanket spread on the floor, the smallest children getting more on them than in. The laughter and happiness were infectious and Boromir found himself having more fun than he would have believed.

That night, as he lay in his brother’s arms, he asked about the children. “There has always been a nursery of sorts for the servants and the guards,” Faramir answered. “I’ve visited them as often as I could through the years. It helps give me strength to fight against the shadow that darkens our lives. Did you enjoy yourself, brother?”

“Immensely,” Boromir answered. “Father never allowed me to play with other children; he said they were beneath me. I know Mother objected, but he insisted. You were the only one I was ever allowed to play with, and father didn’t approve of that either.”

“But I was allowed to play with other children,” Faramir said, making his brother laugh.

“He never knew of it,” Boromir told him. “You were supposedly studying at that time, but you were such a good student, he didn’t realize where you really were.”

“You could have joined me,” Faramir said.

“I was not such a good student,” Boromir chuckled. “And he would send for me or come to see me unexpectedly. He would have found out. Besides, I didn’t want to share my time with you, I would have grown jealous seeing you with anyone else.”

“It’s a good thing you’ve outgrown your jealousy.”

“But I haven’t,” Boromir said. “I can’t bear watching you more than a few minutes. Only when you are in my arms can I be truly happy.”

Faramir kissed his brother deeply. “You don’t have to share me, beloved brother,” he whispered.

“We both have to share, brother,” Boromir said sadly. “There are the many heirs we have to beget, the loyalties we must seal. Not to mention the wife I shall find for you some day.” He caressed his brother’s sweet face. “I have long accepted our fate, it is part of who we are. Only in this way can we satisfy duty and honor as well as our love. We will struggle against the darkness and create our own light with our love.”

“You are becoming quite poetic, brother,” Faramir told him, pulling him closer in his arms. “We will do our duty for our people, keep our honor for our father’s house. And I will love you beyond the end of time, you are my everything.”

They kissed again, their hands touching all the places they knew so well. Their bodies were pressed tightly together, their stiff cocks rubbing each other. Boromir’s leg came into painful contact with the casing that kept Faramir’s broken leg straight, making them jump.

“I will be very glad when you are healed enough to be rid of that,” Boromir said through clenched teeth.

“Shall I kiss it and make it better, brother?” Faramir said, thrusting his body upward against his brother.

“Oh yes,” Boromir said, as he rolled to the side just enough to grasp both their cocks in his hand. He leaned in to claim his brother’s mouth with a possessive kiss. “Your kisses make everything better.”

That his arrival had been watched for was apparent to the wizard, as a messenger set out ahead of him to the White Tower. He wasn’t sure whether to be complimented or alarmed. Denethor had never hid his dislike of him and could be a rather devious and vicious person. However, Faramir always welcomed his company and often sought his advice. It would depend on which one of them waited for news of his arrival.

As he approached the third gate, he was surprised to see Boromir waiting with a spare horse. “How nice of you to spare an old man such a long walk, Boromir,” he said as he mounted. “Is all well with your family?”

“To all appearances everything is just fine,” Boromir answered. “There are things I cannot speak of here, but I would speak with you privately after you have had a chance to rest from your journey.”

“If it is important, I can rest later,” the wizard told him.

“I don’t want to raise any suspicions, or anger my father,” the young man answered. “This is something I dare not discuss with him, but he would be offended that I sought your advice.”

“I can meet you in an hour in the library,”

“I would rather have you come to our rooms.” At the wizard’s confused look, he continued, “Faramir and I have moved to the suite of rooms that our mother used. I can send a servant to show you the way.”

“I remember how to find them,” Mithrandir told him. “I used to visit her every time I came to Minas Tirith.”

“In an hour then,” Boromir said with a nod before riding away.

There was a darkness to the tower that lay heavy on his heart as he made his way up the winding stairs. He worried at what Boromir had to tell him, and wondered if Faramir would be present. As he neared the door, he could smell the magic, dark magic.

Faramir sat on a couch, his broken leg propped on a stool, Boromir close beside him. The wizard pulled a chair close to the two brothers and sat down. “Do you have any idea how dangerous what you have been doing is?” he asked sternly.

“We didn’t have a choice,” was the calm answer.

“Tell me,” Mithrandir ordered.

Faramir told him of the terrible dreams that had been destroying their lives and the only solution they’d been able to come up with. The wizard let him tell the whole story before asking questions and then questioned both Saphron and Garus. Last, he had Faramir show him the symbols. Despite the many scars the young man already had, the marks were easily seen.

“These aren’t evil symbols and the ritual isn’t dark magic, but more of a binding,” he told them. “With your blood you have bound the dark force that was disturbing your dreams. I’m afraid it will complicate matters.” He sighed before continuing, “We will have to undo the binding, which will be very painful for you.”

“How will it be painful?” Boromir interrupted.

“The symbols need to be removed,” Mithrandir answered. “Completely removed or he will remain connected to the dark force and it is very possible it could use that connection to harm him, maybe even both of you.” He paused to let his words sink in. “I need to find out the nature of the enemy first, is there anywhere I can be undisturbed for a while?”

“You can use one of our rooms, we will make sure you are left alone,” Boromir told him.

“You should eat first,” Faramir said. “Garus will get us all something to eat.”

After nearly an hour alone, the wizard emerged with a worried frown on his face.

“I cannot trace the original source of the dark power, but it seems to be emanating from the palantir your father is safeguarding for the king,” he told them. “I’m sure he wouldn’t attempt anything so foolish as to try and use it himself. The things are dangerous and unreliable in these times. I can reset the wards once we have removed the binding.” He sat in a large chair by the window, letting himself be refreshed by the sunlight and fresh breeze. “I truly hate blood magic, it’s always so messy and painful.”

“I don’t mind the pain,” Faramir told him. “I’m quite used to it.”

“So I could see,” Mithrandir responded.

The unbinding was even more grisly then the binding ritual. Saphron and Garus had been very careful to cut only deep enough to draw blood, but now the symbols had to be removed. Starting with the last one, they began cutting the marks from his body. Boromir knelt, his hands cradling his brother’s head, his forehead resting against his brother’s, unable to watch. Faramir couldn’t even pretend to ignore the pain, as he had to draw on his brother’s strength to resist it.

Mithrandir monitored their progress with a Grímace of distaste. In all his years, he’d never seen two such determined young men. They’d never complained about their own burdens and could be relied upon to complete their task or die trying. It pained him to see them suffer so, he wished he could take them to Aragorn now, but all things must wait for the proper time. There was no doubt in his mind that Denethor would react very badly if he even knew of Aragorn, let alone the wizard’s connection to him. When the time came, it would be bad enough that Denethor knew Aragorn as Thorongil, and hated him; that his sons had already decided on their loyalty to the king would be another harsh blow. Looking at the seal Boromir had tattooed on his shoulder, he wondered if the Steward knew about it.

The air in the room grew dark and they could tell that the unbinding was working. Mithrandir gathered his strength, containing the dark force, driving it back to the palantir. Boromir had moved one of his hands so that his brother could bite down on it to contain his screams of agony, and was himself breathing in harsh, short gasps. The two servants cut the last symbols free and the darkness fled swiftly from the room and was gone.

In the silence of the room, the only sound was the harsh breathing of its five occupants. They were all stunned and exhausted by the ritual. Moving slowly, the wizard carefully checked to make sure that no taint of darkness remained on either brother or their servants. When he was finished, he rested his hand on Boromir’s shoulder over the seal and was startled by the pulse of energy he felt. Saphron and Garus began applying salve and bandages to Faramir as soon as his inspection was through.

Taking the bowl they had placed the bits of severed flesh in, Mithrandir dumped it in the brazier he had waiting. The smell of burning skin filled the room along with his low chanting; he was leaving nothing to chance.

“I hope you will be a little more careful with magic in the future,” the wizard told them. “It can be a very chancy thing.”

“I hope to never have to deal with magic again,” Boromir answered, cradling his brother in his arms as the servants finished dressing his wounds.

“As do I,” Faramir said, “but we will do whatever is necessary to keep the realm safe.” He turned in his brother’s arms so that Mithrandir could see the matching seal on his right shoulder.

Denethor lay on his bed sweating. He had just gone through one of the most hideous ordeals of his life, but he knew that the damage he had done when he had looked at the palantir was undone. He also knew that the wizard was probably to be thanked for that, but that he never would bring himself to do it.

He would never trust any friend of Thorongil, nor show them any gratitude. There was too much history for him to change now.

Part 8: WILD HEARTS

They waited at the top of the hill, watching the riders herd the horses in a graceful arc to the waiting pens. The banner the standard bearer displayed told them that the leader of the Rohan forces was the Third Marshall of the Riddermark, Éomer son of Eomund, nephew to Théoden King. It was easy to pick him out as he rode at the head of his troops with all the flair and daring of one born to the saddle. His long blond hair flowed behind him as he raced the wind to where the brothers waited.

“He is magnificent,” Faramir commented.

“Yes, he is,” Boromir answered.

“Would you like me to bring him to our bed, brother?” the younger man asked.

“If you can do it without causing a war,” Boromir laughed. “I think father would be very angry if we alienated our best ally.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Faramir answered. “I’ve heard he spreads his charms every bit as much as we do.”

“Go carefully anyway, brother,” Boromir said. “You know how misleading rumor can be.”

By this time, the young prince was near enough so they could make out his features, and he was as beautiful in face as he was a horseman. He rode his mare (for Rohirrim knew which mounts were most faithful and fierce) between the brothers’ horses until he was almost face to face with them.

“Well met, Prince Éomer,” Boromir greeted him. “My brother and I have long awaited the chance to meet you.”

“And I you, my lords,” he replied with an intense smile. “Your reputation precedes you, and I would love to hear first-hand of the slaying of trolls and giant boars, not to mention countless orcs and goblins. I’m sure there is much I can learn from two such celebrated heroes.”

“As we are sure we can learn much from you, my prince,” Faramir added. “It is not often that one so young is allowed to exercise his title, especially among warriors of such renown.”

Éomer blushed at his words, but otherwise accepted them gracefully. “My uncle, the king, gave me three weeks to conclude our business. We made excellent time getting here; I should have at least a week and a half before I have to return. I thought we might integrate our camps for that time.”

Boromir smiled at the forwardness of the seventeen-year-old before him. “We would be pleased if you would share our tent, my prince,” he said. Although Faramir had offered to seduce the third Marshall, he couldn’t resist the brash young man.

“That would be acceptable to me,” came the ready reply, letting them know that rumor had struck this nail on the head.

As the hour grew late, Draymor left the pavilion occupied by the two brothers, and now the young prince of Rohan, lacing the flap behind and indicating to the joint guard that they shouldn’t be disturbed. The Gondorians had provided ale from the south, but Éomer had brought mead from the west and its sweetness had seduced them from their usual drink. They sat on the unusually large camp bed the brothers had brought with them, Éomer in the middle.

“I heard that your tongue is at least a foot long,” Faramir said into the younger man’s ear.

Without hesitation he swiped his long (though not nearly a whole foot) tongue along Boromir’s neck, causing him to groan with pleasure and making sure that Faramir could see its length.

“I heard that you two have the biggest cocks in the whole world,” came Éomer’s challenge. They opened their pants displaying their half erect penises, which impressed the prince mightily, almost making him wish he hadn’t chosen to sleep with the Steward’s sons.

“They aren’t so terrifying as they look,” Boromir confided, definitely under the influence of the mead. “Watch this.” He leaned across Éomer and swallowed his brother’s cock whole, while his skillful hand went to work on the Prince’s pants. His eyes widening in disbelief, the prince couldn’t help running his hand through the oldest brother’s hair as he watched him.

Faramir coaxed Éomer into a deep kiss, not wanting the younger man to shy away from their actions. The intensity of the prince could be felt in his hungry kiss. They knew that he was orphaned and had been raised by his uncle; they understood the needs of those who were condemned to serve positions of power. Crying out his need, Éomer let them know that he needed what they knew. Boromir released his brother’s cock and claimed the prince’s in an ungentle display of lust. It was perfect, the younger brother nipping and kissing his way past all of the prince’s safeguards, the older guiding his manhood to unparalled pleasure. There had never been any who had swallowed him in such a complete manner, none who had kissed him in such a complete way. All he could do was lie there beneath their ministrations and hope that they wouldn’t stop before he was truly complete. Then the world exploded on him.

They slowly stripped each other, marveling at the differences and the sameness of their bodies. The brothers were heavily scarred, Faramir almost unbelievably so. Éomer’s skin was almost clean of disfigurement; he’d only just begun his career as a warrior. The younger of the brothers was leaner then the other two men, who were heavily muscled, and the prince was the same height as they were and would probably grow a bit taller. Éomer marveled at their tattoos and the neat patterns of the sword dances.

“More,” Éomer whispered as they brought him fully within their bed and their embrace.

“Oh yes, more,” Faramir echoed.

Boromir used the oil they had in plenty and prepared the oh so tight ass of the young prince. “I have plenty more for you, my lovely princeling,” he said as he slid his oversized organ into the tight hole waiting for him. His expertise was such that there was no pain, just the feeling of hot fullness.

Éomer had lost all control and just wanted to find a new release in this new pleasure. “Faster, harder,” he chanted.

Faramir renewed his assault on the prince’s mouth, while his hands explored his body. Boromir kissed and nipped Éomer’s face and shoulder, occasionally kissing his brother as well. His large hand reached around both the younger men’s cocks, causing them to slide together erotically. Éomer’s hands joined Boromir’s to more perfectly encase the pulsing organs. Setting the pace, Boromir moved slow and hard, keeping them at the edge of completion for a very long time.

Feeling himself slipping over the edge as Boromir increased his speed and varied the pressure of his strong hand, Éomer cried out into Faramir’s mouth. The white heat of his orgasm was almost too much for him as he was buffeted by the climaxes of the two brothers. As they lay entangled in each other’s arms, on the verge of sleep, the prince was very glad his uncle had sent him on this errand.

Although he was an excellent swordsman, Éomer was learning a lot from the brothers. They let him join them for their morning exercises and patiently showed him many moves. Later, Faramir sat reading while Boromir drilled with the young prince. He was very intense, and would occasionally lose patience with the older man’s ability to dominate him, letting his anger show. Then Boromir would disarm him or pin him against his larger body and chastise him for carelessness.

Finally, Faramir put his book aside and rescued Éomer from his brother’s not so gentle attentions. Some of the men had been watching the prince’s lessons, but when the younger brother joined in, a crowd began to gather. At the first lightening exchange between the brothers, Éomer wisely retired from the field.

Though he’d been steadily sparring for some time, Boromir fought as if he was fresh. Sparks flew from the contact between the blades and it was obvious that they weren’t holding back in any way. The older brother was stronger, but the younger was faster and they knew each other’s moves. In minutes, they were both breathing heavily and sweating. As their duel continued, they began cutting each other’s clothes. Buttons and bits of cloth went flying, bright splashes of red appeared as they pushed harder, cutting just enough to draw blood. Their blades, moving nearly too fast to be seen, rang in the quiet as all who watched waited with baited breath to see which brother would win this encounter. Faramir laughed as he nearly severed the belt holding Boromir’s pants.

A dangerous glint appeared in the older brother’s eye and he advanced on his opponent, intent on revenge. Faramir was still laughing, but it didn’t impair his movements. With a quick flip of his wrist, he sent his brother’s sword flying and, following up, he tripped him to the ground.

“You are getting careless and fat in your old age, brother,” he said poking Boromir’s belly with his sword.

Boromir kicked Faramir’s hand, sending his weapon over his head, and then they were rolling around in the dirt. The Rohirrim were concerned until they saw the Gondorians laughing at the brothers’ antics. Eventually Boromir managed to pin his brother beneath him, tickling his ribs until he yielded. Immediately, Faramir was released and pulled to his feet.

Carefully examining the gathered fighters, Boromir signaled two of them to come forward. Draymor handed Faramir his sword and the younger man pulled out his long knife with his other hand. Moving to Éomer’s side, Boromir signaled for the three fighters to begin.

It was soon obvious that the two Gondorian warriors were used to fighting together, but they were hard pressed to hold their own against the Steward’s youngest son. Moving with grace and precision Faramir steadily wore down his opponents, all sign of playfulness gone. Boromir pointed out different moves and techniques to Éomer as they watched, ever the conscientious teacher.

“Why does he have to pay the forfeit when he was the one who disarmed you?” Éomer asked.

“He didn’t move in for the kill or make me yield,” the older man answered. “An unarmed enemy can still be dangerous; these are the rules we fight by. He took a chance and lost.”

“So you do this frequently?”

“We have practiced our swordplay together nearly every day since he learned how to walk,” Boromir told him. “I would have my brother be the best fighter in all the world and he does it to please me.”

They watched the rest of the match with their silence only broken by Boromir’s continued instruction. Éomer was amazed and inspired by the martial abilities of the two brothers. The riders of Rohan were ferocious and able fighters, but their first love was always their horses. He’d never before met anyone who dedicated so much of their life to warfare. Of course, Gondor had been steadily at war with Mordor for many years and their survival depended on the prowess of their warriors.

Faramir eventually overcame his two opponents, but it wasn’t easy. Still, he managed to end the bout with a flourish, disarming both of them at once and forcing them to yield. The smell of food was in the air and the gathered men began drifting over to where the food tents had been set up. On this relaxed of a march, there were many camp followers and Faramir had organized them into providing a communal kitchen for all the fighters, as well as taking care of many of the menial tasks common to soldiers in the field.

When Éomer and the two brothers reached their pavilion, Faramir began serving them the food that had been delivered for them to eat. “Why do you not have servants to tend you?” Éomer asked, remembering that he had served their meal the night before as well.

“It is my duty and my pleasure to serve my brother,” Faramir answered. “At home, there is no time and we are overrun by servants, but in the field we generally only have to deal with military campaigning, so we have more time.”

“Your cousin will be king after Théoden, do you not serve him?” Boromir asked.

“It has never come up, there are too many servants and not enough time at Edoras. There are always too many meetings. Théoden King has said that Théodred can ride out with me when he reaches twelve, if he proves capable,” was the answer. “I’m quite sure he will, as he is already an excellent horseman and good with a sword and bow, even though he is only seven.”

“That gives you plenty of time to think about how you wish to proceed with him,” Faramir said. “It is not easy to be second in line to the seat of power.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” Éomer said. “I don’t want to be king.”

The brothers laughed at his words. “I wouldn’t want to be either,” Boromir said. “Just don’t let my father know.”

“I noticed that you have women warriors among your forces,” Faramir said, changing the subject. “How do they compare to the men?”

“They are as good, though they tend to fight a bit differently,” Éomer answered. “It is a tradition among my people that any woman may be a shield-maiden, as long as she is not pregnant past four months. It is common for us to have more than one husband and wife in a family to facilitate this. In our nomad days, we needed the greatest amount of warriors available at all times, and several parents help keep the children’s lives stable when there are deaths, as well as providing an established home for our fighters. We tend to keep our marriage customs to ourselves, though there have been those in the past who have taken great exception to them.”

“I think I wouldn’t mind your customs at all, my friend,” Boromir said, looking meaningfully at his brother.

“Nor would I,” Faramir spoke with a smile.

“It is common for brothers to share wives, and sisters to share husbands among our people,” Éomer laughed.

There was no comparison in horsemanship. Although there were several cities and many villages in Rohan, much of the population was still at least partly nomadic. Éomer had lived on horseback with his parents most of his early life, following the great herds. He could ride with or without saddle or bridle and could do much that the brothers had never even imagined, let alone seen being done while mounted on a horse.

“My parents told me that I was conceived on horseback,” Éomer told the brothers as they rode in the light of the full moon. The brothers had a simple saddle that was little more than a pad with stirrups, while Éomer rode bareback. Riding with each of them was one of the shield-maidens. “It is considered quite fortuitous to be conceived this way. The only really hard part is not falling off, at least until you’ve had some practice,” he said.

They were all naked, riding amongst the herd of grazing horses. There were other riders, obviously intent on the same pursuits, scattered about. Those guarding the herd were all facing away from them, giving them a sense of protected privacy.

The earlier rituals and celebration of this cycle of the moon were new to the Gondorians. Denethor tended to frown on ‘frivolous’ activities and his attitude colored those of his people. Though the smaller communities generally held to the old ways, the cities had lost much of their roots. Though there were still many fertility rites practiced in Gondor, they tended to be kept private.

The brothers had to do little more than keep their balance and provide a stable support for their more experienced partners. It was exhilarating and fun with much joyful laughter. There were several exchanges of partners, some from one person to another, some leaving to relieve the guards so that they could have their turn. It was not just for procreation, as some of the couples were both male or both female; there were even a few adventurous types who played with three to a horse.

As the evening came to a close, Éomer mounted behind Boromir and urged Faramir to mount in front of his brother, facing him. The young Prince helped steady the older brother as he lifted Faramir enough to impale him on his hard cock. Then Éomer carefully slid his own cock into Boromir’s ass. Clicking softly to the horse to increase its pace, Éomer let its movements control theirs.

For the first time, the prince was in complete control of what they were doing. He kept the horse altering its pace, keeping all three of them on the edge. It wasn’t the most comfortable way to have each other, but it was exciting and soon the brothers were urging Éomer to bring their release. If the horseman hadn’t been strong enough to hold them, they would have fallen from the gelding’s wide back.

“Too bad our father wouldn’t let us marry you instead of your sister,” Faramir said, only half kidding.

“Wait until you meet her,” was Éomer’s proud answer. “She wasn’t only conceived on horseback, but born there too. When she reaches womanhood, she will be quite a prize.”

“I will take your word for it,” Boromir told him. “You haven’t disappointed us yet.”

As their time together drew to a close, they discussed many plans and strategies for dealing with the increasing orc and goblin problems along their mutual borders. They knew that it might be years before they would meet face to face again, if they survived, so they took advantage of every moment they had together. Éomer and his men had learned many new sword techniques, while the men of Gondor developed their horsemanship to a level hitherto unknown.

“Your men are amongst the most well trained I have ever seen,” Éomer told them, as they lay resting after a wild round of sex.

“They are our permanent guard,” Boromir said. “Twenty for each of us, wherever we go, they go with us. We’ve hand picked and trained each one of them.”

“We know their families, their histories, everything about them,” Faramir added. “And we bind them to us with everything we can think of. I am confident of their absolute loyalty.”

“I have noticed the tattoo they each wear on their shoulder, but I can’t tell which men belong to who,” Éomer said.

“We stay together as much as possible,” Boromir told him. “But when we part, it depends where each is going, for the men belong to us both. We take who is best for our goal, or if there is no difference, we let them choose.”

“I have learned much from you,” the prince said. “I will speak with my uncle and my cousin, even my sister when I return home, but I don’t think I will share all of your methods with them,” he added with a grin. “In these dark times, it is good to be assured of the loyalty of one’s warriors, though treason is rare in our history.”

“I wish it were so in ours,” Faramir said with feeling. “There are many instances of Númenorean failings. Just what I’ve seen in dreams is enough to curdle the blood.”

“You suffer from nightmares?” Éomer asked.

“Visions,” Boromir answered. “Sometimes we both have them, but Faramir has seen the past as well as the future in his dreams. It is a trait long known in the men of our line.”

“It sounds like it can be just as much a curse as a blessing,” the prince commented.

“You are right about that,” Faramir said. “I’ve had warnings that have saved our lives and endless nightmares that served no perceivable purpose. We’ve learned to take the good with the bad.”

“Well, my dealings with the two of you have been more than good,” Éomer said as he rolled against Faramir, rubbing his body against him. “I would rate them, at the least, as excellent.”

“We would have to say the same of you, my fair prince,” Boromir said as he pushed up against Faramir’s other side. “If only all our allies were as sure and strong as you.”

Relaxing beneath their ministrations, Faramir let the other two have their way with him. Their hot mouths and eager hands explored and aroused him everywhere, and occasionally each other. Éomer began kissing and nipping his way down the younger brother’s body as Boromir turned him on his side and rubbed his cock against Faramir’s ass. Their movements couldn’t have been choreographed better. As Boromir’s penis slid into Faramir’s ass, Éomer swallowed Faramir’s cock; using the technique he’d learned from the brothers. Faramir pulled Éomer’s hips toward his mouth and sucked the hard penis completely within. He pushed his wet fingers slowly into the prince’s ass, as the young man did the same for Boromir.

All three were filled and encased in hot wetness, thrusting and pulling back in unison with each other. Boromir kissed and nipped his brother’s neck and shoulder, while his fingers joined in spreading Éomer’s ass impossibly wide. Without breaking the rhythm of his hips, Boromir leaned across Faramir and ran his tongue across Éomer’s cock as it slid in and out of his brother’s mouth.

The unexpected stimuli caused Éomer to moan around Faramir’s cock. The vibration caused Faramir’s ass to constrict around Boromir’s thrusting penis. Boromir divided his attentions between his brother and the prince, all the while keeping his cock steadily pumping in and out of his brother’s ass. They moved against each other with the familiarity developed over the past few days, glorying in the rough and sensuous contact. Both younger men followed Boromir’s lead, until they could hold back no more, and as had happened since their first such encounter, all three climaxed at once.

This was the last day that the Rohirrim and Gondorian forces could tarry in each other’s company. The following morning would see all of the bright pavilions and tents struck, both companies returning to their duties. The brothers had promised to perform one of the Númenorean sword dances for the prince. Draymor showed the prince how to prepare them for the military display, as he wanted to be there for the final, more private part of the dance.

The fourth dance was the most artistic; it contained sixty-three moves for each dancer, though only twenty of them drew blood. They wore little more than a loincloth, even their feet bare, one long curved knife each. Starting back to back, their heads leaning back on each other’s shoulders, they synchronized their breathing before they began the swift and graceful movements.

Éomer had never seen anything like it. He watched them, completely entranced by their dance, wishing he could join in. Their closeness of the past week drew him, making him feel the stretch of muscles, the burn of sharp steel on flesh. Never had he felt his blood surge so strongly, his body respond so thoroughly with only visual stimuli. The mixed group of Gondorian and Rohirrim warriors disappeared from his consciousness, only the two dancers registering to his lust befogged mind.

The flash of steel and spray of blood filled his senses, as the brothers circled him in their dance. He held perfectly still, instinctively knowing that they had changed their intended movements to include him. The blades of their knives whispered close past his body in unerring grace. Here and there, bits of blood and sweat splashed him, their breath filled his lungs as they brushed close, almost touching him.

The dance came to a sudden end. The brothers stood tightly against him, their eyes locked with his. Éomer didn’t even realize he’d stopped breathing until he drew a ragged breath. Only the rough cheer from the gathered warriors saved him from completely forgetting where he was.

The Steward’s sons bowed to those watching, then headed for their tent, Faramir taking the prince’s hand and bringing him with them. Once inside, they drew Éomer between them and began stripping his clothes away, losing their own with little effort.

Running a finger through the blood and sweat on his brother’s chest, Faramir brought it to Éomer’s lips, letting him taste it. “My brother’s blood is sweet and addictive,” he whispered in his ear, and then ran his tongue down the Prince’s neck.

“Not as sweet as my brother’s,” Boromir said, copying his brother’s movements. “Would you join us in this my prince? Would you bind yourself with two warriors?”

“Yes,” Éomer growled, each arm encircling a well-muscled waist.

The cold bite of steel moved across his chest, making him gasp. Faramir ran his fingers across the cut as Boromir dropped the knife. “Let us mix your blood with ours,” the younger brother said as he gathered the red offering from each chest. Though the cuts from the brothers’ dance barely bled, there were twenty each, along with the fresh blood from Éomer. The smell of it was heavy in the air.

“We are bound by our blood, by our bodies and our hearts,” Faramir said, his hand combining the blood from his and his brother’s wounds. “We have invited you to join with us and you have agreed.” His hand rested over Éomer’s heart letting his slow, flowing blood mix with theirs.

“I give you my sword and the battle lore of Númenor, as much as I can and as often as I can,” Boromir said, claiming Éomer’s lips.

“I give you my visions, both past and future, and the learning of the ancients,” Faramir told him, pressing his own hot lips to the prince’s.

“I give you my wild heart and the freedom of the Riddermark, that you will never be entrapped in the hard cold stone of your cities, or the demands of duty,” Éomer told them, winding his hands in their hair and kissing them both at once.

Faramir used their blood and sweat to lubricate Éomer’s cock, then turned and offered himself to the prince. Licking his bloody back, he slowly filled Faramir’s tight heat. Pausing when he was fully within, he felt Boromir’s engorged cock at his own entrance. Éomer wrapped his hands around Faramir’s penis, and they began a smooth rhythm. Their joining was better than it had ever been; they felt connected in spirit as well as body.

They bathed afterward, washing the blood, sweat and semen from each other in the metal tub that had been brought with the Gondorians. Although barely one of them could fit in it at a time, they enjoyed a thorough cleaning at each other’s hands. They dressed each other afterward, exchanging small items with each other, before rejoining the rest of the encampment for a parting feast.

Just what turned the cheerful gathering into a wild party, none of the three were ever able to agree on later. Boromir thought that the toast from Draymor on his quickly approaching thirtieth birthday and the highly improper suggestions as to what to gift the Steward’s heir had been the start. Faramir was convinced that the very appealing offer of the Rohirrim shield maiden to his brother as she lay naked on the main table, having pushed the food aside, was more likely the cause. While Éomer blushingly admitted that his willingness to demonstrate the proper method of fellatio, especially on very large cocks like Faramir’s, could have led to the complete loss of decorum among the gathering.

No matter what the cause, the morning found many in the camp short on sleep. The Steward’s sons and the prince hadn’t slept at all, and were far from alone in this. There were many sad partings, even the Gondorian camp followers involved in long goodbyes. As a joining of like spirits, the ten-day encampment had been a success, but the Rohirrim were duly warned that not all their brothers and sisters to the east were so amenable to their lifestyle. It was well known that Boromir and Faramir had to behave with great circumspection in the cities of Gondor, while their relationship would have been considered commonplace in Rohan. After all, there was often loss of life, not to mention frequent sterility by accident in the Riddermark; life with horses wasn’t always kind.

“I will see you in my dreams,” Faramir told Éomer. “Until I hold you in my arms again.” They kissed sweetly, even as the gathered forces of both watched.

“I will send our old swordmaster to work with you and train your cousin and sister,” Boromir said, his kiss hard and possessive. He remembered how he had watched Éomer and Faramir make love to each other and had not felt even a twinge of jealousy for the first time, only burning desire for them both. “I would be grieved to lose you or any you hold dear.”

“I am proud that you have both chosen the mounts I suggested for you,” the young prince told them, his voice husky with emotion. “I will support your suit of my sister with my uncle, and speak in your favor to her ear. I am proud to be bonded with you, even in such an informal manner. I hope that when you face the shadow, thoughts of me can bring you comfort, for I will rejoice in thoughts of you.” He clasped them both, his mount steady between theirs. “Until we meet again my brothers.” Then he backed his horse away without word or movement of his hand.

Stopping a few feet in front of them, he looked at them with all the intensity they’d become accustomed to, his deep emotions obvious on his face. Then, with a savage yell he whirled his mount, calling his eored to him and sped away. Sitting at the crest of the hill, the two brothers, the products of many years of Númenorean training and heredity, watched the Rohirrim ride into the west, taking their wild hearts with them.

When the riders disappeared from sight, they turned eastward with a sigh of resignation. There, in the distance, Barad-dur spewed smoke into the sky and they faced the incessant war. But, somehow, the war cry of their blood brother kept them from despair as they rode home to duty and endless warfare and death. A small part of their hearts rode west under bright sun in freedom.

Part 9: LOYALTY

They walked through the marketplace, Faramir at times almost dragging his brother to examine another local curiosity. He’d developed a keen interest in what could be found in the villages of Gondor. Laughing at his brother’s antics, Boromir took pleasure in just being with him. Faramir would later write a concise and elaborate report to their father justifying their day of leisure, his keen eye ever noticing the little things that showed the mood of the people. His journal entry for Boromir would be completely different with many references to how good he looked in a certain light or color, what impulsive act he longed to do in their wanderings. There were numbers accompanied by a code, which told how many times he managed to touch him in public. Often there would be just a quick cupping of a hand on ass or cock, concealed by a drape of fabric or other cover. Sometimes he would use their closeness in a crowd to rub suggestively against him and occasionally they would be observed. A few of the observers had later ended up sharing the brothers’ bed for the night, while some had turned away scandalized.

They were drawn to a cleared area where two women danced to the music of drum and lute. Their long dark hair hung to their knees as they moved sinuously to the music. Boromir recognized the women’s features as those from the north, maybe Esgaroth or the region of Eriador. Pressing tightly against his brother, Boromir rested his chin on his shoulder as he watched. Then he clearly saw their faces. Matching each other feature for feature he realized that they were identical.

“What do you think, brother?” he asked Faramir, who hadn’t moved.

“Esgaroth, and twins,” was the husky reply. “They are unmarried, and the musicians are probably brothers or uncles. I like them, brother.”

“As do I, do you think they might want to play with us a while?” Boromir asked.

Noting the condition of their clothes and equipment, Faramir thought of what he knew about such people. The wrong wording of an offer could bring mortal insult to some tribes, but he thought he could come to an agreement with them. “I think they just might, brother,” he finally answered, leaning back into the warm body behind him. He placed his hand on his belt buckle and caught the eye of each dancer briefly. They smiled at him, obviously welcoming, so he turned his attention to the three men. The lute player was the obvious leader, the two drummers caught up in their music. He acknowledged Faramir’s interest with a slight nod, not missing a note.

It was pleasant to watch the women dance and listen to the men play; the brother’s were in no hurry. They’d already conducted a preliminary investigation into the status of the town, and were waiting for the arrival of their men, who were due soon, before approaching the mayor. After all, they weren’t dressed in their usual attire being incognito for the moment. There had been too many mysterious occurrences in the area and they were going to find out what was causing them.

As the music and dancing drew to a close the brothers approached the small group, only to be interrupted by a small contingent of the local militia. There were ten of them and they began pushing the dancers and taking the basket holding the money they’d received from the crowd. “You were told to move on,” their leader said as he gave one of the women another shove. “We don’t want your kind around here causing trouble.”

“We have to regain our losses somehow,” the lute player said trying to place himself between the women and their attackers.

“It seems to me that you are the ones causing trouble,” Boromir said, his sword already in his hand.

“This is no concern of yours,” the man said looking with contempt on their rough clothing. “We don’t much care for your type either.”

“I think these men need to learn some manners, brother,” Faramir said, leaning casually against the wall by the musicians tapping a boot toe with his own sword. “I don’t think this is proper Anorien hospitality.”

“I have to agree, brother,” Boromir answered. “Maybe it is just bad breeding.”

Narrowing his eyes at the leader, Faramir nodded his head. “You could be right, he does have a rather boorish appearance.”

“Like the pig or the dolt?” the older brother asked.

The man was obviously getting angrier at each comment, but not yet incensed enough to attack two unknown warriors.

“Definitely the dolt, my brother,” Faramir said in a suddenly flat dangerous voice. “He doesn’t have the balls to be a pig.”

Thoroughly enraged, but wary of the armed men, the man turned and grabbed one of the dancers by the hair. “I’ll show you,” he screamed as he turned back toward Faramir.

Before he could say more a knife in each eye stopped his words forever. Boromir recognized Faramir’s knife and had caught a glimpse of the lute players throw. “We have evened up the odds for you, brother,” Faramir continued, as the two women dashed behind their men. “Unless these men want to recant their previous leaders mistakes and behave like civilized gentlemen.”

The men were not warriors, just bullies recruited to terrorize the weak. They made to surrender their weapons and the dancers money until they noticed the troop of cavalry making its way down the street. Then a new leader stepped forth and spoke to the brothers. “We have our orders,” he said boldly. “The mayor will have our hides if we don’t obey. We’re honest Gondorian citizens trying to uphold the law.” His voice faded to nothing as he noticed that the lead horse stopped next to Boromir and the rest were circling the small group.

Dismounting, Draymor went to one knee before Boromir. “We have much to report, Captain General,” he said. “I have the rest of the men setting up camp on the edge of town.”

“Good work, Captain,” the older brother said as Faramir retrieved both knives from the dead man, wiping them clean on the corpse. “I would like for the mayor and the village elders to join us as soon as possible. There seems to be much to discuss with them. These ‘honest Gondorian citizens’ need to await our pleasure also.” He added in a voice like ice.

“As you will, my lord,” Draymor said rising to his feet and saluting Boromir, before giving terse orders to his men.

Boromir stepped to his brother’s side as he returned the lute player’s knife. “I must apologize for the earlier rude interruption,” he said as the man took back his weapon with a look of disbelief. “I hope I can make it up to you. I am Boromir, Captain General of the armies of Gondor, and this is my brother Faramir.”

“I am Marco and these are my brothers, Merek and Mishka, and these lovely ladies are our companions Felida and Feleda,” The leader told him. “We are very happy that you came to our rescue, my lords.”

“It is our duty to make sure guests of Gondor are not molested, but from your earlier remarks it seems we were too late to protect you.”

“We were set upon by men in disguise on the Great Western Road, miles west of here. Our wagon and almost all of our belongings were either stolen or destroyed. We only escaped with our lives by hiding in the woods,” Marco told them. “When we reached here the mayor would hear nothing of our plight and ordered us to leave town immediately. We were but trying to get enough money for supplies.”

“I will have my men look into the matter, we have had many similar stories coming out of this area of late. Do you have a place to stay for the night?” Boromir asked.

“We have nothing,” Marco answered, then revised his answer as Faramir handed him the basket holding the money. “Well, a bit more than nothing now.”

“You can stay at any inn that you wish or we can provide you with a tent in our encampment.” Boromir offered. “I will need to question all of you about your mishap.”

“I think we would prefer the tent, we are not too comfortable in this town,” he replied.

Boromir read all the written reports while listening to the oral ones, a young scribe writing quickly beside him. Faramir organized a search of the entire village, looking for more evidence. The entire upper echelon of villagers were gathered together to wait questioning, their families sequestered in a large tent and watched by grim faced guards. They already knew enough to hang most of the elders, and it was beginning to look worse by the hour.

Finally Faramir arrived carrying a stack of ledgers. Placing the books on the table, he began going through piles of reports, quickly reading their contents. Thankfully most of the villagers were innocent of the crimes of their elders, who had been working with an outlaw gang that headquartered in the nearby hills. Before sunset another group of Gondorian cavalry along with some Ithilien Rangers came down out of the hills with the surviving members of the gang.

The families of the elders were returned to their homes, which had been stripped of all wealth, only necessities left behind. The elders themselves were kept in the tent their families had previously occupied and had to sleep on the ground with only a blanket for comfort. Their judgment would wait for the arrival of the governor of the area, who was also the cousin of the mayor.

They worked late into the night; deciphering the many reports to one cohesive missive they could give their father. The ledgers were sent to a smaller tent to be examined by several accountants they’d brought with them. Well past midnight Faramir sent the scribes and secretaries to their rest, all of the reports neatly filed as he finished the paper for the Steward. Boromir made a last round, making sure that all of the detainees were secure and the town itself was under close observation.

Returning to their tent, he saw Faramir sigh and put his face in his hands as he set his work aside. Going to his knees beside his brother where he sat on the campstool, Boromir wrapped his arms around him.

“It is late, brother,” he said into his ear as he gently kissed him. “You should get some rest while you can.”

“I do not think I could find rest this night, beloved brother,” he answered, turning and burying his face in Boromir’s neck. “This is so horrible to me, these men have betrayed their offices, betrayed Gondor and murdered their own people all for a few bits of silver and gold. While good men die to keep them safe in their plush houses, they rape their women and enslave their children, and it has been going on for several years. It brings back too much of the bad dreams of the fall of Númenor, and so many betrayals of kin. Lord Delomar of Erelas is the governor of this region. He was fostered to Minas Tirith for a while, but he was removed home when I put a stop to his bullying. Maybe if I had treated him different this would never have happened.”

“You cannot take the weight of another’s conscience on your shoulders, my beloved one.” Boromir told him, pressing more kisses to his face. “You already have enough of your own, put all thought of blame from your mind. We would be as the dark lord himself, if we were to place ourselves in such a position to control other men.”

Boromir wrapped his hand in his brother’s hair and kissed him deeply. They rubbed their tongues together, and explored each other’s mouths. Then the older brother opened Faramir pants and pulled his hardening cock out.

“There is not time,” Faramir gasped as the hot mouth of his brother engulfed him.

Ignoring his words, Boromir swallowed his brother’s cock in a continuous gulping action that had him reaching orgasm in minutes.

There is always time for you, brother,” he said as he kissed the tip of his now flaccid penis. “Especially when you lose control so easily.” He added teasingly.

The sound of approaching horses and men’s voices stopped Faramir’s reply. Quickly refastening his pants he indicated the finished final report to Boromir. “This still needs your approval, brother,” he told him.

Boromir had just seated himself and picked up the papers when the tent flap was opened unannounced. Sweeping his cloak off in a tired gesture, Denethor, Steward of Gondor entered. Stepping forward quickly, Faramir took the cloak and asked if his father cared for any refreshment.

“Your Captain of the watch is having food brought, but something to drink might wash the road dust from my throat,” he answered. “Do you have a report ready for me?”

“I’m just reading it now,” Boromir answered, reading as quickly as he could, but still trying to be thorough.

Denethor seated himself in a chair and leaned back rubbing his brow, trying to ignore the smell of fresh semen that permeated the room. “Do you have any recommendations ready for me, Faramir?” he asked knowing that his youngest son almost always wrote the reports.

“No, father,” he answered. “I haven’t even thought that far. I’m having a hard time trying to understand what could have brought these men to this.”

The Steward gave him a searching look, and realizing that he was serious, sighed into the wine he now held. “You are probably the only person in all of Middle Earth that doesn’t understand, my son. I’m afraid that our proceedings tomorrow will show you much that you have no desire to see.” He was disarmed and charmed by the innocence of the twenty-six-year-old warrior before him. “Of all the evils of this world, I wish I could keep this from you. Come.” He said pulling him into his lap. “Let me offer what comfort I can.”

Faramir held tightly to his father, his feelings beyond words. Boromir tried to ignore the exchange and concentrate on the report, but a single tear escaped and made its way down his cheek as Denethor cradled his brother in his arms. When the duty captain brought the food, he was startled to see the Steward still reassuring his youngest son.

It had been a long day of testimony and the brothers were tired and in no mood to listen to any more. Lord Delomar, governor of Erelas and the surrounding territories followed Faramir to where Denethor was presiding over the hearings. “You have no jurisdiction here. We have governed ourselves for generations; I don’t understand why you think you can suddenly descend on my people and do what you will.”

“You are subject to the sovereign state of Gondor,” Faramir told him. “The elders and mayor of this village have grievously broken the laws of our kingdom, they and you, as their leader, are responsible for the illegal activities in this area.”

“How can we be subject of the sovereign state, if there is no sovereign of the state?” Delomar asked with contempt. “I do not remember swearing fealty to the Steward. It is time for the king to either step forward or the Steward to recognize that Gondor is a kingdom no more.”

“Are you sure you are prepared to stand by that declaration lord Delomar?” Faramir asked.

“You don’t possibly think that you or your pederastic brother could change my mind?” The brash lord said with a sneer.

“I do not know what promises the dark lord has made you, or if this is just some twisted machination of your own weak mind, but you are about to find out about the sovereignty of Gondor” Faramir said.

At his words they entered the town square where the Steward and his eldest son waited on the raised dais. From the shocked looks of the onlookers it was obvious that much of their conversation had been overheard.

“For hundreds of years the Stewards have held the kingdom of Gondor in trust for the return of the king. You, Delomar of Erelas have broken the trust of the Steward in your guardianship of this region,” Denethor said, his voice echoing through the square; clear to all who had gathered to hear the judgment of the Governor. “You not only turned a blind eye to the crimes of your agents but accepted part of their misgotten bounty. For this betrayal you will pay with your life, your properties, and your progeny. At sunset of this day, you will be drawn and quartered, all that you own will be returned to the kingdom to be disbursed as seen fit by the Steward and his sons, any child of your name, whether legitimate or not shall be removed from its home and placed in alternate homes as far away from Anorien as possible. Their names shall be changed and every effort will be made to remove all remembrance of you and your ways from their minds. Your name shall be stricken from the rolls of Gondor and all shall be made as if you never existed, for you are anathema to all that honest men hold dear.”

“My father will avenge my murder at you hands,” the enraged Governor screamed.

“Your father is dead,” the Steward told him. “He sent me a letter apologizing for raising such a monster as you before ending his own life. Because of his sacrifice, I have decided to spare the lives of your brothers and sisters, although what their status will be depends on them.”

Delomar paled and fell to his knees begging forgiveness, but he was ignored by all except the guards who dragged him away.

It took three more days to finish all the hearings. The mayor and other village elders that were involved were hung. The Surviving outlaws were impaled along the main road. New officials were appointed, and a new Governor was sent to Erelas. All of the victims that were still alive, including the villagers and the five from Esgaroth received reparations.

Denethor would meet with Delomar’s siblings at Minas Tirith and would meet with all the close kin of those involved in the criminal activities of the village elders. Some would be required to leave children or heirs in Denethor’s custody as hostages; others would pay heavy fines or commit themselves to tasks assigned by the Steward. Very few would still hang, some would flee Gondor.

The two brothers had barely time to get a few hours sleep, let alone anything else. Still they took advantage of every opportunity, such as a few stolen moments in a hidden alcove guarded by a trusted aide. Bath time was the best time, they spent as much time fucking as washing, and since it was so hot, they could take at least two a day. Denethor was a stickler for cleanliness.

After the evening meal with their father, they returned to their tent and Denethor slept in the house that had belonged to the now dead mayor. They sealed themselves into their tent with a bit of wine and proceeded to strip each other wildly. They had eight hours before they had to see their father off, and four days of repressed sexual tension to work off.

Boromir had removed all of his brother’s clothes and was swallowing his cock when a couple of stifled giggles caught their attention. His eyes glazed with lust, Faramir saw the twins on their bed, but his brother didn’t stop. Instead he began working his fingers into Faramir’s tight ass, unwilling to change his goal.

Throwing his head back and burying his fingers in his brother’s hair, Faramir moaned in pleasure. Unlike their encounters of the last few days, Boromir was going to draw this out as long as he could. As he felt Faramir’s knees start to give, he backed him to the bed and lowered him onto it with his ass hanging over the edge so that his fingers could keep their steady pumping.

The twins sat to one side waiting, not sure what they should do. When Boromir released his brother’s cock from his mouth and grabbed his hips with both hands impaling him with his own hard cock in one swift motion, they realized this rough joining was not for them. They’d learned much about the brothers in the last few days, and their fierce love and lust for each other had been obvious, at least to the sisters, from the first moment they saw them in the crowd. They sat with their arms around each other, silently watching the two men, with understanding.

Leaning forward and claiming his brother’s lips, Boromir continued his rough pace. He rested his elbows on the bed and wrapped his hands around Faramir’s shoulders to keep him from sliding away from the force of his thrusts. His hands restlessly roaming Boromir’s body, Faramir returned his kisses wholeheartedly. The feeling of his brother’s cock so hard within him, and his own rubbing between their tight pressed stomachs was something he had missed terribly. Their closeness was a balm to their souls after the heart breaking trials.

“Harder, beloved,” Faramir urged, his fingernails digging into his brothers back. The bed shook with the force of Boromir’s thrusts and Faramir grabbed his own legs and pulled them back so that he would be able to go deeper. It was long minutes before they finally reached their climax, both of them crying out incoherently.

Felida and Feleda couldn’t resist running soft fingers over the sweating skin of the two brothers. In all of their travels they’d never met any so scarred and beautiful as they, though the few elves they’d come across were more beautiful. Boromir rolled to his side so that he could look at the sisters, resting his head on his brother’s shoulder.

“We thought you were twins too, when we first saw you,” Felida said.

They laughed at the comment. “Are you identical everywhere?” Faramir asked.

“Yes, everywhere,” Feleda answered, kissing his nose.

“I bet I can tell you apart with one kiss each,” Faramir told them.

“What about you?” Felida asked Boromir.

“I need more than just a kiss,” the older brother said. “I’m not nearly so observant as my brother. I’m also much more greedy.”

There was much giggling as they tested Faramir’s claim and true to his word he had no difficulty telling them apart after one kiss each. It took a lot longer to verify Boromir’s claim, but no one complained, as it was very enjoyable. Still the twins were amazed at the brothers’ ability to tell them apart. They could even do it by a simple touch with their eyes closed.

“We can easily recognize all of our lovers,” Faramir told them. “We can also recognize our own children, as well as the other’s children. Of course we don’t always share that knowledge.” He added conspiratorially.

“We can tell many things by our touch,” Boromir added, running his hand across a drowsy and sated Felida. “Such as you both are getting a little sore and have had enough of us for tonight.”

Feleda started to protest, but Faramir put a silencing finger against her lips. “It is all right,” he told her. “There are very few who can take us, especially both of us for a full night, even among our long time lovers. Besides, I still want more of my brother.” So saying, he moved until he was between Boromir’s legs and began sliding his rehardened cock into him with only a little spit for lubrication.

Boromir’s head was thrown back, eyes closed in ecstasy as he was fully impaled by his brother’s cock. There were few things he enjoyed as much, and nothing he enjoyed more. Having gone without a long hard fuck from him for several days only increased his bliss.

Again it was as if there were just the two of them, though the twins watched from the end of the bed, wrapped in each other’s arms. Faramir pushed his brother’s legs up until Boromir grabbed them. Then, supporting his upper body with one hand, he began kissing and biting his face and neck while his other hand stroked Boromir’s cock.

Each time they made love to each other seemed better than the last time. Their movements were sure from long familiarity, knowing what pleased, but were also heated by their burning passion and desire for each other. Boromir released his legs to wrap them around his brother and pull him closer. With both hands, he grabbed his head to pull him into a deep kiss. Faramir released his grip on Boromir’s cock to grab his brother’s hair and exert his own control over the kiss. Soon they were almost wrestling each other, the steady drive of their hips a counterpoint to their conflict. Sometimes their bites drew blood, though they tried to keep from marking each other too obviously.

Faramir increased the pace steadily until all they could do was hold onto each other. Eyes locked together they held out as long as they could their jaws clenched in determination. As their climax became imminent, Faramir reached down and bit his brother one last time on his collarbone, closing his and riding the waves of pleasure. Boromir threw his head back and cried out feeling the hot spill of semen in him and on his stomach. He arched up into his brother, delighting in their mutual release, and grasping his ass to pull him even deeper for those final few seconds.

They lay panting together, satisfied smiles on their faces, Faramir kissing and licking the blood from his brother’s chest.

“I could lay like this forever,” Boromir said, running a hand through his brother’s hair.

“No you couldn’t,” Faramir told him. “A few more minutes of this and I will be hard and have to fuck you again.” His words made Boromir’s cock jump and start swelling again.

“Ride me, brother,” Boromir ordered him, his eyes half-lidded with reawakened lust. “I want to watch you pleasure yourself on me.”

Growing hard again at his brother’s words, Faramir pulled his cock from his ass and rose to his knees. Taking Boromir’s erection in hand, he guided it into his ass, urging him to raise his legs so that he could lean back against them. It took a few minutes before he felt they were arranged correctly. He placed a pillow beneath Boromir’s head and neck, and then rested all of his own weight on his hips, driving his brother’s cock impossibly deeper within him. He put his feet on either side of Boromir’s hips, knees spread wide to display his own engorged cock, and began pushing up with his legs. Watching his brother’s face he wrapped one hand around his weeping erection and cupped his balls with the other.

The angle of Faramir’s body on his brother’s legs allowed Boromir to see his own cock in Faramir’s ass as he slid upwards as well as watch him fondle himself. Unable to stop himself, Boromir moaned loudly at the wanton sight, arching his back and grabbing his brother’s ankles.

“Shh, brother,” Faramir told him with a lustful grin. “You’ll wake the girls.”

Biting his lips to stifle his moans and cries, he knew it was not the twins’ sleep Faramir was really concerned with.

“Breathe, beloved,” he whispered. “Relax and let me do this.”

It was almost impossible, but finally Boromir was able to even out his breathing and loosen his grip on Faramir’s ankles. When he felt his brother relax some Faramir increased the speed of his movements, his strongly muscled legs flexing. He continued for several more minutes then threw his own head back and began loosing thick ropes of semen on Boromir’s already sticky chest. The spasming in his brother’s ass and the erotic sight of him in the throws of passion above him brought Boromir to his own orgasm, though he kept quiet as Faramir had instructed him earlier.

Lying on the bed next to his brother, Faramir pressed soft kisses to his face. “We will have to get up early and wash before we see father off,” he whispered in his ear.

“Go to sleep,” Boromir told him, and kissed his brow.

Faramir sighed and fell asleep.

“I expect you to be finished here and back in Minas Tirith within the week,” Denethor told them. Boromir held the bridle of his mount, while Faramir held the stirrup. His sharp eyes examined his two sons. “I will need you there to help deal with the rest of this mess, so assign reliable agents as quickly as possible. You might considering using some of your personal guard where we can’t be completely sure of loyalty. There is bound to be some response from our enemies in the wake of all of this instability. Make haste, but with caution.”

“We will do our best, father,” Boromir replied.

With a final look, he nodded his head as if satisfied. “Within the week,” he said as he took up his reigns and rode away at the head of the column.

Four weeks later.

Faramir lay on a large over-stuffed divan reading. They had finished supper hours ago and for once he didn’t have any evening duties and could indulge himself. All of the servants had retired to their quarters or one of the side rooms of their suite. Soon Boromir would arrive and they would retire for the night. In anticipation he wore only a pair of short sleeping pants, which were too thin to really conceal anything.

Even though his reading material was a rather dry narrative of mainly historical value, he found himself semi-aroused at the thought of his brother. Giving in to his fantasies, he shut the book and let his mind wander through images of Boromir in the throws of passion. Closing his eyes he rubbed his now full erection against the divan. Just as he was about to reach for himself he heard the sound of someone approaching. He instantly lost all arousal as he recognized his father’s tread and realized there wasn’t enough time to make it to his bedroom to grab a robe.

Denethor rarely came to his sons’ room unannounced. He had become sensitized to the smell of their arousal, which brought on dark dreams. This night however, there had been no time to send warning. The impending arrival of his brother-in-law, Prince Imrahil the following morning, and the early dismissal of the servants for the evening had made it impractical.

So here he stood in the doorway to their suite, the smell of Faramir’s arousal strong in the air, unbelievably augmented by the sight of him barely more than naked on the divan. He’d almost started to turn away when he noticed among the many scars the large tattoo on his son’s right shoulder. A white tree, encircled by seven stars, under a gold and silver crown, on a blue circular background. It was beautifully wrought and filled him with rage.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, crossing the room and pulling him up to a sitting position by the back of his neck. His son didn’t resist the painful grip or cry out. “How could you do this?”

At that moment Boromir arrived, out of breath, his father’s angry voice having spurred him to haste. Seeing the object of Denethor’s anger, he grabbed the back of his own shirt at the collar and ripped it off as he strode across the room. “Do you mean this?” he asked, displaying his matching tattoo while pushing his father’s hand away from his brother’s neck and replacing it with his own. ‘We are loyal sons, and have ever done our duty, especially Faramir. But we are also loyal men, and would keep to the course set by our ancestors. We keep Gondor in trust for the king, and it is our pleasure to do so. You know our hearts father, you have no need to ask that question.”

“You have marked yourselves as property!” Denethor raged.

“There are worse marks father,” Boromir said in a low angry voice. Instead of displaying the scars on his brother’s back, as the Steward expected, he brought his head back and showed his father the square scars that lined his arms and chest. They were long healed, but still an angry red, despite Garus and Saphron’s best efforts. “Ask about these, father. Demand why this was done.”

He knew what they were on sight, though he never before had seen the marks of a blood ritual, he was in no doubt about the origin of these scars. Besides the vast store of knowledge he held in memory, there were the half remembered dreams. Bile rose in his stomach as he looked at the faces of his sons. “No,” he said with harsh finality.

Faramir closed his eyes in relief as Boromir gently ran his hand through his hair. Kissing his brother’s stomach just above his low cut pants, Faramir wrapped his arms around him. “There are other tattoos, father,” the older son said, pulling his pants lower and exposing Faramir’s coat of arms and beside it that of Éomer of Rohan, just below where Faramir’s lips rested against his body. “My brother bears matching marks as does Prince Éomer.”

“And what of his sister, what will she think of this?” Denethor asked.

“I don’t think that will be a problem, the customs and traditions in Rohan are different. And Éomer is very supportive of our marriage, which will be in accordance with the customs of the Riddermark, though we will keep the details private here in Gondor.” Boromir told him.

Denethor paled at his words, he knew the marriage customs of Rohan and didn’t approve, but he’d come to realize that he was powerless against Boromir. “You are going to do what you will, no matter what I wish anyway,” he said. “At least I can look forward to the possibility of some sort of marriage.”

“You always had that, father,” Boromir told him, reaching out to place a comforting hand to his father’s shoulder. “We will not let you down or embarrass you, we love you.”

He was completely disarmed by the words and manner of his oldest son, and as always, Faramir had submitted without complaint or resistance to whatever his father and brother wished of him. Hiding his discomfiture, he delivered the message that had brought him there in the first place. “Your Uncle, Prince Imrahil arrives tomorrow. He comes to ask our assistance in seeking a marriage contract for his daughter with one of the Princes of Rohan. He has brought his wife and daughter with him. I was hoping you would be there to help me greet them in the morning.”

“We will be there, father,” Boromir said, knowing of the animosity between the two men.

“They should arrive shortly before noon. I will send for you,” Denethor said as he left the room and closed the door behind him.

Boromir looked down at his little brother, who was looking up at him with wide eyes. “That wasn’t so bad, brother,” he told him running his hand through his hair. “It is a good thing he arrived first, or I would have had my cock buried in your ass when he got here.”

“I dressed for you, brother,” Faramir said as he opened his brother’s pants. Pulling his quickly hardening cock free he took it into his mouth.

Moaning at the pleasure of his brother’s hot mouth, he pumped himself into the tight throat. Faramir swallowed convulsively bringing a quick orgasm to his brother. Before Faramir could lick him clean, Boromir grabbed him up and carried him into their bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He threw him onto the bed and stripped off his clothes before tearing Faramir’s pants off.

“I’m going to fuck you into oblivion,” he growled as he climbed onto Faramir.

“Yes, please,” Faramir responded as Boromir proceeded to carry out his threat.

Part 10: THE PRINCESS

Lothiriel lay back against the headboard of her bed, trying to read. Her parents, uncle, and cousins had been in meetings all day, leaving her to the company of the ladies of the court of Minas Tirith. Some of them were boring relics of Finduilas’ time, but there were many younger women who had been sent there to attract the attention of the Steward’s sons. None had been able to meet the exacting standards of her cousin Faramir, so he and Boromir had found husbands for them.

However, whenever it had been requested, the brothers had performed first night duties with the women. They were very amenable to those requests, often both of them would participate and they always invited the new husband to join in. There were many sexually satisfying marriages in Gondor, for they shared their knowledge and expertise with any who asked. From all reports, they enjoyed the sharing immensely.

With a sigh, she closed the book and concentrated on thoughts of her handsome cousins. It was eight years since the boar-hunting incident near Dol Amroth. They had told her that she was too young to indulge in their sex games, though rumor had it that Faramir was much younger than fourteen when he had started. A short exchange with her youngest cousin earlier had led her to believe that they might be willing to let her join in now.

Now, that she was locked into her bedroom by her overprotective parents. They didn’t know that what they wanted to protect was long gone. Even though the Steward’s sons had acted with all propriety while in Dol Amroth, Faramir had given her certain information that had allowed her to pursue amorous adventures without dire consequences. This was one of many reasons she really liked her cousins.

There was no warning sound as Faramir stepped out of the shadows of her balcony to the bed. He sat beside her and gave her a most salacious kiss. “Hello cousin,” he said, nibbling a bit at her ear before leaning back to look at her. “You have grown up quite nicely.”

“Thank you, cousin,” she replied. “You haven’t changed your mind about who I should marry, have you?” she asked, almost hopefully.

“Alas, no, my sweet,” he answered. “But you are surrounded by such an army of chaperones during the day, it was impossible to get in a private word with you. I was wondering if you have been making use of the horsemaster we sent you.”

“Oh yes, cousin,” she said, her eyes full of mischief. “He has taught me many things, and my horsemanship has improved too.”

He chuckled quietly at her words. “Ever the minx, I think Éomer would be quite pleased with you. Théodred probably as well, but he is still just a child yet.”

“I hear that you know Prince Éomer well?” she inquired.

“Very well, cousin,” Faramir answered with a grin. “He is an outstanding example of the Riders of the Riddermark. I’m certain he would please you, he is truly a stallion among men.”

“And you and your brother have ridden this fine stallion?” she continued.

“Normally I don’t kiss and tell, Lothiriel,” Faramir told her. “But since you have a vested interest, yes we have, and he has ridden us in turn. You will not find a finer rider anywhere.”

“Not even your brother?”

“They are close to equal, and I will not chose between them,” was his firm reply.

“Does that mean I will have to share him with the two of you?” she asked, her possessive nature coming to the fore.

“You will enjoy it, cousin,” he said, kissing her and touching her in a way that made her arch her back and moan in sudden need. “Would you really want to deny us our pleasure?” His mouth and tongue made uncontrollable shivers run down her spine. “I’m sure you would be able to join us, if you wanted to. Éomer knows how to share.”

“What if I’m to marry his cousin, Prince Théodred?” she wanted to know.

“We will see,” was his answer. “The heir is only a child yet, if he doesn’t bond with Éomer as I have with both him and my brother, then things will be a bit different. But I want you to understand that there will be every chance that he will bond with at least one other male, and possibly other females. It is an old custom in the Riddermark and, with the high death tolls of late, it has been thoroughly revived. If you don’t think you can live with this situation, let me know now, and we will find you another husband.”

She looked at him for a long while, letting her blood cool from his attentions. This was her future, and she doubted that she would be able to change her mind later. Finally she was sure of her choice. “The tutors you sent to me have taught me well, dear Faramir,” she answered. “I have become especially fond of the sweet shield maiden that was sent as an addition to my personal guard. I have learned much from her, and mother doesn’t even question her presence in my bedchamber, ever. If I were to wed some dull and monogamous member of the nobility I would have to say goodbye to at least half the vices you have so generously gifted me.” She reached up and kissed him on the mouth. “Don’t think that I don’t know that you planned this for me. Others may see you as just the second son of the Steward, but I know better. There are plans within plans and plots within plots that you have woven throughout the kingdom. I believe that you have even outdone your father in your collusions. After all, I doubt if any of Denethor’s spies are his lovers, and I believe all of yours are. Nelda came from Belfalas, and her sister helped raise me.” She gave him a genuine smile. “I will marry whichever prince of Rohan you choose for me, or if things change, whomever else you choose. For I know that your loyalty goes both ways, and you will not abandon me.”

“I knew you were an intelligent woman, dear cousin,” he told her, taking her into his arms. “Let me show you a little trick I learned from a dear friend.”

In minutes she was biting her hand to stifle the screams of delight that he was bringing forth. She became totally convinced that she would do anything that her cousin asked of her. It was in her best interest, and it felt wonderful.

Part 11: VENGEANCE

The sound of the marketplace was comforting to Faramir as he walked down the long aisles of wares; it helped him forget that the war was not going well. The dark lord’s forces outnumbered them, even if his forces were distinctly inferior. Faramir was well known among the stallkeepers, and they all welcomed his presence. There were many offers of free wares to the youngest son of the Steward, but he usually laughed and turned them aside. Occasionally, he would give in and a merchant would be blessed with extra customers for a while. Boromir had been detained by the armsmaster, but hopefully would be joining him soon.

He stopped at a fruit stand and was gifted a large ripe peach. Closing his eyes as he bit into it, he imagined his brother licking the juice from his chin, as he would when they were in private. With a smile, he decided to buy some more for his brother on his way back. He was cleaning the last of the juices from the fruit from his fingers when he noticed Beregond, one of the men from his troop, talking earnestly with an attractive young woman. She seemed quite upset with him, arguing quietly until a child’s cry made her turn with an air of finality and go to the crying child. With a last exasperated look at her retreating back, Beregond started back towards the barracks.

“What is wrong Beregond?” Faramir asked.

Startled, the man jumped at his captain’s voice. “It is nothing, my lord,” he answered shyly.

“We both know better than that, my friend,” Faramir told him, taking him by the arm and leading him to a nearby inn. They were both silent until after their drinks were in hand.

“Tell me,” Faramir ordered.

“That was my betrothed,” he said. “She is talking about breaking off our relationship if I don’t leave the army. Both her brothers were killed in the last year, as was her father two years ago. Our son is nearly two and she is talking about leaving Minas Tirith to start a new life, taking him with her. I can’t abandon my duty, my lord. I will not live my life without honor, but without them I don’t know what I will do.”

“You should have come to Boromir or me long ago,” Faramir told him. “There is always a need for trusted men in the tower guard. In fact, I’ve received a request for a transfer out. It should be a simple matter of exchanging positions. Let me speak to my brother, maybe we can have a surprise for your lady by the end of the week.”

A very relieved Beregond sat and drank companionably with his captain. They talked idly while Faramir leaned back against the wall and watched the people passing by the opened double doors of the inn. Children played in the shade of a shop across the way, their laughter barely audible beneath the other noises of street and tavern. He loved watching children, often stopping by the orphanages, which were too full from the long war. It had become his chosen duty to make sure that all the children of Minas Tirith, and as much as possible, Gondor, were safe and cared for. He regularly checked on his brother’s and his own offspring. If one or both of their parents died, a suitable replacement was found for them. He often wished that he could keep them all himself, but he was too often in the field or spending long days in endless meetings. He believed children needed plenty of attention, and did his best to make sure as many as possible were cared for.

On a sudden impulse, he rose and headed to the door. It had been a long time since he had checked out the back alleys and poorer sections of the lower city. Sometimes those who worked as his agents missed children who were new to the city and unaware of the protection he extended to them. Without being told, Beregond followed Faramir. The two men walked the busy streets; occasionally, children would come out of the crowds and greet Faramir, usually by hugging him as best they could. He always laughed and returned their hugs, spending a few moments with all who came to him.

As they reached the poorest section of the city, the children were more reserved, but equally happy to see him. It was almost silent here, as most activity this time of day was in the marketplace. There had been very few incidents of outright child abuse since he’d dealt with Garus’ father so long ago, and he personally hadn’t been involved with any of them. Word had spread that there was no tolerance for it in the city; those who violated this unwritten law tended to disappear.

A scream cut through the air and Faramir felt a release of tension in his shoulders, as if it was the signal he had been waiting for. He was unaware of the loosening of his gait or the way his hands checked all of his weapons for readiness. Beregond watched his Captain with a rising feeling of dread. They had all seen him as he prepared for battle, and recognized the slightly glazed look that came to his eyes. There had also been rumors, ones spoken in whispers and never in the hearing of the Steward or his sons.

“My lord,” Beregond called as Faramir increased his speed. There wasn’t even a slight hesitation in the man he followed. There were no more screams but a steady weeping, accompanied by a man’s angry cursing, grew louder. They turned the corner into a small courtyard to the sight of outrageous violence. Several ragged children huddled in the arms of a bruised and frightened woman helplessly watching as a very large man attempted to kick what looked like a bundle of bloody rags in the corner. A blonde-haired boy of about fourteen was doing his best to interfere and getting kicked himself in the process.

“I don’t think you really want to continue what you’re doing,” Faramir said in a cold voice, noticing with satisfaction that the man wore a sword and some armor.

Slapping the blonde boy as he turned, the man glared at Faramir. “This is my family and I will discipline them as I see fit,” he growled. “No castle dandy is going to stop me either.” His hand went to the hilt of his sword.

With a feeling of satisfaction, Faramir drew his own sword. “No?” he questioned as he advanced.

Looking around frantically for help, Beregond saw some grimy faces peering around the corner. Fortunately, at his gesture one of the watching children came forward. “Fetch Captain Boromir,” he said quietly. “Hurry.”

Four of the larger children peeled off from the group and headed toward the marketplace. The rest of them eased around the corner to better see their champion as he faced the stranger. The clash of steel filled the small area as the man attempted to cut at Faramir. Beregond was briefly mesmerized as he watched his Captain in a less than life threatening situation.

It took very little time for it to become obvious that the other man didn’t have a chance, at least to everyone except the man. Faramir downplayed his own ability with the sword enough to keep him interested, but still marked the man with every flick of his blade. It was an uneven and bloody encounter.

Beregond moved to stand between the combatants and the woman and children, helping the blonde boy move the battered child to her side. He prayed that Boromir wouldn’t be long; it would be disastrous if Faramir killed the man, which was probably his intention from the way he behaved.

Finally, the bully realized that he was being toyed with. His eyes darted about for avenues of escape, or possible hostages, but there was nothing to avail him. Stepping back a few paces, Faramir began tapping his boot toe with the tip of his sword, watching the man with the cold, deadly eyes of a killer. At each of the man’s moves, he countered with a bare flick of steel, drawing blood and adding to the growing panic in his target.

The sound of heavy footfalls approaching brought a sigh of relief to Beregond, and a brief glimmer of hope to the man’s eyes. Faramir didn’t react at all, recognizing his brother’s tread.

“Faramir, what are you doing?” Boromir asked.

“I’m going to kill him, brother,” was the calm answer.

The man fell to his knees and began crying at Faramir’s words. Everyone else was shocked into silence. Stepping forward a little, the younger brother prodded the man with his sword, bringing forth squeals and more blood.

“Isn’t there another way we can deal with this?” Boromir tried, a sick feeling in his stomach at the emotionless tone. Glancing around the courtyard, he saw Beregond with the woman and children, making it clear to him what had happened.

“I don’t think so, Boromir,” Faramir answered, stepping back from the man a pace.

Moving as close as he could to his brother without touching him, Boromir whispered in his ear. “Don’t do this in front of the children, brother, they have already gone through enough.”

“Maybe they want to see this as much as I do,” Faramir said, turning his head slightly to look at the ones in question.

“Did you, brother?” Boromir asked.

“Yes,” he answered, looking his brother in the eyes so he could see the truth of his answer. “But not at your hands.” His sword reached out, quickly nicking the man’s leg as he tried to escape.

Boromir sighed, realizing that there were few options for him. He couldn’t let Faramir kill the man here, but he couldn’t stop him. “Let him run, brother, you can hunt him down. There will be too many questions if you kill him here.”

Faramir let the point of his sword drop a little. “You won’t let anyone interfere?”

“I’ll have Beregond escort him to the gate, making sure he stops nowhere along the way. No one will interfere,” he promised.

“You have to let me get supplies,” the man cried out at Boromir’s words.

“You won’t live long enough to need supplies,” the older brother told him. “My brother is trained as an Ithilien Ranger. He will find you and kill you.”

“Give him a three hour head start, brother,” Faramir said, giving in just a little. “That will give me time to see to the safety of the children.”

At Boromir’s nod, Beregond took the man’s arm and began hurrying him out of the city. Both brothers turned to look at the woman huddled with her children.

“Are you going to kill my father?” the blonde boy asked, his eyes defiant.

Faramir wiped his sword clean on his pants and put it in the sheath before stepping towards the boy. He ran a soothing hand down the boy’s cheek before answering. “He is not your father; my brother is,” he said looking at the woman. “Isn’t he?”

“Yes, my lord,” she answered, fear clear in her voice. “He wouldn’t let me say anything, my lord. He wouldn’t let me.” She began crying uncontrollably, and the boy cradled her in his arms.

“It will be alright,” Boromir said. “We will take care of everything.”

Boromir lay on the bed, waiting for his brother. The children and their mother had been settled with a widower, the marriage father of one of Faramir’s sons. Without Boromir seeing any messages being sent, several young women showed up to help, armed with baskets of clothing and food. They would have a trial period to make sure they would get along, but it looked like they would already.

The blonde boy was named Keril, and was Boromir’s oldest son at the age of sixteen. The boy was small for his age, probably from lack of proper nourishment. Boromir had always had a weakness for prostitutes, but thought that he’d monitored all of his encounters. After a few minutes in her company, he had remembered her from his first extended patrol. Faramir had insisted for years that there was another child of his out there somewhere. He claimed he could hear him crying in the night. Now Boromir would never be able to doubt his brother’s visions again, no matter how unlikely they seemed.

The changeover for Beregond had also been implemented and a house picked out for the young guardsman’s family. His request could not have been made at a better time. He would be able to protect the brothers’ interests when they were in the field, as they had assigned him to be in charge of the security of their suite.

Faramir had bathed in unscented water, and dressed in clothes he would wear scouting in the wilderness. His eyes had been flat with rage when he left, and Boromir was given a view of his brother he had never suspected existed. He didn’t know what to make of the angry, vengeful man he’d seen.

Sighing, he got up and went to pour himself a drink. It was rare that he had been drunk, but he felt like being drunk now. He knew the answers to his questions were far in the past, before the journals, for Faramir was strict about keeping them. He knew he might be able to get answers from Maran, Garus, or even Lani but he wanted to hear them from his brother. Their bond was important to him, and he felt just a little betrayed by the day’s revelations. Faramir had never lied to him, he was sure of that much.

It was well past midnight when the door opening and closing signaled the return of his brother. The smell of blood was strong about him, as well as the smell of victory. Faramir looked at him with partially glazed eyes and handed him a pouch. “Give this to your eldest son, my nephew, if he should ask. I want him to truly know that I have done as I have promised.”

“Did he have a tattoo?” Boromir asked, his voice slurring.

“Just a distinctive scar,” his brother answered. “You’re drunk.”

“Just a little,” he said, rising from the bed and throwing the pouch on a dressing table. “I was waiting for you.” He poured himself another drink, and one for Faramir. “Come, join me.”

Reluctantly, Faramir took the proffered drink, but turned away from his brother. “There are things I haven’t told you. Things from before the journals.”

“I have already guessed as much,” Boromir said with a sharp bark of laughter. He drank his wine in one swallow and set the glass down. Pulling his brother back against him by his hips, Boromir whispered in his ear. “You have bared your soul to me every day since you were fourteen. I never asked you what went on before then. I’m not going to ask you now. But I would welcome you telling me anything you want me to know. You are my most beloved one, the reason I exist.” He kissed Faramir’s neck and brought his arms up so that they crossed on his chest.

Pulling away from his brother’s embrace and setting his untasted drink on the table, Faramir was unable to stifle the sobs that broke from his throat. “I do not deserve your love,” he cried. “I’m as base and mean as father always said I was. Such poor material for a warrior such as yourself to cleave to. I killed Garus’ father because I couldn’t kill my own. Now I have killed Keril’s stepfather for the same reasons. Not for them, not for the children who bled and suffered at their hands. For me. To take revenge on a man who will never know. To punish someone who will never feel the touch of my blade, who I will never touch in anger or violence. I don’t know how you could ever forgive someone as selfish and cruel as I.”

Boromir put his arms around his brother, pulling him close and kissing his neck again. “I don’t forgive you, my love. There is nothing to forgive, you are the best person I have ever known, and I know that everything you have done was right.” He didn’t let him pull away this time, but turned him in his arms and claimed his mouth before showering his face with gentle kisses.

Faramir melted into the kisses that his brother pressed on him. There was nothing else he would rather do. It was a relief to tell him of Garus’ father, whose name he still did not know, didn’t want to know. It was a relief to tell him how he really felt. “I love you, my brother,” he said. “I will do anything for you.”

“And I would do anything for you, my sweetest love,” Boromir whispered in his ear. “Let me show you how much I love you.” For several long minutes he kissed his brother deeply, pulling him as close as he could.

Boromir’s hands were gentle and sure as they slowly removed his brother’s clothes. His mouth followed close behind kissing and licking, soft and tender. Faramir cried out at the feeling, arching his back into his brother’s touch. As Boromir’s mouth swallowed his cock, he cried out again. Then, after withdrawing it slowly, the older brother began kissing and licking its length and the tightened ball sack below. Faramir felt his knees giving way and his weight settling into his brother’s strong arms. He was gently lowered to the floor and the hands that held him began delivering soothing caresses. Boromir kept his touches soft but firm, urging his brother gently. He kissed his stomach and then his thigh, turning back to swallow his cock and suck it just a little, before releasing it again. Faramir could only cry out in need, his brother’s tender torture almost more than he could bear.

Moving slowly back up his body, Boromir rubbed against him and covered him with soft kisses and wet licks. Again he claimed his mouth, but with gentleness not often found in their kisses. He captured Faramir’s legs with his own and rubbed his still clothed pelvis against his brother’s arousal. “Let me love you brother,” he whispered in his ear, then ran his tongue around the edge and into the center.

“Please,” Faramir cried out. “Fuck me, brother. I need you in me now.”

“Shh,” Boromir told him. “Let me show you how much I love you.” He continued his tender ministrations, Faramir a captive to his soft caresses. Slowly he began moving back down his body, his hands and mouth gently torturing the aroused body beneath him. He spent an eternity at each nipple, leaving them red and puckered even though he’d been oh so soft. Faramir screamed in ecstasy as his belly button received the same treatment. His cock was rock hard and leaking as Boromir swallowed it again.

Easing his arms beneath Faramir’s legs, he sat on the floor and pulled his body up so that he could lick the long crack of his ass and press his tongue against the tight ring. Both of Boromir’s hands were wrapped around his brother’s cock, gently squeezing it, one thumb softly rubbing the weeping head. It was as his brother’s tongue breached the tight ring of his ass that Faramir felt the waves of his orgasm begin. His cock shot forth thick streams of semen that covered him as he arched uncontrollably and screamed again. Boromir continued his soft caresses and the gentle work of his tongue until he felt his brother’s body relax completely.

Lowering him to the floor, he looked at the incredibly sexy sight of his naked brother lying there with his eyes heavy lidded. Rising to his knees, Boromir opened his pants just enough to free his raging erection. He used some of the pooled semen on Faramir’s stomach to lubricate himself, then grabbed his brother’s legs and pushed them to his chest.

“I’m going to fuck you now, brother,” he said in a low growl, sinking his cock into the tight ass in a hard thrust. He leaned down and bit his neck hard, drawing blood, taking his brother with lustful abandon.

Faramir screamed again, not in pain, but in lust. He screamed his brother’s name and clawed his back as he pushed against the engorged cock that impaled him. He screamed louder as he came again, feeling the hot bursts of semen his brother released deep within him. Then he closed his eyes and let darkness overcome him.

A chill went down Denethor’s back and settled in his stomach as he read the detailed report. His agent had followed the stranger from the city and watched Faramir track him, herding him like an animal to where he wanted him to be. Then his son had taken a very long time in bringing about the man’s painful death. The description of the screams alone was enough to make his stomach sour. Then he had taken a trophy of his victim and returned to the tower.

He knew without a doubt whom Faramir was thinking of as he tortured the man to death. It made his bowels clench in fear to think of how dangerous and vicious his sweet and biddable son could be. The images of violence and rage overlaid the placid features, the screams of his victim drowning out the calm voice in his memories.

It could have been him. It should have been him. But he knew that his son would never harm him. If he were to take up his cane and beat Faramir again, he would just accept. And maybe others would die. They would deserve it, but it would be because of him. Because his son was obedient and loyal. And a killer.

Looking out at the pale light of dawn, he tried to calm himself. He didn’t want his sons to know that he was aware of what had happened. Their relationship had improved greatly, but there was a precarious balance that had to be kept. An unspoken conspiracy of silence they all knew about, and moved around with caution.

He would not delay seeing them; the anticipation would only grate on his nerves. Rising to examine his face in the mirror, he schooled his expression to one of stately calm, much like Faramir’s in his father’s presence. There was no going back to correct mistakes made in the past. He could only look forward to the future and hope that he could overcome the after effects.

Only the slightest falter of Faramir’s step as he entered the room betrayed to Denethor that his son knew. He didn’t meet his father’s eyes, but continued to his place at his left hand side, the deep bite mark on his neck clearly visible. Boromir’s eyes were cold, but without condemnation, as he sat at his father’s right. They both knew, even though he couldn’t think of anything that he could have done that had betrayed his own knowledge.

There were no questions or remarks about the matter and for once he was glad of the chatter of his advisors who had been invited to breakfast with them. He could turn his thoughts to other subjects as he ate, ignoring the churning in his stomach. Only those who knew them well could see the hidden tension in the three men. Garus, Stefle and Galmar, each serving their masters with extra care, trying to pretend that all was well.

The meal was interminable, but by the end of it the tension had eased. They knew that they could go on without revealing their secrets. There would be no confrontations. He would ask them nothing, they would volunteer nothing. They would stay at peace with each other.

For now.

Part 12: THE BLADE’S EDGE

Faramir sat on the bed he shared with his brother in the small room they’d claimed for their own in Henneth Annûn. He was undressed except for his pants, which Boromir had cut open to the hip on his injured leg, as they’d recently finished cleaning each other’s wounds. There had been heavy loses at the last battle and Boromir had gone to give what comfort he could to the injured. He’d ordered Faramir to remain here and rest.

It seemed that every time they started to make any real progress, their enemy would surprise them with some new terror. This time they’d only escaped total disaster because Faramir and the other archers had been able to blind the oliphants with their arrows. No one had ever seen such legendary monsters before.

Unable to settle enough to read, he sat up and took out the knife his father had gifted him. He kept it razor sharp, as he kept all his weapons. It had begun to figure prominently in his nightmares as the weapon that saved him from the shadowy figure that pursued him. Without thinking, he drew it across one of the stitches Boromir had put in the long gash in his leg. The threads parted easily, and he picked them out. Little chills went up his back as he pulled them. But his mind was miles away, thinking of the ever more threatening nature of his nightmares as well as all the comrades that had died this day. While he pictured his own helplessness and despair, his hands were busy undoing his brother’s careful work.

When the last stitch came free, he began making small cuts along his leg. The sharp pain was comforting, the light trickle of blood soothing. He moved on to the red patches of scar tissue along his arms and chest as all thought left him. He felt himself becoming aroused and began cutting his pants away.

The sound of the door closing broke the spell. “What are you doing?” Boromir asked, his eyes wide in shock.

Faramir dropped the knife and looked down at his body, confusion plain on his face. “I don’t know,” he answered.

Crossing to the bed and kneeling at his brother’s feet, Boromir took up the knife and placed it safely out of the way. He examined the now gaping leg slash and all of the little cuts his brother had put on himself. It was also impossible not to notice his growing erection, which jerked as Boromir looked at it. “Don’t they hurt?” he asked, trying to understand.

“Yes,” Faramir said, his voice husky with lust, “and no.” He ran one hand across the bloody wounds and pushed the other through his brother’s hair. “It makes me want you, brother,” he whispered. “I want you now.” Leaning forward and pulling Boromir to him, he kissed his mouth with avid hunger.

Boromir wasn’t repulsed by his brother’s actions, but he was unsure if he should actively participate in them. “Let me sew your leg back up first,” he said to delay him.

“No,” Faramir growled, biting his brother’s neck. “I can’t wait, I need you now.” He ripped Boromir’s shirt, pushing it off of his shoulders.

Grabbing his hands and forcing them behind his back, Boromir looked at him in surprise. Faramir struggled, rubbing his body against his brother’s. They wrestled on the bed, fighting for control. Suddenly, Boromir was seized by a lust almost as great as his brother’s and they were ripping off the last remnants of clothing. They slicked Boromir’s cock with Faramir’s blood and the older brother took the younger with a brutal thrust. It was quick and violent and messy. They held each other tightly when it was over, shedding tears of anguish.

Slowly, Boromir rose from the bed and retrieved fresh water and rags to clean them up. A quick wipe was sufficient for the cuts he’d made himself, but Faramir’s leg required restitching. When he finished, Faramir took the needle and thread and resewed a couple of stitches that had torn loose on Boromir’s side. They spread healing salve over each other and threw the cleaning rags and remnants of their clothing into a corner.

“What now, brother?” Faramir asked as his brother lay down beside him.

“I have to talk to father,” he answered, pulling him close. “I need you to supervise a scouting expedition to the south. We don’t want to be caught like that again. It’s too bad we had to abandon the outpost across the river from Pelargir.”

“I won’t let you down, brother,” Faramir told him.

“You never do, beloved one,” Boromir replied. “Just don’t cut yourself.”

“I’m not sure I can promise you that, brother,” Faramir said, running his hand through his brother’s hair.

“Is there anything I can do?” Boromir asked.

Faramir put his face against Boromir’s shoulder for several long minutes. “You can promise me, brother,” he said, his face still hidden.

“What do you want me to promise, my beloved? “ Boromir asked, a feeling of trepidation in his heart.

Leaning his head back, Faramir looked his brother in the eyes. “Promise that when I get back you will cut me yourself,” he told him.

“What?” Boromir asked, not really surprised.

“It isn’t very different from what we do in the sword dances, brother,” Faramir whispered, his hand moving to his face. “You know how good that feels.”

Closing his eyes, Boromir groaned at his words. He knew how good it felt, he could feel himself wanting it too. “We have to be careful, brother,” he said, opening his eyes and looking into Faramir’s. “We are fighting almost daily, and the blood loss could be dangerous. I wouldn’t want to weaken you before battle.”

Rubbing his newly erect cock against his brother’s, Faramir kissed his lips. “We will wait until we return to Minas Tirith, brother mine,” he said, nibbling on his lips. “We will go to our garden.” His hand moved to pull their bodies closer. “If there is enough time we can do a sword dance, and if not we will be creative.”

They moved together in slow sensuous actions, long tender strokes. The desperation had receded from their hearts and they let their love control their bodies. In the privacy of their room, they held back the darkness.

Boromir crossed the river at Cair Andros, to join up with the remnants of the heavy cavalry that had retreated to the west bank of the Anduin the day of the battle. He reassigned most of the men to other full units operating in Southern Gondor and Anorien. Taking only his personal armsmen with him, he hurried to Minas Tirith to report to his father.

Faramir, with a select group of twenty Ithilien Rangers, went directly south through the rugged forests and hills of Ithilien. The Rangers had always held his skill in awe, for he had been raised in the city and was as good as they were. Boromir was almost as good, but his larger size and bulkier muscles suited him better for cavalry.

The sweep he wanted to make of Southern Ithilien would take at least a week. Faramir wanted to go as far south as possible without being discovered, and get as many details as possible. He was hoping to find good ambush points along the trail from Harad.

Sitting alone in his study, Denethor considered all that his son had told him. They had been as hard pressed as this before, but not for a very long time. That the Haradrim were bringing the mumakil into play was a very bad sign. He would have some of the records of previous encounters with the beasts brought out of the archives to aid in stopping them.

Their worst problem at the moment was morale. There was no way to hide the loss of life in the last few months, especially this last disaster. And any attempt to hide it would only serve to cause more unrest. The harvest had been good this year, he could always call for a festival to celebrate that, but it was so out of character of him to do such, that it might look like the sop to the people’s feelings that it was.

A knock at the door intruded on his deadlocked thoughts and, with an exasperated sigh, he called for them to enter – only to be sunken to new depths of irritation by the identity of his visitor. “What do you want now, wizard?” he asked rudely.

Not waiting for the invitation that he knew wouldn’t come, Mithrandir took a seat before the Steward’s desk. He fussed with his pipe, ignoring the frown of disdain on his host’s face, before answering. “I’ve come to render what aid I can in this latest push from Mordor.”

“Mayhap you’re going to stand on the peak of the White Tower and cast spells that will keep the accursed and their allies in their own lands?” Denethor asked sneeringly.

“I would if I could,” was the answer. “But for now I thought a little fireworks display to brighten a harvest festival would be almost as good. The people, after all, are the real strength of Gondor.”

“Do not tell me what I already know, Gandalf,” the Steward rebuffed. “How shall I explain to the families of the newly dead that we are suddenly holding a celebration that we haven’t held in over twenty years while their sons lie in their cold graves?”

“You have built yourself a bit of a problem there, Denethor,” the wizard answered. “Thorongil told you it was a bad idea to stop the festivals; now you search for excuses to bring cheer and comfort to your people.” He continued despite the furious sputtering of the man. “Fortunately, I have brought just such an excuse with me. Théoden King has seen fit to allow his nephew Éomer to accompany me to your fine city. Since he is in consideration for the hand of your niece-by-marriage, Lothiriel, and second in line for the throne of your strongest ally, not to mention Third Marshall of the Riddermark, a feast would be most appropriate at this time.”

“I suppose Boromir has already installed him into his suite of rooms?” Denethor asked, still angry with the wizard.

“I imagine that is where he dragged him off to,” was the answer, “though they were most restrained in their greetings. Boromir was almost as reserved as you; it was quite amusing to watch. Especially when you take into consideration how much he will make up for it when they are alone.” Mithrandir couldn’t help the teasing remark. He had never cared for Denethor and what he had done to his youngest son had pushed his feelings dangerously close to disrespect.

“You go too far,” the Steward told him in an angry voice. “Keep your speculations about my son to yourself. About both my sons. I will not have you or anyone else subject them to rumor and scandal. They have brought more to this kingdom than any before them.”

“I’m glad to see that you are finally beginning to appreciate their contributions,” the wizard said. “As for rumor and scandal, the stories about them have spread far and wide, not with derision, but with respect. Their methods may be unorthodox, but they have managed to unite the people of Gondor closer than ever before. Even in Anorien, where over one hundred people were put to death for treason just two years ago, they have garnered the loyalty of the populace and the ruling families to almost fanatical levels. Their offspring are everywhere as well, low and high born. Even here, there are changes. Lothiriel asked, did she not, to be left at your court until her marriage? And her parents, known for their protectiveness, allowed it.” Gandalf paused in his tirade, to look with sadness at the Steward. “No one in Gondor, and probably in Rohan, would denigrate your sons, for it would most likely mean stoning by an angry mob.”

“I know you are right,” Denethor said. “But still, we walk a narrow line, my sons and I. We have reached an agreement of sorts and I will not have you and your interfering ways break the peace between us. Let it be, Gandalf.”

“As you wish, my lord Steward,” he replied. “Shall we set it for a week hence, that will give plenty of time for a large gathering?”

“And Faramir should have returned by then, he would be pleased by a festival,” Denethor said. At the wizard’s surprised look he went on. “Things have changed between us.”

“So a week from today?” Mithrandir asked.

Éomer was somewhat put off by the tall stone walls of the city and the less than warm reception he had received from Boromir. He followed him up the seemingly endless stairs to the rooms close to the top of the tower. He carried nothing since the small army of servants had gathered all of his baggage and made off with it at a speed that astonished. It gave him an eerie feeling.

Finally, they reached their destination and as soon as the doors to the brothers’ private suite were closed, Boromir pulled him into his arms. “I have missed you greatly, my wild one,” he said into his neck, kissing and licking his way to the full lips waiting his attentions.

“I was beginning to wonder if you even knew me,” Éomer said, not quite appeased by Boromir’s words.

“I’m sorry, my golden one,” Boromir added. “My father would skin us both if we made any public displays. But I will make it up to you.” Before Éomer could respond, he was whisked into the bedroom and their clothes were almost magically dropped to the floor. “I want you now,” Boromir growled as he brought them both down onto the bed. “I want you in me, my prince.”

Filled with desire for the man beneath him, Éomer lifted one of Boromir’s legs and began easing his hard and leaking cock into Boromir’s tight ass. If Boromir hadn’t shown him how it was done, he would never have believed it could be done so painlessly with only his own precum as lubrication. Moving slowly at first, then with greater speed, he was oblivious to anything other than the man beneath him. They fit together so perfectly. Éomer thrust into Boromir with all his strength, mindless with lust. It was hard and fast, and they both cried out their release.

As they lay panting on the bed beside each other, Éomer was surprised that there were three servants moving quietly about the room putting his belongings away. Leaning up on one elbow, Éomer looked around the large room, idly trailing a finger through the semen on Boromir’s belly. It was bright and airy with a large balcony looking to the north.

One of the servants came to the bed carrying a bowl of water and some cleaning cloths. With practiced ease, he began cleaning them as they lay there. Éomer was a bit shocked by the unexpected familiarity.

“This is Garus,” Boromir told him, watching the man blush at his introduction. “He is the one who brought us back to health after our infamous boar hunt.”

“I am pleased to meet you,” the prince said, smiling at the now furiously blushing man.

“Thank you, your highness,” he said. “We have fresh clothing awaiting you both, the Steward will be expecting you.”

“Ah yes, father,” Boromir said sitting up. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Where is Faramir?” Éomer asked as he began dressing.

“In Southern Ithilien, scouting,” Boromir answered.

“Isn’t that territory held by the enemy?”

“Yes, but we have to know more about what is coming up out of the south,” Boromir said. “We took heavy losses a few days ago, and if anyone can find out what is going on it’s my brother. He should be back any day now.”

“It will be good to see him,” Éomer said.

“How are your sister and cousin, are they making good use of the swordmaster I sent them?” Boromir inquired.

“Éowyn is beside herself with rage,” Éomer laughed. “Despite being the swordmaster’s favorite because of her skill, my uncle won’t let her ride with the shield maidens. He says it might spoil her chances of finding a civilized husband. I think it is because of that new advisor he has. A slyer snake I’ve never seen, but I’m considered too young to be knowledgeable about such things.”

“Father has agreed to send me to Rohan next spring to talk to Théoden King about a marriage agreement,” Boromir told him. “If I can’t influence him to let her ride, maybe I can get rid of this snaky advisor for you,” he offered.

Éomer laughed. “If it were only so easy; let’s go pay our respects to your father.”

“Afterward you can meet my cousin Lothiriel,” Boromir added. “I think you will like her. She is no shield maiden, but I’ve seen her shred vaunted scholars with her tongue alone.” He paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Some of the other things she can do with her tongue are pretty miraculous as well.”

As she watched Éomer give Boromir a most spectacular blowjob, Lothiriel mused on the changes in her life since she’d met her sexy cousins a little over ten years ago. Despite her parents’ belief that they had been strictly hands off, things were not always as they appeared. Once they had recovered sufficiently from their injuries, the brothers had visited her in her bedroom for a part of every night. Because of her young age, they had not indulged in anything more than heavy petting, but it had been fun and informative. Prior to her indoctrination by them, the idea of sharing her lovers, let alone her husband, was something completely against her nature. In fact, she had never shared anything other than her thoughts in her life.

They had written regularly, and she had been informed of their relationship with Éomer when the horsemaster and shield maiden had arrived to take up service with her. There had been other instructors; each with practical lessons that her parents could appreciate and other, private lessons, intended to make her more receptive to what the brothers wanted.

It had worked. As she watched one of her perspective husbands pleasure her oldest cousin, she reaffirmed in her heart that she would do anything they requested of her. When she balked at their requests, they would show her why it was in her best interest, and the best interest of Gondor. And Gondor was of prime importance to all of their plans.

As always, Boromir came beautifully, and Éomer shared a kiss with her that tasted of the semen he had milked from the older man’s cock. It was what she wanted, what she longed for. She leaned forward, drowning in the intense heat of the Third Marshal’s arms, and Boromir lazily traced the tattoo on her right shoulder that matched the one on his and his brother’s. They belonged to Gondor, and the king.

Before he reached Osgiliath, Faramir knew that Éomer and Mithrandir were in Minas Tirith and that a festival was planned in the prince’s honor. The trek to the south had taken longer than planned, but he had gleaned enough information to make a difference for several months. It would be good to return home, especially with two of his favorite people visiting and another already in residence. Not to mention his beloved brother, who he missed despite their shared dreams. Even though Boromir didn’t care much for the wizard, they both enjoyed Éomer and Lothiriel. It was looking to be a good week all around.

The ride across the Pelennor took less time than the long journey through the city to the White Tower. The sight of his brother and Éomer waiting for him brightened his heart, but he had to report to his father before he could properly greet them. As they walked down the long hall to Denethor’s study, Éomer suddenly grabbed him and kissed him soundly.

“I was beginning to worry about you,” he whispered against his neck as he gave Faramir a warm embrace.

“Me too,” Boromir said, claiming his own quick kiss. Faramir laughed at their impatience, then sobered as they reached his father’s study.

Denethor allowed Éomer to stay for the briefing, as he was a close ally. Catching the furtive glances of his oldest and the young prince, he accepted a brief preliminary report before dismissing them. At least the news was good for once, he mused as he sat contemplating.

The bath that was already waiting for Faramir was almost as hot as the kisses bestowed upon him. Although Boromir and Éomer claimed the right to bathe him, Garus, Saphron and Stefle claimed their own welcoming greeting. Éomer had grown used to the almost constant presence of the three, adjusting to them sleeping in a small bed in the same room. He’d even enjoyed watching Boromir slake his lust on them, once he had grown too tired to continue himself. It wasn’t a thing known in the Riddermark, but there were a couple of servants he might consider training in this way.

As always, the first sight of Faramir’s scars was a bit shocking. Boromir quickly removed the stitches that were still in the leg wound. “I’m glad you left these in this time, brother,” he commented.

“I’ve kept my promise, are you ready to keep yours?” he asked.

“Yes, brother,” Boromir said, picking a leaf out of Faramir’s hair. “Especially since it looks like you had to crawl through the bushes to get here.”

“What are you two planning now?” Éomer asked, looking at his now wet clothes and deciding to strip.

“He wants to go play with knives,” Boromir said, running his hand over the new pink scars on Faramir’s chest.

Éomer looked at the marks. “Did you get tired of waiting for your enemies to cut you?” he asked, and then got into the oversized tub with him. Sliding close to Faramir, he took him in his arms, hungry for his touch. The scars on Faramir’s chest alone were almost too many to count. He’d seen them cut each other in a sword dance and had sex with them afterward in the heat of their and his blood; this would be little different as far as he was concerned. Right now, he wanted to make love to the man in his arms.

The light from the curtained window was enough to see without lighting a lamp. Denethor made his way through the semidarkness, looking for a book he was sure had been left here. The long unused room was dusty with neglect, and he finally sighted his quarry by the window. The leather bound cover was cracked with age, but the pages were still clearly readable, all done in the neat handwriting of Thorongil. He hated to use the book, but it had the most concise information on dealing with Haradrim and their terrifying mumakil.

A noise from outside caught his attention. This level of the tower was fairly close to the ground level and the window overlooked a couple of small gardens. Parting the curtain, he looked to see what was below. The sight was shocking to him. His sons and the prince were all three naked and on a blanket in the middle of a small lawn. Faramir lay on his back and the others sat on either side of him, each with a knife in one hand.

As he watched, Boromir used the tip of his knife to draw a pattern in one of the ugly red squares on his brother’s chest. When he finished, he leaned down to kiss and lick at the new wound, Faramir arching beneath him, clearly aroused. Then the prince copied the older brother’s example, his free hand going to Faramir’s hard cock.

Boromir lay next to his brother, kissing his mouth and sliding his own erection up against him. Éomer’s hand worked Faramir’s cock energetically and long streams of semen shot up splattering all three. Once again Denethor was caught by the spectacle of his sons, having difficulty turning away from them. With a curse he fled the room, slamming the door. In the hallway he nearly ran into the wizard.

“Ah, Lord Denethor,” Mithrandir said putting a hand on his arm.” I’ve been looking for you.”

“I don’t have time for you now,” the Steward raged, shrugging away from him and rushing down the hall.

The wizard stared after him for a moment, and then turned to the door he had just seen him exit. His eyebrow rose as he recognized the door to Thorongil’s study. Looking to see that the hall was clear, he entered the room. Nothing appeared to be disturbed in the thick dust of the room except by the window.

As he approached it, he heard the sound of laughter. Peeking through the slightly parted curtains, he saw the three men in the garden. He was somewhat amused by their actions and the fact that Denethor had spied them. Then he noticed the blood. It was everywhere and they seemed to revel in it.

The blood brought back terrible memories. Memories of broken young men discarded by their abuser. Most of them had been many years ago, before the marriage of Denethor and Finduilas, dark-haired young men that had born a strong resemblance to Thorongil. But there was another time about ten years back; he had been called upon to help a young man with blond hair that looked much like the youngest son of the Steward. It worried him, what he saw below him, but there was little he could do about it.

A sudden feeling of awareness brought his attention back to the garden. Faramir was openly regarding the window where he stood. Slowly, Mithrandir backed away, wondering if the Steward’s youngest son could truly see him. An elf would have been able to, and Faramir had elvish blood on his mother’s side. Maybe there was much more to this young man than even he suspected.

Faramir moved away from his lovers, eyes fixed on the only window that overlooked their garden. He could feel the presence he had sensed moving away. A second person, for there was not the same feeling of dread that had passed over him just before the faint sound of the distant door slamming. It had clouded his mind as his brother and Éomer brought him to climax. Chills went down his spine as he surmised who that first observer was. The second didn’t seem important.

“Boromir,” he said as he turned. “You need to ask father for the little study.” Thinking swiftly, he pondered an acceptable use for the room. “Tell him you would like a private library, so that we can keep the books and records important to our work in order. But ask him when you are alone, he will be less likely to refuse you then.”

“You’re sure that someone was in there after all these years?” Boromir asked.

“Absolutely positive,” he told him.

“Is it something we have to worry about?” Éomer asked.

“Not now,” Faramir stated. “But it is best if we keep it from happening again.” He looked at his companions, who were still somewhat aroused. Going to his knees between them he put a hand to each face. “I have left you two unfinished with my alarm. Do you want to continue here or return to our room?”

Boromir grabbed his brother and lowered him to the ground. “I am not worried about voyeurs, no matter who they are. I want you now.” He rubbed the head of his cock against the tight ring of his brother’s ass until it hardened completely. Thrusting into him, Boromir set a quick pace. Éomer watched the two brothers, fisting his own cock. They were so beautiful together, he could spend his whole day just watching them.

Even if Denethor’s stiff manner wouldn’t have betrayed his earlier presence in the room overlooking their garden, the book on the corner of his desk did. Faramir had been considering getting it himself, even though his father had forbidden him to enter the room. It was a small part of the reason that he wanted Boromir to ask for it. Taking his seat beside his brother, he kept his expression neutral as he waited for his father to speak.

“This is a book written long ago that has information on the Haradrim,” the Steward said, gesturing toward the book. “It should be of help in planning our offensive and defensive measures. You can wait to start reading it until after the festival if you wish. I’m sure that there is too much on your minds now to let you absorb it all.”

“Thank you, father,” Boromir said with a smile, indicating that Faramir should take up the book. “We will make sure that we start it as soon as possible.”

Denethor paused, looking at his desk as if deep in thought. “I’ve decided that you should have a study closer to the great hall,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “You can have the small study that has been unused for so many years.”

“Thank you, father,” Boromir repeated. “We can use the space.”

“As you know, the festival is to take place over three days,” Denethor continued. “My secretary has compiled itineraries for each of us including the prince and princess.” He nodded condescendingly towards Éomer and Lothiriel as he passed the papers with their schedules out. “If there are any alterations necessary I need to know by the end of the day. We have done our best to accommodate all of your requests. Of course, the fireworks each night, culminating in the largest display on the last night, will end each day’s activities. I know that I don’t need to caution any of you on your conduct,” he added, looking at each of them with a stern expression. “The servants have been informed which wines and ales are suitable for plentiful consumption. We don’t need any of us incapacitated by drink.”

“Thank you, father,” Boromir said yet again, even though all of them had renounced drunkenness long ago as it interfered with other things they found more pleasurable.

Denethor studied them dispassionately. He had some knowledge of their arrangements, but not much. He knew that sometime during the day they would all gather together and decide what they would do. His sons were too old for him to control, and their network of spies and lovers covered the entire kingdom and beyond. All of the years he had striven for power, driving many away from him, seemed like such a shallow dream when he looked at them and two of their chief compatriots. They held the real power, the hearts of the people. He knew that it was only at their indulgence that he was even still the Steward. His position was held on the knife’s edge of their approval.

Part 13: THE FESTIVAL

The whole city of Minas Tirith and the immediate vicinity had been turned into a giant festival ground for the three-day celebration. The rush of activity surrounding the festival added to the general air of excitement throughout the city. Faramir was enjoying himself immensely, even though he had to spend much of his time without his brother. They were parceling out their time among different events so that no section of the populace would feel ignored. Denethor held court in the White Tower, bestowing gifts and rewards on those deserving. Princess Lothiriel and Prince Éomer spent as much time as they could with the brothers and each other but they, too, adhered to duty by attending as many events as possible.

The brothers’ busy schedules had been carefully planned so that they could attend as many events as possible during the festival. This presented something of a challenge, but it was one they were happy and well-equipped to accept. Minas Tirith was a fortress city that had been planned for defense. There was no way to go directly from the city’s entrance at the Gateway to the inner sanctum of the seventh circle where the White Tower of Ecthelion stood, unless you knew the secrets of the inner passageways. Even then, the passages were narrow and dank, usually only used by those on the business of the kingdom. The brothers knew all of the tunnels, and could appear anywhere in the city they wanted to be in relatively short periods of time.

There were rooms off the passages, small alcoves designed to hold off any attackers that might have gotten within the city, as well as larger storage rooms that held weapons and other supplies. In one of the alcoves, Faramir braced himself against the wall as Boromir drove his cock into his ass. They had been early to their next appointed appearance, now they were going to be late. It had started with just a little kiss, but the excitement of the festival already had their blood pumping. As Boromir grabbed and squeezed Faramir’s cock, they both came. It was a great release after having spent so much time apart fulfilling their festival duties.

During the celebration, they used the tunnels to fill in when they were going to be late to their appointments, letting selected guards guide Éomer and Lothiriel to their own destinations when one of them couldn’t. It had been a point of contention with Denethor, but Boromir had convinced him that it was in their best interests. The Steward stayed close to the tower, and had no need or desire to use the tunnels. As a result, the brothers had made sure that only their own men were stationed within the passages.

Only the evening feast allowed the four to be together, and that was under the watchful eye of the Steward. There was dancing afterward, but again they rarely spent time with each other, too busy fulfilling the obligations of their rank. It was only after the first day’s closing ceremonies that they were able to sneak Lothiriel into their suite so that they could spend a little time together. All four sprawled on the bed naked, Boromir reading Faramir’s journal, which he had already written despite the length of the entry. Lothiriel was lying across his back, reading over his shoulder and tickling him when he didn’t translate the code on the side of the page quickly enough. Éomer laughed at their antics, admiring the beauty of the two, running his hand along her back. Faramir handed a bottle of oil to Éomer, indicating the soft backside of Lothiriel, which was beneath his hand.

The first touch of Éomer’s well-oiled hand brought a gasp of surprise from the princess. Éomer’s other hand in the center of her back kept her from moving much, but she could turn her head enough to see his face. “What are you doing?” she asked, even though she knew.

“I’m preparing you,” he answered with a smirk. “I’m going to satisfy your curiosity about how well I ride.”

Her pert answer was cut off when Éomer buried a finger in her ass, taking her breath away. She had never been allowed to go this far before. Opening her eyes, she looked at Faramir who watched with aroused interest. Although he was four years younger than her, Éomer was very experienced in what he was doing to her body and in very little time she was panting in excitement. When she began thrusting backwards with her hips as three of Éomer’s fingers worked in her, he withdrew his hand and repositioned her legs so that she was kneeling over Boromir. Her hands clutched at Boromir’s arms as Éomer grabbed her hips. Again turning her head to watch, she saw Faramir guiding Éomer’s cock into her ass.

He made her feel unbelievably full and so very good. There had been some fear in her before, but he had been so careful that there had been no pain at all. Of course, the training she had received at the hands of her many ‘tutors’ had helped her to be able to relax at the intrusion. When he finally began moving, pulling almost all of the way out, then sliding slowly back in, she couldn’t keep silent. Her cries were muffled as she buried her face in Boromir’s back and began digging her nails into his arms. As her response heightened, the pace increased and soon Lothiriel was crying out her climax, which lasted longer than any she’d had to date.

As Éomer and Faramir lifted her to the side, Boromir rolled over and kissed her. “Was he all we told you, cousin?” he asked.

“More,” was her reply.

Éomer had stayed between her legs as they turned her onto her back and Faramir lay next to her, opposite Boromir. Lying across her, Éomer kissed her lips. “I will be very happy to have you as my own,” he whispered in her ear. “I will just have to make sure that Théodred makes the right choices.”

They cuddled with her for a few more minutes before Garus cleared his throat expectantly. With resigned dismay, she rose from the bed and allowed the servants to clean and dress her. “I will be much happier when I am married and don’t have to rush off in the middle of the night like some unwanted mistress,” she said caustically.

“As soon as we can get all of the arrangements made, my Princess,” Boromir told her. “If only we could get the fighting to slow down a little.”

“Hah!” she said defiantly. “Send the enemy to me. I will blind them with my beauty, dazzle them with my wit, and disarm them with my charm. Then you can kill them all while I hold them in thrall.”

They all laughed at her quip. “If the enemy knew what a treasure we had in you, my cousin,” Faramir responded, “they would make every effort to tear down the walls of Minas Tirith itself to claim you. But do not despair; I have made arrangements for you to spend tomorrow night with a friend of ours who is a well-known and respectable dowager. She has many entertainments planned just for you. Unfortunately, we can’t be there. It would draw our father’s suspicion. But fear not; Éomer will accompany you part of the night.”

“Have I met this woman?” she wanted to know.

“Yes, the elderly countess Hargrave. She lives in a building that adjoins an old friend of ours,” Faramir answered.

“You are going to send me to your mistress?” she asked in shocked excitement.

“You will like Lani,” Boromir told her. “She trained the two handmaidens we assigned you last year, and also the groom.”

“It will be most enjoyable for both of you,” Faramir reassured.

This second day of the festival didn’t have the frantic flavor of the first. Boromir and Faramir were able to relax into their roles as paragons of nobility. They used the tunnels to blow off steam when necessary and showed their best faces to the multitudes awaiting them. The small honor guard from Rohan, along with their leader, Prince Éomer, won the hearts of the populace with their displays of horsemanship. The fact that he was willing to give advice on livestock, especially horses, and treated all with respect added to the positive effect.

Lothiriel had been endearing herself to the citizens of Minas Tirith since her arrival in the city almost two years past. Now she was able to spread her considerable charm to even more of the Gondorian populace. Faramir had introduced her to the heads of the all-too- common orphanages that become necessities in the city and she had continued his policy of hands on supervision when he was gone. She spent most of the second day with the various children of the city. Much to her surprise, she often ran into Boromir and Éomer as well as Faramir as they visited with the children. She had also managed to ensnare many of the ladies of the court to accompany her and was able to learn a great deal more about them as she watched them interact with the needy. Her report would have much new information about the court of the White Tower when she turned it over to her cousins. For even though she resided in the same building, they still insisted on full and frequent reports from her.

The brothers loved their city, and their city loved them. Wherever they went, cheers rose up in the crowds and they were often hard pressed to be able to speak to all who wished to greet them. The few occasions when they were both together brought almost frenetic responses from the multitudes. It was a wonderful, exciting day that ended in a tedious formal dinner with their father in the great hall.

Faramir missed Lothiriel and Éomer desperately at dinner the second night of the festival. The previous evening he had been able to sit next to Boromir, but with both Éomer and Lothiriel attending a dinner elsewhere that evening, he had to sit next to his father. In the early part of the meal, all went well. By the end of the dinner, it became obvious to Faramir that his father was very drunk. He didn’t slur his words or speak loudly as most others would, but his behavior was extremely out of character.

“You know that you and your brother have already replaced me as Steward in this city,” he whispered into Faramir’s ear.

Faramir pretended not to hear the comment.

Grabbing his son’s arm with unnecessary force, he continued. “It is true,” he said. “Look at them, all either of you would have to do is speak a single command and they would fall over themselves to obey. I have spent my whole life trying to gain that kind of power and you swoop in and take it all away.” He paused, his red-rimmed eyes burning into his youngest son. “Look at you, not even thirty and what do you have? Everything.” He answered himself.

Faramir wanted to leave, to escape the tirade of his drunken father. He looked for Boromir who had moved away from his seat to speak with a few others of the aristocracy.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Denethor said, noticing his son’s seeking gaze. “Do not call out to your brother. That is one of the problems. He always comes to your aid, is always at your side. You should be following my orders, not giving orders to him to give to me.”

At Faramir’s ready denial, he scoffed.

“Don’t think that I don’t know what goes on with you two. I know that he wouldn’t think up half of the things you put him up to. Your machinations will do you no good though,” the Steward told him. “I know your weakness, I’ve seen it and even tested it. I can control you.”

“I have always been your obedient son,” Faramir said.

“Yes,” Denethor almost hissed. “You will do anything I order, I know this. Anything.”

“Yes, my lord,” Faramir agreed as fear raced down his spine. The only way he had ever been able to disobey his father was if Boromir directly ordered him to.

“I’m thinking of giving you some orders now,” Denethor said, his voice becoming louder.

“Are you ready to retire for the evening, father?” Boromir’s voice suddenly came to both of them. He had noticed his father’s grip on his brother’s arm and came as quickly as he could to forestall any public incidents. As he heard Denethor’s words to Faramir, his heart almost stopped. Then he realized that his father was drunk, more drunk than he had ever seen him. Denethor had a lust for power, and drunkenness made one lose power over one’s self. And now it had removed a great deal of power from the Steward permanently, for Boromir would make sure his father never had power over his brother again. Not while he was alive to stop it.

“Come Faramir,” he said. “Let us help father to bed the day has been long and he is weary.” With his strong hands he brought his father to his feet, careful to make it look like the Steward wished for his help. Faramir rose and went to his father’s other side as he had been ordered.

Denethor was very drunk; he lost his train of thought as Boromir spoke to him. “Thank you, Boromir,” he said, his voice starting to slur as the blood surged through him. He would have fallen if his sons weren’t supporting him. They began the long climb to the Steward’s bedchamber, Denethor at times rambling senselessly. As they reached the door, Boromir picked his father up and bade Faramir return to the great hall to reassure any who had observed them that all was well.

The wizard was the first to greet him as he entered. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

“My father was a little over-tired, Boromir is seeing him to bed,” Faramir answered. He smiled as he spoke, but his eyes told Mithrandir that he would answer no more questions.

“I need to speak with you as soon as possible,” the wizard told him.

“Can it wait until after tomorrow?” he asked, thinking of the closing of the festival.

“I think so,” Mithrandir answered with a worried look. “It would probably be best if your brother weren’t there.”

“I tell him everything,” Faramir told him.

“What I have to say would be best coming from you, not me,” the wizard assured him. “I don’t want you to keep secrets from your brother, but he is sometimes hasty when angered.”

“I will come to you in the archives, sometime the day after tomorrow, probably early in the day,” Faramir said, feeling sure that it had something to do with his father.

As they lay together in their bed enfolded in each other’s arms, they talked quietly of their evening. “I will have to speak with father about what he said to you,” Boromir told him, after Faramir had related all of Denethor’s words to him. He hadn’t written about it in his journal, it was one of those things he wouldn’t commit to paper. “But I will wait until after you hear what the wizard has to say. It no doubt has something to do with what he saw in the great hall.” He kissed Faramir’s forehead. “But you, my love, I will have you safe from father’s interference. Do not follow any orders from him that would hurt you or humiliate you.” At Faramir’s worried look, he added more. “Don’t over-think this, brother, you know what I mean. Surely you may come to harm in battle, but that is our duty, and the act of standing still is not harmful in itself, but if you stand still while he beats you, then it is. Don’t equivocate, I want you to follow the spirit of my orders.”

“Yes, brother,” Faramir answered.

“Let me love you now,” Boromir said before claiming his mouth in a deep kiss. “You are mine, and I will not see anyone abuse you.” He made love to his brother, slowly and sweetly. The fear he had seen in Faramir’s eyes earlier still haunted him. They both cried when they had finished, the release of tension was so great.

When Éomer finally returned from his evening, he smiled at the two brothers sleeping so closely in each other’s arms. He was especially glad this evening of the servants’ willingness to undress him so that, in his fatigue, he only had to slip into the bed. As he pressed close to Faramir’s back, he noted the tear tracks on the brothers’ faces and wrapped his arms around them as best he could.

The final day of the festival was more fast paced then the previous two. Lothiriel felt energized from her activities of the previous evening. Denethor was hiding his hangover while he tried not to think about what he might have done in his drunkenness. He could remember nothing after the dessert. The brothers were a bit tense and Éomer watched them closely, hoping that he could do something to help them.

In the late afternoon, most of the populace gathered at the eric that had been marked out in the fields below the Gateway. In the stands that had been erected for the nobility, Denethor was noticeably absent. Éomer and Lothiriel held the seats of honor, with Mithrandir seated at Éomer’s side. When all had gathered, Boromir and Faramir came through the crowd wearing long capes that covered their clothing.

After long debate, they had decided to perform the third of the Númenorean sword dances. It wasn’t the most artistic, fastest, or bloodiest, but in this dance they started together and ended together. It fitted their mood and the feeling they wanted to convey to the crowd best. Lani had designed their costumes, which were identical and more than a little risque. A gasp of excitement went through the audience as the brothers dropped their capes and entered the eric with their swords in their in their hands. At its center, they stood back to back until their breathing had synchronized. Boromir moved first, his blade cutting the air, Faramir following him perfectly. They moved through the steps with unerring grace, lighter and faster on their feet then any there had ever seen.

Mithrandir sat forward in his chair, he had seen the best through the ages and none could better these two. Few would even come close to matching them. Observing the unadulterated joy on their faces, he was very glad that Denethor had chosen to stay away. It was not something he needed to see in the state of mind he’d been in of late. They were so beautiful, and their beauty enthralled the crowd.

Her nails digging into Éomer’s hand, Lothiriel watched as entranced as everyone else. She had seen them practice, but never before witnessed an actual dance of theirs. It was far beyond anything she had expected. It was also one of the most erotic things she had ever seen and she became almost unbearably aroused.

Éomer’s mind wandered between the spectacle before him and the memory of the dance they had performed for him and his eored. Then he had been brought to the center of their dance, and the heat of it enflamed him now. He couldn’t imagine two more beautiful or graceful creatures.

It seemed to last an eternity, the flash of steel across soft flesh. Blood dripped slowly from their cuts as they moved across the smoothed sand surface. They were oblivious to the crowd, and Éomer was too far away to enter their thoughts as they danced. Then it ended almost suddenly, Faramir’s back pressed against his brother’s chest, both their heads thrown back and swords held high. It was a physical show of unity that brought a great cheer from the audience, the two brothers almost identical as they stood together in the eric. They bowed to all those present before having their cloaks wrapped around them and being led away by their personal guard.

The evening’s obligations ended early for them. The rest of the city had plenty to keep them occupied and Denethor had granted them a short break of their own by letting them choose their own entertainment for the evening, within reason. They sat around a great fire at the Rohirrim encampment a little way outside the city. Most of the brothers’ personal guard were there along with other guests. There was dancing and music.

The horsemen sang some of their songs and the Gondorians sang some of theirs. It was strongly reminiscent of some of the evenings when the brothers had first met Éomer almost four years ago, only more subdued. Faramir knew nearly all of the songs of the Rohirrim and sang a couple of elvish songs for them, his fair voice well suited for the lilting language.

“I’m surprised that uncle let you study the elvish tongues, cousin,” Lothiriel commented.

“I learned them in my dreams,” he told her. “I have learned most of the languages of Middle Earth and its history through my dreams. Mithrandir says that I am the first in many generations to dream so well.” He shrugged, and then looked at his brother. “It is because of my brother that I can do this, he feeds my dreams.”

“It is only because you fulfill all my dreams,” Boromir said, kissing his brother’s brow.

“Father hates it when he hears me sing or speak in other languages, especially Sindarin,” Faramir said.

“Father hates a lot of things,” Boromir responded bitterly.

“Did I miss something?” Lothiriel asked.

“We missed you at dinner last night,” Boromir told her. “You know how tiring father can be when he doesn’t have enough to keep him occupied. I have everything well in hand.”

She knew that he wasn’t telling her everything, but then he rarely did. Despite Faramir being in charge of most of their resources, Boromir made all of the final decisions.

They decided to spend the night in the large tent set up for the prince at his encampment, sending Lothiriel back to the citadel with the other ladies of the court that had attended and an armed escort. Éomer crawled in between the two brothers, turning onto his back and pulling them close to him. “Tell me what saddens you both so,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses to their faces. “Even if I cannot solve your troubles, I can share your worries. I love you both to distraction.”

“It is our father,” Boromir whispered. “He has made certain threats to Faramir.”

“How could he?” Éomer asked angrily, though still in a whisper.

“He is jealous of our bond with each other,” Faramir told him. “He has said he is thinking of ordering me to do something that would take control of our lives away.”

“You would not obey him would you?” Éomer wanted to know.

“I obey him always, unless Boromir countermands his orders,” was the calm reply.

“You must not,” Éomer said, kissing him. “I won’t allow it.”

Both brothers laughed at his words. “I love you, Éomer,” Boromir told him. “He needs to learn a little defiance. He is far too compliant. Try it and see, he will do everything you tell him to do.”

“Will you do everything I tell you to do?” Éomer asked Faramir, his body going heavy with lust.

“Oh yes,” Faramir answered, nibbling on Éomer’s ear.

Éomer closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Good,” he said, opening his eyes and giving Faramir a hard look. “Then don’t ever let your father do anything to hurt you, no matter what happens. It would be a betrayal to both your brother and I, for we love you and when you are hurt, we are hurt.”

Faramir buried his face in Éomer’s neck. “I will try,” he whispered.

“I expect you to do more than try,” Éomer told him, kissing his face.

The Great Archives were deep in the basement of the White Tower. It contained miles of corridors holding records, artwork, histories, myths and other written material. Some had come from ancient Númenor, some from the elves, dwarves and other people of Middle Earth. It was rumored that if it had been written, it could be found here, if one looked long enough. Gandalf had a feeling the rumor was right.

He shuffled through another stack of papers, his mind only half on what he was doing. With a sigh, he gave up his task and sat wearily on the small stool at the side of the room. The festival had achieved its purpose better than expected. As he had wandered through the crowds last night, hope and encouragement had lit every face. His only worry for the moment was how to tell Faramir what he thought the brothers needed to know without destroying the working relationship they had with their father.

Overhearing the last thing Denethor had said to Faramir in his drunkenness had convinced Gandalf that they needed to know what the Steward was suspected of. He truly believed that Faramir could possibly be in grave danger from his father. If the House of Húrin could not be kept intact and the Steward and his sons in power, then Gondor, swiftly followed by Rohan, would be overrun by Mordor. It would be the doom of Middle Earth.

Despite his many faults, Denethor was an excellent Steward, he had an uncanny ability to rule. Since his sons had become adults the situation had improved in many ways, even though they were vastly outnumbered by the enemy. Boromir was a military genius and inspired the warriors of Gondor to keep fighting against a seemingly insurmountable foe. Faramir was a brilliant political strategist and the dreams that gave him so much knowledge of the past, present and future gave him insights that even the wizard hadn’t expected. If the dynamic between these three men failed, the dark lord would overtake all.

Standing and taking out his pipe, he wondered if the ventilation in the small room was good enough for just a small bowl. Looking around the small room, he gave a sigh of resignation. Denethor would probably ban him from the Archives if he found out. Then he heard familiar footsteps approaching.

Faramir had a worried look on his face, he wished that he could avoid this meeting al- together. There were things he just didn’t want to know, and unfortunately he knew far too many of them. He stopped just inside the door, poised as if he would run. It was obvious that Mithrandir wasn’t sure how to start but he waited, letting the wizard take the lead.

“There were some things that happened a long time ago, before your father married, that you need to know about,” the wizard said after several false starts. “When your father was about your age, maybe a little older, certain young men were found traveling in caravans coming from Gondor. The first couple of them seemed to be just common prostitutes who had been very badly treated and then given a large sum of money and told to leave Gondor on pain of death. None of them knew for sure who had abused them, though a couple voiced their suspicions.”

“Shortly after the first serious confrontation between your father and Thorongil, all of the young men bore a strong resemblance to the captain. There was never more than one or two a year, and no one could ever track down who had done this for sure. I never brought it to Ecthelion’s attention since none of the men were ever found here in Gondor. Maybe that was a mistake on my part, I just didn’t want to bring forth doubt and suspicion in an already tense situation.” He paused, looking at Faramir who still stood in the doorway, his head leaning against the frame and fingers digging into the wall.

“The last one was discovered just before your father’s marriage and, since there was no more evidence, I didn’t pursue the matter any further. Then about ten years ago, shortly after the boar injured you and your brother, another young man showed up in Rohan. Like the others, he had been severely beaten with a cane, and had suffered other abuse. This young man looked much like you.” Mithrandir stopped, watching Faramir sweating and bracing himself in the doorway.

“Do you know why your father gave you the little study, the one that used to be Thorongil’s?” the wizard asked.

“Yes,” Faramir told him. “He saw us in the garden. I don’t think he had been in that room for decades before that. If he hadn’t wanted the book on fighting the Haradrim written by Thorongil, he probably would have never entered that room again. I should have realized he would go to get that book.” The young man paused, wiping tears from his face. “It just had been so long,” he finished quietly.

“I heard what he said to you the other night,” Mithrandir told him. “It might be that he is starting to become unstable.”

“Maybe we have pushed him too far,” Faramir said, nodding his head. “It is too late to back down now. Boromir will have to know about this; he intends to speak with father today. You will have to tell him, I just can’t.” He looked sadly at the wizard. “I just can’t do it.”

“Are you sure he will listen to me?” the wizard asked.

“He trusts you, but I think he’s a bit jealous of the time I spend with you,” Faramir smiled just a little. “I know how to handle him, and he knows how to handle father.”

Following Faramir, the wizard watched him signal the guards at the door to move to positions at either end of the hall. Boromir looked up as they entered and sat back in his chair. Crossing the room, Faramir let Mithrandir close the door. He removed the papers in front of his brother and sat on the desk, placing his feet on either side of his brother’s legs in the chair. Leaning down to rest his head on Boromir’s shoulder, he wrapped his arms around him.

With a sharp feeling of fear, Boromir kissed his brother’s cheek and looked at the wizard. “Tell me,” he ordered.

Mithrandir told him everything he had told Faramir and filled in the details when Boromir asked. It didn’t take long for the whole tale to unfold, Boromir often tightening his grip on his brother.

“I know it was not easy for you to tell me this,” Boromir said, his voice clear. “I already knew much of it, though I have tried to protect my brother from finding out. Maybe I shouldn’t have,” he added as Faramir jerked sharply in his arms. “I started looking into father’s past when I found out about him beating Faramir when I was gone. I made arrangements that it would not happen again. I thought I had everything under control, but I found out differently when we returned from the boar hunt.”

“Things have been much better since then, until recently with all of the losses. It has been making him feel his own loss of power. I assume you have been doing what you can for damage control outside of Gondor?” Boromir asked the wizard. At his nod, he continued, “Father doesn’t know what he said the other night. He is worried that he might have endangered himself and his position as Steward. It is when he is feeling insecure that he engages in sadistic behavior. We still need him as Steward; he is too able an administrator to set aside. Yet.”

“It sounds like you have given this a lot of thought,” Mithrandir said.

I spend my time working on the defense of Gondor,” Boromir told him. “But the most important thing to me is my brother, nothing else even comes close. If father loses control of himself, he will go after Faramir. There is no doubt in my mind about this. But if he feels that he is still in control of his own fate, and the final authority in Gondor, he will be all right. Faramir and I will visit with him this afternoon and reassure him that he did nothing to alert us to his present turmoil. Then I will talk privately with him.”

“Are you sure it will work?” Mithrandir asked.

“I’m sure,” he answered readily. “He wants to believe, that will make it easier. For now my brother and I have some planning to do,” he added, looking at the wizard pointedly.

“Later then,” the wizard said before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

Faramir sat back on the desk and looked his brother in the eye. Part of him almost felt betrayed by the secrets he had been keeping from him, another part was grateful. Without a word, Boromir removed the loose tunic he was wearing, throwing it to the floor.

“I think something elaborate would be a good idea, brother,” Boromir said indicating his brother’s knife. He barely winced as Faramir made the first cut just above the thick scar from the boar hunt. “Yes, just like that,” he whispered, feeling the blood run down his chest. It was such a release from his pent-up emotions.

The day was mild for early fall in Minas Tirith, a cool breeze wafting through the room. Yet, Denethor sweated as he waited for his sons. He still couldn’t recall what had happened the night he had gotten drunk. Boromir had put him to bed, Galmar knew that much, but he had been absent from the great hall after the meal had ended. How did I manage to get drunk? he asked himself for the millionth time. Everything had been carefully marked beforehand.

Finally his sons arrived, obviously fresh from bathing, Boromir looking a little pale. Faramir carried two wine bottles, obviously from the other night. “I have discovered what happened with your wine, father,” Boromir told him, signaling Faramir to place the bottles on his desk. “The marks we used to signify the watered wine are very similar to some bottles grandfather had set aside. It would have been impossible to tell the difference under candlelight.”

Denethor took the bottles gratefully, seeing that they were indeed almost identical. “I remember now,” he said with a smile. “This was an especially potent vintage he liked to sip in the evening. I was only ever treated to it once that I can recall; it didn’t taste dangerous at the time.”

“Thankfully, you were so tired from all of the activities of the day, you just asked us to help you to your room. I know how much you hate public displays,” Boromir reassured him. “Now I already have some responses to our latest troop movements. We can go over that in preparation for the meeting with Prince Éomer tomorrow.”

The meeting went rather well. Faramir, as their spymaster, had all of the reports ready and a final all-encompassing report that neatly outlined all of the pertinent facts. It would be fairly easy to make a plan of action with the prince, military advisors, and captains of Gondor. Things were looking up due to the high morale of the people and the expert intelligence of the two brothers.

Faramir excused himself to meet with another of his sources and left his brother and father to themselves. Even though he had become more comfortable with his youngest son, and even liked him to an extent, Denethor was still jealous of the time he spent with Boromir. For the most part he didn’t really feel any kinship with Faramir, though they were so much alike in many ways. He often felt he would have been more satisfied with just his oldest as son.

“I’m so glad you are here to make all of these decisions, father,” Boromir said after his brother had left. “I don’t know how we would manage without your guidance.”

“You would cope,” Denethor answered with a smile, looking into the honest and admiring eyes of his oldest son. “Especially since you have your brother to help you. I could have used such a good aide when I became Steward.”

“Yes, he is good,” Boromir agreed. “But, it still is not the same. We both feel that you are the best Steward Gondor has ever had, and that is with all of Faramir’s knowledge of our history.”

Denethor blushed at the compliment, glad that his insecurities from the last few days were being put to rest. Boromir had always been such an open person, even when he was defying his father. His military brilliance was only exceeded by his inability to hide his real emotions. It was comforting to have one son who was so easily read.

The breeze had become a wind high up in the tower of Ecthelion where Boromir stood gazing to the north from his bedroom balcony. Only Stefle waited at his side, the others about their duties. With a hard, cold look he turned to one of his closest informants and handed him the letter he had sealed and dated. “This is the latest, and I thank you for the excellent work you did in the wine cellar. I don’t think anyone could have planned that better. I like it when father reveals himself, and it had been too long since he had. Make sure the rest of that vintage is secured for future use, I have told Faramir of it in this letter.”

“As you wish, my lord,” the servant said, glowing with the praise.

“We can’t trust him if anything happens to me, he has made that clear,” Boromir continued. “Above everything, Faramir must be protected.”

“I agree, my lord,” Stefle replied, his heartfelt loyalty almost palpable in his words.

“Of course you do,” Boromir smiled at his valet. “I only wish the King would return now, this day, and take all of these burdens from me. Only he can save our people, only he can save us.” He looked again to the north. “You have a backup planned, just in case? You know how wily father can be.”

“I do, my lord,” was the calm answer. “Several, just in case we are discovered. The Lord Faramir will survive your death, even if the Steward must fall to make it happen.”

“Then I will die happy, even better if I can save my people. Make sure that the others know everything. When I go to Rohan in the spring I want my brother safe. Use the same people as last time, if possible. You all did a good job, it was only my father’s meddling with that blasted rock that caused any problems,” Boromir ordered before leaving the balcony to go to the evening meal.

Part 14: BETROTHED

Faramir stared out the window of the small castle at the heavy rain. The flashes of lightning and distant sound of thunder made him long for home and his brother’s arms even more than the endless days of wet travel. He had escorted his cousin back to Dol Amroth when they had received news of her mother’s illness. Lothiriel was now home with her ailing mother and he had been making his way back to Minas Tirith for a month, often having to stop because the roads became impassable. The sea had been too rough for him to take the shorter passage. Once he stopped, it was almost impossible to get the locals to let him continue his journey. There was really no hurry anyway, as Boromir would leave for Rohan in the morning. Of course, if he made it home quick enough he would be able to make a reconnaissance through Ithilien before his brother returned. He sighed at the thought of having to wait so long to see his beloved brother again.

“Are you all right, my lord?” a soft feminine voice asked from the bed.

Turning, he smiled at the young couple who were watching him with concern. “I just miss my home and my brother,” he told them.

“Come let us comfort you,” the young man said lifting the blanket and welcoming Faramir to return to their bed.

It surprised him just a little, thinking of how shy the young man had been when Faramir had invited him to share the first night rites with him. It was his wife after all, and Faramir liked to share. Sliding into the bed, he kissed them both. “Are you ready to learn some more?” he asked with a grin.

Stefle stood at the top of the stairway watching Galmar as he spoke with the two strangers in the lower hall. It was a dark, secluded place that aided secret meetings, just as Stefle’s position was perfect for overhearing every whisper from below. The well- oiled hinges of the door concealing the hidden passage behind him let him come and go as he pleased. Since Lord Boromir’s departure for Rohan, he pleased to be here a lot and had others assigned to take his place when his other duties called him.

Listening carefully and studying the features of the strangers, he committed the meeting to his memory. A smile shaped his lips as he realized the importance of what he was overhearing. He would have to make a report tonight. Fortunately, he rarely spent the nights in the brothers’ suite when they were gone, so he wouldn’t be missed.

As Galmar ushered his guests out the door, Stefle returned to the hidden passage. The regular sentry for this post was waiting so that he could leave immediately. In soft-soled shoes, he made his way down the long, dimly lit tunnels.

In far shorter time than it would have taken if he had used the usual routes, he reached his destination. The house in the fifth ring of the city was originally part of the estate of the House of Hurin. Centuries ago, it had been turned over to a branch of the family made up of those born of lower caste. The aging mansion was one of the few that were filled with residents. Here was the stronghold of the oldest retainers of the House of Hurin.

Nelda greeted Stefle from her bed. His mother, who was her chosen future replacement as family matriarch, sat in a chair at her bedside. The aging ladies’ maid was of neither Númenorean nor elvish blood and had already lived much longer than many of her race. Cara, who was her niece by marriage, was much younger and had been Nelda’s protégé for many years. Together, they decided who was fit to serve in the White Tower, the only exception being those under the control of Galmar. There had been an uneasy truce between the two factions for many years, with occasional flare-ups when the wants of the Steward vied with the needs of his sons.

“I have good news, Grandmother,” Stefle told Nelda, using the traditional title. “Lord Boromir’s plan appears to be working. Galmar has rescinded the order for another victim for the Steward, he even paid his agents. He will be going later tonight to make use of the prostitute they lined up for himself, but the Steward has lost interest.”

“You have taken all of the usual precautions?” she asked.

“I have arranged for him to be followed, and have already sent agents ahead to the meeting place. It is one of Lord Boromir’s favorite houses, he will be upset. I also sent people to watch the usual places, just in case this is a ruse.”

“I told you, Cara, all of those years ago,” she smiled at the woman at her side. “You have raised a fine son and his blood tells. We have never had to tell him twice and he knows how to improvise. Aren’t you glad you listened to me?”

“Yes, Grandmother,” she answered with a smile. “Even if he has to keep his hair short to keep him from reminding the Steward of his father, he is well worth the effort. As always, you were right.”

Stefle blushed at their words. “I only live to serve, Grandmother,” he went to his knees at her bedside. “It is my pleasure and my duty.”

“And you serve well,” Nelda told him. “You still seem worried, what troubles you?”

“Their dreams, Grandmother,” he said in a low voice. “They are too often dark and troubling, and Lord Boromir has begun speaking of his death again. He has made several plans, almost as if he knows something.”

“It is the worry of any warrior, that he may fall in battle,” Nelda comforted. “Our dear prince worries more than some because he fears for his brother’s safety. If there are any dreams prophesying his death, you will know. I will speak with him when he returns from Rohan.” She paused in thought for a moment. “But then, if he returns with the bride he seeks, his mood may improve without any aid from me.”

Boromir rode at the front of the caravan, next to its master and Éomer. He’d been on the road for a week and at this rate it would be at least another week before they reached Edoras. Ox carts were not made for speed. They’d just made it through the Firien Wood, and had picked up an escort of Rohirrim.

It had already been over five weeks since he had seen Faramir and he missed him terribly. Even the dreams they shared every night barely comforted him. He had grown too used to his brother’s company. Unable to restrain his impatience any longer, he addressed Éomer. “Do you think your uncle would mind if we left the troops to guard the caravan and rode ahead?”

“Let me turn over command and we will be off,” Éomer answered with a grin.

Within minutes, both men were riding at speed down the Great West Road. They were happy to be free from the slow and dusty caravan. The wind in their hair revived their spirits. All through the day they rode, sometimes racing, other times walking and exchanging news.

When night fell, they made a small fireless camp and rested until the moon rose, then sped off again into the night.

It was late when they reached Edoras. Éomer took Boromir to his own room rather than wake anyone. Stripping off all but their pants, they sprawled in each other’s arms and fell fast asleep.

During the night, Boromir felt the stirrings of one of the dreams he shared with his brother. He slipped his arms around Éomer’s waist and nuzzled his ear, feeling Faramir’s presence in his mind. Éomer became restless and called out “Faramir,” into the darkness.

“I hear you,” Boromir whispered sliding a hand into his pants and loosely cupping his cock. “Sleep, my wild prince.”

They slept soundly the rest of the night and only awoke when Théodred, Éomer’s cousin, came racing into the room and leaped into the bed. “I’m so glad you are home, Éomer,” the boy said as he bounced with energy. “I’ve been waiting for you. Father said I could ride with you next time.”

Both men shifted to sit up, glad for the blanket that hid details. Boromir leaned back against the headboard after giving the cock in his hand a friendly squeeze, and Éomer leaned against him. Théodred’s eyes grew big as he realized that his cousin wasn’t alone.

“Théodred, leave Éomer sleep,” came a light feminine voice. “He got in very late. . .” Her voice broke off as she entered the room and saw the stranger sitting in the bed with her brother.

“It’s too late sister,” Éomer said. “He has already woken us, if not the rest of the house.”

Boromir almost laughed at the look of scandalized confusion and the spreading blush on the young woman’s face.

“This is Boromir, whom I have told you about,” Éomer introduced him. “This is my cousin, Théodred, and my sister, Éowyn. I thought it too late to wake you, sister, so we both just slept here.”

“It is never a bother to care for you and our guests, brother,” she replied, her pale features flushed with embarrassment and excitement. “You know you can always wake me.”

“It would be too much trouble for you, my lady,” Boromir stated. “We are both used to sleeping wherever is available.” He ran a finger from Éomer’s shoulder to his wrist in a seductive manner, which made Éomer shiver, and his sister blush more deeply.

“Guests are never too much trouble,” she repeated, her temper starting to rise as she suspected he was teasing her.

Boromir casually moved so that the blanket slid lower on his body, knowing that Éowyn didn’t know they were wearing pants. Éomer, though close to his sister, enjoyed teasing her, and was a willing accomplice.

“It is also nice to have such a willing companion to share one’s bed,” Éomer added, putting his hand on Boromir’s raised knee. “Don’t worry so, sister, we can care for ourselves sometimes.”

Théodred’s impatient fidgeting in his cousin’s arms dislodged the blanket enough to show that they were partially dressed, making Éowyn’s temper rise even more. “There is plenty of hot water waiting for you, brother,” she said through clenched teeth. “Since you two are so good at taking care of yourselves, I’m sure you won’t need any help. Come Théodred, your father waits for you to join him at breakfast.” Nearly dragging the boy from the room, she stomped off.

“I’m afraid we are in trouble, my friend,” Éomer laughed. “She won’t stop until she has revenge.”

Éomer found clean clothes for both of them to take to the baths. The room wasn’t large, only holding two moderately large tubs. They locked the door behind them and stripped quickly. Sharing a tub, they washed each other.

Boromir began nibbling at Éomer’s neck while his hands roamed his body. “I like your sister, just as you said I would,” he whispered into the other man’s ear before sucking at his neck so hard as to leave a mark too high to be hidden by his collar.

Éomer laughed at his words and actions. “She’s going to be even more pissed at you when she sees my neck.”

Boromir chuckled and pulled his hair back, exposing his own neck. “Good, let’s make her doubly angry, mark me,” he told him.

Unable to resist both the chance to further tease his sister and the enticing flesh of Boromir’s neck, Éomer did as he was asked. Hands, roughened by many years in battle, ran down his sides and grasped his ass. It always amazed him how quickly either of the brothers could arouse him.

The prince was a bit larger, but Boromir’s years of experience allowed him to take control. Not that Éomer didn’t challenge him for it. They wrestled together until Boromir pinned him against the tub.

“You are such a temptation, my wild prince,” he said in a husky voice, nibbling at his ear. “Will you let me have you?” One hand slowly worked Éomer’s cock, while the other captured his head for a deep kiss.

He didn’t want to resist, he didn’t want to follow. Grabbing Boromir’s hips, he impaled himself on his hard cock, making them both gasp. They moved together, splashing most of the water out of the tub. It was quick and hard, and very satisfying.

The king eyed his nephew and his companion as they made their appearance in the great hall. They both had a bit of a swagger and, even in the dim light, he could see the marks of their morning’s activities. Though his eyes brightened, he hid his smile as he remembered his own wild youth, when he and Eomund rode with the herds.

“You are late,” he said in his gruff voice.

“I am early, uncle,” Éomer said, laughter in his voice. “We arrived a week early so that Boromir could gaze upon the beauty of my sister.”

The lady in question had been steadily growing redder as they approached; now she was positively crimson as all eyes turned to her.

“What better reason for haste?” Boromir asked. “It is told that the lady Éowyn can lighten even the darkest day with her mere presence, that some men are blinded by her smile.”

He had kept his eyes locked with hers as he spoke. Éowyn’s sharp reply froze on her tongue and her heart gave a giant thump that rolled through her body like wild fire. His gaze heated her blood, and made her give a small gasp.

“Come, sister-son, greet your uncle properly,” Théoden said rising to his feet, and drawing the attention of the room from his niece. The two men embraced, glad to be together again. Éomer formally introduced Boromir, and then introductions were made all around. It was a boisterous meal; the king was as rowdy as his nephew.

Boromir was startled when he was introduced to Gríma Wormtongue. His white face beneath black hair was a sharp contrast, but the eyes were what made Boromir shiver. They were cloudy blue and red rimmed, somehow reminding him of an orc. Feeling an overwhelming urge to behead the man on the spot, Boromir just smiled politely and nodded at his introduction. Gríma was not someone he would welcome to the White City, let alone his father’s council.

Watching the advisor while they ate, Boromir noticed the man making furtive glances at the king’s niece and nephew. It made his hackles rise, the way he looked at them, there was something sinister in his gaze. Boromir could understand lust for the pair, but this was something more. He wondered if they knew of the man’s obsession.

The practice yard was noisy as Boromir watched Éowyn with the swordmaster. She was as excellent with the sword as Éomer had told him. She almost impaled her opponent several times, her temper obviously high. Boromir smiled as he watched a few moments before letting his presence be known.

“How do you fare, Fallon?” he addressed the swordmaster. “Are you ready to come home?”

“I have still one student to train, my lord,” he answered with a grin. “Though, as you can see, the Lady Éowyn is beyond my abilities.”

“Then I will have to make sure she gets a more accomplished tutor,” Boromir returned his smile. “What say you, my lady, do you wish to test a superior fighter?”

She knew the rumors of his fighting prowess, had even seen his heavily scarred upper body just that morning, though it was obvious that not all of the scars were from combat. Still, she couldn’t resist that mocking smile; with all the emotional turmoil he’d put her through this morning, she wanted some sort of revenge. Accepting his challenge, she saluted him with her sword before attacking with all the skill she could muster.

Boromir loved to fight. He also loved to teach fighting and he led Éowyn on to heights of skill she never knew she had. Always just a hairbreadth ahead of her, he almost danced, with his sword making her attack and retreat at his will. She was angry at first, knowing she was being controlled. Then she fell into the rhythm of the exercise, all thought turned to the flash of steel and the ring of blade upon blade.

She never even noticed her body tiring, so engrossed was she. Then suddenly Boromir executed a complicated series of moves that had her back pressed close to his chest, her sword hand caught in his, his other hand flat against her belly. “I think that is enough for today, my lady,” he said into her ear, his lips actually brushing it, making her already heaving chest tense with excitement.

He released her when she stepped forward, and bent to retrieve his own sword, which he had dropped to the ground. Gratefully, she took the cloth from the swordmaster to wipe her face and the cup of cool water from her brother who had shown up unnoticed by her. She looked through her lowered lashes at the man who would someday be her husband – one of her husbands – she corrected herself, if her brother had his way. The idea seemed more attractive every minute.

“Your uncle has agreed to let you go for a ride after lunch with your brother and I,” Boromir told her with a grin.

Her face lit up at his words. She’d almost been a prisoner within the walls of Edoras while Éomer was gone. There was nothing she missed more than to ride the hills of Rohan. “Thank you, my lord,” she told him, filled with happy excitement.

“The princess should be attending to her ladies in waiting, not indulging in the activities of ruffians,” came a voice from the shadows of the doorway. Gríma stepped into the practice yard, his odd, pale looks even stranger in the full light of day.

Éomer and his sister turned hostile looks to the advisor, Éowyn almost sputtering in her fury. Boromir smiled at the newcomer, a smile that showed all his teeth, but didn’t reach his eyes. The look was so feral that Gríma backed up a few paces. “Have you come to practice with us, worm?” Boromir asked, deliberately shortening his name.

“My health prevents me from taking part in the baser activities,” Gríma almost hissed.

“Then I hope you won’t be so base as to breed more of your weakling kind,” Boromir told him in a voice too low to be heard by any but Gríma, Éomer, and Éowyn.

This time, the man did hiss, and retreated from the practice field with all haste. “Is it something I said?” Boromir asked the stunned brother and sister with a grin.

“He will cause trouble for you now,” Éomer told him, knowing how devious the advisor could be.

“He already plans to,” Boromir answered. “I plan on making just as much trouble for him.”

Another plan of Gríma’s was crushed before it even took shape as Boromir convinced the king to join their afternoon ride. He couldn’t make a move against the Gondorian with the king present. After all, orcs weren’t known for their abilities to hold back and the death of the king would ruin his master’s plans. Standing in a window, Gríma watched the party ride across the hills. If only there were a suitable replacement, they were all so vulnerable riding with such a small escort. But he would have to wait for now. When the time was right, he would turn Rohan over to his master and receive his reward.

Even from this distance, he could tell the children of Eomund from the rest of the group. Licking his lips in anticipation he watched them ride out of sight over the hills. *Yes, * he thought with a secretive smile. *The day will come when they will be at my mercy. Then they will regret their arrogance. *

Faramir watched as the man in the distance disappeared into the shadows of the swamp. He wished he could have spoken with him face to face, but time and the news the stranger had imparted would not allow it. A ranger of the North was not often seen in these parts. This one was searching for a dangerous criminal that had escaped into the swamps. It was several miles through dangerous bogs just to be able to come in range of signaling the stranger. Since he had indicated that he was sure he was following a false trail and turning back north, they decided it was a waste to meet up face to face.

Still, he felt drawn to the stranger dressed in black, and wished again that he had been able to speak with him. There was something about his movements that seemed familiar, though it was impossible that Faramir could have met him. And the name Strider was unknown to him, though a few of the more widely traveled of the Ithilien Rangers did say they had heard of him. He longed to reach out across the fetid, ruined land and learn everything about the distant stranger.

However, duty called and he dare not spend any more time away from implementing the new plans he had set in motion in Ithilien. He wanted to be home in time to greet his brother when he returned from Rohan.

Strider looked back across the Nindalf to the scouting party at the edge of the swamp. Gandalf had warned him not to expose himself to the sons of Denethor, especially the youngest. And here he was, all but face to face with Faramir. The search for Gollum was important, but it was just as important that his identity not be revealed before it was time. Still, he longed to meet the Steward’s sons; they haunted his dreams. Melting back into the swamp, he headed north away from temptation.

The caravan made better time than Boromir had hoped and reached Edoras only four days later. The king and his court were pleased at the quality of the gifts from Gondor, as well as the offerings for the horses they wished to purchase. Even though the constant war took its toll on the great country, they still managed to retain many of their resources.

Now Boromir had several chests gracing the guestroom he only used for storing his belongings. He spent his nights in Éomer’s bed, the door safely locked. For the most part, he ignored the trunks of formal court wear that his father had insisted on. Denethor almost always wore formal robes, but Boromir was a warrior and preferred to dress that way. However, he regularly raided the chests filled with gifts for the royal family of Rohan.

There were several servants who came to be assigned to the royal family as well. One of the women was even a fully trained ‘ladies maid’ that the king had been glad to see provided for his niece. Both Lani and Lothiriel had trained her, so that Éowyn would be able to learn the ins and outs of court life in Gondor. She was a petite piece of femininity that had horrified Éowyn, until she had demonstrated some unorthodox uses of hairpins and other ladies’ accessories, for she had also been trained by one of the best assassins in Gondor. Now, the young princess even listened to the little woman on matters of dress.

Faramir had packed in everything he could think of and Garus had helped. Boromir was sure he might be taking half of it back with him. But then, the looks of happiness he received for even the smallest trinket made him completely open handed – except for with the king’s advisor.

He tried to overlook the man’s furtive ways, had even managed to exchange a few non- hostile words with him. Then he would catch him watching Éowyn, her face flushed with excitement as it had been almost constantly since his arrival, or Éomer, as he passed through the great hall like a storm, and that dark look would reveal itself.

Shortly after the arrival of the caravan, Boromir stood in the arch of a doorway watching the brother and sister argue good-naturedly in a courtyard. They constantly argued, usually just to hear their own voices it seemed, as none of it was serious. But they were beautiful and alluring when they did. Then he noticed Gríma on a balcony watching them and recognized the look in his eye. He had seen that same look in his father’s eye when watching his brother, and now he knew why he hated the man.

The courtyard was fairly secluded and he was quite certain that Wormtongue was the only observer. Striding forward from his position, he joined Éowyn and Éomer. With a casually possessive air, he threw an arm around Éomer and reached out a hand to Éowyn’s face.

“I bet you two have no idea how enticing you look when you argue like that,” he told them.

For a moment, Éowyn pressed her head against his hand. Then, remembering herself, she blushed and rushed away. Éomer laughed softly, not wanting to hurt her feelings but amused by her shyness. Turning into Boromir, he put both his arms around him and kissed him soundly.

Shifting their positions, Boromir looked up at the balcony and directly into the eyes of Gríma. The man gasped at the eye contact, causing Éomer to stiffen slightly. Boromir quickly put a hand to his head and kept him in the kiss for a few moments more. Then he brought the prince’s head back and kissed his throat. When he looked back to the balcony, Gríma was gone.

“Marking your territory?” Éomer asked with a laugh.

“Be careful of him,” Boromir told him without humor. “He means to harm you both.”

“I’ll kill him,” Éomer said with vehemence.

“Just be careful, he’s dangerous,” Boromir warned him.

It made Éomer’s heart glad to see his sister in such high spirits. Ever since the death of his wife in childbirth and his sister to orcs, Théoden King had been over-protective of his young niece. Éomer worried that her free spirit would fade in the close confines of Edoras. With the arrival of Boromir, the king had begun relenting and allowed her more freedom then she had had in years.

In the week since they had arrived at Edoras, the marriage talks had been steadily progressing. All of the high counsel of the Riddermark had agreed to Boromir’s proposal, especially since it was a traditional Rohirrim marriage. They could see their princess happy in such a union and it would bring them closer to their ally. It was all but signed and sealed.

As they left the great hall, Boromir signaled Éomer to guard the hallway. Walking around the corner with Éowyn, he wrapped his arms around her and pushed her against the wall. “It is not too late, my princess,” he whispered in her ear. “Say the word now and I will go away. You have the power.” He kissed her, running his tongue up her neck and back to her ear. “Do you want me?” he asked.

She moaned in pleasure, unable to articulate what she wanted. Her body arched beneath his hands and melded itself to him.

“Imagine it, my princess,” he growled as his hands brought her hips tight against his erection. “Lying between my brother and me, our bodies so close together.” He knew what he was doing, could feel her body responding to his movements. “We would make you scream in pleasure.” He pushed her skirts above her hips and began slowly dry humping her against the wall. “I want you, Éowyn, open yourself to me.”

She would have cried out but for the pressure of his lips on hers keeping the sounds contained. It was a delirious pleasure that she had never felt before. She saw red and felt an endless rushing in her veins. “Yes, my lord,” she was finally able to gasp when he released her mouth. “Make me yours, take me home.”

Around the far corner from Éomer, Gríma listened with growing horror. He had adjusted to the idea that Éomer spent every night in the arms of the scion of Gondor, no virgin this for him to take in the future. But Éowyn was sacrosanct, a true princess to be had only after full conquest. And here was his nemesis, rutting with her against the wall like a common whore. It was too much. Only hours separated him from losing her to the dictates of the counsel. He would have to seek his master’s help immediately. After all, it was part of his prize for the betrayal of Rohan. Once she left for Gondor, she would be beyond his reach.

“My uncle will have my head if he finds out I’ve been helping you seduce my sister,” Éomer whispered into Boromir’s ear.

“He knows I’ve been seducing you,” Boromir whispered back, nibbling at Éomer’s ear.

“I thought I was seducing you,” the younger man laughed. He traced a finger over the tree Faramir had carved in Boromir’s chest. “Éowyn has been asking about your scars.”

“What did you tell her?” Boromir wanted to know.

“I told her to ask you,” he kissed Boromir’s chest. “She won’t ask, not unless you tease her into it. I never knew she could be so shy.”

“I think she is much like you would be if you had been caged up for so many years. I offer her the chance to reach outside her cage,” he paused running a hand through Éomer’s hair. “I will take her back with me if I can. She and Faramir will love each other and she will drive father crazy.”

“She will definitely make your father crazy, and I couldn’t imagine anyone not loving Faramir or Éowyn,” Éomer kissed Boromir again. “For that matter, she will have you as well, and we all love you.”

“And I love all of you,” Boromir said, he rolled so that Éomer was beneath him and captured his lips in a deep kiss. They embraced each other enthusiastically, the contact what they both wanted. “Let me ride you, my prince.” Boromir growled as he rose up to kneel above Éomer’s hips. With excruciating slowness, he lowered himself back down on Éomer’s engorged cock. He rode him hard and fast until they both cried out in release.

The sound of raised voices in the hallway woke them both before they heard the pounding at Éomer’s door. “Come quickly, Prince Éomer, the king needs you,” came the excited call.

Rising swiftly, they both threw on the clothes they had been wearing earlier and rushed to the great hall. All was in chaos, servants and guards hurrying in every direction. Both men went immediately to the king to hear the news. A wounded man was just finishing his tale as they arrived.

“The Eastfold has been attacked by orcs,” the king told them. “They’ve burned several villages. We need to send help as soon as it is light enough.”

“Do you have any idea of their numbers, uncle?” Éomer asked, just as a sleepy eyed Théodred came skidding to a halt at his cousin’s side.

“We know it is a large force maybe in the hundreds, but nowhere near the exact numbers. I will have to count on you to get the details when you get there,” Théoden said. Fortunately your entire Eored is here and ready to go. You can also take half of mine if you wish.”

“I can bring my men along as well,” Boromir said. “I have thirty mounted men, ready to travel at a moment’s notice. The Eastfold is on the road to Gondor and if the orcs came from there, I may be needed home quicker than I thought.”

“Yes, of course,” the king agreed.

“Can I go too, father?” Théodred asked, his child’s voice high with excitement. “You said I could go with Éomer.”

“That was for a patrol, not a full scale battle,” his father admonished. “I will not risk you yet, my son.”

“How about me, uncle?” Éowyn asked, her voice calm, but her face flushed.

“No, I’ll not risk you either,” he said firmly. “We are not so low on warriors that we need to send out our women and children into battle.”

“I have been trained as a shield maiden my whole life, uncle,” she told him, unshed tears in her eyes. “You do me no honor by holding me from my destiny.” With a stiff back, she turned away and went to organize the provisions the warriors would need.

“The young are always in haste to face danger,” Théoden sighed regretfully. “It is our duty as their elders to help guide them from folly.” He noticed the firm set of Éomer’s jaw and the touch of doubt in Boromir’s eyes. “Maybe you two would let her go, but she is far too precious to me. She looks so much like her mother, my sister, who won that argument with me and died. I just can’t do it again.”

“You are right, my king,” Wormtongue added. “Our dear princess is not something that should be risked so easily. She is not something that we should send into battle as orc bait, like some have been known to send their own younger brothers.”

“What would you know of battle, snake?” Éomer asked, close to losing his temper.

Boromir put a calming hand on his shoulder. “Enough, Éomer,” he told the prince. Turning to Gríma, he smiled his predator smile. “Are you calling into doubt my honor or my brother’s honor?” he asked.

“No, my lord,” Gríma said hastily backing away. “It is just that you are used to dealing with warriors, not maidens.”

Seeing the look on Théoden’s face, Boromir knew the damage had already been done. Getting the king’s permission to go prepare his men, he turned and left. He hadn’t even considered that such a thing from his past would come to haunt him now.

There were still several hours before dawn. After alerting Draymor to get everyone ready, Boromir was in the room that had been assigned to him instructing his servants on what was to be returned to Minas Tirith and what was to stay. He had a few items set aside so that he could give them out before he left.

Éomer came to watch him, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed against his chest. “When we come back after we take care of the orcs you can talk to him again,” he said. “I’m sure the council will still be supportive.”

“I won’t be coming back that quickly,” Boromir told him.

There was a gasp from Éowyn, who had just entered the room. “You’re not giving up?” she asked, shocked by the idea.

“Never,” Boromir said vehemently. “I will send Faramir, he will be able to outsmart the worm.”

“Gríma will have done everything he can to turn our uncle against you,” Éowyn said passionately.

Boromir looked to his servants and gave a signal, causing them all to leave the room quickly. “I have you and Éomer to work in our favor, as well as the servants I am leaving behind to aid you in any way you need. If I argue more with Théoden King now, he will turn totally against me. He is thinking of his losses in the past, and the ‘worm’ is playing on that,” he told them. “Faramir will be able to convince him.”

“And what will you do if he can’t?” Éowyn asked, still not happy with being left behind.

“My brother is a traditionalist,” Boromir said, moving across the room to stand close to her, bringing with him a beautiful but deadly knife. “There is more than one way of acquiring a wife in our countries. When Faramir comes to Rohan, you will be leaving here with him.” He handed her the knife. “Take this as my pledge that we will not abandon you here. We will come for you.”

“If I still want you to,” she said, unwilling to give in too easily.

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Boromir told her as he took her in his arms. He gave her a long deep kiss before stepping back and releasing her. “You need to go now before your uncle sends for you.”

She gave him and her brother a last wistful look before hurriedly leaving the room with the knife.

“So Faramir is going to abduct my sister?” Éomer asked a smirk on his face.

“Only if necessary,” Boromir answered. “I have a feeling that I should take her now.”

“So do I,” Éomer said stepping into Boromir’s arms. “She has been so happy these last few days, it is most cruel to leave her now.”

“I think that if I did, your uncle would break off all relations with Gondor, if he didn’t declare war,” Boromir told him. “There is too much at stake now, especially with orcs attacking along the border between our countries.” He buried his face in Éomer’s neck. “All I needed was one more day, I have a bad feeling that there might be a connection.”

“So do I,” Éomer confirmed. “But my uncle can’t be convinced of the worm’s duplicity. I wish I knew what hold he has over him.”

Théodred held tightly to Éowyn’s hand as they watched the mounted forces ride off in the predawn light. She would have preferred to hide in her room at this latest heartbreak but her cousin needed her. Also her uncle would, no doubt, send for her to make sure she hadn’t defied him and gone anyway. She would have, except that she knew the king would hold Éomer and Boromir responsible instead of her, and that would just make matters even worse. Reaching for the knife Boromir had given her, she wrapped her fingers around the hilt as a comfort. He had vowed to return for her. She wished she didn’t have to wait.

“Here is some nice hot tea to help you through the long day ahead, your majesty,” Gríma said his eyes glinting in triumph, as the king sat on his throne in the great hall.

“Thank you, Gríma,” Théoden said, taking the steaming mug. It smelled of herbs and the taste was refreshing, so he drank it all. He felt his age creeping up on him and it was good to have a warm drink to hold the chill of the early morning away. At least his son and niece were here safe with him; he had already lost so much. His thoughts became just a bit muddled as he thought of the battle his nephew was riding to.

“It would be a shame to lose the Princess Éowyn to some careless whim for battle, your majesty,” Gríma whispered into his ear as soon as he saw the glazed look come over the king’s eyes. “It might be a good idea to have the council shelve the marriage proposal for a while. Such a reckless man might not be able to protect her, as he should. Besides, it is much too dangerous for her to travel to Minas Tirith now, what with orcs attacking.” He continued on for a while, feeding on the fears of the king, watching him nod in acceptance as if the thoughts were his own.

Gríma smiled in glee at the way things had changed so suddenly. His master’s quick response had made all of the difference. With luck, they would be able to keep the princess here in Edoras until the final move to capture Rohan. He certainly intended to do whatever it took. And maybe, if the young warrior didn’t die fighting the orcs, he would be able to still have Éomer as well.

Boromir and Éomer stood in each other’s arms in a secluded glade. It had taken three days to finally run the orcs to ground. The combined force of Rohirrim and Gondorian cavalry easily crushed the orcs, but had a much harder time tracing where they had come from. After several more days of diligent searching, the best they could do was to discover that the orcs had come from somewhere along the river Entwash. It was frustrating, and all of the warriors were displeased at their failure to track them back to their source.

Since there was no sign that the orcs had come from Gondor, Boromir was considering returning to Edoras to complete his business, until the messenger arrived to summon him home to Minas Tirith. They both felt somewhat bitter and defeated. Their chief goals were yet unmet.

“I miss you both so much when we are apart,” Éomer said, brushing soft kisses to Boromir’s face. “When you sleep with me I can hear Faramir in your dreams, I wish that I could share them with you all the time.”

“I will think of you as we dream. Maybe if we try, it will happen,” Boromir told him. “Faramir is the one with the ability to guide our dreams, I just follow along. I will miss you, my wild prince.”

They both wore their armor, so there was no chance to do more than kiss each other, time being so short. Even though Éomer’s leather armor was easily undone in the right places, Boromir’s full plate could do severe damage to tender body parts. With a final kiss, they returned to where their men waited.

“I will send Faramir as soon as I can,” Boromir said after he mounted his horse. “Unless there is a new offensive from Mordor, it should be before the end of the summer.”

“I look forward to seeing him again,” Éomer told him as he brought his horse next Boromir’s and grasped his arm tightly. “Be careful, my fair one, I want you to return to me.”

“You too, my wild prince,” Boromir said returning the grip. “Your enemy is cunning and dangerous, watch your back.”

Slowly Éomer backed his horse away and, with a final salute, turned and rode westward, back toward Edoras. Boromir watched for a few moments, before heading once more into the east where trouble surely waited.

Part 15: DARK DREAMS

As Denethor continued listing his reasons for needing Boromir home in such haste, his oldest son began to realize that they were mostly contrived. He did his best to keep a look of interest on his face while his thoughts drifted to the chances he may have lost. It was maddening and he had great difficulty in keeping his hand from drifting to his knife and playing with it, or maybe throwing it at his interfering father who was making no sense at all.

When the Steward finally stopped talking, Boromir quickly reviewed everything he had said in his mind while keeping the expression of concerned interest in place. “How many orc attacks have there been in Anorien since you received the warning from Saruman?” he asked.

“Four along the Entwash and six along the White Mountains,” Denethor answered, which really was not many more than usually occurred.

“Have you heard from Faramir?” he wanted to know.

“He should be here later today,” his father told him. “It seems there has been increased activity in Ithilien as well.”

“I don’t see that we can do anything until he arrives,” Boromir said, sighing with exhaustion. He’d ridden straight home after receiving his father’s summons.

“Since the preliminary work has already been done, we can put off making any more decisions for a couple of days,” Denethor told him with an understanding smile. “Why don’t you and your brother take a few days to rest when he gets here?”

It took much of Boromir’s remaining control to keep from screaming, instead he gripped the arms of his chair, preparing to rise. “You’re right, father,” he agreed, amazed that he could say it without clenching his teeth. “I’ve been gone so long I might miss dinner tonight so that I can get everything back in order.”

“Yes, of course,” Denethor answered, glad to be free of any more questions he didn’t want to answer. After his oldest son left the room, he brought fourth the letter he had received from Saruman.

‘There is strong evidence that Théoden King is in league with the forces of Mordor. He wishes his niece to marry your son so that she can help in the overthrow of Gondor. Beware the Rohirrim….’ was but one part of the disturbing message.

He also urged Denethor to use the palantir, decrying past problems with the palantir as the fault of Mithrandir. After careful thought, Denethor decided to use the shielding spell the wizard had sent, at least several times, before considering actually using the device. He did not want to endanger his sons; the ugly vision of Faramir’s scars and the horrifying dreams still haunted him.

Boromir practically dragged Faramir up the stairs to their rooms. He’d missed his brother dreadfully. Faramir laughed at Boromir’s haste, glad to once again be in his arms. Faramir’s muddy clothes littered the floor all of the way to the bedroom, most of them ruined by Boromir’s rough handling. When they reached the bed, Faramir balked for a moment giving his brother a serious look.

“There is a problem here, brother,” he said solemnly.

“What?” Boromir exclaimed in exasperation.

“You are wearing too many clothes,” Faramir grinned and reached for the catches on his brother’s robe.

Before he could undo even one of the decorative frogs, Boromir ripped the garment from his body. “I can’t wait any longer,” he growled as his pants received the same treatment. He grabbed Faramir and they both fell to the bed wrapped in each other’s arms.

They rolled until Boromir was on the bottom, his legs around Faramir’s waist, one soft slipper still on his foot. Faramir buried his cock deep in Boromir’s ass with one thrust, unable to go slow he pounded into his brother. It was fast and hard, this first joining, as it always was. Once finished, they lay beside each other while Garus and Stefle removed Faramir’s boots and the remnants of his pants, glad to have both their lords home again.

“We have a couple of days before father will send for us,” Boromir told his brother, moving to cover him with his body. “This is our time. I have missed you, my beloved brother. Let me love you as you deserve.”

With gentle care, he began a thorough examination of every inch of Faramir’s body, his hands and mouth touching everywhere. The ugly red squares from the binding spell’s removal were finally beginning to look better. Not with regular healing, but with the designs that he and Éomer had carved into them.

Boromir noticed that there were new marks on one that had been untouched when he left. “What is this?” he asked.

“I let Lothiriel try out her new knife,” Faramir laughed at the memory. “She squealed so loud at the first cut that we were almost discovered.”

“It won’t stay, she didn’t cut deep enough. I don’t think she’s really cut out for blood play,” Boromir commented, kissing the already fading lines. “I sometimes wonder if I did the right thing teaching you the sword dances. They have no doubt helped your fighting, but you seem to have no respect for pain.”

“I respect pain well enough, brother,” Faramir replied, running the fingers of his free hand through his brother’s hair. “But I will not let it control me or hold me back from what I want. Lothiriel needs to know what her limits are. She will most likely be Queen of Rohan some day. We need her to be a confident queen.”

Even though he cared a great deal for his cousin, Boromir wanted to concentrate on his brother. Turning his attentions to Faramir’s mouth, he stopped his words by kissing him deeply. This was what he wanted, the physical contact that enhanced the emotional and mental one. Sliding his arms around him to bury his hands in Faramir’s hair, Boromir concentrated on continuing the kiss. They’d been apart so long he needed this. Faramir needed this.

After several long minutes, he released his brother’s mouth and pressed soft kisses to his face. Faramir was breathless beneath his brother, helpless against the pleasurable onslaught. He arched and gasped as Boromir kissed and licked his face and neck. Shudders ran through both their bodies as they writhed together.

A feeling of heightened awareness came over Boromir as he immersed himself in making love to his brother. He released Faramir’s head and began stroking his body reveling in the response. The pleasure was so intense he couldn’t think of anything but their touching. It was as if he could feel what Faramir felt as well as his own feelings. As his cock slid into Faramir’s ass, he felt their souls entwining – closer than they had been since they’d been unconscious together after the boar hunt.

It was an endless eternity that they were joined together body and soul. It was over far too soon, though they both still felt that extra edge of awareness that connected them. They slid into a dreamlike state holding each other closely, feeling complete.

It was a still warm night, which helped to amplify Faramir’s screams. Boromir held him tightly as he struggled to escape from the latest demons to disturb his sleep. As he came fully awake, he wept in his brother’s arms. Faramir was completely disconsolate until Garus brought him a glass of wine laced with herbs to calm him. His distress was so great that Garus, Saphron and Stefle joined the brothers on their bed helping to comfort him.

It was a long time before Faramir quieted and still he would not speak of his dream. Finally, Garus went to get Faramir’s journal while Saphron and Stefle lit the lamps closest to the bed. The journal was set in easy reach along with pen and ink on a small side table.

Boromir could feel bruises forming on his ribs where his brother held him. The dreams hadn’t frightened him this badly for a very long time, but Boromir still remembered how long it could take Faramir to recover. “I’m here, my little one,” he crooned into his ear. His hands petted his brother’s hair and face while he whispered endearments and encouragement to him.

“I can’t write this,” Faramir finally said. “I don’t think I can even speak it. It gets worse every time.” He still had his face buried in Boromir’s neck.

“Take as long as you need to, little brother,” Boromir told him, making it clear that he would wait no matter how long it took.

“I don’t want to lose you, Boromir,” he said, still sniffling. “This one was worse than any of the others, but it was still arrows. “

“The orcs again?” Boromir asked, rubbing his back.

“It was more real than ever before, Boromir,” he told him. “I know that the danger is near, even though the dream is still the same.”

“Just as long as you don’t take the arrow for me like you did the first time,” Boromir told him. “I will be extra careful, my beloved one.”

“I couldn’t bear to lose you,” Faramir said, still holding his brother in a bruising grip. “I would die without you.”

Knowing that words would be no comfort, Boromir kissed his forehead and began stroking his face. Rocking Faramir gently in his arms, he began softly singing lullabies to him. They were soothing songs that their mother had sung to him and he had used them after her death to comfort his brother.

Leaning against the footboard of the bed, Boromir listened to the report from Nelda. He seldom came here, usually choosing to use intermediaries. He still had not forgiven the old woman for not telling him about his father’s abuse of his brother. He understood her reasons, for Boromir had gone from oblivious to constant vigilance when it came to his father. This was why he was here now, listening to everything Denethor and his servants had been doing in his absence.

“Is there any chance you can get at the letter from Saruman?” he asked when she had finished.

“He burned it after you left his study yesterday,” was her calm reply. “He always gets more cautious when you are home, my lord. We only know the little that Stefle was able to read from concealment. If his eyes weren’t so good, we wouldn’t know that much. Why Saruman would be poisoning your father against Rohan is beyond me.”

Boromir studied her for a moment, finally deciding that she needed to know all. “There is a plot in Rohan to overthrow the king, one of the king’s chief advisors is behind it. However, he is not the mastermind behind the plot. He is too weak and frightened to be so bold. This letter to the Steward seems to be aiding that plot, so maybe the wizard of Orthanc is behind it. He is, at the very least, involved. My father has long trusted Saruman.”

He paused, thinking back on things long past. “Did he receive a letter from Isengard shortly before we went to deal with the trolls?” he asked.

Cara turned to the great ledger that sat on the desk beside the bed. Leafing quickly through the pages, she slowed at the appropriate dates. “There were no messages from Isengard, but several were sent to the wizard. However, just before that cycle of bad dreams began the year before, there were several exchanges of letters. I can have someone research the records to see if there are any other connections or if the contents of any of the letters were discovered if you wish, my lord?”

“Give it a priority,” Boromir told her. “Both kingdoms might be at stake. Add in the visits of Mithrandir; it can’t hurt to see if there is a connection there as well.” He looked at Nelda and pulled a sealed and dated letter from his robe. “Put this one with the others,” he told her, handing it over. “I want to be sure that everything is here for him if anything should happen to me.”

“We can’t lose you now,” she answered, taking the letter from his hand and giving it to Cara. “We aren’t ready. I know that his dream signifies greater danger, but we have managed before with greater vigilance. Tonight is the new moon. We will be having a ceremony to ask for protection for our people, and especially for you and your brother. Why don’t you bring him? It might do the two of you good to attend.”

“I’ll think about it,” he told her, rising from the bed. “I intend to spend the rest of the day with my brother resting from our journeys and helping him recover from his bad dreams.” He paused at the doorway and looked at Cara, her face from this angle looking oddly familiar. He reached out and touched her cheek noticing that she subtly tried to avoid the contact. “I never knew that my father had any interest in women,” he commented.

“My mother was very determined that the line not be broken. He nearly killed her,” Cara answered.

“At least my brother and I have been more cooperative,” Boromir said with a smile. “It is a good thing that Faramir finds so many strays to add to the gene pool. You have six children, right?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said. “You and your brother have many more than that.”

“We do our duty for king and country,” he laughed, bending forward to kiss her brow. “Stefle is your oldest son?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord,” she replied.

“I’m glad your mother was so brave,” he said as he left.

Faramir lay curled around a pillow in the middle of the bed, Garus and Saphron wrapped around him. Boromir stripped and sat on the edge of the bed, watching his brother sleep and noting the tear stains that still marked his face. As he reached for him, the servants withdrew, leaving room for Boromir to crawl up over him. Gently, he rolled Faramir to his back and lay upon him, pressing soft kisses to his face.

“I am here, little brother,” he whispered. “There is no need to mourn what hasn’t happened yet. Even if death should attempt to pull me from your side it will fail, for I am bound to you for eternity, my beloved one.”

Opening his eyes and looking into Boromir’s face so close to his own, long blond hair hiding the world away, Faramir smiled and pushed away the last dregs of his nightmares. In his brother’s arms he was safe and loved and all things good. It made it possible for him to believe that nothing could ever part them.

It was easy for Faramir to give encouragement to his brother as he lay in his arms telling him what had occurred in Rohan. He stroked Boromir’s hair and listened until he had finished before asking any questions. Thinking of what strategies he could use to deal with the king and his advisor, Faramir was sure he could accomplish their goal quickly. After all, he could always just take Éowyn if necessary; there was plenty of history for such a course.

More worrying was their father’s strange actions. He was so used to Boromir dealing with Denethor that he had no idea what to say there. Fortunately, his brother didn’t ask for any advice, just a patient ear to listen and a shoulder to lean on. Faramir had both of those, and was more than willing to provide them for his beloved brother.

In his turn, he told Boromir of the strange encounter with the northern ranger, even though he knew that his brother had read his journal while he slept. He was unable to keep the hint of wistfulness out of his voice as he spoke. Not knowing what he longed for most, to actually meet the man or to travel to distant places.

They spent their day in each other’s arms, sometimes talking, sometimes making love, and feeding each other from the trays of food kept ready for them. Boromir had declared it a day of rest, wanting to be with his brother without distractions. Even so, the shadows never quite left Faramir’s eyes so Boromir decided they should join in on the ceremony they had been invited to. They’d attended a few in the past, together and separately, and it had seemed to ease their hearts from the burdens they constantly carried.

It had not been forbidden to practice the old rites, just discouraged. Since Denethor had been the one to discourage it, the rites had flourished here in the stronghold of the brothers’ servants. In older days, men and women had been separated at the new moon ritual, but now they joined together to seek protection from the evil that threatened from the east. Unlike the dark ceremonies that Sauron had once led the Númenoreans in, to their downfall, these were happy rites. There was singing and the sharing of wine and food, all led by Cara, now that Nelda was mostly bedridden.

As they sat around the fire, seeking inspiration from its flames, Boromir held his brother closely in his arms. Garus and Saphron cuddled at their feet. These were their people, and they were able to relax here as they could nowhere else. Letting his mind wander as he gazed into the flames, Boromir began to see little pictures of activity within them. He smiled as it seemed miniature warriors fought fierce battles and farmers worked their fields. A spray of sparks became a dragon fighting the Valar at the destruction of Angband.

Out of the fire rose a vision that only Boromir could see or hear. A giant dressed as for war that bore no weapons other than his own two hands. He laughed with joy as the Steward’s oldest son watched and felt an answering happiness in his own heart.

“Would you ask the Valar to fulfill your heart’s desire?” the giant whom Boromir recognized as Tulkas asked.

“How could they fulfill what I already hold?” Boromir asked, stroking his brother’s hair as he spoke. “Unless they can guarantee that we will never be parted?”

“Since you are two sides of the same coin already,” Tulkas told him, “even that is already assured you. Would you have nothing else for yourself?”

“For myself, nothing,” he answered firmly. “For my brother and my people I would have peace, that they may see their children grow without fear of the dark lord.”

“I would grant this if I could, as would all the Valar, yet the fate of men lies not in our hands. Since you take such joy in battle and though the blood is thinned, you are also partly of the firstborn, I will be with you,” the Valar told him. “But you must mind your shield and be ever ready to defend against the dark dreams. Your fate is not yet written, be on your guard against evil.” With that last warning, Tulkas faded into smoke.

Boromir laughed as the vision faded, not quite believing it was anything more than the fancy of his heart. Maybe the herbs that had been added to the fire had befuddled his mind along with the wine, which was sweet and strong. He kissed his brother’s cheek as the gathering began to break up. They sat on a bench set aside for them and each person came to receive a blessing from them before they left. The brothers had long grown used to the custom, accepting the role given to them by the will of their people.

“It is early yet, brother,” Faramir said, his eyes bright with excitement. “Let us go see if the children are still awake, maybe we can tell them a story.”

The nursery was full of children and their parents. Many of the men of the brothers’ personal guard had married into this house. They all gathered here together with their children on the high days, especially when their two lords were going to be present. All knew that Faramir couldn’t resist spending time with the children when he could, and Boromir would always join him.

It was a most successful evening. When the brothers reached their bed, they were more relaxed than they had been in months, despite the new worries facing them. They watched the three servants who were almost constantly by their side when they were home move about the room, putting everything away for the evening.

Garus had shared their room and often their bed for fifteen years, longer with just Faramir when he was younger. He only reluctantly parted from them when they went on campaign, having no ability or desire for the sword. He only left the city to accompany them on peaceful missions to other cities, or to gather herbs in the hills around Minas Tirith. Since his wife had joined him, she was ever at his side, her sure strong hands ever aiding him in his tasks or applying new tattoos to the brothers or their people.

Amongst all the brothers’ personal servants Stefle was considered to be the highest. He was closest in blood to the line of the Stewards after his mother and had been trained from birth to serve Boromir above all else. He had also shared Boromir’s room and bed for over twenty years, a matter of pride to him. Where Garus had learned healing skills to better help the brothers, especially Faramir, Stefle had studied the skills of stealth and assassination. Though he rarely struck out with his own hand against his lord’s enemies, he ordered all those who did. All of the spies, assassins and informants of the wide network set up by the two brothers reported directly to him.

Yet, whenever possible, he shared the duties of personal servant with Garus. At meals he stood behind Boromir and made sure his glass was always full and all that he might need or want lay to hand. His eyes often were lit with the light of fanaticism when he served his lord whom he adored. Even as he did his work to protect Faramir, who was the beloved of his lord and gentle Garus who couldn’t bring himself to harm another even in self-defense, he was thrilled by the knowledge that he was doing his lord’s bidding. All of which he did from the White City, never having left its confines and having no desire to do so.

“I need to go outside the city for more supplies soon,” Garus told the brothers. “I can’t seem to trust the merchants to bring in everything that I need.”

“We could make a picnic of it,” Boromir said. “It would be pleasant to visit the slopes of the White Mountains without wearing full armor.”

“What a splendid idea, brother,” Faramir added with a grin. “We can spend the whole day; maybe Stefle will join us this time.”

“Oh no,” the servant laughed, as he sat on the bed next to his lord. “I’m content to remain here and make sure everything is in order for your return. The wilds are no place for a city bred person like me.”

Boromir pulled him closer, kissing his forehead. He knew that besides Stefle’s innate dislike of leaving the city, there were other chores he had planned. “We will miss your company tomorrow, but I will let you make up for it tonight.”

Relaxing into the hands of his beloved lord, Stefle groaned in delight. He was in control of so much that it was pure relief to surrender to the control of his master. Swiftly stripping him, Boromir rolled so that Stefle lay between the two brothers, completely at their mercy. Faramir pinned him in place while Boromir teased and tortured his body with all the experience of their long years together. They knew how to make him lose all control and how much he loved it when they did.

Saphron handed Faramir a silk cord, which he used to bind Stefle’s hands to the headboard, freeing his own hands. Taking the bottle of oil held ready by Garus, he began applying it to the helpless man’s body. Boromir ran his hands across the oiled flesh, making his servant moan in pleasure. While his brother nibbled and kissed every bit of flesh on the front of Stefle’s body, except for his engorged cock, Faramir began preparing his ass for the plundering it would soon receive.

Sitting up, Boromir watched Faramir’s fingers move in and out of Stefle’s tight channel. Leaning across the bound body, he pressed a deep kiss to his brother’s mouth. “Fuck him, brother,” he said grabbing Stefle by the hips and setting him on his knees.

Moving between the man’s spread thighs, Faramir plunged deep into the waiting orifice. He thrust harder with each movement knowing that Stefle could take it, loved to take it hard and fast. Boromir kept one hand on his servant’s cock, making sure that he didn’t climax; the other hand was buried in Stefle’s hair, holding his head in place. By the time Faramir reached his orgasm, Stefle was constantly moaning, kept at the peak of desire by Boromir.

Boromir pushed Stefle’s knees forward so that he was even more exposed before driving into him. Faramir lay beside him and turned his head so that he could watch his face while controlling his cock as his brother had. With each pounding thrust that Boromir delivered Stefle cried out, completely lost to the sensation.

“Now,” Boromir cried, and Faramir stroked Stefle’s cock a few times so that he could climax with his lord.

Boromir released Stefle’s hands from the silk cord and turned to his brother. “I think Garus should join us tonight as well,” he said watching the man in question put the bowl of warmed water and cleaning cloths aside at his words. Garus was nearly the opposite of Stefle. Though he was strong and able to do any task they asked of him, he was extremely sensitive to violence. So much so that he would usually occupy himself with tasks when the brothers were being rough.

They pulled him down to the bed between them and began pressing soft kisses to his face, their hands gently roaming his body. Sensing the brothers’ mood, he had stripped earlier so there was no problem with any clothes. Faramir matched every move Boromir made, knowing that it would excite both him and Garus. They stroked and kissed him until he couldn’t lie still in the bed, his hands reaching for them both.

“You are so beautiful,” Boromir whispered in his ear. “I want to watch you with my beautiful brother.”

Faramir slowly began moving to cover Garus as he continued kissing and caressing him. As he moved to claim his servant, he remembered the first time he had taken him. It had been such a careful seduction of the shy older boy Garus had been then. Faramir had been so lonely for his brother and horny from Boromir’s refusal to allow anything sexual to happen between them. Not that either of them had been virgins, though Faramir’s experiences were by choice, unlike Garus’.

With exquisite care, he slid his cock into the waiting entrance. Garus’ face was frozen in a Grímace of pleasure as Faramir moved at the perfect speed within him.

“You are so beautiful together,” Boromir whispered to him. “The vision of you together like this has kept me warm on many lonely nights.” He kissed Garus’ cheek and then Faramir’s cheek. Then his hand slid down between their bodies and gently grasped Garus’ engorged cock. “Come for me, my lovelies,” he said as he matched Faramir’s rhythm with his strokes.

At Boromir’s urging, they both reached climax. Garus panted as he lay beneath Faramir reveling in the closeness to his beloved lord. Then Boromir pulled his brother into his arms, careful not to hurt Garus, and rolled so that he could impale him with his cock.

Gratefully accepting the aid of Saphron and Stefle, Garus rose from the bed knowing that the brothers would be occupied with each other until they fell asleep.

Denethor insisted that they take half their guard and wear light armor. So it was midmorning before they left Minas Tirith accompanied by twenty men with Saphron and Garus safely tucked into the formation behind the brothers. There were plenty of pleasant spots close to the city, but the plants that Garus was seeking grew in the higher elevations. It was nearly lunchtime before they found an acceptable spot for hunting his herbs.

The day camp was set up quickly with Garus and Saphron preparing food while the escort set up perimeters, set guards and sent scouts into the surrounding area. The meal was shared with the off-duty warriors amid much laughter and camaraderie. After they had finished eating and the scouts returned reporting no sign of any nearby danger, the group set out to find the plants Garus was looking for. They spread out a bit once the servant showed them some samples of what was wanted.

Boromir followed Faramir up the hill making remarks about how nice his ass looked from that angle. When they reached the top and came into a small clearing where they could see Garus and Saphron gathering plants into their baskets, Faramir stopped and waited for his brother to join him. After the previous day’s rest they both had energy to burn so they decided to engage in a bit of sword practice.

Their voices echoed in the glade as they chased each other through the bordering trees, laughing at each other’s antics. Soon the warm sun and quiet surroundings brought them to a halt and they leaned against a tree watching their servants finish their gathering. Garus was happy having found everything he needed and even a few flowers that Saphron used in her inks for pigmenting. They proudly showed their finds to the two brothers who examined them with indulgent smiles.

It took a few moments before they became aware of the shouting from the far side of the clearing, but they reacted quickly. Saphron handed her basket to Garus and drew her long knife as the brothers pushed them towards the safety of the closest tree. They could hear the rest of the troops coming up the hill behind them as they saw the first glimpses of their attackers.

A dozen orcs came boiling out of the woods and straight at Boromir and Faramir, who drew their swords. They were not too worried at such a small number of assailants and stepped far enough apart that they wouldn’t interfere with each other. The orcs fell easily by their hand, but more appeared at the far edge of the glade before they had killed the last one.

A cloud passed over the sun and darkened the clearing as a large uruk followed the orcs to the edge of the forest. It growled at the two men as it raised its bow and took aim. Faramir felt as if he were suddenly caught in his nightmare: the darkened sky and screaming orcs were just as he had dreamed it. Quickly he reversed his grip on his long knife and threw it left-handed to impale the uruk’s eye, just as it released the arrow. The bolt sped past him to where he knew his brother stood in defense. The distinctive sound of it meeting flesh came to his ears and, despite the oncoming danger, he had to turn to look.

Boromir watched the approaching orcs with anger. Of all the creatures in the world, he hated them the most. He hated their smell, their appearance, their uncanny ability to be where they were the most trouble. But most of all, he hated orcs for the dreams of them that plagued his brother. He turned to make sure Garus and Saphron were still safe after he killed the last one in the first wave, signaling for them to move back behind the tree. As he turned, he saw the uruk poised with its bow. The arrow sped toward him and he was helpless to do anything to stop it; he had not brought his shield as his vision had told him.

Without thought, Garus leapt from his place at Saphron’s side to intercept the arrow. He had no fighting skill but was quick on his feet and strong. There was an almost unbearable pain as the bolt passed through his arm and into his chest, but he was able to see that Faramir had felled the archer before he could loose any more arrows. The force knocked Garus into Boromir, who carefully laid him on the ground next to Saphron before turning back to the battle.

Faramir watched long enough to see Saphron begin working on Garus. Then he turned and faced the attacking orcs. The rage he felt cleared from his mind as he fell into his battle rhythm. Death came from his hands as he advanced on the orcs, his brother at his side. The rest of their guard soon made the clearing and the remaining attackers were killed without mercy. As soon as the last orc fell, the brothers turned back to their wounded servant.

Saphron had done little more than remove the arrow, knowing the futility of further action. She held her husband close in her arms, rocking him as he tried to calm her with quiet words. Faramir fell to his knees beside them, noting the blood that leaked from Garus’ nose and mouth, as well as the bubbles of air that came from his chest. Already his hands were cold as ice as Faramir took them in his own and his color had become extremely pale.

“I could not bear to see such a creature harm my Lord Boromir,” he whispered to Faramir as he wept at his side. “Do not cry for me, my lord, I could not have asked for a better life or a better end.”

Sitting on the ground beside his brother, Boromir was numb with guilt and shock as he watched the light in Garus’ eyes fade. Saphron wailed in her grief and Faramir shook with his sobs. It seemed unbelievable that their gentle companion could have met such a violent and ugly end.

After a few moments, Draymor knelt at Boromir’s side to get his attention. “There are three more of our people dead in the woods, the men are bringing them out. I’ve sent a messenger back to the city so that a full patrol can make sure there are no more in this area,” he paused, wiping away his own tears. “We have to leave here, it’s not safe.”

Nodding numbly at his words, Boromir turned back to his brother, running a comforting hand through Faramir’s hair and ignoring all else until their horses were brought for them. Saphron rode the horse that carried her husband, not wanting to be parted from him. The brothers rode on either side of her, their heads bowed in grief.

As they made their way through the city many came to watch them pass. Garus was as well known as a healer and friend to the poor as he was as the personal servant of the Steward’s sons. They stopped at the house in the fifth ring of the city, where the servants of the tower waited to take custody of his body and his wife. Most of the guards remained there, only a few following the brothers to the seventh gate.

Denethor waited on the steps for his sons. He had been somewhat undecided on how to treat their misfortune until Galmar had reminded him that Garus had been the one to successfully heal his sons after the boar-hunting incident. Vaguely he recalled the almost effete man who stood ever at Faramir’s side waiting on him. Garus’ ability as a healer had kept his sons here in the tower when injured instead of in the halls of healing. And now he was gone. He had died protecting the life of his oldest son and heir.

“He will be laid to rest in the House of the Stewards,” Denethor told his sons as they climbed the stairs. Their faces were stiff with grief and only Boromir acknowledged his words with a short nod. “I have already informed your servants so that the arrangements can be made. Tomorrow we will meet to discuss the latest developments in the war.”

Boromir nodded again, then led his brother to their rooms.

“He’s not here,” Faramir said in a lost voice as they entered their bedroom. He crawled to the center of their oversized bed and curled around the pillow someone had placed there from Garus and Saphron’s bed. It still held his smell strongly and Faramir wept into it. Boromir joined his brother, holding him tightly for an endless eternity of grieving.

They followed the procession from the house of Garus’ chosen family in the fifth ring to the House of the Stewards in the seventh ring of the city. The week of mourning had been spent in planning the defense of Gondor from this latest offensive from Mordor. There were no more tears from either brother. They both knew that unless they could find some way to stop the enemy their time was limited, and more death was inevitable. Even now, their oldest sons had joined the fight and soon they would be burying their children as well as their beloved companions.

The words of the funeral ceremony brought them little comfort as they held Saphron who wept for all three of them. The future seemed grim and full of grief. It was almost impossible for them to hold onto the small hope that their dreams and visions of the king had given them. Their resources were diminishing and the fall of Gondor seemed inescapable.

Part 16: BONDAGE

The report was long and very thorough and had taken nearly six months to complete. Mithrandir had little to do with certain problems that plagued Gondor and Rohan, except to provide solutions. Saruman, however, was a completely different story. There were links that ran back to before Boromir’s network had been set up. Not surprisingly, Galmar had strong ties to the wizard of Orthanc.

“I want him watched night and day,” Boromir told Cara, his head aching from the stress and the endless stink of Orodruin, which had been wafting over the city for days. “Everyone he even looks at should be noted for investigation.” He paused to think about his next orders. “I don’t want to alert him to our increased vigilance, but I want new precautions established. If anything should happen to me, I want Galmar dead before Faramir knows what we have been doing. He is dangerous to my brother and I don’t want to take any chances that he will move against him.”

“We will do as you have ordered, my lord,” she told him, relieved at his decision.

“We need to let Éomer know and also Éowyn’s watchdog Brinel in Edoras. Having her become the Princess’s maid was a very good idea, I’m glad you thought of it.”

“I was simply using the example of you and Lord Faramir with Princess Lothiriel, my lord,” she responded, blushing.

“It is definitely working out for the best,” Boromir praised before changing the subject. “My brother needs a new personal servant. Those who serve him now are efficient and he likes them well enough, but he needs more. A complete change from Garus is needed, he would not accept a substitute. I had considered a female companion, but I want someone who can go on campaign with him. Maybe two servants; he is not recovering well and I’m worried about him.”

“We all are, my lord,” Cara said, her eyes filling with tears. “I had considered Garus’s youngest brother, who is one of our agents in Dol Amroth, but the resemblance physically is too close. Besides, he has not been trained as a body servant and is really too old for the change. There are several promising young men that we have been looking into, but I have been hesitant to suggest a change.”

“I told her to speak up,” Nelda croaked from the bed, the first time she had been really conscious that day. “It is no good if there are secrets between you, not now.”

“She is right,” Boromir confirmed. “Especially now when our enemies seem to be closing in on us. Make arrangements with Stefle for me to see them all, he knows my schedule better than I do. I would like to make a decision before my brother returns from Ithilien.” He rose to leave, then paused to look at the old woman on the bed.

“You have served our House well, Grandmother,” he told her, using the honorific for the first time. “It is time now for you to rest. You have my leave to join with the other elders of the House so that all your grandchildren can bid you farewell before you depart this world.”

“Thank you, my Prince,” Nelda replied, tears of gratitude in her eyes. “It has been my pleasure to serve.”

Faramir sat alone in his chamber. All the dead had been buried in carefully concealed graves and the injured brought here to Henneth Annûn. Now there was just the silence, the empty ache of loss and the endless nightmare that his life had become.

He knew that even if Boromir had accompanied him the results would have been the same, but that didn’t matter. What could have been done differently was for later thoughts. Now, he could only think of the men he had lost in their failed ambush; he’d already made sure that all of the survivors were being properly cared for. Many times, he had held his brother as he cried and mourned his losses. This was the first time he was in charge and had lost so many.

And Boromir wasn’t here to comfort him. And no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t cry. He felt severed from all his bonds of love and loyalty.

He sat, turning his knife over and over in his hand, thinking maybe he should write how he felt in his journal. Boromir would expect to read about this, but he couldn’t get himself to get up from where he’d collapsed on the floor to go to the table where his journal waited. He looked at the knife in his hands, a gift from his father, the only person in his life that had ever been critical of him. He wore it always, a reminder that there was some affection there, even if it wasn’t as much as he would like.

He took off the leather armor that covered his upper body, and pulled off his shirt. Holding the blade in his left hand, he examined the scars on his right arm, for it was here that he always started. Glancing up first to make sure the door was locked, he brought the blade across his forearm, carefully avoiding the scars that had been put there by his brother and Éomer. He released a ragged breath at the sharp pain, it was pure relief. With a sure rhythm he moved up his arm leaving random cuts, small and easily concealable. Pulling his hair out of the way, he marked his shoulder, the back of his neck. Switching hands, he did the other shoulder and arm before starting on his chest. Here he cut a little deeper, a little longer.

If he were home, Boromir would wield the knife. He thought of Boromir. His brother was so good with the blade, his hands leading as his mouth kissed and licked the blood away. It made him feel free, cleansed of his guilt and failure, purified by blood and pain from all the faults that others refused to see. Especially his beloved brother, who had never spoken a harsh word to him. He would forgive the worst mistakes with comforting words and soft caresses.

Removing his pants, Faramir drew long lines down each heavily muscled and scarred thigh, watching his cock spring to full erection. His thoughts were still of Boromir, who would be taking his cock into his mouth at this point, catching it with his teeth. Carefully, he scraped the knife up the underside of his penis, the blade turned just enough to not cut. Then he ran a soothing hand down the tortured organ, lubricated with the blood from his chest. He repeated the same procedure on the top and sides of his cock until he found his release.

Boromir arrived the next day, having come as quickly as he could after word of the battle had reached him. Sitting at the table in their room, he began reading the journal. As he read of the disastrous battle, his face twisted in anguish for his brother and for the ever- growing number of dead. His hands began shaking as he read further. Long ago, he’d told Faramir to put down every detail. At times like this he regretted his words, even though they kept him informed. Faramir’s darker impulses could be dangerous, especially since Garus’s death.

Finally he put the book down and turned to his brother, who stood facing the wall. “Let me see,” he ordered him, trying to keep his voice impassive.

Without turning, Faramir began stripping, dropping his clothes in an untidy heap. There were few new marks on his back, though his shoulders and arms were liberally covered with healing thin lines. When Faramir didn’t turn around, Boromir steeled himself, knowing the rest was going to be very bad. “Show me,” he repeated, and couldn’t hold back an involuntary gasp.

The front of Faramir’s body was covered with cuts. Many of them were much deeper than was safe. Three long gashes across his stomach were bloody with signs of being reopened.

Faramir brought a basin of water, a rag and salve to the table. The only attention he had given the cuts had been detrimental. Usually Boromir cleaned him up and treated the wounds for him. Boromir understood his brother’s self-mutilation. In some ways, it was similar to the pleasure/pain of the sword dance. But this was frightening and dangerous, especially when he was alone. At those times Faramir always went too far, cut too deep.

Starting with his right arm, Boromir carefully cleaned and then kissed each wound. Some of them should have been stitched, but he knew from past experience that Faramir would only pick them out. His brother was compulsive about this, no matter how much he tried to resist, he eventually gave in.

“We will be returning to Minas Tirith tomorrow,” Boromir told him.

The two young men were of the oldest of the servants’ families. They had been trained as assassins and spies from their earliest years and had recently been intensively trained in the healing arts. Faramir recognized them as agents and wondered what they were doing here in the bedroom he shared with his brother.

“You remember Belgar and Nelis?” Boromir asked. At Faramir’s nod, he continued. “They are your new body servants.”

Faramir started to object, he’d been refusing new servants for months now, but the look on his brother’s face stopped him. “Yes, of course, brother,” he said, feeling numb.

With quiet efficiency, they moved forward and began undressing Faramir, revealing the new cuts he had inflicted on himself. While their faces remained impassive at the sight of their charge’s injuries, Stefle couldn’t help a startled gasp. Before they led Faramir to the waiting tub, Nelis swiftly stitched closed the long gashes that crossed his stomach.

They helped him into the warm water and assisted Boromir in washing his brother. Whenever one of Faramir’s hands would stray below the water towards his new stitches they would pull it back up and put something in it to occupy him. They were efficiently quick, making this a very short bath. Faramir’s stomach tightened in knots knowing what was to come.

They led him to a waiting chair instead of the bed as he expected. Since the brothers had become sexually active, all of their bonds with those closest to them had been sealed with sex. A cushion was placed beneath his feet and both men knelt on the hard stone floor before him. Looking at the items on the table beside him, Faramir suddenly realized the kind of bonding he was expected to make.

“I don’t want to do this, Boromir,” he said with a note of panic in his voice.

Standing behind his little brother with both hands on his shoulders holding him in place, Boromir remained resolute. “You will do it,” he ordered. It tore at his heart, but this was the best way they could find to stop Faramir’s decline. At his nod, the two servants began their oath of service.

Belgar removed his knife from its sheath and handed it hilt first to Faramir. “With this blade I pledge my service and my life to you.”

With shaking hands, Faramir took the knife. It was not a typical servant’s blade, but one designed to be used in a variety of ways, though still simple and small. “By this blade I accept your pledge,” he responded, making a quick cut across the inside of Belgar’s forearm and allowing the blood to run into the goblet of wine held by Nelis. “Keep this tool in trust and use it only in my service,” he said, returning it to Belgar.

The same procedure was repeated with Nelis, who had a Kris knife with the black blade and hilt popular with assassins. As he was handed the goblet of wine and blood, he thought of the two men. Nelis was eight years younger than him and Belgar four years younger. When they were children he had read them stories and played games with them, as he still did with all of the children of the House. He remembered when they had first taken their oaths as agents and all their accomplishments since. They were among the best in their trade, despite their youth.

“By your blood I bind you to me,” Faramir said before drinking the entire contents of the goblet. Setting the goblet on the table, he turned to the small brazier there and took one of the small irons waiting there with its miniaturized version of his seal on the hot end. Belgar leaned forward expectantly, turning his head so that the left side of his face was in easy reach. Pushing the man’s hair out of the way, Faramir pressed the red hot metal into the space between his eye and hairline.

“I give you my mark that all who see you know that you belong to me,” he intoned. Even though the smell of burning flesh sickened him, Faramir didn’t hesitate in his actions. Nelis received the same treatment just as eagerly as Belgar, for they would be the first in several centuries to be bonded in such a way.

Faramir’s hands went to where his brother held his shoulders as he watched Belgar turn so that he was on his knees while Nelis gently removed the cushion from beneath his feet. Boromir pushed him forward to finish the ritual. Kneeling on the cushion, which was now between Belgar’s legs, Faramir prepared to complete the next step.

“I claim you as my own, Belgar of the House of Hurin,” he said as he slowly pushed his cock into the man’s ass. It was not allowed to prepare ahead of time, but Faramir had long known how to do this without causing undo pain. A few thrusts were all that were needed to bring Faramir to climax, despite his unwillingness to perform the ritual. He was now near the end and his mind and body were responding to the rite as they were supposed to. Again, the same process was repeated with Nelis.

Returning to sit in the chair, Faramir looked at the two men on their knees before him. “Everything that you are is now mine, all that you were is now changed. You are severed from the House of Húrin and to be known as Belgar of Faramir and Nelis of Faramir respectively. All that you do is as if it were done by my hand, and my will.”

When he finished, they each leaned forward and placed their foreheads on one of his feet. “I am yours alone, master,” they said in unison, making a shiver run through his body. Then they quietly rose to their feet and dressed before attending to Faramir’s clothes that were where they had left them.

Boromir led his brother to their bed. Even this had changed since Garus’s death. Though they still wanted each other just as much, Faramir had a tendency to weep after lovemaking. At the first sign of his brother’s sadness, Boromir became rough, much rougher than he usually was. His eyes widening in surprise, Faramir grasped his arms.

“Only think of me, my brother,” Boromir growled in his ear before biting his neck hard. “You have spent too much time thinking of the past.” He drove into Faramir so hard and fast that all he could do was gasp and hold tight. Watching his brother orgasm while he squeezed his cock rhythmically with one hand, Boromir held his hips still with the other, his own cock buried completely within his ass.

When Faramir’s grip relaxed on his arms, Boromir sat back on his heels, pulling his hips tight against his groin. Placing his hand over the coat of arms tattoos on Faramir’s lower belly, he brought his brother’s hand to rest over his own tattoos. “Don’t ignore your vows any longer, my beloved one,” he said. “You are bound to Éomer and me, never forget that.”

Boromir leaned forward and claimed his lips with a deep kiss before he started moving again, his still hard cock within the tight sheath of his brother’s body. Arching beneath him, Faramir cried out at the pleasure of their contact. His mind was cleared of everything but answering the demands of his brother. For the first time in months, they were again achieving that bond that was more than the joining of flesh.

Beneath their hands, the tattoos heated and they both felt the extension of themselves that reached out toward Éomer. It was faint, barely more than a whisper of feeling, but Faramir felt it race through his body like fire. Their simple bond made five years earlier was becoming stronger. Faramir’s gift, with the aid of Boromir’s guidance, was defeating time and distance to bring them together.

“It is clear that he wasn’t injured in the battle,” Galmar told Denethor in his private study. “However we know that sometime afterward he received many cuts that have caused a lot of blood loss.”

“So, they are probably self inflicted,” Denethor said.

“We believe so, your grace,” Galmar added. “Our informant was only able to get sketchy information. None but the most loyal of their servants have been allowed anywhere near Lord Faramir. Lord Boromir has replaced his body servant as well.” He paused as if searching for words.

“Spit it out,” the Steward ordered testily.

“There are two of them, your grace,” he said quickly. “Both of them are trained assassins and one of them is a skilled torturer, I have reported to you on them before. Belgar and Nelis are their names. I can’t think of why he would make that choice.”

“Obviously Boromir picked them, he always was overprotective of his brother,” Denethor answered bitterly, remembering that these assassins were among the best. “Who better to keep him safe?”

“There is more, your grace,” Galmar continued. “They have both forsworn their early bonds and taken the ‘Oath of Mancipium’ with him.”

“Do you know if they performed the full rite?” Denethor asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“Yes, they did, your grace,” Galmar told him.

Silence fell across the room in a wave as Faramir strode the length of the Great Hall to take his place at his father’s left side. Belgar followed close behind him, eyes alert to every movement in the room. His own eyes briefly scanning those present, Faramir turned to his father to ask forgiveness for being late.

Denethor acknowledged him with a nod, still unnerved himself by his son’s companion. The impassive gray gaze sent chills down his spine the few times he’d caught it. Even Galmar edged away from the assassin turned body servant, ‘body slave,’ the steward thought as he glimpsed the raw brand on the young man’s face. It nearly made him lose his appetite to be so close to him, especially when he caught the look of fanatical devotion bestowed on his youngest son. But as harsh as Denethor was on his sons, he was much harsher on himself. He would eat and hold his food down if it killed him.

“Do you wish to announce our decisions now, father?” Boromir asked as they finished their meal.

“Of course,” Denethor answered before clearing his throat and calling for attention. “There will be a new levy of young men for the armies next month,” he told the gathered nobles, pausing to let them grumble momentarily among themselves. “However, we will be releasing many of the men who have been serving to go home. Hopefully, by the end of summer we can get a rotation schedule worked out so that we can field the necessary forces and still have plenty of men to bring in the crops and tend to other work.”

Scanning the line of waiting faces he continued. “You will each be receiving lists of the levies you are expected to fulfill and the men you can expect to return home soon. Any questions may be directed to me or my sons, once you have been given your orders.”

The room erupted into moderate chaos as he took his seat. There would be many questions and arguments, but his nobles would send the troops that were needed. The advance of the enemy was felt everywhere. At his signal, his sons rose from their positions and began circulating among the dinner guests.

The novelty of Faramir’s servant was overshadowed by the Steward’s announcement. Watching them perform their duty in calming the anxieties and objections of the aristocracy, Denethor noticed for the first time the number of fair-haired young folk amongst them. Twenty different families of the highest nobility were represented and there were two young men and three young women who bore striking resemblances to his sons. Moving through the crowd with his usual joviality, Boromir stopped briefly with each of the young people Denethor had noted and also with two other darker-haired youths. He exchanged a few words with each of them, followed by a quick kiss to their brows.

He’d never before seriously thought about his sons’ numerous progeny except as an annoying excuse Boromir used to avoid marriage. Now he realized that over one third of the houses present had children of his sons by their ‘first night’ liaisons. The number could also be higher as any children under the age of twelve or so were not generally brought to these occasions. He was stunned.

Long ago he had become aware of the staggering numbers of Boromir’s offspring among the prostitutes of Gondor, rather appalled at his eldest son’s pursuit of whores. Faramir was just as busy among the ranks of their servants. Briefly, he indulged himself with a vision of every citizen of Minas Tirith as a descendant of his sons. Though the numbers weren’t nearly that high, he realized that it would probably take the death of nearly every person in the city to steal their loyalty from his sons. Even as he watched, another quartet of parents introduced Boromir to a young promised couple, presumably for first night negotiations. Denethor caught the look that passed between the brothers as they caught each other’s eyes. He witnessed the surprise on the young groom’s face as he was presumably invited to join in the deflowering of his young bride and asked to welcome both brothers to their marriage bed. It had become a standard procedure for them.

Before his eyes, in the children of their bodies, was the evidence of the binding of the people of Gondor to them personally. Denethor vaguely recalled a scrap of lore about a prophecy saying the liberation of Gondor would come when all of its children were one family. He wondered with wry amusement if his sons believed that legend and were setting about making it true.

“I could order you to leave me alone,” Faramir said, irritated at having his elbow lightly caught when he unconsciously reached for the stitches on his stomach.

Nelis sat back on his heels and pulled his knife from its sheath. “If you wish, master,” he said as he held the deadly blade over his own heart.

“That’s not what I meant,” Faramir told him.

“It is the only way I will leave you alone,” Nelis said with a smile, resheathing his weapon.

“Sacrificed for me,” Faramir said sadly, covering his eyes with one hand as he remembered another pair of gray eyes closing forever.

“There could be no greater joy,” Nelis told him, pulling his hand away. He was on his knees between Faramir’s thighs, his eyes lit with the fire of his devotion. “We all have learned from you and your brother that there is nothing more important than our service to Gondor. You and Boromir are the princes of our House, and you represent the hope of our people. Belgar and I are regarded with great envy for we were chosen from among many to take oath with you. If either of us should die in your service there will be just as many waiting to take our place. Would you not feel pleased to die in ‘HIS’ service?” Nelis finished in a whisper.

“Of course,” Faramir answered, his own voice a whisper as he pressed his fingers to Nelis’s mouth to stop any more words on a subject that was never to be spoken of. He looked around the study, even though he knew they were alone and trusted guards stood on the other side of the closed door. But the intent behind the words was beginning to sink in. After all these months, he was finally beginning to understand the smile that had lit Garus’s face even as he’d died a painful death.

An Eored could travel much faster than heavy cavalry, not to mention fully armed foot soldiers. When Boromir came out of the Firien Wood and into the Fenmarch, Éomer was already encamped. He left the greater portion of his army setting up on the eastern edge of the woods, preparing for the long sweep eastward across Anorien to clear the territory of the wandering bands of orcs that had been plaguing it. Boromir was accompanied only by his personal guard, which had doubled in size since Garus’s death. A lot of things had changed since then.

The signs of recent battle alarmed him, especially since Éomer was nowhere to be seen. When Boromir arrived at his tent, he found the young Third Marshall sitting back in a large chair letting a healer work on a long gash in his chest. In the nearly six years that they had known each other, Éomer had managed to remain pretty much unmarked, but this wound would leave a large scar. On the ground beside him was his leather armor with a horrific rent through the chest piece.

“We were ambushed by orcs this morning,” Éomer said with a Grímace of pain as the healer finished his last stitch. “It appears that even orcs could guess that we were going to meet here. It would have been much worse if we hadn’t expected it.”

“At least we now know that the enemy is linking the two of us together,” Boromir said, going to his knees beside Éomer’s chair. “Did you have very many losses?” he asked before kissing the wound.

“Just injuries, we didn’t want to look too prepared,” Éomer told him running his hands through Boromir’s hair. “Is Faramir truly better?” he asked with urgency, as the healer left them alone in the tent sealing the door flap.

“Have you been able to hear him in your dreams?” Boromir questioned, as Éomer’s hands joined his in undoing the buckles that held his steel plate armor in place.

“Yes, and sometimes you as well,” was the happy answer, joined with a brief grunt of pain as one of his fingers was pinched in the articulated shoulder pieces of the armor. “It is just that he was so sad and so ill, I never realized he was so close to Garus. Even his pain leaked through; I would have gone mad if you hadn’t sent word of what had happened.”

“It won’t happen again,” Boromir told him, wriggling out of the body armor. “I made different arrangements for his servants. He is no longer bound to them, but they are bound to him.”

“How does that work?” Éomer asked a bit confused, unlacing the protective gambeson and looking for signs of galling on Boromir’s skin as Faramir had taught him to.

“They renounce all ties to everything but him,” Boromir explained shrugging the gambeson off and turning to sit between Éomer’s feet to unlace their boots. “And he accepts them as extensions of himself, not as individuals.” He paused, not sure how to clarify it.

“Sounds like a form of slavery,” Éomer put in, kicking his boots off while Boromir did the same.

“It is,” Boromir confirmed, stopping in his undressing to rise to his knees and kiss Éomer lightly on the lips. “Only it is voluntary, at least before the oath is taken. It can only be released by Faramir. And they have a lot more power than even some of the nobility. Everything they do is looked upon as if Faramir himself were doing it. There was no lack of applicants.”

“I take it you were able to find a suitable candidate,” he gasped out as Boromir nibbled at his ear.

“Two,” Boromir said with a grin, sitting on his heels. “You remember Belgar?”

Éomer laughed out loud at the name. “I never knew an orc could scream like that, or a man. Or death kept so long at bay with so much blood loss and pain. But why would he pick an assassin and one skilled at torture?”

“I chose him and another as well,” Boromir told him. “Who better to help Faramir keep his need to punish himself under control? I couldn’t bear the alternative.”

“What was that?” Éomer wanted to know.

“I would have to punish him myself,” Boromir said sadly, resting his head on Éomer’s thigh for a moment. “That is something I could never do, not even when he was little.”

“My poor Boromir,” Éomer whispered as he ran comforting hands over his shoulders and pulled him up for another kiss. “You do coddle us all, such a softy for being such a big strong warrior and hero.”

“I’m just a man,” Boromir said as he pushed Éomer’s gambeson off his shoulders. He let an awed gasp as he saw the tattoo that covered his whole left shoulder. “That is exquisite,” he told him, examining the beautiful design. It was an interlace pattern typical of the Rohirrim, surrounding prancing horses.

“Just a little something I couldn’t resist,” Éomer grinned as Boromir ran gentle fingers over it. “My uncle says you are a bad influence, our people should be trying to become more civilized, not return to the old ways.” At Boromir’s concerned expression he added, “I told him that it is what civilized people are doing now, especially since Gondor is the most civilized place around. I’ve heard that even some of the elves have tattoos.”

Boromir stopped his words with a kiss. “Let us talk later,” he said urgently. “I have been away from you too long to wait any longer.” His hands opened Éomer’s pants as he spoke. The younger man stood, allowing Boromir to remove the last of his clothing, and moved toward the bed.

Discarding the rest of his own clothes, Boromir watched Éomer as he walked to the bed and lay down upon it. He noticed that there were many bruises starting to make their appearance as he approached the reclining horselord. He ran a finger next to the inflamed line of the new injury. “I would gladly kill any who would mark you so, my prince,” Boromir whispered before claiming the younger man’s lips. “Let me comfort you.”

Unused to such gentleness, Éomer took a hissing breath as Boromir began pressing soft kisses and caresses to his body. He grabbed Boromir’s hair with his right hand, urging him to less caution. With a laugh, the older man slipped his hold and pushed Éomer’s hands to above his head. Straddling the prince’s body, he kissed his brow.

“Let me show you this, my wild one,” he whispered in his ear. “There are pleasures I would have you know.” Urging Éomer to keep his hands in place, Boromir returned to his task. Shivering at the soft touches, the younger man couldn’t help arching his back, which caused a sharp flash of pain through his stitches. “Gently,” Boromir admonished, using his hands and mouth to calm the impatient prince.

It was sweet torture to lie still beneath Boromir’s ministrations. His mouth and hands laid gentle claim to every square inch of flesh, making the horselord cry out in pleasure. Yet he was soothing as well, slowing when Éomer became too restive. When Boromir took his leaking cock into his mouth and began a slow steady rhythm, Éomer surrendered to him.

His climax didn’t stop Boromir from continuing. He kept licking and sucking at Éomer’s balls and cock until he grew hard again before moving his attention to his taut ass. Bracing his feet on the other warrior’s well-muscled shoulders, the prince again gave himself up to the delicious pleasure.

Finally Boromir rose to his knees, carefully dislodging Éomer’s feet and bringing his hips into position. His slow entry into the younger man’s ass was met with moans of ecstasy. Keeping his movements slow and smooth, he brought them both to climax together.

Still somewhat angry at being forced to stay in Minas Tirith for another round of negotiations over levies, Faramir had let his attention wander from the subject of the meeting he was attending. Denethor had used the excuse of his youngest son’s recent illness to keep him there, even though he supposedly didn’t know the nature of it. There were other reasons his father didn’t want him near Rohan. Faramir knew it as clearly as if the Steward had made it a formal announcement in court. The thought of Éomer and his brother together again without him was almost painful. He felt like he was being punished for some unknown crime.

Then came the tendril of communication from his brother. He felt a sharp rush of arousal and knew that Boromir was with Éomer. The arguing men at the table disappeared and all he could do was smell and feel the contact between the two. He knew that his hands were gripping the edge of the table but other than that, the room he was in was gone to his senses.

The sharp intake of breath drew Denethor’s attention away from the councilors and to his son. He could tell that Faramir was having a vision of some sort from his own experiences with them. Rising to his feet, he broke up the discussion and declared the meeting postponed. Ushering the councilors out of the room, he became aware of the strong scent of his son’s arousal. Turning back at the door to look, he saw Faramir throw his head back in obvious ecstasy. Both of his servants were at his side, Belgar watching the Steward and the others leaving the room. Deciding that discretion was the best course of action, Denethor left with the others, closing the door behind him.

“I have some gifts for you,” Éomer told Boromir as he lay beside him catching his breath. Then he grunted loudly in pain as he failed in the attempt to sit straight up with his injury.

“Turn on your side and push yourself up with your arms,” Boromir advised as he watched him struggle.

“I’m not used to this,” Éomer snarled, glaring at the wound running down his body as if it were an enemy.

“It will heal quicker if you don’t stress it,” Boromir told him, far more experienced with such things. “Show me your gifts.”

“You can see this one here,” He said pointing to a leather bag on a nearby table. “The others are outside, we can look at them later.”

Boromir opened the bag, which stank of blood and orc, looking inside. There were several sealed letters within. Pulling them out, he noticed that they all bore the seal of Saruman.

“We intercepted one of their couriers,” Éomer told him. “I can’t make out what language they’re written in, but I’m sure Faramir can.”

Unable to recognize the writing on any of them, Boromir realized that he would have to take them to his brother. It looked like he would no longer be able to shield him from the intrigues of Gondor and Rohan.

Faramir became aware of where he was suddenly. Looking around the room, he realized that he was alone with Belgar and Nelis. “What happened?” he asked, remembering the meeting that had been in progress.

“Your father postponed the meeting,” Nelis answered as he used a napkin from the table to wipe clean the last of Faramir’s cum from his clothes. He’d managed to get his pants open in time when he realized what was happening, but wasn’t quick enough to catch all of Faramir’s orgasm.

“How much did he see?” Faramir inquired.

“Not much, but enough,” Nelis replied, refastening his master’s pants. “He knows it wasn’t just another vision, but he left with the others.”

The feeling from the all too brief contact was still with him so Faramir rested his head on the table for a few minutes to let his mind clear. He hoped his father would keep to the policy he had established in the past and not ask any questions about what had happened. He had no idea what he could tell him if he did ask. He was sure this was not something he wanted to share with him.

The large horses looked at Boromir with almost human intelligence. He was stunned and touched by the gift Éomer had brought for him and his brother. The two mares were from the herd that Éomer had inherited from his parents and their bloodline could be traced back for centuries. They were of the best of the Mearas stock.

“I’ve even trained them for use with your heavy plate armor,” Éomer told him proudly. “They will carry you into battle as no other horse could.”

“You do us great honor with your gift, my wild prince,” Boromir said, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’ll think of you as they trample our enemies beneath their hooves.”

Part 17: THE GATHERING DARKNESS

The room was filled with an eerie light as he removed the cloth that covered the palantir. After staring at it for awhile he felt almost foolish about his earlier fears. It must have been something that Mithrandir had done that had caused all the problems before. This time was completely different. Stepping closer, Denethor looked into the seeing stone following the instructions Saruman had sent him.

The feeling of powerlessness that had been building in him as his sons grew ever more popular was swept away as he was able to see every city as he thought of it. He could see first hand what was happening in Gondor. He had to work hard to control what he saw, everything tended to blur together and he couldn’t hear what was being said. As the hours wore on he found that if he concentrated he could read documents and occasionally even the lips of those speaking. This would give him an unprecedented advantage against the spy network his youngest son had set up. He knew that Boromir, though an outstanding military commander, wasn’t the kind of man who would make use of subterfuge.

At the thought of Boromir and the stone clouded then cleared. He expected to see his oldest son sleeping in a darkened tent this late at night. Instead he was on his knees before Éomer letting him thrust his cock into his mouth. It infuriated the Steward to see his heir like this. He thought he’d accepted his son’s relationship with the prince, but seeing him in such a subservient position was more than he could tolerate. He hadn’t spent so many years of hard work just to see his sons kneel down before any king, let alone some barbarian prince.

Focusing on his youngest son, he tried to see what Faramir was doing and met nothingness. He knew that he was in the rooms he shared with his brother here in the tower, and surmised that there was some sort of blockage, probably from when Mithrandir had been there. He would write Saruman and see if he could tell him how to break through it.

Throwing the cover back over the palantir, he left the attic room intent on changing what he’d seen and hadn’t seen.

The crystal had turned black. Saphron stared at the burnt stone in Stefle’s hand and thought of all the materials she would need to reset the wards the wizard had put on the brother’s rooms. “Yes, it means that the palantir has been activated again,” she told him.

“Can you counteract it?” Cara asked from the desk.

“The wards here are still working, but we will have to check them regularly,” she paused a look of disgust on her face. “We will have to completely redo those around our lords’ rooms. I think we should only do partial shields there though. If we do complete shields ‘he’ will know that we are doing them. We need to set up a safe area, but leave everything else open. According to all the records we could find only an adept or the king will be able to hear words, but any good user will be able to read anything written.”

“Lord Boromir does not want him watching Lord Faramir,” Stefle interjected. “He will want their bedroom shielded.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Saphron told him. “But I don’t think I will be able to do anything that will last longer than a few days.”

“Lord Boromir should be back within the week, he was halfway across Anorien when the courier left him this morning,” Cara informed them. “We will do what we can until then. Have you made any progress on personal amulets?”

“I think so, but I’m not sure how we can test them,” Saphron hesitated for a moment looking at the notes in the little book she now carried all the time. “There might be another problem. The palantiri are property of the king and connected to him whether he sits on the throne or not. That may also link them to our lords and any who have joined them in their vows of loyalty. I’ll have to have the cooperation of someone who wears the seal of the king to be able to find out. If only the wizard were here, I’m sure he would know.”

Forgoing the usual protocol, the man had thrown himself down at Boromir’s feet and remained prostrate until he had his lord’s complete and private attention. Even then he had kept his face to the ground until he had related the entire oral message he’d been sent to deliver.

Years of practice kept his face from revealing his outrage at what he was being told. Memories of the pain and suffering his brother had endured the last time his father had meddled with the palantir filled him with loathing. He was trapped by the campaign he was waging against the roving bands of orcs that had infested Anorien, though soon he would return home. Even then his options would be limited.

He had no direct power over his father, no way to force him to stop using the seeing stone. Leaving Gondor had also stopped being an option. With all those who counted on them as well as the vows he and his brother had made to serve the king there was no way he could abandon his duty and still retain any sort of honor. Killing his father would have been his favorite choice at the moment. That the man would choose to do something so foolish after the last disastrous results was proof enough that he lacked any sanity let alone morality. This was not an option either however, not yet anyway.

Galmar had isolated all of the Steward’s servants so that poisoning was out of the question. Direct confrontation would lead to civil war, which Gondor wouldn’t survive at this time, not with Mordor breathing down their necks. He would have to find another way to keep his brother safe, and all those who relied on them. There was no doubt in his mind that his father would deal as ruthlessly with their followers as he had done with others in the past.

The network he and his brother had built was in danger of being discovered by the man he had come to consider his worst enemy, his own father. He knew that given the chance, Denethor would force them to bend to his wishes. While that would be unfortunate for him personally, it would be disastrous, even fatal, for his beloved brother.

Taking the packet of letters from the courier, he pretended to look them over while he dictated a new message to be taken back to Minas Tirith. Things would have to change to suit the new circumstances. He would have to tell his brother all the things he had been keeping from him, no matter how much it would hurt him. In the meantime, preparations had to be made.

Rising early, Faramir had ridden out of Minas Tirith to greet his brother. In the three months they’d been parted he’d become more aware of the net of spies and protection his brother had created just to protect him. He’d long known that Boromir knew far more then he let on but Faramir had chosen to let himself be sheltered by his older brother. Now all that was changing and there was no longer any way he could ignore what he didn’t want to see.

The sight of Boromir riding towards him wiped all thought of their problems from his mind. He urged his horse to greater speed as his brother’s mount broke into a gallop. They reined in close to each other and Faramir swung himself behind his brother, glad that Boromir had his shield tied to his saddle instead of his back. The older brother laughed as he was grasped in strong arms and a welcome mouth covered his own.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Faramir whispered into his ear before burying his face in Boromir’s neck.

“And I have missed you, my beloved one,” Boromir told him, reaching one hand back to lock his fingers in his brother’s hair so that he could pull him into another kiss. “I’ve brought you a special gift from Éomer,” he said, knowing that it would be too easy to continue kissing his brother.

Faramir looked at the horse that was following Boromir’s mount without benefit of a lead rope or any tack. He easily recognized the Mearas line in the mare. Responding to his call, the horse came beside Boromir’s mount nuzzling Faramir’s outstretched hand. “She is beautiful, brother,” the younger man said as he slid onto her bare back. “As is the one he has given you.”

They rode side-by-side back to the city, Belgar leading the horse Faramir had ridden out on. Word had spread that Boromir was returning and the streets were lined with cheering people. In the months that he had been gone the brothers had become even more popular with the victories in Anorien and Faramir’s constant presence in the city. Since he had not been allowed to leave, he’d spent as much of his time as possible among the people.

Denethor was glad to have his favorite son home again, though the sight of the two horses brought angry memories of the prince of the Mark. He couldn’t hold back a criticism of his youngest son riding bareback and bridleless as well as so lightly armed. The temptation to deny them the time together he usually granted was strong, but as he started to speak he looked into Boromir’s eyes and realized he could deny him nothing. The relationship between his sons had become common knowledge over the years and he no longer worried about any scandal associated with them. Still, he was searching for a way to permanently separate the two and end their relationship with Éomer.

Watching them climb the stairs to their rooms, he wished he could go to the palantir and eavesdrop on their conversation instead of attending to the business of running a large kingdom. Even though he wouldn’t be able to hear their words he had grown quite adept at reading lips. He was convinced that Faramir was the one who urged Boromir to defiance and undermined the power of the Steward with his fanatical followers. His oldest son was the epitome of everything Denethor had wanted to be, and as guileless as a child in his father’s eyes.

As soon as the door closed behind them, they began removing each other’s clothes. Despite the dreams, each separation was an agony to them only relieved by being each other’s arms again. They barely made it to their bed before Boromir had thrust his hard cock into his brother. There was nothing to compare to the bliss they felt in this first frenzied coupling, secure in the knowledge that this was just the beginning. As they reached their climax they called each other’s names, feeling whole once more.

Boromir rolled to his side without withdrawing from Faramir. Already he was becoming hard again and he wanted to see his brother riding him to completion. “You feel so good, my beloved one,” he whispered. “If only we could stay like this forever and let the rest of the world go on without us. I have missed you so much.” He buried his face in his brother’s hair feeling a wave of sadness overcome him at what he knew they now faced.

“I would crawl inside you, my heart,” Faramir replied. “You are everything to me. Let me show you how much I need you.” He continued their movement until Boromir lay beneath him. Flexing the muscles in his legs and ass, he felt the cock buried inside him reach full hardness. Slowly, he began rising to drop back down when only the head of Boromir’s penis was still within him. Faramir’s hands joined with Boromir’s as they held his hips. He could feel their bond as they moved together and faintly felt the contact with Éomer.

As they became more and more immersed in each other, they began to cry out uncontrollably. Each time they joined like this the bond became stronger, their tattoos almost burning. Their joining was beyond anything they had previously experienced. Faramir began increasing the pace, his eyes locked with his brother’s. At the pinnacle of their climax, they both called out loudly lost in the intensity of the moment.

Faramir leaned forward, snuggling into his brother’s chest. As Boromir’s softened cock came loose from him, he rose up enough to adjust their penises next to each other. Running his hands over his brother’s body, Boromir couldn’t resist slipping a finger into his stretched and slick hole. He wanted to be as much in contact with him as possible.

They lay silently together absorbing the pleasure of being so close. Breathing in each other’s scent and feeling each other, they were as happy as they could be with their world falling apart.

The sun shone brightly on the hills as they rode along. Their escort kept a discrete distance so that the two princes and the princess could talk privately. Éowyn tried to school her expression to calmness as she heard her brother’s disturbing report. Despite everything, she had not expected Gríma to be a traitor.

“Is there nothing we can do to stop him?” she questioned Brinel who was her constant companion.

“He has too many supporters in Edoras, your highness,” the small woman answered. “And we have no substantial proof, only coincidence and innuendo. Neither do we know who else is involved. It could be fatal to remove the enemy we know for one we don’t. With self-control and planning, we can work to change things in our favor.”

“Maybe if I talked to my father?” Théodred spoke up. At fourteen he was already nearly as big as many adults and full of confidence.

“He has turned as deaf an ear to you as he has to me,” Éomer said sadly. “We are too young and wild to know what we are speaking about in his eyes. It was all I could do to get him to release you to ride on patrol with me.”

“What could he possibly be expecting in payment?” the crown prince asked. “He already has control of the treasury and the king’s seal.”

“What is it that makes his eyes gleam with avarice, your royal highness?” Brinel queried him. “You have been watching these last few months, what have you seen?”

“His gaze follows Éowyn when she comes to comfort my father with her presence,” Théodred answered quickly. “But if things continue the way they’ve been, father may agree to give her to him in marriage, so that couldn’t be it.” He paused, thinking of all he had observed of the chief advisor. “He also watches Éomer,” the young man said suddenly. “I’ve often been grateful that his eyes don’t follow my every move as they do my cousins.” Looking up, he saw the angry blush on Éomer’s face and the outrage on Éowyn’s and knew he had guessed correctly.

“But that is preposterous!” he exclaimed. “How could he expect to receive them from the wizard of Orthanc?”

“You can be assured there is some plan established,” Brinel assured him. “That is one of the reasons I’ve been working so hard to train all three of you in the ways of unarmed combat. You especially, my young prince, must be careful. There is no way that you will be allowed to survive should our enemies gain the upper hand in Rohan, even if the worm wanted you as much as your cousins.”

All three of the young people paled at her words, even though the older two had suspected that this was probably the plan for some time. Théodred had been little more than a motherless infant when Éomer and Éowyn had come to live with their uncle. Both of the older children had adored their cousin on first sight and adopted him even more readily than their uncle had adopted them. Nearly his every waking hour (and many of his sleeping hours) had been spent in the company of one or both of them. They’d each spent more time with him than his own father and loved him as much as they loved each other.

“I will kill any who even looks like they would harm you, my prince,” Éomer told him with feeling.

“As would I, cousin,” Éowyn added.

They rode on for awhile longer, knowing that there was much danger in their world and only constant vigilance and a lot of luck would see them safely through their coming trials.

Denethor spoke briefly with Galmar before he entered the chamber where he was meeting with the leaders of Minas Tirith. He wanted the ties his sons had to Éomer severed. That the prince would give them such priceless mounts appeared tantamount to a bribe to him. That Faramir rode his in the style of the elves was also beyond aggravating. He hated elves almost as much as he hated Thorongil. The horses had to go.

“There are things I need to tell you, brother,” Boromir said as he leaned back against the headboard pulling Faramir into his arms. “Father is using the palantir,” he stated harshly.

“I know about that,” Faramir informed him. “I can feel it when he does, especially when he uses it to spy on me.”

“I wish I could tell,” Boromir said wistfully. “It’s unnerving, wondering if he’s looking over my shoulder.”

“Maybe I can show you, brother. We can try when he uses it tonight,” Faramir suggested. “But I know that there is more you have to tell me, though I’m sure I’ve learned much of it already.”

“I prepared some letters for you just in case something happened to me,” Boromir began. “I think you should read them now, and then we can discuss what is in them.” At his signal, Stefle brought a small casket forward.

Faramir took it and placed it on the bed beside them. Opening it, he found twenty sealed letters within and took out the one with the earliest date. As he finished each one, he gave it to Stefle who burned them in a brazier, making sure they were completely destroyed. There were names of all of the agents Boromir had used to infiltrate their father’s minions and friends, brief overviews of the information he had on his father’s activities dating back to Denethor’s teen years, well before either of them had been born. Each letter had been written to inform him of changes in the status of Boromir’s network and of actions their father had taken.

“I love you, Boromir,” Faramir said as he handed Stefle the last letter. Leaning into his brother’s arms, he closed his eyes and thought about what he had just read, integrating it with what he already knew. The brothers had always led others to believe that Faramir was in charge of the spy network they had set up, but he was only the titular head. The deception allowed Boromir to keep his appearance of ignorance when dealing with his father and others who couldn’t be trusted.

“I also have some letters that Éomer took from an orc courier,” Boromir told him. “I can’t read them but you might be able to.”

The letters were in the ‘black tongue’ of Mordor, which Faramir could barely make out. Unfortunately, they used unfamiliar names for landmarks and were simple military objective orders, nothing that would be of any real use. However, Saruman’s seal was on one of them, giving definite proof of his complicity in the orc attacks. “Do you think we could convince father to stop using the palantir if he knew Saruman wasn’t to be trusted?” Faramir asked.

“Have you ever known father to surrender any advantage?” Boromir answered with anger in his voice. “I’m sure the wizard would have a plausible explanation and he would believe it because he wanted to. He would destroy us all in his lust for power. I don’t trust him. I don’t want you to trust him; he is too dangerous. I’ll have these put away in case we need them in the future.”

“We should let Mithrandir know about Saruman’s defection,” Faramir stated.

“And what if he is in league with him?” Boromir asked. “I know it looks like he is innocent of duplicity, but they are of the same kind and he could damage us too badly. We will keep our secrets our own as long as possible.”

“Can you feel it?” Faramir asked as the tingly, nauseating feeling came over him.

“Yes,” Boromir hissed through clenched teeth, always more sensitive in his brother’s arms. “He does this every night?”

“Every night,” Faramir confirmed. The feeling intensified, making the hair stand up on their arms. They lay still, breathing quietly as if asleep and soon it weakened again. “He may focus on us again; he usually looks in here several times before he’s finished.”

“I’m tempted to give him something to stare at,” Boromir whispered. “Do you think he’d look away or watch?” he said as he ran his hands over his brother’s body.

“Who?” Faramir groaned melting into his brother’s touch, something he never got enough of. “I can only think of you.”

When first he looked into the room his sons shared, he felt an uncanny prickling as if they could see him as well. They appeared to be sleeping, but he couldn’t be sure. Deciding to check on other things for awhile, it was some time before he looked back in on them. There was much he wanted to see.

It was shocking to him when he brought his attention back to their room. Their blankets had been dislodged, leaving them fully exposed. He froze when he saw them, he always did. Nothing could be more beautiful than his two sons. They were so much alike and so very different. Boromir was aggressively penetrating his brother who lay open and welcoming beneath him.

All of Faramir’s attention was on his brother who paused in his thrusts to lean down and whisper in his ear. Suddenly, unbelievably, they both turned their heads and looked straight at him. There could be no mistake, they were both aware of being watched.

Covering the palantir, he went to a nearby chair and slumped into it. It was always draining to use the seeing stone, but his sons’ reaction had terrified him. If they could sense him watching them, it would make it dangerous and embarrassing to use it to see what they were doing. He’d suspected that Faramir was aware before, but now he felt exposed to both of them. Glaring at the covered stone, he contemplated his options.

There was something comforting and desirable in the closeness between his sons. Even in their everyday activities, they acted like two sides of a whole. Unfortunately, they were all too often at cross-purposes to his own goals. He didn’t want Boromir to share a Stewardship and a wife with his brother. He didn’t want Rohan raised to equal status with Gondor. Both his heir and his country deserved better than that in his eyes and he would do whatever was necessary to make it happen.

With a new determination, he strode from the room. There were numerous plans he had already in place. It was time for him to stop being soft on his sons. Saruman was right, he needed to make his own destiny.

Faramir was so lost in his brother’s attentions he barely noticed the change that announced his father watching them again. He groaned in almost agony as Boromir stopped moving and leaned close to his ear. “I don’t want him watching us, brother,” he said in a low growl. “I choose whom I share you with.”

So even though he didn’t think it was the best idea, they both looked to where the awareness seemed centered in the room. Then it was gone and they were alone with each other again. As if nothing had happened, Boromir continued making Faramir all but forget any interruptions.

Of course Stefle, Belgar and Nelis were well aware of what was going on as they quietly watched from the bed at the side of the room. Nelis, being the youngest, dressed quietly and left the room. This would change things and they would need to be prepared.

“There was a dead cat in the grain bin, my lord,” the embarrassed councilor said. “We believe that it got into some rat poison and died there. We would not have noticed it until spring when the supply was low enough to make it visible if the horses hadn’t fallen ill.”

“And why was someone using rat poison when there are cats in plenty around the stables?” Boromir asked in a low, angry voice.

“We’re not sure, my lord,” the man stuttered, becoming more frightened by the minute. “There seems to be some confusion as to who put the poison out and who ordered it. It is just ill fortune that it got into the grain reserved for your horses…”

“Out!” Boromir bellowed, cutting off anything else the man might have said. Rising swiftly to his feet, he threw the ceramic mug he’d been drinking from against the wall shattering it. “Now!” he bellowed at those few who hesitated at his earlier command, smashing his chair into the table, sending splintered wood, dishes and papers flying in all directions. The councilors ran to the door fighting each other to get through it first, fleeing the unexpected rampage of the Steward’s oldest son.

Denethor sat in shocked silence as Boromir smashed another chair against one of the columns that supported the roof. Drawing his sword, he hacked several tapestries into rags before throwing it to stick with a metallic thud into the wall. Striding to the dais at the end of the room, he mounted the steps to the king’s throne. Falling to his knees before it, he buried his head in his arms weeping in frustrated anger.

Kneeling at his side, Faramir wrapped his arms around him. “I’m sorry, brother,” he whispered.

“We need to have all the stables searched for any signs of poison,” Boromir finally spoke. “All of the grain bins, everything that could have been contaminated by this foolishness.”

“Don’t you think you’re getting carried away over a few horses?” Denethor asked caustically, finally recovering from his shock.

“A few horses,” Boromir growled, turning to look at his father in disbelief, the rage rising up in him again. Faramir caught at his arm when he began to rise, catching his attention. Looking into his brother’s eyes, Boromir took several deep breaths to calm himself. “I guess since warhorses are common enough I shouldn’t be concerned,” he said with sarcasm. “Especially the Mearas that my brother and I own that have been trained to heavy cavalry. Our enemy doesn’t have enough of an advantage yet, maybe we should just lay down all our weapons and fight bare-handed. At least we would get it over with quicker.”

Denethor bowed his head to concede the point, though he wasn’t entirely certain that Boromir’s anger was more because the horses had been gifted to them from Éomer. This was not the reaction he had expected from his heir. It was probably fortunate that the horses would all survive, though they would probably be useless for some time. “We will have everything checked, Boromir,” he said finally. “I think you need to show more self control though,” he admonished. “We have to set an example and I wouldn’t allow anyone else to get away with such behavior.”

The series of mishaps over the last week had driven Boromir to the edge of his patience. He had no doubt that his father was behind much of what was happening and was hoping that they could avoid open conflict. Apparently, his father was trying to take back some of his previous power. If he backed down now, he would be continually backing down in the future and that wasn’t going to happen.

“I’m just a simple soldier, father,” he said rising to his feet, his anger still clearly present. “I will do what is necessary to protect what is mine.” He started walking down the stairs towards his father.

Denethor suddenly became very aware that the only people in the room were his sons, Galmar, three of his sons’ servants, two of which were trained assassins, and him. Never before had he felt such helplessness and danger. It would be very easy for his sons to kill him and his servant and make excuses that would be snapped up readily by the nobility and the people. Boromir’s eyes were unreadable as he approached, and Denethor was unable to break away from his gaze.

“We need not argue, father,” Boromir said, taking the chair his brother had been sitting in earlier. “Both of us want what is best for Gondor and you are my father whom I love.” Leaning forward, he offered himself to his father’s arms.

It had been so long since he had felt any closeness to his son, the relief he felt was so great that Denethor clasped Boromir to his chest. Running his hands through his hair and kissing his brow, he forgave his outburst. “I understand, my son,” he told him softly. “We’ll make sure that something like this never happens again.” He was willing to promise anything to the golden prince who rested his head in his lap.

As Boromir turned his head to look at his brother, Faramir saw the anger that was still there. For the first time he realized that if their father hadn’t backed down, Boromir would have killed him without mercy. Quietly, he began making his way from the hall. It was always best to let his brother deal with Denethor in private.

The confrontation had happened so fast that Galmar had been completely taken by surprise. There were no doubts in his mind about Boromir’s intentions, but he knew from past experience that Denethor was blind when it came to his oldest son. Months of plotting and planning had just been destroyed, though he was glad that the Steward had not pushed Boromir into killing him. He knew that his own death would have been immediate and probably very painful. The look on Belgar’s face as he turned to follow Faramir only confirmed his suspicions.

Despite the palantir and all the aid that had been sent from Isengard and other sources, Boromir still held the power in Gondor. Denethor made all the decisions, but they were tempered by the wishes of his eldest son. It made his job so much harder. At this rate, Wormtongue would be able to turn Rohan over to Saruman well before he was able to deliver Gondor. He looked at the chief cause of his failure with undisguised malice, for once completely unaware of the watchful gaze of Stefle.

Boromir’s chief assassin and spy kept his features impassive and his eyes unfocused as he noted every action of his opponent. The time was soon coming when it would be more dangerous than not to keep Galmar alive. Stefle had waited long years for that time and planned to enjoy Galmar’s ending as soon as possible. He’d already discovered a direct link from him to the horses being poisoned. It would take very little more to convince Lord Boromir to get rid of the evil man. His outward expression showed nothing of how eagerly he awaited that day.

Part 18: ASSASSINS

A small town had grown over the years to cross the road at the base of Amon Din. The marketplace was bustling with activity as Faramir wandered up and down the gaily- decorated booths. He laughed and joked with the vendors, often buying bits of candy to share with the throng of children following him. Belgar and Nelis were close at his heels, their eyes constantly scanning for trouble. His armed escort was spread throughout the marketplace so that they could cover all avenues of approach.

When he reached the section that bordered the Druadan Forest, a loud argument drew the attention of his forward guards. Nelis spared the disturbance only a brief glance, knowing that the watchful escort would deal with anything from there, then he joined Belgar in carefully scanning their surroundings to make sure it wasn’t a diversion. It was by their diligence that the first arrow that came out of the overhanging trees was seen as soon as it took flight.

At Nelis’s shout, Faramir’s sword came out and cut the projectile from the air. His servants dragged him to the nearest pavilion as the arrows began to fall thick and fast, and the locals quickly disappeared into the surrounding buildings and booths. The forest erupted with wild yells and orcs. The battle was fierce and bloody, Faramir’s escort joining him in astonishing speed.

There was little doubt about how it would end, even with the element of surprise. Along with the forty experienced warriors in his escort and his own servants, the people of the town who were able rushed to Faramir’s aid. That the Steward’s youngest son was the target of their attack could not be denied. Almost all of the arrows had landed near him. As the final death screams from the forest echoed through the market streets, one of the guards dragged the man who had caused the diversion to his lord.

Faramir was busy aiding the people of the village with their dead and injured children. There had been at least twenty children near him at the time of the attack and almost all of them were hit by arrows or hurt in the rush to shelter. He worked steadily until every child had been cared for and all of the other injured had been cared for before turning to the prisoner. There was something about his expression that made the tear streaks on his face even more intimidating.

The man was of mixed descent, a nondescript person who would usually disappear in any crowd. That he was a stranger to the village was more than obvious; he was also a stranger to Gondor. Unfortunately for him, he had had no idea of what he had been getting himself into.

“My lord,” the village mayor called out as he neared. “I apologize that such a thing could happen in our village.”

Giving the man a sad smile, Faramir put a comforting hand to his shoulder, leaving a smear of blood. “It is hard to prepare for everything when the enemy has so many at his beck and call. I apologize for not protecting you better, it is my first priority.” Turning to the prisoner he continued, “I intend to find out as much as I can from this one. Do you have somewhere private where we can question him?”

“All that we have is at your disposal, my lord,” the man nearly wept, glad that it would happen here. “We have a small jail, but it has adequate facilities for what you need. I will show you there.”

The man began talking immediately, though it was obvious that little of what he said was the truth. He really had no idea of what he was facing. At Faramir’s nod, Belgar stepped forward and the screaming began.

Nearly two hours later Boromir arrived, the large troop of cavalry with him encircling the village. Many of the warriors dismounted and went into the forest to help search for any remaining orcs while the rest relieved Faramir’s escort from their guard posts around the town. The young man who led Boromir to the jail was not really needed. The continuous screams would have done just as well.

Faramir first knew his brother was there when his arms enfolded him. Turning quickly, he buried his face in Boromir’s neck. “They killed four children, brother,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the tortured man’s screams.

“Hush, my beloved one,” Boromir crooned to his weeping brother. “We will take care of them and we will find out who is behind this.” At his signal, the mayor and all others not of the brothers’ inner circle left the room. Belgar continued his work while Nelis began the report on what they’d discovered.

“He is from the north, my lord,” the servant told him. “He was given a description of my master and instructions on what to do by a contact there. He traveled with several companions who have disappeared, we’ve brought all who even came near his description and he cleared them. It definitely looks like one of Galmar’s connections though they have left nothing we can use to prove it. There has been no new information out of him for some time now and probably won’t be any more.”

“You can write me a report when we get back to Minas Tirith,” Boromir told him. “Continue for now, I want him to be an example that will be spoken of throughout Middle Earth. I want to do our best to assure no one will dare to move against my brother in such a way again.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Nelis said grabbing and kissing Boromir’s hand before returning to help Belgar.

“Come, my brother,” Boromir told Faramir. “Let’s get you cleaned up and then we can write a report for father.” They retired from the room and asked the mayor for quarters where they could prepare their report. When they were done, they joined the mayor and citizens of the town to deliver a brief memorial service for those who had died. By the time all was completed, night was falling and it seemed best to spend it where they were.

The mayor gave them his own bedroom to sleep in, offering his wife, adult children and even himself if the brothers wanted. Boromir gently refused, pleased that the man and his family looked disappointed but wanting to be alone with his brother. As alone as possible anyway. Nelis had come to tend them, along with a couple of warriors from their personal guard, as well as several servants who had followed from Minas Tirith. After the attempt on Faramir’s life, they intended to make sure that they would be undisturbed.

The room was actually larger than the one they shared in the White Tower, though it was not part of a suite. Boromir was wild to undress his brother again and make doubly sure that he was indeed unharmed. Of course he didn’t stop there. He ran a hand down the long line of Faramir’s spine while the other hand pressed at his shoulder to keep him still. The scars from his childhood beatings were still visible and those with more sensitive hands could even feel the slight ridges they made in his flesh.

It angered him to think of all the harm and danger his beloved brother had endured at their father’s hands. All the suffering they’d both endured at the hands of his minions. The scars that marked Faramir’s back, buttocks and thighs seemed to symbolize this to him. He wanted them gone, or altered.

Turning his head toward his brother and reaching back to take hold of the hand that rested on his shoulder, Faramir interrupted Boromir’s brooding thoughts. “Mark me, brother,” he whispered as if reading his mind. “Make it all better.”

He kissed his brother’s back before taking his knife from Nelis, who stood waiting across the bed from him. The lines were straight, only the angle and length differing, the few battle wounds only served to accentuate the regularity of the cane scars. With careful strokes, he began an outline of Minas Tirith. It would take little work to bring the chaos of scars into a recognizable pattern, but he would still do it in several stages. Later he would have Saphron add color to it and maybe a small banner flying from the top of the White Tower, which would be at the top center of his brother’s back next to the king’s seal.

Faramir moaned at Boromir’s attentions, his hands buried under the pillow his head rested on. Each stroke of the knife brought the sense of relief he found so hard to achieve on his own. Each kiss from his brother was a blessing that made him feel cleansed from the evil in his world. The swift, sure movements brought on an incredible arousal and hunger for more of Boromir’s touch. Staying still beneath the knife was becoming almost impossible.

Handing the knife back to Nelis, Boromir re-examined his brother’s back. Already the picture had started to form, making the individual scars almost disappear. He was pleased with his work.

“Don’t stop, please brother,” Faramir whimpered, arching his back for more attention.

“We have to ride tomorrow, maybe even fight,” Boromir admonished. “That is enough for now.” He put his hand in Faramir’s hair, turning his head so that he could kiss his lips. “Be patient, little brother,” he whispered.

Looking over at Nelis, he nodded his head to signal the servant to begin applying salve to the cuts. “Your efforts helped to save my brother today,” Boromir said watching the younger man who touched his master with eager, loving hands. It was almost frightening to see such fanatical devotion, but that was what Boromir had intended when he had them bond with his brother. “Would you like a reward?” he asked.

“Serving my master is all the reward I need,” Nelis said earnestly as he finished anointing the new cuts.

“And so you shall,” Boromir told him smiling at the attentive way he waited for commands, ready to do anything. Rolling Faramir to his side, he rubbed his brother’s thigh. “Prepare him for me,” he told the eagerly awaiting man, pulling Faramir’s left knee towards him to further expose Nelis’s goal.

His unabashed joy in his task was clear as he crawled up onto the bed to bury his face in Faramir’s ass. Boromir grinned as his brother squirmed in reaction to the skilled mouth that was pressed so tightly to him. He reclined so that his weight rested on his elbow and he could kiss his brother wherever he wanted to. He could almost forget that someone had tried to kill his beloved Faramir earlier.

Nelis backed off for a moment to retrieve some oil from a waiting servant. Even though he knew that Boromir might stop him at any moment he took his time, using both hands to massage the tight muscles in Faramir’s legs before sliding upward toward his waiting buttocks. His whole attention was concentrated on the beautiful body before him. Thoroughly enjoying touching his beloved master, he used everything he’d learned in his training and personal experiences to pleasure him.

Boromir was entranced watching Nelis. His own hands couldn’t keep still on Faramir’s flesh as his own arousal grew. When he could take no more, he rose to his knees beside his brother. Hearing Boromir’s movements, Nelis rolled quickly out of the way. As Boromir pulled Faramir into position and thrust into him, Nelis knelt beside the bed to wait for further orders, panting heavily.

The brothers didn’t last long once Boromir had started. The events of the day had driven them wild with the need to be close even more than the need for sex. When they finished, Boromir held his brother, careful of the new cuts on his back. Mindful of his waiting servant, Faramir turned to Nelis and signaled that he could reach his own climax. He knew he would wait until he had permission.

In the morning they decided to leave Belgar to continue his work as long as possible with strict orders to leave as horrifying a sight as possible. The mayor was to make sure that the body of the man was hung outside the gate until it rotted away. Then they returned to the White Tower to give their father a carefully edited report of the incident. He would never believe that his chief body servant was capable of treason.

Belgar had been working on the prisoner for five days when they came to him. There were three children, about twelve or so from the look of them and all showing signs of being injured recently. He stopped what he was doing and cleaned his hands and knife in the waiting bowl of water. “May I help you?” he asked them, unwilling to continue in their presence.

“We would like you to stop,” said the tallest of the three. “We think he has been punished enough.”

Belgar sat in a chair so that he would be at eye level with them. “I’m not still punishing him,” he told them honestly.

“You can’t still be getting information out of him?” the boy asked in surprise.

“No, not that either,” Belgar affirmed. “Are people still coming to listen outside the window?”

“Only a few,” the boy answered.

“That is why I continue,” he told them. “If our enemies know that they will suffer terribly for attempting to harm our Lord Faramir, they will be much less likely to do so.” He examined the children before him. The smallest one was a girl, the other two boys. Their spokesman fiddled with a broken arrow while he watched Belgar with wide curious eyes. “Is that the arrow you were shot with?” the man asked.

“No,” the boy said solemnly. “This one killed my brother.”

Nodding in understanding, he held his hand out for the splintered length. The child handed it over and watched in surprise when Belgar rose and drove it into the groaning prisoner’s eye socket, stilling his moans. “Is that better?” he asked them.

“Yes,” the boy said nodding gravely and turning to leave.

“Wait,” Belgar told him as he removed his blood covered leather apron. Signaling the guards to take care of the now dead man. “Where are your parents?” he asked them, leading them out of the room.

“My parents are dead,” the boy told him. “These are my cousins, Shirel and Firith, I’ve been staying with them and their mother, their father was killed in the war last year. Their mother was killed in the attack along with my brother. So now they’re orphans just like me.”

Belgar nodded at the ever more common story. “What is your name and who are you staying with now?”

“I am named Birel, we have been staying in the local orphanage, we don’t have anyone else,” he said.

“You can come with me if you wish,” he told them. “There is always room for more children with my family.”

“We thought you lived with Lord Faramir,” Birel said in confusion.

“I live in the White Tower, but my family lives in Minas Tirith in a big house,” he told them.

“You are married?” the boy asked.

Belgar smiled tolerantly. “I will never marry, I am bound to my Lord Faramir and none will ever come before him. However, my parents, brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles and many other relatives live together in a large house in the fifth ring of the city. There is always room for more children. That is if you would like to come with me.”

“We would still be among strangers,” Birel said. “What would be so different from here?”

“They are family, you would become part of the family,” the assassin told the boy as they walked down the hall. “You would belong to them and they would belong to you.”

“Like you do?” the boy asked.

“Like I used to,” he answered as he entered the room that had been assigned to him. “Now I belong to my Lord Faramir and no one else.”

“They gave you away?” Birel was surprised.

“No,” Belgar laughed packing his saddlebags. “I had to work very hard and compete with many others to take oath with my lord. It is one of the greatest honors and privileges a Gondorian can hope for.”

The children whispered amongst themselves for a few moments. He could hear what they said, but didn’t let on. It was their choice as far as he was concerned. He felt that their bravery and compassion would be a good addition to the ‘House.’

“Would we see you?” Birel asked him.

“Yes, my lord visits with the children of the House often, and I usually am by his side,” he answered. “It is very rare that we are parted.”

“Than we will come with you,” Birel told him while the others shook their heads in agreement.

“Good,” he told them.

Sitting at opposite ends of the table from each other, Denethor and his heir had complete control of the meeting. He’d been uneasy at first in this change his oldest son had suggested, but each time they met in the chamber where they conferred with their military and political advisors demonstrated that it worked well. It was impossible to watch both ends of the table at once so one never knew if they were under scrutiny.

“We have left only a small raiding force in Ithilien,” Boromir told the small assembly, indicating the territory on the large map at his end of the table. There was a matching map on the other end, both highly detailed. There were no indications on them of where their secret bases, such as Henneth Annûn, were located. Those who needed to know didn’t require them, but everything else was there. “We have divided most of the army up into smaller forces protecting their home territory. Our scouts in Ithilien should be able to warn us in time to regroup if necessary.”

There was a small moment of silence followed by several questions from the advisors. Some were rather heated, but most were made with the knowledge that Boromir was one of the best military leaders Gondor had ever seen. Many even compared him favorably to Thorongil. A small scuffle broke out halfway down the table as a cavalry captain and a counselor pushed for dominance.

The room became deathly still as Belgar took one large step toward the two men and paused, his eyes looking to Denethor for further orders. The Steward managed to hide his startlement and looked at the two culprits. “Are you gentlemen ready to continue with our meeting?” he asked coldly.

“Yes, your grace,” both men replied, ashen faced and more chastised than if he had yelled. Belgar returned to his former position and the others in the room returned to their business, although most were considerably subdued. That Belgar would occasionally whisper in Faramir’s ear, as usual, added to the caution of those present. The Steward’s youngest son would then either nod or shake his head and sometimes lean over to whisper to his brother who would look down the table at those on each side as if assessing them all. Even Denethor had learned to dread those weighty gazes though Boromir would give his father a reassuring smile when he began to show discomfort.

At first, the distance from the three assassins who served the two brothers as body servants was a relief to Galmar. Then he began to feel the constant pressure of being under careful watch. Any time he looked across to them, it was to see another pair of eyes staring back. The three looked almost enough alike to be brothers and Galmar knew that they were most likely related because it was almost impossible to reach their level in the hierarchy of the brothers’ servants without being ‘of the family.’ Three pairs of identical eyes watched his every move, and sometimes the clear blue eyes of Faramir. He was always being watched at these meetings, and it was beginning to seriously unnerve him.

They had even begun to haunt his dreams. Stefle’s inscrutable look, the fanatical glint in Nelis’s eyes, and Belgar’s stone cold glare were almost a relief from Faramir’s piercing gaze. He was seriously revising his estimate of the Steward’s youngest son, and thinking maybe he had been wrong about which of the brothers was really in charge. Especially after the failed assassination attempt in the village at Amon Din, he was learning to truly fear the man he had long though of as his prey.

To make things worse for him, Denethor seemed to be becoming closer to his sons with this arrangement. No matter how loud the room or how quietly Denethor spoke, Boromir seemed to hear him. He also deferred to his father’s decisions, though sometimes he would suggest modifications. With this latest show of obedience to the Steward by Faramir’s bonded servant, Galmar was quickly losing ground in his efforts to drive them apart. He would have to come up with some new plans soon.

Fidgeting impatiently, Éowyn let her brother braid her hair back from her face. He always gave her warrior braids, which irritated Gríma, a goal in itself, but they had done this since childhood. Braiding each other’s hair gave them time to talk privately, though Brinel was usually close at hand near the door to make sure that their conversation wasn’t overheard.

“I don’t want to stay here and watch over our uncle, Éomer,” she said in an outraged whisper. “I feel like I’m in a cage, and that despicable Gríma always spying on me. Sooner or later I’m going to lose control and stab him again, I just can’t stand it. You remember how mad our uncle was the last time, and he won’t listen to reason, not where the worm is concerned.”

“There is no one else, sister,” Éomer told her. “Théodred needs to ride with me and learn how to lead his Eored. Already there are complaints that he is not enough of a horseman to lead our people. Besides he is too young to deal with the worm, Gríma would eat him alive if we weren’t here to protect him.”

“And Théoden King won’t let me ride as a shield maiden anyway,” Éowyn said sadly. “He lets fear cloud his judgment where I’m concerned. I’ll die a lonely old maid, unloved and a slave to duty.”

“There are those who love you, my sister,” Éomer kissed her nose. “Things can’t remain like they are forever. As soon as Gondor gains the upper hand against Mordor again, Faramir will be coming for you. It has worked to Rohan’s benefit to have you still here. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Smiling sadly at his words, her attention was caught by the signal Brinel sent. They were about to have company. Turning so that her brother could finish by joining the three braids at the back of her head, she looked to see who was coming to her room this early.

“It is a matter of propriety, your majesty,” came the hated voice of Gríma through the open door. “It is the custom of civilized countries to provide ladies-in-waiting for princesses.”

“I don’t think she will care for the idea,” Théoden said, stopping in the doorway at the sight of his niece and nephew.

Suddenly Éowyn felt as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. The surprised look on her uncle’s face and the satisfied one on Gríma’s made her feel strangely guilty. Éomer wore only his pants and Éowyn was only in her under dress, they usually dressed for the day after they’d finished. The way Éomer was leaning over her would be easy to misinterpret were one’s mind of the sordid type.

“Oh my,” Gríma said after making a startled gasp.

Éomer looked up from adjusting her braids, wondering at the strange feeling he was getting from the two newcomers. The look on their faces confused him, making him frown. “What is wrong, uncle?” he asked.

“I didn’t expect you to be here,” Théoden said, trying to still the suspicions that had been stirred by Gríma’s earlier comments. “It is rather early to be visiting with your sister, neither of you have even dressed yet.”

“We always braid each other’s hair before we dress when we have the time,” he said, clearly surprised by such a comment. “Mother said you and she used to braid each other’s hair as well; it is the custom.”

“I had nearly forgotten,” Théoden said, moving into the room and resting a hand on Éomer’s shoulder. He was silent a few moments as nostalgia overcame him, like it tended to so often of late. “Times do change though, sister-son. We must think about the future of our people. Until she is wed your sister needs to show a little more caution in her behavior. I will not have her become a subject of rumor.” He had moved to the door while he spoke.

“What rumor?” the young man questioned, rising to his feet. “I will cut the tongue of any who would dare besmirch my sister.” He was looking angrily at Gríma.

“Don’t blame Gríma, Éomer,” Théoden chastised him. “He is loyal and just trying to help.”

“I have little appreciation for his kind of help if it means casting suspicion on my brother and I,” Éowyn spoke up, trying to rein in her temper but having little luck doing so. “Would you ban us from each other’s company? What’s next? Will you bar Théodred from seeing me as well?”

“Now Éowyn, you know that is not what is intended,” Théoden said as he tried to calm his fiery niece who already held a bared blade in her hand.

“Théodred does not have two lovers who are seeking your hand in marriage, your highness,” Gríma said quietly. “And are they not brothers?”

Éomer moved faster than any could really see his movements. The advisor was against the wall in the hallway with the prince’s knife at his throat before the last word had left his mouth. “What do you accuse me of, worm?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Éomer, stop this at once,” Théoden yelled, moving back into the hall. “It is time you started showing some restraint and acting according to your station.”

The prince released Gríma, but not before he left a visible cut across the man’s neck. “I find it hard to ignore such pointed criticisms of my personal life. This is the kind of thing that is causing so much dissension of late.”

“And your actions have not?” the king asked angrily looking pointedly at the large tattoo on Éomer’s shoulder. “We are trying to bring our people forward to civilization, not slide back into the barbarism of the past.”

Éomer looked at his uncle with shock and anger. “I will not break with the traditions of our people, Théoden King,” he said in a low growl. “Maybe it is best if I stay away from Edoras and out on the Mark where a barbarian such as myself belongs.” Unable to restrain his rage any longer, he turned and left.

“So you would allow the worm to drive my brother from these halls, uncle?” Éowyn said, as angry as Éomer. “You would drive away or imprison all your family on the word of such a vile creature?” She stepped back into her room, slamming and barring the door.

Brinel listened at the door to hear the two men move away down the hall, watching the princess throw herself down on the bed in an angry fit of tears. Once she was sure they were gone, she strode over to the weeping girl. Taking one of the leather belts that hung by the weapon rack, she brought it down hard on Éowyn’s vulnerable backside.

With a squeal of pain followed by a growl of rage, the younger woman turned to face her attacker.

“It was not amusing to see you and your brother play into the worm’s hands so easily,” Brinel hissed at her, dropping the belt to the floor now she had Éowyn’s attention. “It seems all I’ve been trying to teach you has slid right out your ears. I’m quite sure there will be a large army of matrons, all of the ‘worm’s’ choosing, descending upon you any minute now. You’ll most likely never have a private word with your brother again.”

Éowyn gasped in horror at her words, she was still new to this kind of warfare and hadn’t even considered the consequences of her and Éomer’s actions. “What can I do, Brinel?” she asked grabbing the older woman’s arm.

“Think on it for a while, then you tell me, your highness,” was the impatient reply. “You are smart enough to figure this out. I might not be here forever to tell you what to do. When you are finally out from under your uncle’s and the ‘worm’s’ thumbs you will have to make many of your own decisions. That is if you can match wits with Wormtongue and earn your freedom.” With that, she set about laying out the Princess’s wardrobe for the day, refusing to say any more.

“Please,” Stefle begged on his knees at Boromir’s feet. “We can counter any new agent that Saruman sends. It’s been over a year since he poisoned the horses and we know that he has tried to kill Lord Faramir several times. Now he is turning his attentions to you. Please, my lord, he is too dangerous.”

Boromir remained unmoved. “When you find out how he is getting information in and out of the White Tower, he can die. He is becoming desperate, we’ve made sure of that. Galmar is our best lead to break their underground, you can’t touch him until then.”

“As you order, my lord,” Stefle gave in to his lord’s demands. He would just have to make sure the pressure increased until Galmar made the right mistake.

The architectural style of the Meduseld didn’t allow for anything as handy as secret passages. For someone as clever as Brinel, this didn’t pose much of a problem. She’d already integrated herself into the household and gained the trust of the other servants. It made her real job as bodyguard and protector of the princess much easier. The princess herself aided immensely in that she was as quick to learn as she was to anger.

It was for the protection of her charge that she followed the lady-in-waiting through the keep. This woman was the only one not chosen by the princess herself but by the king, or rather Gríma. Brinel wanted to confirm that the woman was working for the councilor before she took any action.

Without any sort of caution the woman, Darowyn, went straight to the ‘worm’s’ chambers. Brinel smirked as she concealed herself behind a bulky planter in the large hallway. It would take a stupid person to betray her own people, she thought. The quick scan that Gríma made of the hall before he ushered the woman inside didn’t reveal her to him.

Since she already knew everything the woman had to say about her time with the princess, she left her post for a new objective. With quick, determined steps Brinel made her way to the room of the woman she had been following. One of her first efforts when she had arrived in Edoras was to make friends with those servants who attended to the most likely supporters of Gríma Wormtongue. The girl who was maid to Darowyn had grown very close to Brinel, especially since she was so understanding and helpful in dealing with the ‘lady’s’ abuse of her servant.

“I need you to help me, Rina,” she told the girl when she opened the door to her knock. “I must speak with your lady privately, but she mustn’t know I’m here until I’m ready.”

“I don’t know, Brinel,” the girl whispered to her friend. “She will beat me for it.”

“I will have you added to the princess’s service today. She will never hit you again,” Brinel told her. “But I need your help now, it is in service to Rohan.”

Biting her lip in indecision, the young woman thought for a few moments before nodding her acquiescence. “She always goes to her dressing table first,” Rina told her. “If you wait behind the dressing screen, she won’t see you.”

They didn’t have long to wait before Darowyn strutted into the room holding up a necklace with a teardrop shaped emerald pendant. “Look what I’ve got, girl,” she crowed as she entered the room. “A nice little reward for a job well done.” She immediately sat at her dressing table, leaning forward to examine herself in the mirror. “I can even wear it right away since it doesn’t come from the treasury like that other stuff.”

She was so busy looking at herself that she didn’t notice Brinel approaching her. The first she knew of the other woman’s presence was a sharp pain in her back that made her arms drop numbly as a strong hand covered her mouth. “So pretty little trinkets are your price for treason, my lady,” Brinel whispered into her ear. “If you answer my questions truthfully I might let you live to enjoy them.”

Darowyn nodded her eyes wide with fright. It was a thorough questioning. Brinel found out everything that the woman knew in a very short time. This person had never been a shield maiden or done anything to serve her country or people. There was no inner strength for her to rely on, no friends to come to her rescue. It was sad, but her own actions had separated her from the usually close-knit society of the Eorlingas.

When it was clear that there was no more to learn from her, Brinel withdrew the long thin hairpin she had driven into her spine. “I think you need to rest now,” she told Darowyn. “This will make you sleep.” She carefully drove the pin into the base of the woman’s skull watching her eyes slid closed involuntarily. She stood patiently behind her listening to her breathing slow and then stop before she withdrew her weapon. There was barely a point of blood where the pin had entered making Brinel smile in satisfaction.

Rina had looked on in growing horror as her mistress had told of how she had betrayed the Mark. Now she felt filled with fear and anger as she saw the lifeless woman’s head slump backwards. “You should have made it painful, or at least let her know what was coming,” she told her friend.

“I am not like her to hurt another needlessly,” Brinel scolded. “Besides such a peaceful expression will belie any thoughts of foul play and there will be no traces of poison. The only ones who will know what really happened are the ones who need to. It is not time yet to openly confront the chief councilor, but we can let him know somewhat of how far our hand reaches.” She began unfastening the corpse’s clothing. “Let’s get her in bed and find that other jewelry she was talking about. I’m sure the princess will know what should be done with it.”

Part 19: PROPHECY

Hel created an illustration for this chapter.

Boromir sat at his father’s right hand at the head table. The guests had long been circulating and Faramir had joined them, even dancing with many of the women present. It was not just servants who watched his every move and fought for position to be near him. Denethor frowned in displeasure as he watched men and women alike seek his youngest son’s favor.

“There is a cult that has sprung up around your brother,” he said in a low, angry tone to Boromir. “It is not seemly that so many flock to him.”

“They stay away from the high table until you give them permission to approach, father,” his son told him. “They wouldn’t dream of intruding on us.”

“You do not worry that some day it could cause trouble for you, these fanatical followers he has?” Denethor asked cynically.

“Who do you think started this cult, father?” Boromir asked rhetorically, preparing to rise to his feet. “You are only partially right on whom they worship anyway. Faramir is only their high priest; he is not their god.” He left his father to join the crowd, knowing that his remarks and actions would lead Denethor to further misassumptions.

There was no way he could deny that he was hiding in the hills of Lossarnach. They’d been friends for too long and knew each other too well for that to work. It was good to sit beside the fire and warm himself. The company was good as well and just as warming, he’d barely spoken to another person in months. He was sick of trudging through endless bogs and unfriendly terrain, but the urgent need to find the creature Gollum had been seriously impressed upon him by his friend Gandalf. After a good night’s rest and relaxation with his old friend, he would be able to restart his search with new vigor in the morning.

“So what do think of the scions of our Steward, Thorongil?” Forlong asked.

“Strider, now,” he hissed beneath his breath, continuing at the other man’s nod. “I am very impressed,” the Ranger answered. “I would have thought he would have raised them a bit differently.”

“It’s not like he took much of a hand in their raising,” Forlong laughed. “Other than assigning tutors and nightly grillings, they pretty much raised themselves, with a little help.”

“It sounds like you have taken a great interest in them,” Strider commented.

“I have to admit that I have,” the large man answered. “They have intrigued me since the first time I met them, so I did a little investigating. Have you talked to them yet?”

“I’ve only seen them from a distance,” Strider told him, hanging his head in disappointment. “I think they have enough conflicts as it is without adding myself to the mix.”

“You are right about the conflicts,” Forlong sighed. “There have been ripples of unrest for some time now, probably the work of the ‘Dark One’. Rumors of disagreement between the Steward and his sons, most of it false from what I can tell.” He paused as if considering treason, which in a way he was, for the Steward had never left any doubt as to how he felt about the man before him. “Do you know how old Faramir was when he first rode into battle?”

“I’ve followed what has been happening in Gondor as much as possible,” Strider replied. “I know enough that it would be injudicious of me to comment considering Denethor’s opinion of me. Yes, I know of both their military accomplishments.”

“Have your sources told you why?”

“I know that he was looked on with disfavor by his father,” the Ranger answered, trying to be circumspect.

“He almost killed him,” Forlong said bitterly. “It was nearly a year afterward that I saw him and those marks could have killed an adult. I had to go to Minas Tirith to find out how such a skilled warrior could be treated so.” He paused to organize his thoughts. “The Steward barely acknowledged the boy’s presence. It was as if he were Boromir’s son and not his own.”

“What do you mean?” Thorongil asked unable to stop himself.

“When I went to the city, I found out that Boromir had convinced his father to turn his brother over to him. Everything, even marriage rights.” Forlong leaned closer, even though they were isolated. “I still have connections in the White Tower. They say that Boromir threatened to leave Gondor and take his brother with him. All that I’ve seen convinces me it is true.”

“That is hard to believe,” the Ranger said, shocked that Denethor’s oldest son would stand up to him so. The man he remembered tended to stomp down any opposition.

“It is easy once you meet Boromir,” Forlong smiled. “The Steward dotes on him and he seems to know exactly how to keep his father in line. Much has changed in Gondor since he reached his majority.” Then the smile faded and he looked away. “He may have gone too far, Strider. They’ve started a cult.”

“What sort of cult?” the Ranger asked, feeling a strange fear crawl up his spine. Gandalf had told him of their visions about him.

“They say that Gondor will be saved, no matter how bad things get. In fact, that is part of it,” Forlong told him. “Things will get much worse before they get better according to them. There are even rumors that the White City will burn.”

“It sounds like they are preparing for the worst,” Strider said.

“That’s what I thought at first, until I saw the tattoos,” Forlong added. “They both have the king’s seal tattooed on their shoulder, as do many of their followers. Boromir insists that they will hold Gondor for the king whether he comes next year or in a thousand years, but the feeling is that he will come soon.”

“What does Denethor say to all of this?” Strider asked.

“He hates it, but since everything is underground there is little he can do about it. Boromir always supports his father publicly, and his ability as a military leader is amazing. With his brother, they are unbelievable. They do the sword dances together, you know.” Forlong paused in thought. “If I didn’t know you so well, I wouldn’t be telling you any of this. Boromir has also resurrected the rights of Mancipium.”

“Are you sure?”

“Have you seen the two armsmen who always ride at Faramir’s back?” Forlong asked.

“Númenorean decent, dark hair, very alert?” Strider queried.

“That’s them,” the big man agreed. “Boromir picked them out and they performed the whole right with his brother. They are both assassins, one of them a skilled torturer as well.”

“Why would he choose assassins?” the ranger wanted to know.

“He ever guards his brother, there have been several assassination attempts on Faramir in recent years.” Further words were cut off as a messenger came from the darkness.

“The Lords Boromir and Faramir approach the camp, my Lord,” he told them. “They ask for shelter for the night.”

“By all means, bring them,” Forlong laughed. “They are always welcome at my fire.” Then he sent orders to the men at the neighboring fire to prepare food and drink for their guests.

“I shouldn’t meet with them,” Strider told him urgently. “It will cause too many complications.”

“Go to your bed, my friend,” Forlong said, indicating the small tent a few paces away. “You need to leave early in the morning anyway and they are tireless.”

With a nod of thanks to his host, the Ranger retired to his pallet, leaving the tiniest of gaps open in the tent flap. He was extremely curious about the Steward’s sons and hoped that they would sit where he could see them. Though he hadn’t seen Boromir since he was a small child, he recognized the man who came to the fire and embraced Forlong before sitting beside him, facing almost directly into the tent. Faramir sat to his brother’s left and his two servants knelt behind him, their face brands clear to see. Once they had finished seeing to the brothers’ comfort, one turned to look away from the fire so that he would be able to see into the darkness.

“It has been too long, my young princes,” Forlong greeted them as his men brought trenchers of food and placed them before the brothers. “Share some wine and food and tell me of your adventures.”

“We’re not so grand as princes,” Boromir laughed, drinking from the offered wineskin. “Or so young any more.”

“You look it, my friends,” the older man laughed. “Must be all that Númenorean and elvish blood.”

‘They do look young’ Strider thought to himself. Two golden princes among men, who couldn’t help but attract all who saw them. After a lifetime spent among elves, he was very cognizant of their human beauty, made just a little exotic by the almost indiscernible touch of elvish blood.

“Don’t let father hear you, Forlong,” Faramir joined in, moving closer to his brother to offer him a bite of meat that Boromir took, licking his fingers as he did. “He chooses to believe that our light hair is just an anomaly, he never acknowledged mother’s elvish ancestors.”

“Where are you two headed, if you don’t mind me asking?” Forlong changed the subject.

“There have been too many reports of orc attacks south of the White Mountains,” Boromir told him as his hand reached down to find a tidbit to feed Faramir.

“You’re a bit far to north aren’t you?” the older man grinned at him.

“There is a more than adequate captain leading the expedition,” Boromir grinned conspiratorially. “My brother and I are going to make a quick trip to Rohan; there are some things you can’t delegate.”

“Are you going to bring your princess home?” Forlong asked.

Both brothers’ faces turned grim for a moment before Boromir spoke again. “She is needed too much in Edoras. Théoden King has been ill and she seems to be the only one who can comfort him.” He threw a stick into the fire as Faramir edged even closer and leaned his head on his brother’s shoulder, pushing the nearly empty food dishes out of the way. “We will bring her home as soon as we can.”

“I’m glad that the rumors of the rift between Gondor and Rohan aren’t true,” Forlong said before taking another drink.

The two brothers looked at each other and Strider felt a pang of fear at their expressions. “Father has been listening to the false tales spread by the enemy. He is convinced that they are in league with the Dark Lord. It’s been difficult to keep him from declaring our treaties void.” Boromir rubbed his brother’s back before giving in to the urge to pull him closer and wrap his arms around him.

“So, he doesn’t know where you two are going,” the big man guessed.

“He will know, probably before we even get there,” Faramir said sadly, one hand reaching up to stroke his brother’s cheek. “He watches.”

“What do you mean?” Forlong asked, his face going pale. Strider almost groaned aloud in his concealment, fearing that he knew what they spoke of.

“Who is in that tent?” Faramir asked suddenly, indicating the small tent where the Ranger lay. Both of his servants tensed at his question, one looking at the now suspicious shelter, the other at Forlong.

“He is an old friend of mine,” Forlong said without hesitation. “A Ranger out of the north who can be trusted. He has to leave before dawn tomorrow.”

“I won’t share father’s paranoia against our friends, brother,” Boromir said, kissing his brother’s forehead. “If Forlong vouches for him, I am satisfied.” He looked back to the older man and continued. “We have reason to believe that Denethor is using the seeing stone.”

“So, he could be watching us now,” Forlong stated glumly.

“He’s not,” Boromir told him with a smug grin. “We would know. Faramir and I can tell when he does.”

Forlong gasped at his words and it was all that Strider could do to remain silent. “Are you sure?” the big man asked.

“Yes, and he knows that we can, it helps to keep him from spying on us too much,” Boromir told him. “He can’t hear what is being said but he can read lips as well as written material. I would hate it if some of our confidences were revealed to him.”

“I will remember,” Forlong assured them.

“It may work to our advantage in the long run,” Boromir said, making Forlong’s eyebrow rise in surprise. “We are steadily losing ground against the enemy. Ithilien is lost, only our Rangers can move at all there. I’m hoping that next spring we can start a new offensive there that will set them back some, but we don’t have the manpower any more to take it and hold it. All I can do is keep up with the delaying actions. Without reinforcements from outside Gondor, we will lose Osgiliath within three years. After that, it could be only a matter of months, maybe days, before Minas Tirith falls.”

“Three years?” Forlong questioned in shock. “Why so soon?”

“We are losing too many people. The ratio of deaths gets higher each year, even though the numbers look better. Ten years ago, one hundred men lost in a year would be almost inconsequential, now it is devastating. The warriors lost in battle are bad enough but there have been ever growing reports of orc raids on villages to capture people, especially children,” Boromir told him.

“What would they want with ordinary people?” Forlong wanted to know.

“They go to the fire of the great altar at Barad-dur,” Faramir spoke up, his face pale. “I’ve seen them in my dreams. That is why we have been encouraging the revival of the older rites. None of us are great sorcerers like the Dark Lord, but every little bit of light that fights against the dark is of value.” He paused, giving the older man a serious look. “You have bided by our agreements and been a great leader, as well as spiritual father, to your people. Even in Minas Tirith, the faithful often speak of you as an example to be followed. We owe a great deal to your devotion.” He held forth a hand toward Forlong as he finished.

“It is the inspiration of you and your brother that guides me, my Lord,” Forlong said, taking Faramir’s hand and kissing it, making Strider realize that his old friend had a close personal knowledge of the brothers’ cult. “Are you sure we can’t send for help?” he asked, tears in his eyes.

“From whom?” Boromir asked. “Rohan is nearly as besieged as we are and the king is very ill. My sources tell me that even the elven realms are seriously troubled with increased orc and goblin raids. No one has the forces to spare so we have to do what we can.”

“You sound like you have a plan,” Forlong said.

“Not much of one, but we will not give up hope,” Boromir confirmed the last word, making Strider jump as if pinched. “That is why I have been localizing the military more. If the White City falls, the enemy will gain nothing but rubble. We have already established a two-stage evacuation plan. When we lose the bridge at Osgiliath, all of the women and children will be sent from the city and the Pelennor. We will fall back across the Pelennor as slowly as possible, hopefully we will be able to hold the west bank at Osgiliath long enough for all non-combatants to get clear. The city will be defended ring by ring and if anyone survives, they will escape across Mount Mindolluin. The increased activity at Minas Morgul leads me to believe that they have some nasty surprises waiting for us, but I intend to prepare as much as possible. Each surviving military unit will fall back to its home territory. Even if every fighter that comes to protect the city dies, it will take years for them to take the rest of Gondor. Each territory has been set up much like your own, with caches of supplies and hiding places. The enemy will not defeat us easily.”

“That doesn’t sound like much, my Lord,” Forlong said doubtfully.

“It is all that I can tell you now,” Boromir spoke with a smile. “I don’t believe it will come to that, even if we can’t yet see how we will be saved. Gondor will not fall.” The strength of conviction filled his words.

It made even Strider, who had spent his entire adult life filled with self-doubt, think that maybe there would be an answer. Maybe his current errand would bring one more key to the puzzle that controlled their future. If he was successful.

“It grows late; a man of my age needs his sleep. Make yourselves comfortable at the fire and use the red guest tent when you are ready. Sleep well, my Lords,” Forlong rose from his place before bowing before the two brothers. “Do I have your blessings?”

“Of course, my friend, our blessings to you and all your people,” Boromir told him, then Forlong departed to his own tent. “Let me see to your shoulder, brother,” he said to Faramir.

The younger brother quickly removed his shirt and turned his back to Boromir. Strider saw the strange array of scars on the young man’s chest and arms and was surprised by the large bandage that covered much of his right shoulder. Faramir hadn’t moved as if he were injured and, as the layers of bloody cloths were removed, it became clear that it was bad. The arrow wound looked several days old. He also noticed the gentle interaction between the two brothers. Even though they were renowned warriors, they showed great tenderness in their attentions to each other.

“Saphron is going to have to do some repair work on your seal when this heals over,” Boromir said as he cleaned the wound. “Let me see the other side.”

The sight of Faramir’s back made the Ranger’s breath catch in his throat. He knew of the seal and the scars, but not of the transformations that Boromir had made. After two years of work, the combination of scars and tattoo shading made the city of Minas Tirith come alive on Faramir’s back. Strider was glad that he couldn’t tell which marks came from the beatings he’d heard about. Looking at the seal, even with the round wound defacing it, brought a strange rush of feeling to his entire body. When he noticed both brothers stiffening, as if in surprise, he quickly looked away.

“What was that?” Boromir whispered, just barely loud enough for Strider to hear.

“I don’t know,” Faramir answered just as quietly, “but I liked it.” Risking another look, carefully avoiding looking directly at the seal, the Ranger saw the two brothers locked in a deep kiss, making him instantly hard.

“Let me finish dressing your wound so we can go to our tent,” Boromir said, breaking away from his brother.

It was only a few more minutes before they were heading toward the tent next to Strider’s, throwing off their clothes as they went. He could hear them as if they were right beside him, which they almost were as close as the tents had been set up. The sound of flesh sliding against flesh, accompanied by stifled gasps of pleasure, was nearly making him crazy. He dared not make any movement or sounds of his own, as he could sense one of Faramir’s bondsmen standing at the point where the fronts of the two tents almost met. Somehow, he knew that the man was paying close attention to him.

The sounds in the next tent stopped briefly as Faramir’s voice called out, “Belgar, stop it. Go check on the horses or something.”

There was a soft sigh from the man before he moved off, out of hearing range. Strider almost groaned in relief as he finally allowed himself to move. Firmly grasping his own erection, he vaguely wondered when he had undone his pants as he bit down on a knuckle of his other hand to keep from crying out. The sounds that they were making were more than enough to arouse anyone. He had a strange sensation, as if he could feel what they felt, making every inch of his body burn with desire.

The odd feeling that they weren’t alone persisted as they moved together in each other’s arms. It was marvelous, as if fire danced over their skin, not burning but invigorating it. Faramir sank down on his brother’s engorged cock, taking it deep within his body. He heard voices and a bright light seemed to fill him from the inside out as he moved in the familiar rhythm, as if one of his stronger visions were about to overtake him. With the concerted effort of long practice, he pushed back the invading rush of images and concentrated on the physical contact with Boromir.

They were no longer alone in their movements and they both felt as if they were falling down the long tunnel of time. Grabbing each other tightly, they thrust together, bringing the reality of their contact more into focus. Boromir reached up and pulled Faramir tightly against him, claiming his mouth with his own. The first ripples of their orgasm began surging through them and they felt that splendid union they’d only felt a few other times, as if their very souls had become one.

It was the calm in the eye of the storm, as they lay entwined with each other. Both knew that there would be visions later, strong and uncontrollable. And probably very bad. It happened every time Faramir fought against them, the price he paid for striving for his freedom from them.

“Sleep, my beloved one,” Boromir whispered into Faramir’s ear and, snuggling just a bit closer to his brother, he did.

In all of his years he’d never felt anything like that. He lay panting on his pallet, wondering what had just happened. He’d only been on the periphery of what they’d done and it had completely undone him. Vaguely, he wondered what it would be like to be at the center, encompassed in the power of what he’d felt.

“Sleep, my beloved one,” he heard Boromir whisper and, without his own volition, he felt his own eyes closing and consciousness drifting away as if the words had been whispered to him.

It was the long version of the dream. He’d only dreamt it once before and even then, there had been much less to it. This time, he felt his brother’s presence in his mind as he distantly felt his physical presence in his arms. They dreamed together the one dream that inspired both fear and hope in their hearts. Such a terrible, beautiful dream.

It always started the same, with the darkness spreading from the east the stench from Orodruin filling the air. They could hear the screams and see the blood of those sacrificed on the great altar that stood before Barad-dur. Sauron used both his own minions and innocents captured from his enemies to feed the dark fires that increased his power. As they traveled west, the black clouds billowed into hordes of orcs that left rivers of blood in their wake. The cities and villages burned, the cries of the people echoing through the darkness.

The whole world seemed filled with the endless horror of the Dark Lord’s power.

From the west, where the light still lingered, came a voice that called, but the words were drowned out by the raging of the evil storm that enveloped the land. A lone rider rode towards the light, his golden hair shining in the darkness. Time passed in a confused collage of violence and hope, too many images, only a few clear. One part was the dream of orcs, arrows, pain and death; Boromir bleeding on the ground. This was the dream that often tore agonized screams from Faramir’s throat, even as he struggled to wake.

Then the pain disappeared and he stood before them, glowing as if lit from within. They could only make out his eyes and the star on his brow. Their king had come to save them and they were enfolded in his warmth.

He came awake suddenly, reaching for his sword. The air in the tent seemed thick and strange as the fog of sleep and something more cleared from his mind. He’d never had visions. Barely able to accept the heritage of his blood, he’d never really believed in destiny. But now he’d had a vision. Or shared one, if he interpreted the weeping and calming words in the adjoining tent correctly.

There was no doubt in his mind that he had to leave now, no matter how far away dawn was.

He pulled back a flap of the tent so that he could use the light of the remnant of fire to see as he quickly gathered his equipment. With the ease of long practice, he fastened everything where it belonged and crawled quietly out of the tent, making his way to the eastern edge of the camp. Fortunately, the sky was beginning to gray past the red glow of Orodruin, so he wouldn’t have to travel long in the dark.

“I know who you are,” a voice came out of the dark behind him.

Turning quickly, he looked at the tall, dark-haired man who observed him with cold gray eyes. The blood of the House of Húrin was strong in this man and Strider wondered why he had felt the need to stop him.

“You have me at a disadvantage then,” he replied unwilling to give away any information after his strange night.

“I am Belgar, manciple to the Lord Faramir,” the tall man told him with a hint of burning pride in his voice.

“I have heard of you,” Strider told him. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I was just wondering why you were avoiding my master and his brother, Lord Thorongil,” Belgar said quietly in a voice that wouldn’t carry.

“There is enough conflict in Gondor without knowledge of my presence causing more,” Strider answered honestly. “My business is not with the Steward or his sons, though I hope that what I do may be of aid eventually.”

Nodding at his words, Belgar started to speak again, only to break off and draw the sword he wore at his side. His eyes widening in surprise, Strider froze for a moment before he saw that he was looking past him. Turning as Belgar shouted to alert the camp, Strider drew his own sword against the orcs that were coming out of the underbrush to attack the camp.

There was no time for niceties as the evil creatures were pouring toward them. It was dark and soon the ground was slippery with blood, but the combined forces of Forlong’s men and the brothers’ personal guard were quick to respond to the threat. Even though he faced screaming monsters before him, at his back were strong warriors seasoned to this kind of warfare.

It was nearly sunrise when they were finally able to stem the tide of attackers and, from the sounds, this had not been the only attack point. Belgar had remained at Strider’s side during the fighting, though he’d longed to return to Faramir. In such a battle, it was not practical to abandon the fight when he couldn’t be sure of where his master would be. Strider was favorably impressed with the man’s fighting skill and glad that he had been able to be with at least this much of the brothers’ retinue.

“I must find my lord,” Belgar said to him, bowing as he was backing away.

“Of course,” Strider told him, acknowledging his duty. He watched the man leave on his search before turning away from the camp to rejoin his own quest. Forlong’s men would hunt down any remaining orcs so he didn’t feel the need to worry about that aspect, but as he passed out of sight of the others, he stopped briefly.

It was important that his presence not be revealed to Denethor, especially if he were using the seeing stones. He wished there were some way he could ask the Steward’s sons to not seek after his identity or whereabouts. But it was too late for that. He sighed to himself as he again headed west toward the Anduin where he would turn north in his search for the creature Gollum, who may or may not hold information vital to the salvation of Middle Earth.

Watching and listening at Forlong’s side to the status reports, Boromir wondered if this latest attack was aimed directly at him and his brother. He’d yet to learn the secrets of Galmar’s information net and would soon have to take action if things continued the way they’d been. It was only a matter of time before his brother or he were killed, or even both, and that would leave Gondor vulnerable to the enemy.

A strange feeling came over him as Belgar approached causing him to dig his fingers into his brother’s shoulder. “My Lord,” the man said as he went to his knees before Faramir.

“We missed you, Belgar,” Faramir said, half in amusement and half in curiosity to his bondsman.

“I was talking with Lord Forlong’s guest,” he answered. “He…”

“Enough,” Boromir said quietly, but firmly. “There are some things that do not need to be spoken of.” His words surprised the three other men as well as himself, but he knew they had to be said.

Faramir’s lips parted as if he would question his brother, but at Boromir’s forbidding look, he nodded in acceptance. It didn’t matter what Belgar had to say, no one would ever know what it was unless Boromir specifically rescinded his order. Bowing his head to the ground and kissing his master’s feet before rising to assess the situation, Belgar waited for new orders. He would push his early morning conversation to the back of his mind, almost forgetting it unless he was told otherwise.

Serving his Lord Faramir was his life and even though he would go against Boromir’s orders if Faramir told him to, he knew that would never happen. They were all caught up in the bonds of loyalty and visions of the future. It was inconceivable that any of them would challenge the order of precedence they’d created. In this hierarchy, as long as the white throne sat empty, Boromir, Captain of Gondor was the final word, high priest to the deity that would some day be their king.

Until the prophecy that gave them hope was fulfilled, the Steward’s heir would reign.

Part 20: POLITICAL NECESSITY

Fall, year 3017 of the Third Age.

She hated that she had to be here, fulfilling her duty as a princess of Rohan. Sitting beside her uncle at the high table, Éowyn held the smile on her face like a mask. She wanted to scream and rage at the fates that had imprisoned her in the beauty that was Meduseld when all she really wanted to do was ride with the herds of the Riddermark.

It wasn’t that Éomer or Théodred couldn’t take her place, but they had to be at the forefront of the eoreds of their people. They were the military leaders of Rohan now that Théoden had faded so. Also, she could do more with a simple look because of her gender and resemblance to her mother, which helped soothe her uncle in his frequent descents into maudlin reminiscence.

Deepening her smile, she turned to the king and encouraged him to take a drink of his wine. She’d added herbs to it herself in the hopes that they would help him overcome whatever poison Gríma was using to drain his life and reason away. There was little hope in this. Though she couldn’t see him fading on a daily basis, at the end of each week as she reviewed her notes she could tell. It was slow but, at this rate, the king had less than two years before his mind would be completely gone. If only she could just get rid of the ‘worm’, but he was too firmly ensconced to be easily dislodged.

“Where is my son?” Théoden asked as he finished his wine. “Why isn’t he here to comfort me?”

“He rides with his eored, my king,” she answered, refilling his goblet and offering him a tasty morsel from his plate. “I read his last letter to you this morning, he is a fine leader, uncle.”

The king nodded, his eyes clearing for a moment as he remembered the splendid detail Théodred had used to tell of his exploits. His own youth had been spent riding with Eomund who had later married his sister Theodwyn. Orcs had been fewer then and long years had passed following the herds and keeping the festivals. It had been a life of unequaled freedom.

“Let us have a feast this eve, sister-daughter,” he announced jovially. “Let us celebrate being alive and the horselords of Rohan.”

Her smile was almost real as she heard her uncle’s words, even though she knew that she would have to be extra vigilant during the feast. Those were the times when the ‘worm’ could be the most dangerous. Of course, it also gave her opportunities to sink her own claws in where they would do the most good.

They’d ridden along the top of the White Mountains on old trails that had long been forgotten by the rest of the world. There had been a couple of small bands of orcs that had easily been overcome, barely impeding their progress. It was a hard, fast ride, the Mearas the two brothers rode curtailing their own natural speed so that the armed escort could keep up.

The signs of fall were heavy in the air this high in the hills. Soon winter would be upon them and they would be concentrating on the planned spring push into Ithilien. Both brothers knew that the stakes had risen much higher in the last two years and that this might be their last chance to meet with Éomer before the next offensive. Coming down out of the mountains west of the Firien Wood into the territory north of Ered Nimrais, but south of the Great Western Road, they were far enough away from the Entwash that they felt it was almost safe.

As expected, the Eorlingas were there before them, their bright pennants flapping in the breeze. At the top of the main pavilion were the banners of Théodred, Second Marshall of the Riddermark and Éomer, Third Marshall of the Riddermark. Boromir hadn’t seen Théoden King’s son for over a year and Faramir had never before met him, due to the political maneuverings of the current rulers of Gondor and Rohan.

Dropping down out of the foothills, they saw the two princes riding toward them at the head of their eoreds. Urging their mounts to greater speed, they began pulling away from their escorts as Théodred and Éomer did the same, since all four rode Mearas mares, which were reserved for royalty. Rather than coming to a stop when they joined each other, they turned to encircle the camp riding at full speed in a light-hearted display of exuberance. Finally, they came to the grazing ground and each relinquished their horse to the waiting Rohirrim.

“I have missed you sorely,” Éomer said to Faramir as he pulled him into his embrace. “It has been much too long, nearly five years.”

“I have missed you as well,” Faramir told him as he surrendered himself to Éomer’s arms. “Let us not waste any of our time together.”

“We must leave at dawn tomorrow,” Boromir said as the four strode swiftly to the princes’ tent. “There isn’t much in the way of intelligence that I can share with you, but we can coordinate our battle strategies as much as possible for the coming year. Our people have noticed a pattern to the orc incursions into both our lands and I think we can arrange a few surprises for them.”

“I would enjoy that very much,” Théodred said as he kept pace with the older men. “What you have shared with us so far has helped immensely, despite my father’s reticence.”

The centerpiece of the large tent was a large table covered with maps. They were soon joined by their chief officers as they examined the maps and exchanged information on the latest enemy actions. There were leaders of many of the smaller eoreds and villages, all men who were intent on protecting their herds and homes. It was late into the night before they had finished with their planning and they were all exhausted from the long session. Boromir was mostly pleased with the meeting but the tendency of the lower chieftains to turn to Éomer and ignore Théodred bothered him. They were all in too tenuous a position politically for the king’s heir to be slighted in any way.

As the last of the officers left the tent, Théodred helped Boromir roll the last of the maps up as Éomer and Faramir reacquainted themselves with the insides of each other’s mouths. The younger prince’s eyes widened in disbelief as neither man seemed to have the need to come up for air, and then he stepped closer to Boromir as he noticed Belgar and Nelis moving about the tent. He remembered his cousin telling him that they were assassins before they were body servants to Faramir and they looked very dangerous with their branded faces.

“Don’t mind them, your highness,” Boromir told him quietly. “They only seek to serve. My brother and your cousin, on the other hand, are selfish and useless this close to bedtime,” he added, giving them a dark look.

“Éomer has missed you both, my Lord Boromir,” Théodred said with a smile. “But Éowyn has always said he is rather useless when it comes to certain things.”

“As my brother can be,” Boromir said a wicked smile coming to his lips. “I think we should remind them of their duty.” Stalking over to where the two now lay in each other’s arms on the oversized camp bed, he brought Théodred with him. Sitting on the bed beside his brother, Boromir put a hand to his shoulder. Even though he was easily strong enough to force Faramir to do anything he wanted, it took only the slightest touch to gain his complete attention and compliance.

“Yes, brother,” Faramir whispered through kiss-swollen lips as he rolled to his back. Instead of answering, Boromir placed a finger to his lips to silence him and the younger brother lay back against the bed, waiting.

“When the time comes for the change, who will be king in Rohan?” Boromir asked, looking Théodred in the eyes. “Who will take up the reins of rulership in the Riddermark?”

As the young man started to look down at his cousin, Boromir quickly reached over and caught his chin in his hand. “A king does not ask permission to rule his people, Théodred,” he told him. “He must take what is his and show no hesitation or his enemies will think him weak. He must make his claim firmly or his allies and his vassals will grow insecure and doubtful.” Moving his hand from Théodred’s chin to his shoulder, Boromir gave him the slightest of encouraging shoves. “Claim what is yours by right of blood, my prince. The Eorlingas need you to step past the bonds of childhood, to let your teachers become your advisors, to take your place as Second Marshall of the Riddermark and make all but the king bow down before you.”

Théodred’s heart was pounding in his chest so hard that it hurt as he finally lowered his gaze to Éomer. This man who was closer to him than even his own father lay below him, relaxed and trusting in a pose so like Faramir’s it made him shudder. He knew as his hand slid into the hair of the one who had been his teacher from earliest childhood that all of his training had been leading up to this one moment. As he claimed the lips of his beloved cousin, he remembered what he’d been told of bonding with those whom he was to rule. All the whispered confidences Éomer had shared with him of asserting his power finally made sense.

It was strange to have his wild cousin so tame and willing beneath his hands as he slowly removed his clothing. This was the man who had taught him almost everything, been there for most of the firsts in his life. He guided Éomer to his knees knowing that it was what was needed for their purpose. This was more than just a fun tumble like he’d grown used to since he had taken his place as leader of his eored. It was intense and strange to him, this rite of claiming. It was for Théodred’s benefit, as Éomer had always known his place in the hierarchy of Eorlingas society.

His body knew what to do as he slowly entered his waiting cousin. It became clear to him that he was the one who had to show their people who was heir to the king. Each thrust brought him closer to understanding the commitment he was expected to make to his people and his king. There were no words of ritual involved but as Théodred reached his climax, he knew that he could fulfill his duty as Crown Prince of Rohan.

It took him a few moments to realize the Éomer would not move until he released him. Moving back slightly, he gave a slight push to his cousin’s hip which was all that was needed to have him roll over to his previous position. Théodred lay in Éomer’s arms not sure he really wanted this change in their relationship. It was his big strong cousin who had always made him feel safe and protected.

It had almost caused him to panic when he hadn’t been able to locate his sons with the palantir. Thankfully, it had only been one night and then the strange solid blankness had gone away. Unfortunately, it had given them time to get too far into the mountains to recall them. Either they had learned how to create a new shield to defeat the palantir or some other phenomenon had interfered. The latter was quite possible. The hills by Lossarnach held many shrines that called on old power.

Also the cult that had sprung up around his sons was very strong in that area. Galmar had brought him proof that even Forlong, who’d long kept himself out of Gondorian politics, was a part of the new cult. One of its leaders even. Anything was possible once their minions became involved.

As he watched them sleeping in the large tent belonging to Prince Théodred of Rohan, he cursed their independence. They lay entwined with the prince and his cousin Éomer, obviously having recently been lustfully engaged with them. Boromir stirred beneath his gaze and Denethor was able to read the word ‘no’ as it left his lips as if he were ordering his father to stop. A chill ran up his spine as his heir opened his eyes and seemingly looked straight at him.

The palantir fogged, then cleared showing Saruman as he sat in his tower at Orthanc. “Your sons’ defiance is dangerous, Lord Denethor,” came the honeyed tones of the white wizard. “They are far away from their duty as they dally with the scions of Rohan. Théoden seeks to place his own blood on the throne in the white city. Rumors speak of how close the princess is with her brother and cousin. It would be an easy thing to send her already with child to place some bastard of the Riddermark in the line of the Steward.”

Denethor hissed in reproach at his words, shaking his head in denial.

“You’ve seen them yourself,” the wizard pushed and suddenly the seeing stone fogged again to clear, showing Boromir on his knees before Éomer as Denethor had seen them the previous time they had been together. “Rohan would have Gondor on its knees; your sons would be nothing more than figureheads to the barbarians of the west.”

“What would you have me do?” the Steward raged caught up in the wizard’s taunt. “I cannot risk open war with my own sons. We are in enough danger as it is.”

“If you could separate them, you would see a great difference in how they behave,” Saruman told him. Again, the palantir fogged and cleared, this time it showed Faramir as he lay beneath his brother. He was spread open and beautiful, giving in to whatever Boromir wanted. “Look at him, my lord,” the wizard prodded. “Even you could not resist the lure of one so ready to please, one so pleasing to behold.”

Feeling himself harden at the sight, Denethor longed to turn away but found himself captured by the alluring vision.

“As long as he can extend his hedonistic influence over your heir, there will be no chance for reason to prevail. He spreads his legs quicker than any whore to bring his brother down to the level of his weakness. You knew he would do this, back when they were children, but he circumvented you even then. You remember the door he’d had installed between their rooms solely to allow him to seduce his brother? This has been a long time coming, my lord Steward,” the wizard crooned, stoking the rage that he was inciting. “The elvish blood is strong in your youngest son and you know how they are.”

The Steward’s face became angry at his words, thoughts of the past clouding his reason.

“Yes, I see you remember,” Saruman said. “There is even a strong resemblance between the two. I hate to think that the blood of the ‘wild elf of Mirkwood’ might run in his veins. It caused you nothing but trouble the last time one of his offspring had free reign in Minas Tirith. Heartache as well. You must take control of them now before it is too late, my lord Steward. Separate the two so that Boromir will no longer be corrupted by elvish influence.”

There had been nothing to show that Faramir had ever had anything to do with any elves, but the wizard knew about Denethor’s prejudices and how to play on them.

“When they return from their little jaunt I will do what is necessary,” the Steward stated firmly. He would no longer submit to their disobedience.

Saruman smiled in satisfaction as Denethor faded from his sight. He would push the Steward every chance he got. Even though Boromir could change his father’s mind with very little effort, sooner or later Denethor would break, and that could be used to his own benefit. He would not stop until both Gondor and Rohan were completely under his power.

Standing toe-to-toe, Éowyn and Gríma exchanged quiet, hostile words. “You will see that I can convince your uncle to go along with my plan,” Wormtongue hissed at the enraged princess.

“Then plan this,” Éowyn said as she buried the blade of her slender bodice dagger to the hilt in his shoulder, the shoulder other than the one she’d stabbed a week ago.

Stifling his own outcry, Gríma couldn’t help but move back suddenly as the princess ripped the top of her gown in such a way that it appeared as if he were at fault. It was the sixth or seventh time she’d caught him with the same ploy and he was beginning to bitterly regret that it was her instead of Éomer stuck here in Edoras. Of course, there was something a bit tantalizing, even arousing about the look in Éowyn’s eye and the way she moved when she impaled him with her pointy toys. He was much older than he looked, thanks to his wizard patron, and far more jaded than any as primitive as the Rohirrim could even conceive. He’d long ago learned to make his own pleasures if necessary.

“I won’t sit idly by and be one of your pawns, ‘worm’,” she told him with a hiss of her own. “I intend to fight you every step of the way, you will truly know what it is to face a shield maiden of the Riddermark before I’m through.” She twisted the knife as she pulled it out, causing even more pain but leaving only a small wound that was easily hidden in the folds of his clothing. “I don’t think that either of us is ready for a public confrontation, but I will be watching you,” Éowyn told him as she left the great hall.

Applying pressure to his shoulder for a moment to stop the bleeding, Gríma continued into the room. They were at an impasse for the moment but he was sure that soon things would change. The King would be very angry when he found out that Éomer and Théodred were meeting with the Steward’s sons against his orders. If he played his cards right, he would be able to assign some of the blame to Éowyn as well and then the balance of power would shift to his favor. Eventually, he was sure he would be able to return the favor of pleasurable pain to the proud princess.

“I hope you will be very circumspect about what you tell others about my efforts here, Stefle,” Mithrandir said as they walked toward the main gate. “Some things are better kept private. I don’t think the Steward would be pleased to know of my research.”

“I do not report to the Steward, my Lord,” the younger man answered. “It is not my place to inform him of what you do.”

“And what do you think your Lord Boromir will make of it all?” the wizard questioned.

“He is more concerned with keeping Gondor safe from the enemy than ancient history, my Lord,” Stefle answered. “Of course, if you have anything that might illuminate our future, maybe some forgotten way to fight against the enemy? The war does not go well.”

“I wish there was something I could do to help, my friend,” the old one answered sadly. “Maybe, if Iluvitar is willing, what I know now will aid us all, but there is nothing I can share with your lord to change things now.” He paused for a moment as they passed the entrance to the old marketplace. “Do you realize that we are being followed?”

“Other than by my people, you mean?” Stefle responded.

“Of course, I’m quite sure that your people have noted them as well,” Mithrandir said as they neared the gate. “But I think you should take special note of the merchant in the third ring.”

Only someone who knew him very well would have noticed a reaction from the younger man. “I know whom you speak of,” Stefle said quietly. “It was not someone I would have thought of.” He felt a pang of pain through his body. “Thank you for sharing with me, my Lord,”

“These are trying times,” the wizard said in a kindly voice as he put a comforting hand to his shoulder. “I will watch for Boromir and Faramir as I go, it would be a good idea for us to share information. Unfortunately, the urgency of my business will not allow me to tarry and I will most likely miss them.”

“I can ask no more of you, my Lord,” Stefle told him, his head bowed with grief at what he now suspected.

Brinel supervised the princess closely as she ran tests on the blood sample to see if the same traces of herb and antitoxin were in it as the last times. It would rouse too much suspicion if they took samples of the king and Gríma always took charge of the dishes he served to the king. So they took samples from the ‘worm’ himself. It was a most excellent ruse the princess had thought up, using the man’s own lust and the common knowledge of Éowyn’s fiery temper to cover her real aim.

“I think this is something new,” Éowyn said motioning for Brinel to look closer. They didn’t have the elaborate facilities of Minas Tirith, but the two women had managed to make a more than serviceable facility using one of Éowyn’s many dressing tables. Since she used very little cosmetics, there was plenty of room for the necessary supplies.

There was a brownish change to the sample, which made Brinel smile with delight. “Yes, you are right, your highness,” she told the younger woman. “This is something we can definitely do something about. I’m glad you started making him taste the king’s food and drink before serving him. It makes all of this so much easier.”

“I just worry that he might begin to suspect,” Éowyn said as she made notes in the diary she used to record the king’s condition. “The ‘worm’ is not quite as stupid as we could wish or his master would never have chosen him. At least I will not underestimate him if I can avoid it.”

Brinel smiled at the princess’s words. She was very pleased to be assigned to such a beautiful and intelligent woman. “You are such a prize for my lords,” she whispered in Éowyn’s ear as she wrapped her arms around the younger woman. “They will be truly blessed when you can finally go to them.”

Leaning back into the older woman’s embrace, Éowyn gave a throaty laugh as the older woman pressed kisses to her neck and her hands went to sensitive places. She was very glad that her future husbands had sent this woman to her. Besides being an excellent teacher, in everything, she gave her hope that there would be a future, as well as support through this time of darkness.

“If you didn’t think you were doing anything wrong going to Rohan then why didn’t you tell me about it before you left?” Denethor asked, almost yelling at Boromir.

“I didn’t want to argue with you, father,” Boromir said in a conciliatory voice, glad that he had insisted Faramir leave him to face their father alone. “Even if your suspicions are true, it is in the best interests of Gondor that we keep good relations with our neighbors. Théodred and Éomer don’t rule there yet, but they do command the eoreds and that is ever more important to our survival. Trust me, father, I only do this for our good.” As he spoke, he sat on the edge of the large desk and took his father’s hand in his.

Looking into the hazel eyes, the Steward completely lost his train of thought. No one loved him as much as his oldest son. No one supported him and followed his lead so well. It never crossed his mind that this might be some trick, some hidden power Boromir had, this ability to bring his father to his way of thinking.

“I am your loyal servant, father,” he told him in a low mesmerizing voice. “Let us discuss our newest strategy against Mordor.”

The dulcet voice made him forget the hypnotizing words of Saruman, the inciting visions he’d been shown. He could only hear his oldest son’s words, as if each time he fell captive to one of their trances, he became more susceptible to the next. In his own way, the Steward was becoming as weak and infirm as Théoden, continually swayed between the driving personalities of the white wizard and his oldest son.

The list was long, too long. The name at the top of the list was very surprising and Faramir looked up at Cara and Stefle as he read it. There was no need to ask if they were sure and the expressions on their faces made his heart ache for them both. Of course, many of his people would be saddened by the names on the list.

“Once we knew that my oldest son was involved, it became easy to trace the rest of the conspirators, my Lord,” Cara said sadly. “I should have suspected him long ago, he was so virulently against Stefle’s training, especially at such an early age. He always thought I should have married his father. I have only myself to blame.”

“I know that you did your best, Cara,” Faramir told her. “We can only go on from here. We need to decide which of these people need to be eliminated and which we can use to our advantage.” With grim determination they began discussing what their next moves would be.

They stood facing each other in the small passage, so close they almost touched. The sounds of Galmar and his companion coming up the stairway were clear to their ears. Their location revealed by soft voices discussing treason and worse as they neared the hidden door that led to their hiding place.

As they started up the next flight of stairs, Nelis opened the silent door and glided forth with practiced ease. Following behind him, Boromir was immediately aware of the slight scuffing sound he made and Galmar’s stiffening back as he heard it. Nelis had his target well in hand and subdued on the floor, but the Steward’s body servant turned with startling speed his belt knife reaching for his attacker. More used to combat than stealth, Boromir took the blow to his shoulder without flinching, his large hands reaching for his intended target.

Still he managed to use enough care to grab Galmar in just the right places to give him a good grip without leaving any marks to be found later. A quick flex of muscled arms and a thick crunching sound let them know that Saruman’s spy would trouble them no more. Laying the body on the landing, Boromir withdrew the knife from his shoulder so as not to allow any blood to drip onto the floor. He wiped it clean on the tunic of the young man Nelis held and secured it in Galmar’s sheath. Then he tossed the body down the lower flight of stairs, watching to make sure it landed looking as if Galmar had slipped on the long stairway.

Two waiting servants came out of the secret passage and took Nelis’s charge to the prearranged place while the assassin looked to Boromir’s wound. It was deep but narrow and since it was Galmar’s eating knife, they were sure it hadn’t been poisoned. The Steward’s heir was lucky so far. Nelis applied some powder from one of his pouches to stop the bleeding and they both carefully checked the landing again to make sure no evidence of what had passed was left.

At the opposite end of the passage, in a small anteroom, Boromir redonned his formal robe, glad that he had not worn it to his earlier clandestine meeting. Stretching his shoulder to make sure he had free movement, he went to rejoin his father and brother in the great hall. The press of people wandering about was so great that his absence was barely noted and since he returned from the same door used to access the privies, it was not at all suspicious.

Holding his mother’s arm, Stefle followed the funeral procession out of the city. Since his oldest brother, Leran, had never taken oath with the family, he could not be laid to rest in the small room reserved for them in the House of the Stewards. In front of them walked his brother’s widow on the arm of his second eldest brother, Deran, who had taken oath with the family and had agreed to take his brother’s place. Deran also escorted Leral, Leran’s oldest son, who was barely seven, and would one day inherit his father’s merchant interests.

Cara and Stefle had no doubts that Leral would make a fine merchant and loyal family member. Deran had lost all of his own children and his wife to an orc attack on the village where they had lived. As a result, his loyalty to the family and the sons of the Steward was even stronger. He knew that they were Gondor’s key to winning the war and would do anything he could to aid them.

It was a shame that Leran had died so suddenly from apparent heart failure. He wasn’t old for one of Númenorean blood, but he was well known for overindulging in wine and food. Of course, very few would ever know that he also had close ties with the enemies of Gondor. Even fewer would know or even suspect that his death was not brought on by his tendency to excess, but by the knowledge of his treason.

Almost able to reconcile her oldest child’s actions, Cara kept her pace solemn and resolute. It was in the best interest of the family as well as their lords, Boromir and Faramir, that no one ever know of Leran’s perfidy. Only her heart and her conscience would bear the scars of his treason.

It had caused more than a ripple in the status quo in Minas Tirith. As Faramir lay against his brother’s chest, he contemplated the deaths of the last week. There was nothing that could be called suspicious about any of them. Yet, they accumulated into a rather startling panorama of Gondorian society. People from every rank and occupation were suddenly dead and though there was frequently family, and usually those loyal to the two brothers, ready to step into their place, it seemed just a little too pat.

“Are you sure father doesn’t suspect anything?” he asked Boromir for the twentieth time.

“I’m positive, beloved one,” Boromir answered, taking his brother’s chin into his firm grasp. “But you know as well as I do that as soon as we are afield and Saruman has free at him again that everything will change. We’ve covered our tracks as well as possible and all we can do now is use our winter confinement to lock him into our way of thinking.”

“It just unsettles me,” Faramir admitted. “I keep feeling as if we are missing something important.”

“Until you find something concrete, I don’t want to hear anything more,” Boromir finally told him. “The longer we discuss this, the more chance there is of it being spread. We’ve both said more than enough for now.” His mouth moved to his brother’s neck as he finished. “Soon we will begin our final offensive in Ithilien. Once we have left the city there will be no time to enjoy your sweet body. So let us forget all of these political problems until we are forced to think of them through necessity.”

Melting into his brother’s kisses and caresses, Faramir could only agree. As Boromir’s hands gripped his hips and raised him into the perfect position for penetration, he could only moan in ecstasy. Sinking down on that mammoth cock was an experience only equaled by the large calloused hands that enclosed his own erection. There was nothing he could think of that could make him feel this wonderful.

Their combined movements once again transported them to a place outside of their usual realm to one where all possibilities existed. Here they could visualize the rescue and restoration of Gondor, though they both knew that without some kind serious intervention the White City, at least, would burn.

“Yes, brother,” Faramir moaned as Boromir thrust into him. “You make it feel so good.”

It wasn’t long before they curled up into each other’s arms, lost in the oblivion of such close contact. “I love you more than anyone or anything in any world,” Boromir whispered into his ear. “Let me guard you into sleep, my beloved one.”

Part 21: THE BRIDGE

June 19, 3018 of the Third Age

The campaign into Ithilien had been far more successful than anyone had expected. They’d been able to push the enemy back to the crossroads where, in the near distance, they could see Minas Morgul. Things had gone badly since then, however. It was not that they’d been losing men, but the Steward had suddenly become unreasonable. Instead of allowing them to withdraw their forces back across the river as originally planned, he insisted they hold the ground they’d won.

Boromir was nearly beside himself with rage. Their offensive had taken much longer than expected and all of his men were facing exhaustion. He’d hoped to be able to have a midsummer celebration in Minas Tirith after retiring with most of his armies intact. As it was, it would take some serious political maneuvering to cover his disobedience of the ridiculous orders from the Steward. All but a carefully picked screening force had been sent to key positions along the river on the pretense of chasing enemy forces.

In the morning he would personally go to Minas Tirith to convince his father of reason, leaving his brother to bring their men back across the river. It would have to be carefully coordinated for them to get out of this without serious losses. Without Galmar to aid him, Denethor had become even more erratic and unreliable. Boromir almost regretted the loss of Saruman’s minion, and feared that soon he would have to remove his father from his position as Steward.

“Come, brother,” Faramir told him. “We have to rise early and you haven’t had nearly enough sleep lately.”

“I’m quite sure that you have been sleeping even less than I, beloved one,” Boromir said as he allowed Faramir to help remove his armor. “If we don’t make it out of this trap alive I’ll haunt him forever. It’s so nice to watch father snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You have to admit though, brother, that there is something just a bit exciting about being so close to the enemy’s stronghold,” Faramir said as he pushed the last of Boromir’s clothing from him, leaving it in an untidy heap for Nelis and Belgar to take care of. “Since you are planning on abandoning me tomorrow, I intend to feel all of you tonight.”

Neither of them had been fully naked for some weeks now, feeling the need to be ready at all times to go into battle. There had been several occasions where their caution had paid off, but tonight they wanted to be in full contact with each other.

There was just a large pallet on the ground instead of their usual camp bed. This close to Minas Morgul, it didn’t make sense to get too comfortable. Boromir grunted as he landed on his back with Faramir on top of him. His brother was nearly out of control as he locked their lips together in a savage kiss.

“Easy, little brother,” Boromir whispered to him as he rolled them over so that he pinned Faramir to the ground. “You are always in such a hurry.”

“I want to feel you inside me before orcs start pouring out of yonder tower,” he said, kissing and nipping at Boromir’s neck. “Our luck has been far too good for me to leave anything to chance.”

With Faramir’s legs wrapped tightly around him, Boromir couldn’t help but fulfill his request. The danger of their situation predominated everything and he had no desire to leave this task unfinished. Their movements together were urgent, almost desperate. All too soon, they reached their climax and spent a few precious moments holding each other close.

Grudgingly, Faramir released Boromir as he sat up. “You’re so messy, little brother,” Boromir said running his hand through the semen on Faramir’s chest. “It’s a good thing Nelis and Belgar are here to clean up after you.” He couldn’t resist tasting his fingers before running his hand through the sticky mess again and putting his fingers to his brother’s lips. “As soon as all the campfires are lit and it is dark enough to hide your movements, I want you to withdraw to Osgiliath tomorrow. I will have father’s approval by then, you might even receive the orders before then. Don’t hesitate to retreat if the orcs start coming out of Minas Morgul. It is more important to have an intact army than to hold any of this land.”

“I will do as you say, brother,” Faramir answered as his servants helped them to clean up before dressing again. “We will have to do something to keep this from happening in the future. At the rate this is going, father will need a keeper soon.”

“If we could get him to stop using that stupid stone, he might be able to think again. Not that that will happen any time soon.” Boromir shook his head in disgust at what they faced in dealing with their father. He knew that Saruman was using the palantir to poison Denethor’s mind, just as he was using Wormtongue to poison Théoden in Rohan. And there was little they could do about it, short of deposing the two men.

The dream was vivid, almost as if he were awake. Great clouds of black smoke rolled across the Pelennor and up the ramparts of the Rammas Echor. The stench of burning flesh and worse thickened the air, making it almost impossible to breathe. The screams of terror and hopelessness filled his ears. He stood alone watching the darkness swallow his world.

As the darkness seemed to envelope everything, he saw a flare of bright light came out of the west accompanied by the familiar voice.

“Seek for the Sword that was broken: In Imladris it dwells; There shall be counsels taken Stronger than Morgul-spells. There shall be shown a token That Doom is near at hand, For Isildur’s Bane shall waken, And the Halfling forth shall stand.”

It was the first time the words were clear to him and he wept as he watched Boromir riding away into the light.

He woke in his brother’s arms, feeling the strong calloused hands caressing him. Words of comfort were whispered in his ear as he became aware of the tears coursing his cheeks. It seemed impossible to stop the sobs wracking his body, for he knew that the time of waiting had passed.

“Come, little brother,” Boromir called softly, pressing kisses to his eyes and brow. “Wake from your dreams.”

“It is time, Boromir,” he cried out, unable to stop himself. “I don’t want you to go.” He buried his face into his brother’s shoulder, weeping as if his heart were broken.

“Hush now, Faramir, my beloved one,” Boromir soothed. “It will be all right, I will make sure of it.”

Finally, he was able to calm himself and sit up next to his patient brother. “There will be no more sleep for me this night, brother,” Faramir croaked as he gestured for Belgar and Nelis to light the lamps. “I heard the words this time,” he whispered, leaning into Boromir’s arms. “I think it is a riddle of some sort.” He repeated what he had heard carefully, making sure that he got every word right.

“At least it’s metered well enough to be remembered easily,” Boromir remarked, brushing stray hairs from his brother’s face. “As for when I have to leave, I think that is yet to be seen.”

Rising to his feet, Faramir walked over to the tent entrance and pulled back a flap to look out into the night. It was still an hour before dawn so he knew that the light spilling across the sky wasn’t from the sun. It was the red glow from Mount Doom that lit up the sky over the Mountains of Shadow, giving the sultry summer night a sinister feeling. As Boromir came up beside him, they both looked to Minas Morgul where it was seemingly encased in a black cloud. All its windows were dark, even though they knew that it was fully inhabited by the forces of Mordor.

Standing there, leaning on each other for comfort, they saw the great gate at the base of the tower open and orcs begin spilling down the long road. “Awake the camp!” Boromir cried out before turning back into the tent to don his armor. It took only moments for the tent to be filled with commanders and couriers ready to act immediately on their Captain- General’s orders.

They had planned for this eventuality ever since they’d come within sight of the crossroads. There were wagons full of caltrops waiting to be strewn along their back trail. Within minutes, the majority of the remaining infantry would be double-timing back to Osgiliath, only specialists would be detouring along side trails to set previously prepared traps and pitfalls. The cavalry was mounting up, awaiting the orders that would be dictated by the sharp-eyed scouts who were watching the enemy forces exiting the dark tower.

Faramir stood at the forward edge of the camp, estimating the number and type of troops advancing on their position. Their current and possible maximum speed was also part of his observations. After a few minutes, he consulted with some of the other watchers and then went to join his brother. Couriers had already been sent to order the Gondorian forces to the western bank of the Anduin and to have the engineers begin the destruction of the last bridge at Osgiliath. Still, there was a sizable group within the tent.

They were grim-faced men, the best of their commanders, in charge of the best of their forces. As Faramir entered, they looked up from the maps on the table before them, waiting expectantly for his input. Despite the lack of confidence the Steward still showed in his youngest son, these men knew his worth.

“They have mixed forces of goblins and orcs controlled by uruks,” Faramir said as he entered. “At their present pace they will overrun this position in about an hour. I’ve never seen them move so fast. It’s as if their master is at their heels. There are also Easterlings and Haradrim moving in full companies. So far they have no cavalry, but I expect they will send mumakil with this advance some time around dawn. The animals don’t see well in the dark, so that will be the optimum time to field them.”

“I’m sure you’re right, brother,” Boromir said after listening patiently to his report. “They are doing just what we thought they would. We will go with our first plan. I’ll withdraw to the bridge with the main cavalry where we will reinforce the defenses until the bridge is ready to be dropped and all of our people are across. Faramir will be in charge of the screening forces. All of you know what to do, I expect we will be on the eastern bank by midday.”

As soon as the meeting broke up, the maps and table were taken out of the tent to be packed onto the waiting drays. Everything but the tent itself was already gone and that, too, would be dropped and loaded as soon as it was empty. All of the officers and aides went swiftly to their prearranged duties while the two brothers spent a last few moments together.

“Don’t be late to the bridge, little brother,” Boromir said in a voice husked by stress, his forehead pressed to Faramir’s. “I’ll worry every minute we are apart.”

“I’ll give you all of the time I can, brother,” Faramir told him, firmly gripping his shoulders. “We have been preparing for this for a long time, I know what to do.”

“Don’t take any unnecessary chances, my beloved one,” Boromir claimed his lips for a desperate kiss after he spoke. “Come to me as soon as you are able,” he said in a low voice, breaking away to join his waiting contingent before his heart failed and he couldn’t leave his brother’s side.

Leaving the tent and joining with the Ithilien rangers who would make up the bulk of his screening force, Faramir didn’t even notice the tent falling to the ground. Belgar and Nelis were at his heels, prepared to follow their master wherever he went, even into death. They all knew that it would be a long hard day as they were pushed back the twenty-mile stretch between the crossroads and Osgiliath.

Unknown to most there was a narrow tunnel, which went from the root of the great bastion that overlooked the Great Gate to near the stables within the seventh wall. It was well guarded with armed men and secret pitfalls so that the city’s enemies would not be able to use it, but a courier with urgent news for the White Tower could cut the usual time to reach the city’s ruler by more than seventy percent. Still, the servants of the Steward’s sons had established a method of passing information that halved that time. As soon as the courier was within sight of the gate, there were those who waited and, seeing the color of the clothing and tack of the rider, sent their own message to the Tower of Ecthelion.

The old man would have been long retired in previous years, but with the constant drain on manpower from the war he continued to serve the ‘family’. As he carried the tray of goblets to the main table in the great hall, he stumbled on the slightly uneven flagstones of the ancient floor. A ring on one of his flailing hands caught against Denethor’s robes and, unbeknownst to him, barely cut the flesh of his upper arm.

Jumping to his feet, the enraged Steward slapped the clumsy servant, knocking him to the floor. He was so busy brushing uselessly at the liquid spilled on his clothing that he didn’t notice the almost imperceptible smile on the old man’s face. Striding angrily from the hall, Denethor went to change his robes. By the time he reached his rooms, he began feeling overly tired and since he hadn’t been sleeping well after Boromir’s departure to Ithilien, he decided it was simple fatigue.

They were making such good progress now and it looked to him that they had gained territory that had been lost for many years. He was able to disregard Boromir’s pessimism and keep his hold on land that rightfully belonged to Gondor. It couldn’t hurt anything if, for once, he took the day off to catch up on his sleep. It was well known that he missed his oldest son dreadfully and that he had been less than hopeful about this campaign.

So it was that when the courier reached the great hall, the Steward was not available to receive his message. The courtiers in attendance knew that he trusted his heir implicitly and only sent a message confirming Boromir’s decisions. The new messenger that was to bring the confirmation to the Captain-General was also one of the elite members of the ‘family’ who had other news that would let the ruler, in all but name, know that his plans were safe for the rest of the day.

By mid-day, Faramir realized that they were not going to slow the advancing troops very much more than they already had and there was some sort of trouble with the bridge. Despite the effectiveness of their efforts in killing and incapacitating the enemy forces, they still pressed forward as if driven. It was the most bloody and gruesome slaughter he’d ever seen. Already he was more than halfway to the bridge and could hear the sounds of the engineers working at its supports.

As he reached a cache of arrows, he felt a strange sickening in his stomach and it seemed as if the air grew darker, even though there were no clouds in the sky. Standing on the branch of the tree where the cache had been hidden, he looked down his back trail to see what was coming. He could barely make out the tower of Minas Morgul and, at its base, what appeared to be a dark cloud was moving slowly in his direction. There was no way to tell what it was from this distance, but its exit from the tower had incited the attacking forces to new levels of frenzy. It was clear that he and his men were in serious danger of being overrun.

Signaling his men to fall back, he began making his way to the ground so that he could find one of the couriers waiting to take messages to his brother. There were many horrors that the dark lord had at his command that could cause similar effects to what he was seeing, but he was fairly sure of what they would soon be facing. If he proved to be correct in his surmise, their only hope was to destroy the bridge before the enemy reached it. And they could only hope that the Anduin would be deep and wide enough to keep them safe for a while.

It took nearly four hours for Faramir’s rangers to be pushed back to the outskirts of the city of Osgiliath. The Gondorian engineers had been using the rubble from the ruins to make several rings of defensive fortifications since they’d retaken the eastern bank in early spring. When they first arrived, they fell back almost to the bridge to rest while heavily armed and well prepared foot troops took on the advancing horde.

“I thought you would have the bridge down by now, brother,” Faramir said as Boromir embraced him.

“It seems that some fool thought it needed reinforcing and now we are having trouble removing the braces,” Boromir said angrily, carefully examining his brother for injuries. “How many did you lose?” he asked.

“More than three hundred and fifty, including Nelis,” Faramir told him dry-eyed, as he knew casualties would start to rise drastically as the day went on. If they couldn’t get the bridge down, it would get very bad for anyone in the eastern portion of the city. “I have a very bad feeling about what is following behind them,” Faramir added, sitting at a table and forcing himself to eat a bit before he headed back into the fray. “How much longer before they finish at the bridge?”

“At least two more hours, little brother,” Boromir said as he cleaned and dressed Faramir’s wounds. “The last of the added braces should be off soon and then it should go by the numbers. Some of the farmers from the Pelennor are helping while their families are evacuating. The Pelennor should be empty of non-combatants before sundown. As many as possible are heading directly west into Lossarnach and western Anorien. Since there is no palisade to defend it, I’ve ordered the town at Amon Din evacuated as well. I expect father will be here around sunset, it seems he fell into a deep sleep before the courier got there and no one dared wake him.”

They grew quiet for a few moments while Boromir finished his ministrations. Neither brother wanted to talk about why their father had felt the sudden urge to take a nap, though both were grateful that they hadn’t had to deal with him. He would be angry and suspicious when he woke, but the seriousness of their situation would keep that on a back burner until they had time to deal with him.

“Let’s go see how our men are doing, brother,” Boromir said as he finished up on Faramir’s injuries. They knew they would both have many more before their day was over.

At the outer wall, they were surprised by the crazed behavior of their attackers. Already the mounds of dead bodies were halfway up the walls in several places where orcs and goblins sought to climb over their dead companions to reach the defenders. The ravening horde of monsters and men was unheeding of the massive loss of life, surging and pressing at the wall as if it was all that mattered.

In the distance they could see the slow approach of the black cloud, which caused a knot of dread to form in their stomachs. Here at the wall, where they were holding their position, the feelings of disorientation and fear were more noticeable.

“What comes, brother?” Boromir asked as he pushed the terror of the creature to the back of his mind. “How can we fight this monster?”

“It travels slow even though I sense great power from it, so I’m sure the sunlight gives it grief,” Faramir answered, trying to see through the distance. “I think it might be one of the Nazgûls come to lead the dark lord’s forces. Maybe even the Witch King himself since he commands such a great force. The only thing we have that can stop him is the river, and only if the bridge is destroyed.”

“You go help the engineers, little brother,” Boromir said, nodding his head as if listening to an inner voice. “I will hold each wall as long as I can. I have my shield and by the grace of Tulkas, we may still win the day.”

“As you order, brother,” Faramir answered with a salute. “They will not cross the bridge if I’m still alive.”

Besides the unauthorized reinforcements to the long wooden bridge, there were also booby traps that severed fingers and sometimes claimed the lives of the engineers working to bring it down. Faramir had spent the last four hours waist deep in the water as he used his own skills and encouragement to aid in their desperate efforts. The commander in charge of protecting the bridge was somewhere in eastern Osgiliath fighting the advancing enemy. If that man survived the battle, Faramir would make sure that he faced charges of incompetence, if not treason.

Finally the great timbers that supported the main span were creaking with strain and starting to give a little to the strong current of the Anduin. Behind him, Faramir heard his brother sound the great horn of Gondor, calling all available to aid him as he tried to hold the last barricade before the bridge. Climbing back out of the water, Faramir drew his sword and knife as he ran to fight at his brother’s side.

Boromir was highlighted by the flames of the burning oil they had poured into the gap between the last two walls. The orc and uruk forces were still attacking the wall and its defenders even though they frequently burst into flames for their efforts. The Nazgûl that had been slowly progressing down the road had finally reached the first of the barricades. It was a dark figure cloaked in black and riding a strange black horse with red eyes and, by now, both brothers knew it was one of the dark lord’s most dangerous minions.

The sun was setting and the fell creature was finally able to move a little more swiftly in the evening twilight. Still, the obstacles of the walls, even though they’d been already overrun, and the piled corpses slowed it considerably in its advance. The frenzy its approach inspired in its own forces and the fear it caused in the defenders was heightened by its nearness. However, as Boromir sounded the horn again it seemed to have the opposite effect on all present.

As Faramir reached his brother’s side, he heard the sound of the bridge finally giving way to the efforts of the engineers. The main span collapsed into the river, drawing a cry of rage from the Nazgûl as it spurred its mount to greater speed. There was no longer any reason to defend this space, so Faramir grabbed his brother by his heavy sword belt and began dragging him backwards towards the river. At first Boromir struggled, then looking around to reassess the situation, he again raised the horn to his lips and sounded the retreat.

They plunged into the river together, Faramir using his knife to cut the straps holding Boromir’s plate armor in place. By the time they had dropped all of the extra weight and reached the surface of the river they were a distance downstream from the bridge. They set out quickly towards the western shore, doing their best to avoid the wreckage and bodies floating in the water.

When he had woken, it had taken several minutes for him to become fully aware of what was going on. Though he was well over eighty years old, he was of full High Númenorean blood and could easily expect to live at least twice as many years. There was nothing wrong with his hearing and every word that was being whispered outside his bedroom door was as clear as if yelled into his ear. The enemy had reached Osgiliath and was threatening the west bank of the river.

Rising swiftly, he called for his latest body servant to come help him don his armor. He kept his anger back to be released on the enemy. If they weren’t enough to slake his ire, then his sons would serve for allowing themselves to be pushed back by the dark lord’s minions. There was also the question of what had caused his sudden desire to sleep the day away.

As he strode through the halls, the latest reports were related to him by out-of-breath counselors. All of the military advisors were at the river. Mounting his horse, he spurred it to a run, causing people to scatter all the way to the Great Gate. The sun was setting behind him as he rode hard toward the ruined city, wanting to beat the darkness so that he could see with his own eyes what was happening.

His progress was slowed at the city by the hastily erected barricades that had to be pushed out of his way. He had just reached the final barricade when the deafening sound of the collapsing bridge reached his ears and he saw it falling gracelessly into the water. Across the span of river he watched as, in the final rays of the setting sun, his youngest son dragged his fully armored heir toward the mess of swirling wreckage and dead bodies that was now the Anduin.

The outrage nearly overpowered him until the shrill heart-stopping scream echoed across the river. At the last minute, he kept himself from fully looking into the eyes of the abomination on the other bank. Suddenly he knew who and what his sons had been fighting with such desperation to stop. It took all of his iron self-control to turn back to the men watching in horror at what they had barely avoided so far.

Snapping quick orders for the defense of the river bank, praying that the expanse of swiftly running water would be enough to halt the Witch King, he made his way back through the city. Heading for the fords downstream, he added another prayer that his sons had survived their plunge into the Anduin. As the first of the rafts ignited and floated downstream towards his destination, Denethor vowed silently to himself to never listen to the White Wizard again. He fully realized that, if it weren’t for his son’s actions and planning, they could very well have lost far more than a bridge this day.

It still wasn’t sure that they could hold the west bank.

There were welcoming hands to help them climb the steep-sided bank as they reached it. Boromir was barely finished coughing and spitting up the river water he’d swallowed before bellowing orders to those present. Faramir followed silently behind him, gazing up and down their defenses, carefully avoiding taking in the number of dead that floated in the water. There would be time to count their losses once they’d stopped the enemy’s advance.

They were still north of the ford so they headed south, both brothers issuing orders to the captains who’d gathered at the sound of Boromir’s voice. Though they had been sure that the bridge would fall eventually, neither of them had foreseen this scenario. They were well prepared, though, and already the fords were lit up with the first of the small barges that were burning merrily near the center of the river. Arming themselves with weapons confiscated from those nearby, they headed to where the continuing battle was thickest.

Boromir’s hands clenched almost convulsively at the borrowed sword and shield he held as he yelled out orders to the troops both in the water and at the river’s edge. Everything in his blood demanded that he wade out into the almost shallow ford and engage the enemy himself, but duty held him to his position of directing the battle. The sound of cavalry reached his ears and he cursed quietly at who would be foolish enough to bring horses into this situation. He realized that it was the Steward, accompanied by his personal guard, just as the night was pierced by another scream from the black clad leader of the dark lord’s forces.

The river was wide and shallow here and very much threatened by the attacking army. Though the Nazgûl avoided running water if possible, it could cross here if it wasn’t well defended. Both Denethor and his heir watched in enraged horror as the creature urged its minions into the river, thankful that it was too far away for its red gaze to cast any spells on the defenders.

Then Faramir stepped forward towards the river bank, a flaming arrow notched to his borrowed bow and let fly at the opposite shore. The projectile arched up into the nearly dark sky, swiftly followed by others. To almost everyone’s surprise, the first bolt fell next to the Witch King, its strong fuel setting the orc it hit on fire. The Nazgûl was somewhat vulnerable to fire, so it backed its horse further from the bank, screaming in rage and urging its minions to greater frenzy.

Stepping into the water a few feet, Faramir shot another arrow, which sped to land burning in the ground directly beneath the Nazgûl. With another scream of rage, it backed even further and they could hear its hisses as it hurled curses at the Steward’s youngest son. Undaunted, Faramir started firing his flaming arrows in quick succession, nearly surrounding the Witch King with flames.

There was no choice but for the Nazgûl to retire from the field. Every time it backed away, Faramir stepped a little further into the river and fired again. The water was only waist deep nearly to midstream and he had two men moving with him, one with the naphtha soaked arrows and the other with a fire pot. This, along with his spectacular bowmanship, made the forefront of the battle too dangerous for the Witch King.

As the sun rose over Ephel Duarth on that Midsummer Day, the battle was winding down into its final phases. After a few words with his heir, Denethor had left to double check on the other forces along the river. Boromir had carefully guided his men through the night, frequently replacing the troops on the front lines with the rested reserves. Faramir had control of the archers and kept not only the Nazgûl away from the shoreline, but directed his men to kill the uruks and Haradrim leaders.

The Steward and his sons rode back to Minas Tirith, their banners held high. The people of the city cheered them as they passed. The great hall was cleared of all but the most trusted of their councilors as they gathered around the high table to go over the reports and add up the number of the dead and injured. The mood was dark and grim as even here there were noticeable absences. For the first time in four years, neither of Faramir’s bondservants were at his side.

Of the four hundred Ithilien Rangers that had held the enemy back through the previous day, less than fifty had made it to eastern Osgiliath. Hundreds more had defended the city to the bridge and only four men had reached the western bank. These included Boromir, Faramir, Belgar who was injured so badly he would never walk again even if he survived, and a young soldier who had only recently been cleared to fight. The losses through the night were not as clear. As each commander gave his report and the tally of those lost, the Steward’s face became more and more grim.

The final count was nearly five thousand men dead and over twice that in serious injuries. It was nearly a third of the army that had marched across Ithilien. There were scattered weeping and cursing among those gathered as the full impact of their losses hit them. The Steward turned deathly pale while the two brothers exchanged expressionless gazes.

After allowing a few minutes for those present to adjust to the information, Boromir rose to his feet and began to issue orders. His confident command of the situation did much to help assuage the fear and disappointment. As the room cleared with everyone going to complete their assigned task, Boromir pulled a chair over so that he could sit between his father and brother. He waited patiently for the last of them to leave and took the offered goblet of wine from Stefle before continuing.

“Someone sabotaged the bridge, father,” he said quietly, leaning back in his chair. “They reinforced all the supports and set traps to stop anyone from removing them. We almost didn’t get the bridge down in time. If we didn’t have the river as a buffer, there is no way we could have driven back the Witch King of Angmar. I have no doubt that he is the one that was commanding the enemy.”

Denethor paled even more at his words, remembering approving minor repairs to the bridge. He hadn’t even considered the implications and the fact that he was interfering with the defense of Gondor. The traps meant that whoever had done the work and, possibly those who had requested it, were in league with the enemy.

“If you can help us find any work orders for the bridge and anyone associated with it, we will be able to get to the bottom of this sooner,” Boromir continued, ignoring his father’s reaction. “Since we haven’t slept in nearly two days Faramir and I will retire until tomorrow, if it is all right with you?”

“Yes, of course,” Denethor agreed, glad that his son wasn’t going to break into a tirade about his mistake. There was nothing he could do to change what he had done, but he would do whatever it took to make it up to his son and his people. Watching Boromir lead Faramir from the great hall, he knew that he was going to have to make some serious changes in the near future.

The smile on Boromir’s face was absolutely wicked as he and Faramir were cleaned and then had their wounds dressed. Stefle was finishing the final accounting of who had died and, while the list was long, it was not nearly as long as had been expected. Their projections had been for them to lose at least twice that number. If they had brought the bridge down earlier in the previous day, the sheer numbers the Witch King had would have clogged the ford and allowed him to pass over the river.

As it was, they were sure they had destroyed over half of his army throughout the day and another quarter of it through the night. It would be months before Mordor would be able to build up enough man and monster power to threaten the west bank of the Anduin again. The scheming and interfering of Saruman had worked to their advantage for the battle, placing everyone exactly where they would do the most good to overcome the enemy.

More importantly, Denethor now knew that the White Wizard might not be on his side. If Boromir said the right words, he might be able to convince his father to put aside the use of the palantir as well, at least for a while. Despite the loss of so many of their own, they were now in a much better position than they’d been in before they began the campaign. For the first time in over a year, it looked like they might be able to hold Gondor together until the prophecy of the king was fulfilled.

His smile faded as he remembered Faramir’s dream the night before the attack. It looked like it was now time for him to take his place in that prophecy. He gathered Faramir close as they lay on their bed, each of them too tired, for the first time in memory, to do more than cuddle close to each other. Kissing his brow he whispered into Faramir’s ear, “sleep, little brother.” Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with his father and any dreams that wanted to change their lives.

Part 22: PARTING

Hel created an illustration for this chapter.

There was nowhere else he would rather be. Sometimes he imagined that this was all that existed in the world and he could just stay here forever with the beautiful body in his arms pressed up against him so closely. It was more than love he felt. He loved his father, despite all that had happened between them, he loved Éomer and Éowyn. All of his many children and his brother’s children, he loved as well. But nothing was like this.

Looking into wide blue eyes he could almost see his own hazel eyes staring back. Sometimes, despite the intense pleasure he found in the body pressed so close to his own, he felt cheated by the envelopes of flesh that separated them. With slow, languorous movements they moved together, hard aroused flesh rubbing against their bellies. So close, so hot, so right, where he always wanted to be.

Nothing could hold back time and as slow as their movements were, they approached the pinnacle of their desire with relentless progression. Keeping their eyes wide open, knowing that the second they closed everything would change and they would have no choice but to move forward. Breaths catching in constricted throats, fingers digging with bruising force into warm flesh, they fought to become frozen in this small piece of eternity. Their eyes fell closed simultaneously and both bodies were pierced with the jolts of pleasure so strong they were almost painful.

In the stillness of the predawn, they were once again entwined in their blissful connection. Closer than flesh, closer than blood, wrapped eternally in each other.

Although visions could overtake him at any time, they usually waited until Faramir was sleeping. Especially the really bad ones. Always the ones he shared with his brother.

The sound of fire crackling, much as it did at their campsites where their men gathered to eat and share company was steadily growing in their ears, all other sight and sound hidden from their senses. It wasn’t quite right. As it rose to a roar, they were granted the other sounds and sights of the vision. They were in a tight pressed group of humans, elves, dwarves, orcs, and many other species, some of which they were ignorant. To one side were two giant cave trolls who were randomly plucking individuals from their group and tossing them screaming into a large fire watched over by the flaming eye of the Dark Lord.

They barely had time to recognize the looming tower of Barad-dur before they were grabbed up by one of the oversized monsters and thrown into the leaping black flames of the Dark Lord’s altar. Their screams joined those of the other victims as they fell into the burning darkness. Flesh blackening and falling away in ashy flakes, they were consumed by the evil inferno. Then they rose up as wisps of fetid smoke to join the dark clouds that sped into the false night.

The voice came out of the west, rising to drown out the horrific cries behind them.

“Seek for the Sword that was broken: In Imladris it dwells; There shall be counsels taken Stronger than Morgul-spells. There shall be shown a token That Doom is near at hand, For Isildur’s Bane shall waken, And the Halfling forth shall stand.”

In a flash of blinding light, they were transformed. Faramir was reformed as if he were a stalwart wall and the roiling fog of evil hit against his base and was turned back to the Dark Lord’s domain. Boromir became a stallion racing to the north bearing the emblazoned tack of the king. The pain of their separation was worse than their fiery death, even though they knew that this was the only salvation for their people.

Then all fell to darkness and out of it flared the light of a silver star surmounting a pair of blue gray eyes that seemed to peer into their very souls. A cleansing wind rose washing away the stench of Mordor with the scents of leather, sweat and kingsfoil. Peace settled in their hearts and they felt the healing of the land as the brightness of the star spread, covering all the world with its pure light.

Both of them woke gasping and pulling each other closer. There were no tears now. Though their hearts felt as if they’d been ripped from their bodies, they could not regret their destiny. The Valar had seen fit to allow them three and a half decades of being brothers, longer than they’d really expected. Now they would fulfill their roles in the prophecy, knowing that no matter what fate held for them, they would be rejoined at the end. Whether in life or death, nothing would ever sever them from each other.

Leaning back in his brother’s arms, Faramir felt even more tired than when he’d finally finished fighting the previous day. Their entire personal guard of one hundred forty seven had been killed and they needed to find replacements before Boromir left on his journey. It had been decided that forty men would do to start since the older brother would be leaving alone. However, Boromir insisted that Faramir increase the number of his bondsmen to four and made him promise to replace them promptly should they fall to battle or other mayhem.

Two of the new manciples, Mablor and Hieling, had both been Ithilien rangers before they’d started training for the possibility of someday being Faramir’s bodyguards. The other two were assassins again, Riel and Lathan, older men who had spent as much time in the military as in the houses of royalty in service to the Steward’s sons. Despite the vision, Boromir was worried about his brother’s safety. The house of their servants had been devastated by the battle, many of the warriors from the house had died or been permanently disabled.

There was also evidence of other conspirators working against them in more than just the sabotaged bridge. Some of their people had died mysteriously and important information had been lost or altered. But Stefle was still in control of most of the city’s intelligence.

“The wizard Mithrandir was looking into the records from the end of the last age,” Stefle said in his quiet voice. “Specifically, the memoirs of Isildur and his accounts of the ‘ring of power’. It ties in with the latest vision my lords.”

“Just what I need, more dark magic to cause trouble,” Boromir groaned at his words. “Let us hope that father doesn’t find out, I don’t think I could bear any more intrigue about magical tools. I just may beat the next person who even suggests using such items.”

Laughing at his brother’s words, Faramir began moving to the edge of the bed. “If you think father has suffered enough, I would like to get our meeting with him over with,” he said, allowing the waiting servants to begin dressing him. His new bondsmen were to act strictly as bodyguards so he tried to ignore them as they kept their attention on the doors and windows in the room.

“This won’t end it, little brother,” Boromir told him. “He will use every chance he can get until I leave to pester both of us into changing my mind. Worse, I’ll have to do every thing possible to ensure that he doesn’t interfere with your command of the military while I’m gone. I know that all of the present captains are loyal to us, but he can do a lot of damage if you are forced to publicly oppose him.”

“I know, brother,” Faramir whispered as Boromir pulled him into an embrace. “But I am confident in both of our abilities. I’m sure we will succeed.”

“I pray that you are right, my beloved one,” Boromir said, kissing his brow before releasing him.

The familiar surroundings of his study gave him small comfort as he prepared to meet with his sons. There had been no condemnation of him the previous day before they had retired, but he could not expect Boromir to remain silent on his part in the near disaster. He had never felt so lost as he did now. It was clear that he couldn’t trust Saruman, probably couldn’t trust what he’d seen in the palantir as well. Through his error, they had almost lost the west bank of the Anduin and possibly Minas Tirith itself.

With a last sigh at his surroundings, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He was prepared to step down as Steward if that was what Boromir required of him. It would be better to end his term in disgrace than to lose the realm to the Dark Lord. Hopefully, he would be able to remain on as an advisor to his heir.

There was no sign of reproach on Boromir’s face when he entered the room, but the look of grim determination sent a chill to Denethor’s heart. Even Faramir looked strained instead of the usual look of impassive calm. They took their chairs quickly and his emotions were running so high that he didn’t even notice the two new bondsmen accompanying his youngest son. With a level gaze, he met his heir’s eyes and waited to hear what was coming.

“We need to make some changes to our methods of communication, father,” Boromir began sitting back in his chair. “It could be disastrous if our efforts in the future come to such cross purposes as they did at the bridge in Osgiliath. The enemy has too many advantages and we too few resources to allow any more mistakes of that magnitude.”

“Of course I agree, Boromir,” Denethor quickly said, glad that he’d made no mention of deposing his father. “I’m sure you have some suggestions?”

“Yes I do, father,” Boromir answered and then paused with a considering look on his face. “There are some things you need to know though before anything more can be decided. I’m sure you’ve had some of the visions we have had of the spreading darkness?”

Denethor nodded, even though his own dreams had been vague and further apart since he’d been using the palantir.

“The night before the attack Faramir heard a riddle that went with the dream,” Boromir continued. “Last night we both heard it again.” With that said, he repeated what they’d heard.

Leaning back in his chair, Denethor considered Boromir’s words. “Imladris I have heard of before. It is the elven stronghold of Elrond Halfelven, established during the second age. They also call it Rivendell and it lies west of the Misty Mountains, on the edge of Eriador, which was once known as the Realm of Arnor. It is very far away with no known roads between here and there. None of our maps are up to date for that area either.” He paused in thought, considering the rest of the rhyme. “The sword that was broken could mean many things, but for Gondor it has always been Narsil. I know you’ve heard of it, the sword that was shattered at the last battle of men and elves. Isildur used it to cut the one ring from the evil one’s hand. Isildur’s bane might be the ring, for he disappeared shortly after leaving Gondor carrying it.”

Both brothers nodded their heads, remembering the tales from their lessons. Denethor had made sure that they learned the history of Gondor. The next part would be the hardest part.

“I have to go to Imladris, father,” Boromir said, his words falling like blows on the Steward’s ears. “That was also part of our vision and something we can’t change.”

“No,” Denethor almost yelled, sitting forward, not wanting to believe his ears. “Gondor would be lost without you.”

“As flattering as that is to hear, father,” Boromir laughed sadly. “It is by no means true. You still rule Gondor and do it quite well when you don’t rely on information from questionable sources. I only run the army. As for that, Faramir has been at my side for over twenty years and knows everything that I do about our defenses and the enemy’s capabilities. We have gone over every foreseeable scenario and planned for everything we could think of.” He paused, meeting his father’s eyes and continuing with earnest tones. “There is no choice in this, father. I am the one who has to go. If we are to survive, we have to take the initiative. I know that my going to Imladris holds the key to our salvation.”

He had not expected this. He wasn’t sure he could accept it either. Boromir had always anchored his world and the mere thought of his absence was unbearable. “Surely there is some other way?” he exclaimed, unwilling to give in.

“I have never desired to leave Gondor, father,” Boromir said raising a hand to stroke Faramir’s arm. “Or to leave you or my brother’s side. Especially to wander alone down long forgotten trails, but I cannot shirk what is my duty to do. I would lose all honor if I did.”

There was nothing he could say to counter Boromir’s words. He had taught them himself that honor was to be kept at all costs. A part of himself that he didn’t even know existed wanted him to curse and yell and forsake all honor rather than see his son on this journey. “Have you made any arrangements yet?” he asked, feeling his heartbreak.

“Only that I will leave within a fortnight,” Boromir answered. “The archives are being searched now for maps and any recent references about the lands to the north. But there are other, more pressing matters we must see to first. I’ve begun the preparations for the non-combatants to be evacuated from Minas Tirith.”

Denethor couldn’t help but gasp in shock at his words. “You’re sure that is necessary?” he asked already knowing the answer.

“It could be as soon as three months that our enemies are ready to strike at us again,” Boromir said. “They have the Nazgûl to use against us, maybe even more than one and their production of orcs and uruks continues day and night. We can hold out for a long time, but if our women and children are caught here in the city when it falls, the whole of Gondor could lose hope. Almost everyone has relatives in western Gondor, and for those that don’t, we’ve been working on special arrangements.”

“You’re so sure the White City will fall, my son?” Denethor asked sadly.

“No, father,” Boromir told him, though he still remained grim. “But I would rather be prepared for the worst than know that orcs and goblins eat our children. My brother and I have already lost far too many in the constant fighting.”

Denethor nodded slowly at his words, he rarely thought of his sons’ children, his grandchildren. They were sometimes fostered to highborn families in Minas Tirith, those born of proper rank, but he knew none of them personally. He didn’t want to know them and always associated them with whatever house they’d been born to rather than to his own. As for those of low birth, he didn’t want to think of them at all. Despite what he didn’t really want to acknowledge, they were still a fact of his life. There was a very exacting and well-established order of precedence, which would choose a new heir should he and his sons die before they produced a child from marriage.

“I had noticed that even as you fought to hold west Osgiliath that the Pelennor was being evacuated,” he said with a Grímace of distaste. “It will be lonely for many here in the city and on the Pelennor without their families. I’m sure they’ll be happier knowing they’re safer in the west.” He felt defeated, lost without any chance of rescue.

“Worry not, father,” Boromir told him with one of his beautiful heart-melting smiles. “I do not plan on losing to the Dark Lord. If we can hold together through this time of darkness, we will be successful. Just have faith in our plans and visions. They have kept us alive so far.”

The Steward nodded and acquiesced to his heir. Boromir had kept them safe this long and pulled them out of what could easily have been the final battle for Minas Tirith, against such formidable odds that it was impossible for him not to have faith in his eldest. It would have been very easy for his sons to denounce his part in the sabotage of the bridge and have him removed as Steward, even put to death for treason. But they had chosen to overlook his glaring weakness that had so endangered his people and allowed him to continue in his current office. He would do whatever was necessary to earn their trust.

There had been many funerals for the dead and more planned, but Denethor had readily agreed to his son’s suggestion of a large public ceremony for those who had died in the battle for the bridge. It was only four days later that most of the local populace gathered beneath the Great Gate of the City. A large bonfire was at the center of the gathering and to the west of it on a raised dais the Steward watched the proceedings from a large throne-like chair. Boromir and Faramir wore long blue robes emblazoned front and back with the White Tree of Gondor. They stood slightly behind Cara who was dressed similarly and called on the Valar to watch over the departed spirits and those who were still living.

Stefle stood to the north and Draymor to the south each intoning the names of the fallen as Cara led the gathering. Interspersed throughout the crowd were members of the ‘house’ who helped those unfamiliar with the ritual. That the Steward and his sons were present was a great comfort and inspiration to the people. Even Denethor could see how the charismatic personalities of the two younger men affected the crowd. They moved through the ritual with the ease of long practice. The leaping flames of the fire made them shine out among the predominantly dark Gondorians, two golden princes.

Baskets of herbs and incense were thrown into the great pit of fire causing the flames to flare and climb higher into the night. The sweet scent spread over the gathering and the Steward was caught-up as he had never been in any of the ceremonies of his youth. There was something frightening and beautiful in what was happening before him, much like his two sons. For the first time since the battle, he felt almost comforted. Maybe even for the first time since he’d lost his trusted aide, Galmar.

At the end of the ritual, most of the people filed past the dais where Denethor sat, his sons standing before him and giving kind words and blessings to their people. The Steward felt a little as if he had been tricked into validating their cult even though the results were more positive than he would have believed. As torches were lit from the great bonfire to illuminate the trestle tables groaning with food, the loaded wagons that waited to carry the first caravan of evacuees also became visible. It would be months or years before men could gather with their families before the city of Minas Tirith again, if ever. It was a small enough thing that he did to allow his sons to give comfort to their people.

As the flames leaped into the night sky and the incense filled his lungs, Faramir let his mind wander as he moved through the familiar steps of the ritual. So many had died in the last few years that it had been performed almost monthly and usually for more than one. It did help to soothe him but wasn’t quite enough to calm all of his pain and fears. In only a few more days, Boromir would be leaving and nothing could turn his thoughts away from that completely.

Already the process of their separation had started. They met daily with the captains and royalty of Gondor. Some meetings were private to secure the loyalty of those in question, but most were under the watchful eye of the Steward. How long their father could be trusted before he fell back into his old ways was also in question.

With a heavy sigh, he released his worries and immersed himself into the ritual. Despite his visions, there was no definite view of the future. He could only do his best and hope that it was good enough.

Long ago Boromir had given himself up to belief. Not a night had passed that he didn’t spend with his beloved brother, either physically or in his dreams. At every ritual he heard the words of Tulkas, often only echoes of his first vision of him, but sometimes there was a new message for the Steward’s heir.

“You would sacrifice all for king and country?” the laughing giant asked.

“There is no other choice,” Boromir answered. “The means to fight the Dark Lord are not here in Gondor, so I must go and get them.”

“Do you know what you seek?”

“I have the hints from our visions and the knowledge of my heart,” Boromir told him with firm conviction. “Even if there is no aid for me from the Valar, I will find my way. I will find my king. I will save my people.”

“And your brother?” Tulkas queried.

“He will hold Gondor. He will fulfill his task and make me proud.”

“You have no doubts?” Tulkas pushed.

“There is no room for doubts,” Boromir told him. “If I allowed any, I would not be able to leave.”

“Your road is long and dangerous,” Tulkas said with sympathy. “There will be many challenges to be faced but I have faith in you, if you mind your shield and keep your faith.”

The vision of the laughing giant faded from his view, but not his words. Boromir felt that somehow there was more to them than he understood, but only time would tell.

“I would stay and help defend the city if I wouldn’t be more of a burden than a help,” Belgar said from where he lay in the wagon surrounded by the three young people he had brought into the family from the town below Amon Din.

“I couldn’t imagine you being a burden, no matter your injuries,” Faramir assured him as he sat at his side. “We need you to keep our children safe, I would trust no other as much as I trust you.”

“You are too generous as always, my Lord,” Belgar laughed, no longer obligated to call him ‘master’. “But I will do what I can. The healers think I should be able to start getting used to getting around without my leg in only a few months.”

“I’m sure you’ll surprise them,” Boromir told him from where he stood at the end of the wagon. “Cara will have plenty of other work to keep you occupied until then. Since you are leaving both Shirel and Birel with Faramir, you and Firith will have much to do.”

“It is their choice, my Lord,” Belgar said. “I would have them with me where it will be somewhat safer. But I am glad to see that Lani will be coming to Lamedon with us. Her presence has always been a comfort.”

“Yes it has,” Boromir said with a broad grin. “I leave it in your hands to see that she is well occupied. As the senior male member of the ‘house’ it is no more than your duty.”

All three men laughed, even though the younger people present hadn’t yet learned the usefulness of Lani, the only mistress of the Steward’s heir.

It had been nearly nine years since Denethor had climbed the long stairs to the suite of rooms his sons occupied. He wondered at their invitation, knowing that some point would be made during the meal. Boromir guarded his time with his brother now jealously, even when it came to their father.

“I would go in your place, brother,” came a quavering voice that Denethor barely recognized as Faramir’s. The younger brother had always been so resolute in his father’s presence. “Father prefers you to run the army and I speak more languages than you do.”

“If preferences were involved, I would take you with me or not go at all, little brother,” Boromir told him firmly. “We must do our duty and the visions have been very clear on who must go and who must stay.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Faramir said in a husky voice.

“It is what I must do, my beloved one,” Boromir told him. “It is only for a time and then we will be reunited. I shall bring aid to defeat the enemy and while I’m gone, they will break upon your defenses like the waves on the breakwater at Dol Amroth. At the end, we will be united in victory, there is no other choice.”

“As you will, my brother,” Faramir said, his voice becoming firm. “I am ever your obedient vassal. I will endure the shadow that is life without your presence and fulfill my duties to Gondor as your agent.”

“I know you can be counted on, little brother,” Boromir told him. Denethor came to the open door then and saw his heir kissing Faramir’s brow, a not uncommon sight. But the younger man was on his knees before his brother who was sitting on a low couch and when he was released, he backed away to the side but remained kneeling on the floor. “Here is father to join us for our meal,” Boromir said, standing but keeping his hand on Faramir’s shoulder so that he wouldn’t rise. “Come join us, father,” Boromir invited, indicating a matching couch on the opposite side of the low table.

“I am honored that you asked me to join you, my son,” Denethor said as he took his place.

“It is an honor to us that you accepted, father,” Boromir said with a warm smile, but a look to his eye that was a bit frightening to the Steward. “This way, we can relax in privacy and enjoy one of our last nights together before my journey.”

Denethor smiled and agreed even though he took note of the twenty or so servants who moved silently about the room bringing food and wine, not to mention the armed guards that lined the walls, including all four of Faramir’s bondsmen. Even this high up in the tower, it was hot as all Gondorian midsummers were and both brothers had dressed lightly. Boromir wore a pair of knee-length pants and an open vest while Faramir wore only a matching pair of pants. Despite the servants, Faramir served his brother from the dishes presented, cutting the meat and pouring the wine. He had no plate or goblet for himself eating and drinking only from his brother’s hand.

It was a bit unnerving for the Steward to watch the intimacy between the two, especially since Boromir fed his brother from his fingers and the slight movement forward after he took a sip of wine before lowering the goblet to his brother’s lips let Denethor know that their usual practice was even more intimate. More disturbing were the glimpses of cuttings and tattoos that had transformed the scars of both his sons into works of art. From the tree cut into Boromir’s chest to the representation of Minas Tirith on Faramir’s back, they’d altered each other as if in defiance of fate.

Still, it was a pleasant meal. Boromir was at his best in drawing his father out and Faramir only spoke when directly addressed. It filled a deep need Denethor had to spend time in his sons’ presence. A part of him regretted that he’d never cultivated such meals with them. Their closeness to each other seemed much less threatening by the end of the meal.

“Go prepare my bath, little brother,” Boromir said, placing another kiss on Faramir’s brow. Denethor knew that servants would most likely do all the work but Faramir rose without protest to do his brother’s bidding, his bondsmen following behind him.

“He has always been so willing to follow your lead, my son,” Denethor said as Faramir left the room. “Are you sure he is a strong enough leader to run the military while you are gone?”

“If the sight of him pushing the Witch King of Angmar into retreat isn’t enough to convince you of his ability, what would suffice, father?” Boromir asked, his eyes full of reproach. “I do not make decisions lightly. He has ever been my best counsel and I have absolute faith in him, as do our armies.”

The Steward paused, remembering the flaming arrows that had driven their foe back from the banks of the Anduin. No one had given Faramir the orders that had saved the day; he had taken it upon himself. “It is hard for me to accept any substitute for you, my son,” Denethor said with a heavy heart. “No matter his skill, he is not you.”

“But he is me, father,” Boromir insisted. “He is the other half to my soul and knows all that is within my mind and heart.” At the Steward’s expression of disbelief, his heir’s face turned grim. “If you do not accept him in my place, father, I will have no choice but to take him with me. It would be no burden, in fact it would be most pleasing to both of us.”

The words ‘never to return’ echoed throughout the Steward’s mind even though they hadn’t been spoken. It was easy to visualize his sons roaming the whole of Middle Earth once responsibility had been removed from them. “I will do as you say, after all it is your warcraft that has saved us so far.”

“So tomorrow at my parting feast you will announce that Faramir is to take my place as Captain General while I’m gone?” Boromir asked in all seriousness.

The pause before his response was so long that they both almost thought that he would refuse. “I will make the announcement at tomorrow’s feast, my son,” Denethor finally conceded. “Now is not the time for there to be any discord among us.”

“You will go down in history as the best of all the Stewards of Gondor, father,” Boromir said with a full smile that almost put his heart at ease. “Let us have a drink to settle our meal.”

As Stefle moved forward and poured each of them a small glass of brandy, Denethor realized that there were at the least thirty witnesses to his words here in this room. Even though his word to his oldest son was enough to bind him, he was startled that he had become unaware of so many others present. But he was comforted that Boromir always did what was best for Gondor. He always did what was best for his family.

As he prayed for dawn to never come, Faramir straddled his brother’s hips, moving slowly in the candlelight. He rested his hands on Boromir’s shoulders as his hips were gently guided by the strong bruising grip. They had been doing this at every chance for the last two weeks and still they hadn’t done it enough. They both knew there would never be enough.

“I want you to remember this, little brother,” Boromir whispered into the shadowed room. “For all the time that we are parted, I want you to know that in the end we will be rejoined. You are the other half to my soul.”

“I will remember, brother,” Faramir groaned as he felt one of Boromir’s hands move to his leaking cock. “I will not be whole again until your return.”

They reached their climax together only to start again, continuing until it was time for Boromir to leave.

The two brothers rode side by side, followed by Faramir’s bondsmen and the escort that would accompany Boromir as far as the border with Rohan. While it wasn’t exactly a secret departure, the streets were clear of spectators. The sun was just barely peeking over the Mountains of Shadow when they reached the Great Gate, passed through and turned north along the western road. When they had traveled about a mile, reaching the secluded place in the road where Faramir had first ridden out to welcome his brother home, they stopped. The escort continued to the edge of the clearing while Faramir’s bondsmen moved a few paces away to give them a little privacy.

“May the Valar keep you safe, little brother,” Boromir whispered as he leaned from his saddle to embrace his brother.

“May they watch over you, brother,” Faramir said his voice husky with emotion.

“I have my shield and the favor of Tulkas, my beloved one,” Boromir assured him with a smile. “It will seem like only moments have passed when you see me returning with the promised one to help save our people.”

“It will be an eternity, only my dreams will keep me sane, hurry home to me,” Faramir whispered as he pressed a kiss to his brother’s cheek.

“Fare thee well, little brother,” Boromir said before he kissed his lips one last time. Turning his horse, he rode away, not looking back lest he abandon his quest.

Part 23: FAREWELL IN ROHAN

At the western edge of the Firien Wood Boromir drew rein and ordered his escort back to Gondor. In the clearing before them waited Éomer with his Eored, ready to accompany him through Rohan. It was still early, so they rode a distance to the west coming to a small town that was little more than a way station before they stopped for the day.

Théodred was already encamped with a large contingent of Eorlingas waiting to discuss strategy with the Steward’s heir. They had had a successful spring and early summer campaign because of the advice of the two brothers and were eager to discuss more. Also, there was the tale of the loss of the bridge at Osgiliath which they wanted details on. The strengths and weaknesses of the enemy were vital to their survival.

A huge feast had been prepared and Boromir was gratified to see that Théodred was firmly in charge. The young prince guided the conversation at the table to neutral subjects, declaring the morning was soon enough for news of war since there was nothing pressing at the moment. The evening passed in a jovial mood and Boromir found himself more relaxed than he had been for months.

Eventually Éomer rose to his feet, bidding his cousin good night and urging Boromir to follow. He was somewhat surprised that Éomer had his own tent a few yards away and wondered if there had been some sort of discord between the two cousins even though there had been no sign during the meal.

“You look so surprised, Boromir,” Éomer laughed as he embraced him. “We discovered that as long as I shared Théodred’s tent, many thought that I was still in charge. With my own notably smaller pavilion, it makes it clear that I serve him.”

“And I know you serve him well, my wild prince,” Boromir whispered in his ear as his hands skillfully removed Éomer’s clothes. “There are few as talented as you.”

“I have missed you,” Éomer told him, stroking the man in his arms. As they moved toward the bed, he realized that he was definitely taller than Boromir, but the older man was broader with the heavy muscles built up from wearing full plate armor.

Boromir loved to look at Éomer spread below him. His body was full of sharp contrast that thrilled his hands and eyes. Very short blond hair covered him everywhere except for his beard, armpits, crotch and legs. There the hair was longer and so dark a brown as to be almost black, like the hair that grew at the base of his skull before the sun bleached it to match the rest. He’d never met anyone else with two such different hair colors. In the last year he’d gotten a few more scars, but his skin was still fairly smooth over hard muscle. Such a pleasure to touch.

“We have this night, my prince,” Boromir whispered into his ear as he rose up over the younger man. “I want to feel you in me.” Slowly he sank down on the fully erect cock, emitting a low moan as he felt the penetration.

It always felt good to ride Éomer’s long, hard cock. The younger man wrapped Boromir’s large penis with both well-oiled hands. He knew how to hold it just right so that Boromir threw his head back in ecstasy, exposing his long neck. Leaning further back, he braced his body, holding onto Éomer’s thighs just above the knees. He looked down past the long bow of his own body to watch the younger man as he arched beneath him.

Éomer bit his lip to keep from crying out. Boromir always surprised him with his imaginative and athletic maneuvers. It was bliss to once again be joined with him and reaching for that deeper, more fulfilling union.

The moment that Boromir and Éomer came within sight of each other, Faramir knew. His heart, which had felt like it had been filled with broken glass, was soothed, even though the emptiness was still there. It made it easier for him to concentrate on the myriad of duties that he now handled for his brother.

Freed from political and military meetings, which had taken up most of the morning, he checked on the evacuation of the city. Minas Tirith had originally been built as a fortress and had only become the capital of Gondor after the city of Osgiliath had been destroyed nearly fourteen hundred years earlier. Then it had been called Minas Anor, Tower of the Setting Sun, now it was the Tower of Guard. There were storage facilities that could hold enough supplies to keep it self-sufficient for years. The vast cisterns within the living rock also held an endless supply of water.

But if the enemy used such monsters as the Nazgûl, it wouldn’t last for more than a few days. There was no stone strong enough to hold back the evil magic of the Ringwraiths. Few, if any, could resist the terror that preceded their arrival. Faramir was also sure that there were other creatures the Dark Lord had at his disposal. He would not count on mere stone to protect his people.

At the end of the long day when he had done all that he could to ensure the safe departure of the latest caravan, he retired to the rooms he shared with his brother. He submitted to the care of their servants, allowing himself to be fed and bathed. His bondsmen rested in their beds one on each side of the room, knowing the morrow would bring another busy day. This place was safer than any other and they needed to be at their best in the halls of the tower and the press of the city.

Already, he could feel the first heady round of lovemaking begin between Boromir and Éomer. He was glad that his brother had kept his word and waited until late so that he didn’t lose his focus in an important meeting. Still, he was able to follow the directions of Stefle as he was put to bed with loving care. Now he only had to wait for Boromir to give the gift to Éomer that he had promised to deliver.

“I wish to make a horse trade with you, my prince,” Boromir whispered into Éomer’s ear.

“You haven’t grown tired of my gift?” Éomer asked in surprise.

“Never,” Boromir laughed at the scandalized look on the younger man’s face. “But I have need of a special horse, one suitable for a king of Gondor, and I have no wish to part with my own mare. At least not permanently,” he qualified.

“So you go at last to find your long lost king,” Éomer stated, sure of the response. Very little else would send Boromir away from his brother’s side in time of war. Let alone send him into Rohan without an escort of his own men.

“I go for that and more, my wild prince,” Boromir told him as they shifted on the bed. “The enemy loosed on us one of his Ringwraiths at Osgiliath; I’m sure it was the Black Captain himself. If the others should join him in a future attack, Minas Tirith will fall. We need our king and whatever other help the prophecy has foretold.”

“It is almost inconceivable that the Mundberg could fall,” Éomer said, frowning at the thought. “Whatever I can do to aid you I will.”

“I need a good trail horse, but nothing flashy. I will be traveling through the wilds and along forgotten trails; reliability is what I need most,” Boromir began as he sat up restlessly. “My mare is still well within breeding age and I would trade two of her foals for a mount for my king when we come back this way.”

Éomer laughed at the surety in his companion’s voice. “I will personally pick out and train the finest of horses to carry your king, my love, and a spare for you so that you will have a fine steed to ride into battle at his side. For I will have your mare in foal as soon as possible and I expect that you will return before she drops.” He pressed a kiss to Boromir’s chin, “What else?”

“The pack horses I brought with me are carrying both my own plate armor and a full set for the king. I will need them to be stored safely. There are other items as well that we perceived might come in handy on my return, as well as gifts for you and Éowyn,” Boromir told him. “Faramir added a few things for Théoden King and Théodred as well.”

“He always is mindful of his duty,” Éomer commented, lying back against the pillows on the bed. “I shall find safe storage for your belongings and anything else you need. There is even a horse that I already have in mind for you that should be perfect for your journey. And maps,” he added excitedly. “Though I wouldn’t swear to their accuracy, I received some maps from some travelers from Rhovanion. They had an elf with them from the great forests of the north. He was hairless everywhere except for the long blond hair on his head and more limber than I’ve ever seen.”

Boromir laughed at the glazed look that entered the prince’s eyes as he remembered the visit. “Did he show you anything new, my prince?” he asked.

“No,” Éomer said with a pleased smile. “But he was able to demonstrate what Faramir used to do for you before age stole his ability to bend so far. It was most enjoyable, I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

“Did this elf have a name, so I might thank him for his generosity if I should encounter him on my travels?” Boromir asked.

“He called himself Saelbeth,” Éomer answered. “He told me that the maps weren’t to be relied on too heavily as he had no skill with them himself. He was most agreeable; definitely give him my best if you do meet up with him.”

“You can count on it, my wild prince,” Boromir told him. “ And speaking of giving, there is something Faramir wished for me to give you,” he added with a leer.

“What would that be?” Éomer queried, his mouth going dry in anticipation.

“He wanted me to fuck you into oblivion,” Boromir said as he went to his knees between the prince’s thighs.

As had long been the custom of the high houses of Rohan and Gondor, the women of the house tended to the baths of visiting Royalty. Boromir remembered the bathing room from his last visit and lay back in the large tub as Éowyn washed his hair. Four of the most trusted of her ladies-in-waiting sat as chaperones against the wall, while Rina waited in the hall on watch.

“You have proved an invaluable asset to the Riddermark, my lovely one,” Boromir said as soon as she finished rinsing his hair. “Your creative imagination in protecting your king has been an inspiration to all of us. My brother and I can hardly wait until we can claim you as our own.”

“It seems to me that you have both been waiting quite patiently, my Lord,” she answered with a touch of bitterness. “Long have I been patient and I still remain little more than a prisoner in my uncle’s home. It has been well over a year since I sat astride any of my horses and felt the wind in my hair as we rode the open steppe as I was born to do. Instead I play nursemaid.” She nearly took the skin off Boromir’s back as she scrubbed him. “I am well past marriageable age and should be already with child, more than once,” she growled into his face, taking his wet hair in an angry fist to look him in the eye. “I deserve a reward for my efforts.”

“Whatever is in my power to give you, my princess,” Boromir told her, careful not to smile too widely at her show of temper. “I can refuse you nothing.”

Sitting back on her heels she looked down at the scars that covered Boromir’s chest. “I wish to put my own mark upon you, my lord,” she said with a dark grin. “Something that will let all who look upon you know that I am the most important woman in your life.”

Laughing at her words Boromir indicated the razor where it waited for her to tend his beard. “You can carve your name in my forehead, my love, anything your heart desires.”

She looked at him in disbelief, imagining how his handsome face would look with the decorative letters across his brow. After a moment, she joined his laughter and urged him higher in the tub. “It is said in our lore that young lovers would often carve their initials in a favorite tree, my lord,” her face turned serious as she spoke. “I would carve my initials and those of my future husbands in your tree.”

The bole of the White tree of Gondor was unmarred across his upper stomach. “I would be honored, my princess,” Boromir told her, his voice husky with desire at her choice. He had plenty of experience reading her graceful handwriting and knew that she was most likely to use the decorative interlace script of her people. “I can think of nothing that would be more pleasing to me.”

“Here, my lady,” Brinel said as Éowyn reached for the razor, handing her an extremely sharp angled blade that was used for carving designs in soft wood.

Despite the strong emotions surging through her at his approval, her hand was steady. At first she tried to imagine that she was carving into soft wood, but the blood and heat from Boromir’s body made that impossible. Though he kept his breathing deep and even to facilitate her cutting, she couldn’t help but notice that his eyes drooped with desire. Her mouth went dry as she felt an ever-increasing urge to kiss each mark as she made it. It was a heady feeling, this drawing of blood and marking of flesh.

She placed her initials between theirs as she marked them on Boromir’s chest. It was as gratifying as sex to mark him in this way, maybe even more so. This was the eldest of her promised husbands laying beneath her hands, letting her have her will with him. As she finished the last curlicue that signified Faramir’s name, she could resist no more and leaned forward and pressed her lips to each set of initials in reverse order. Then reaching across the tub and dropping the knife into Brinel’s hand, she leaned up and pressed her lips to Boromir’s.

Both she and Boromir were so caught up in their kiss that they didn’t hear Rina’s signal that someone was approaching from the hallway. Éowyn’s hand had just wrapped firmly around Boromir’s cock when Brinel roughly pushed them apart. “Good evening, your majesty,” came the younger servant’s voice.

Éowyn brushed her loose hair back, unaware of the water/blood mixture that ran down the side of her face. Théoden was too far gone in his usual fog to notice but Gríma, who followed closely behind him, saw that as well as the spreading red color in Boromir’s bath. The sharp pangs of jealousy tore at his heart as he realized that she had been using a blade on the Steward’s heir. He was well aware that it was fully consensual and that this was one more bond between the two.

It soon became clear that the king’s presence would not shorten Boromir’s bath. Servants heated both tubs as the king lay back to ramble aimlessly at the room’s occupants. He was oblivious to what was going on around him and as soon as Éowyn was sure of his state, she took full advantage of the situation. With a cruel smile, she reached below the sudsy water in Boromir’s tub and rewrapped her hand around his fully erect cock.

Ever ready for a challenge, Boromir let one arm drape over the side of the tub and down to fall between the thighs of the princess. With an equally cruel grin to the king’s advisor, he pulled up Éowyn’s skirts and began to touch her with his experienced fingers. Gríma became short of breath as he watched them, powerless to do anything with the princess’s supporters surrounding them.

Visions of what they were doing to each other and of Éowyn cutting Boromir, as he knew she had been, overlapped each other in his mind. He could only press himself against the side of the king’s tub as he watched, hoping that he didn’t betray his unwanted arousal. All his hopes were lost as he saw Boromir throw his head back and gasp out his release and Éowyn moaned hers against his neck. He could only lean back from the tub ‘accidentally’ splashing water over his front to hide his own unwanted orgasm.

Gríma’s face burned with anger and shame as they both looked at him and laughed. He knew at that moment he would give up everything to be their slave. So beautiful and golden before him, all that he could ever desire. He also knew that it could never be. Saruman would never let him go and when they learned the depths of his treason they would never forgive. But this he could grant them, even though on the morrow he would do everything he could to kill the Steward’s son, tonight he would pretend he didn’t see.

As if acknowledging Gríma’s acceptance of their tryst, Éowyn leaned over and locked her lips against Boromir’s. Their kiss lasted long minutes while the king babbled on about horses and long forgotten battles. Rising from the tub, Boromir was without shame of his half-erect cock as he looked at the cowed king’s advisor. Stepping from the tub, he stood still while Éowyn dried him, her hands pausing significantly at certain parts. The letters she had carved into his flesh were easy to read and a feeling of dread and defeat filled Gríma’s heart as he watched Brinel rub a coagulating mixture into them.

“I will see our guest to his room, uncle,” Éowyn said as the servants wrapped a robe around Boromir’s shoulders. The man himself smirked down at Gríma, stroking his cock almost in the advisor’s face.

“I’m sure you have everything well in hand, my dear,” Gríma said, acting as voice for the king. There was give and take in this exchange, as he felt his mouth moving toward that unbelievably large prize, as well as Éowyn’s waning influence. From his position on his knees, Gríma would gladly sell his soul all over again to be able to offer himself up to the golden creature standing there.

“Yes I do,” she replied, making sure to expose a length of thigh up to reddish-blond pubic hair next to the aggressively male display her intended was making. “I’m sure you will be able to handle my uncle for us all.”

“Yes, my lady,” he hissed as his head came of its own volition to the floor between their feet. “If there is any way I can serve you.”

Shocking everyone in the room, except for the oblivious king, Boromir ran a foot up Gríma’s head across his back to stop at his ass. “You might be surprised at what would serve your lady, ‘worm’.” He said in a deep, husky voice. “If you should choose to change whom you serve, we might be able to find a solution to all of our problems.”

Gríma wept as he pressed his head to the floor, though only the most observant could tell. There was no way for him to change his allegiance to the White Wizard; he had sworn too many soul-binding oaths for that. There in the bathing room of Meduseld, he realized that he had lost everything he had ever really wanted.

“Don’t worry, Gríma,” Boromir said as he turned toward the door, “nothing of the future is written in stone. Until the prophecies have come to pass, they are nothing more than speculation. Even now, you can make changes that will affect tomorrow. You can be who you would most desire to be.”

As he rode north, Boromir wondered what he might have done if things had been just a little different. He knew that Gríma and Saruman’s other agents expected him to make for the Gap of Rohan, therefore his path would take him almost directly north through east Emnet past Fangorn Forest. His escort was of both Théodred’s and Éomer’s eoreds. They were both fully supportive of his journey.

He would lose his escort at the Celebrant River, which marked a long ago battlefield. This he didn’t mind; he expected it. From there, he would be into territory only sporadically marked by the maps from Éomer’s elf. With any luck, he would be able to make it to Imladris, or Rivendell, before the first snow fell or even before the first leaves fell from the trees in the south.

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.

Part 25: HOPE

Éomer’s dream refused to let him go. Sometime in the night the two shieldmaidens who’d joined him had left, telling him they had to get some sleep. Rolling up in his blankets, he forwent thinking of companionship and sank into the dream. It was so vivid he could even smell the women and men as Boromir wore them down into trembling piles of sated exhaustion. It was such a lovely dream, especially after the weeks of subtle tension.

“Come, Éomer,” Théodred said entering the tent. “There are horses to gather and your eored is already off to their herds.”

“Come here first, cousin,” Éomer said huskily, looking up at him with lust glazed eyes. “The horses will still be there when we are done.” Throwing off his cover, he turned and stretched on the furs exposing his body to the younger man.

Théodred’s mouth went dry as he walked to where his cousin was shamelessly running a finger up his engorged cock, catching a drop of precum from its tip. “I take it Boromir is no longer pining alone in the wilds,” he commented before grabbing the offered hand and licking the salty liquid from the fingertip. He was able to shed his clothes quickly as he’d dressed for riding, not fighting. “A fast ride on a good stallion would be an agreeable way to start the day.”

Straddling Éomer, he slowly lowered himself onto the waiting erection. It had been a while since they’d done this, so he took his time in adjusting to his cousin’s generous cock. “I can see you going into battle like this, cousin,” Théodred said as he finally was firmly seated against Éomer’s groin. “So full of lust, your breathing uneven, all your muscles tense with your desire.” He rose so that just the tip of Éomer’s cock was still within him. “You would impale the enemy with your stout spear.” On the word spear, he dropped down quickly, causing the man beneath him to arch in pleasure.

“Yes, my liege,” Éomer hissed.

“You would wield your mighty sword with the skill of a great warrior,” Théodred whispered as he wrapped his cousin’s hand around his own raging cock. “You would pleasure yourself in the blood of our enemies.” He moved his body swiftly, ascending and descending on every other word.

In only moments, Éomer was lost in surrender to his strong, young cousin. Théodred was not long in finding his own release as Éomer firmly stroked him. After a few minutes of resting his head on Éomer’s chest to catch his breath, Théodred sat up and looked into his sated cousin’s eyes.

“Come, Éomer,” he told him. “It is time to ride with the herds. Time to feel the power of a good steed beneath us, the wind in our hair. It is time for us to range the open steppe.”

There was no hesitation as they both dressed and went to their mounts, ready to ride as they’d been bred to do. It was good to ride free beneath the autumn sun and feel the hope that was so hard to come by rise in their hearts.

“There is no need for you to join the Steward for dinner tonight, Uncle,” Borril said once they’d finished discussing the day’s meetings. He sat close against Faramir’s side, leaning his head on his uncle’s shoulder, Calinir mirroring him on the other side. “Or at all tomorrow either. I already told him that this was a particularly strong vision and that I expected you to take longer to recover than usual.”

“It is only an indulgence, nephew,” Faramir smiled as he brushed Calin’s hair from his face. The young man sat on the floor between his feet resting his head on his sire’s thigh as he had done since childhood. “I should not have given in today or yesterday. There is still much to be done.”

“Listen to him, Uncle,” Calinir’s voice joined his brother’s. “Everyone could see the strain that has been growing upon you. If you overextend yourself now, who will be there to take care of us when you are needed?”

“Besides,” Borril added with a wide grin, “if you’ve run out of bedmates already I can find plenty of more-than-willing people from my own household. It can’t be easy, this contact with our sire as he ravishes an entire town. Maybe he should have taken a companion with him; I bet he never thought of this aspect of traveling alone.”

“Neither did I, Borril,” Faramir said with his own grin. “We’ve been apart but never alone before.”

“Think of it as indulging him, my sire,” Calin said, watching the ever-present guilt disappear momentarily from his Faramir’s face. “He knows you are with him, he can feel it. After so much time alone, doesn’t our beloved Lord Boromir deserve a little indulgence?”

Throwing his head back in defeat, Faramir sighed deeply. His two nephews smiled down at their cousin who always seemed to know just the right words.

“I’m glad to see that you have finally recovered,” Denethor said as Faramir took his seat at the breakfast table. “Our forces along the Anduin and in Ithilien have need of your inspection, I would wager. It is easy for men to become lax when left without supervision.’

“I can set out after the midday meal,” Faramir confirmed, even though he had full confidence in his field commanders. It would be good to be outside the city and out from under the Steward’s heavy scrutiny. He’d never told his father of the bond with his brother, or of the dreams they shared. There was a bit of guilt in not sharing with him that Boromir was well and in the company of others, but he knew that Denethor’s jealousy would make sharing that news dangerous. So he kept his silence.

“So, you are confident that you will be able to fulfill your brother’s duties?” Denethor asked, testing his youngest son’s resolve.

“Of course, my Lord Steward,” Faramir answered with no trace of wavering. “We thoroughly discussed what needed to be done, I am quite sure of my duty. I am acting as his agent as he instructed me.”

“Tomorrow should be soon enough for your tour,” the Steward said with a nod. “That will give Borril time to bring you up to date with everything you have missed.”

“As you wish, my Lord Steward,” Faramir acknowledged with a hidden smile. Things couldn’t be going better.

There seemed to be a lessening of tension around the table as the lords present listened to his words. Even though they all had plenty of confidence in Faramir, they still needed more because of the Steward’s lack of support. Borril smiled broadly, as did Calinir, at Denethor’s words, though Calin kept his same stoic countenance. Those who wished to ferment discord amongst the ruling houses of Gondor drew sustenance from their seeming discord. It would not be many more months before moves would be made to claim the power in Minas Tirith.

There were other places in the White Tower that were just as secure, but Borril had grown used to meeting here. Everything they needed was in the desk; the room and its contents were not only magically protected, but also constantly occupied by three or more of the most loyal members of the ‘House’. Also, he was honest enough to admit to himself, he’d developed the same voyeuristic urge as his Ada to watch his uncle and sire as they had seemingly endless rounds of sex. That they would remember the conversations around them while so occupied was an added bonus.

Occasionally he had seen a thing or two that he’d later used with his own wife, but other than that, there was nothing really arousing to him about their activities. He knew that if he’d ever felt the urge he could have joined them, for they would deny him nothing, the same for all his siblings and cousins. But being here was more of a comfort than a thing of desire. It let him know that he was loved and trusted in the heart of the family, which was more important to him than anything else.

Calinir and Calin were a little less circumspect. Often, they would stop what they were doing to watch with unveiled interest what was happening. He knew that they’d ventured into the oversized bed a time or two, but had only seen them brush sweaty locks of hair from lust filled faces or press soft kisses to their sire or uncle’s face. They had three wives at home, shared like their mothers shared and even another husband to make it an even six in the adults in their family. Here, they had only each other and the few they allowed to join them from time to time, such as Borril, whom they had always welcomed.

Today, Calinir was dressed as Calin and vise versa, an exercise they did a couple of times a month to stay in practice. They were identical physically, even their eye color and hair shade, but their dress and manner in public made them so distinctive from each other that few realized how close the resemblance was. No one had spotted the deception yet, but they kept their distance from the Steward, knowing that he often saw more than he revealed.

The three of them had never known anyone who could think of Faramir without noting his beauty. Even the Steward’s eye could be caught filled with lust as he watched his youngest son on the practice field or when the sun turned his auburn hair to that glowing color. Naked, he was beyond compare; the designs carved and colored into his flesh highlighted his lean form as he drove his large cock relentlessly into the body below him.

This morning, it was Stefle who had been unable to hide his growing melancholy at his Lord Boromir’s long absence. His hands were clenched into the sheets and he was no longer able to cry out in pain or pleasure after the long hours that Faramir had spent fucking him into the bed. They waited patiently, knowing that the rising sun would soon see him riding out of Minas Tirith. All of the plans had been made and the details worked out for the next several months, only a few signatures were needed. But neither Borril nor Calin, in this case actually Calinir, would be present as Faramir left the White City. Today’s version of Calinir would escort the Steward’s youngest son to Great Gate, causing speculation on the loyalties of the three young men.

Riding alongside the caravan leader, Boromir was fascinated at their method of transportation. Teams of donkeys pulled laden barges up the wide river. It was something he would never had thought of and it amazed him how much the little creatures could pull while the steersmen kept the barges on course with long poles that they used to push the craft away from obstacles. He wondered if the method would work in Gondor, after the war was over, of course.

The riverbank had been cleared of brush and trees for the barges and it was fairly easy going. He had plenty of time to observe the countryside and the customs of the inhabitants. The towns were spaced close enough that each night was spent within protective stockades or next to them. The few parties of orcs and goblins were easily overcome.

As they came closer to Mirkwood, he began to see elves. At first, it was hunting parties that would parallel the caravan for a while. Then, as the river entered the forest, there would be smaller groups and sometimes individuals who would approach the caravan master to discuss possible trades. They were thin and tall and almost blindingly beautiful, but something about their carriage made Boromir think of children when he saw them. Their voices were fair and they always acknowledged Boromir’s presence with a slight bow, which he returned, though none of them addressed him directly.

“They used to ride alongside us and join us in our camps at night,” the caravan master said as the latest group rode away, having warned them of a band of orcs in the area. “But since the fighting has broken out, they have been less friendly. King Thranduil doesn’t much care for men or any of the other races; rumor says he even avoids many of the other elves. But his sons are a different story, there are often competitions between them that spill out of the forest and into the cities of men and dwarves. I’ll be very surprised if we don’t find a couple of them wagering in Esgaroth when we get there. They seem to know who you are though, or at least your rank.”

“I’ve been told that I have a reputation, even in these parts,” Boromir laughed, his eyes constantly watching the surrounding forest, which was thick in this area.

“Yes, there have been many who have wished to tell me tales they have heard of you and your brother as we have been traveling,” the older man told him. “Hopefully, you won’t have to put your martial skills to the test. So far, it has been very quiet on our journey.”

It was only moments later that Boromir peered into the overhanging forest ahead and slowed his horse, which was fidgeting nervously. “I think we may have unwelcome company ahead,” he told his companion. “Orcs, by the smell of them.”

At the Caravan Master’s signal, several of the guards came forward to ride with Boromir to check out the suspicious section of the trail. With his shield in place and his sword drawn, the Steward’s son led them into the thickening trees. It took only moments to discover that an ambush had indeed been established. Boromir led the others to charge, as he felt sure they could easily overcome their adversaries.

These northern orcs were smaller then the Uruks he was used to dealing with and not nearly as good at setting traps. Still smarting from having to run from the group south of Lórien, he was merciless in his attack. He’d always hated orcs of any variety and took great pleasure in killing them, as did his borrowed mount. Even in the dense brush at the side of the road, they managed to find and kill their prey.

After a few minutes, he heard the sound of arrows and saw that elves were in the trees overhead raining death on their common foes. It was only after all the orcs were dead that Boromir realized that only ten of the guards from the caravan had followed him this deep into the forest. As the elves dropped from the trees to gather their arrows, their leader approached Boromir.

“It seems that you live up to at least half of your reputation, Lord Boromir,” came the beautiful, melodious voice. “I am Ororin, third son of Thranduil the King. If my father wasn’t waiting for my report, I’d tarry to find out if the other half was as accurate.”

“I am glad to meet you, Ororin,” Boromir replied with a polite nod of his head and a wink. “And would be glad to prove my reputation when there is time. For now, I seek Imladris, which I’ve been told lies on the other side of your forest.”

“If I could spare even one of my company to guide you, I would, my Lord,” Ororin told him. “With the awakening of Dol Guldur, the forest has become infested with the monsters of the dark ones and it is unsafe, even for our people. If you join the caravan into the forest from Esgaroth, I will try to arrange for you to travel with the next courier to Imladris. That is the best I can do for now.” Looking over Boromir’s shoulder, he saw the rest of the caravan guards approaching. “If you could make sure that this offal is taken care of properly, we will be off?” he asked, anxious to be on his way.

“I’ll make sure that none of these are left to pollute the forest,” Boromir assured him, though he was disappointed.

Nothing he’d ever seen before could have prepared him for the sight of the Long Lake. The sea was larger and wilder, but this was a work of men. The small lake before they reached it was larger than anything he was used to in Gondor, and at first he thought it was their destination. Then he saw the dam rising above it at the other end and knew that he was in for something special. It took them a whole day to unload the barges and load the pack animals to haul their cargo up the portage to their goal.

As they topped the hill and he saw the lake, he was astonished that it disappeared in the distance. The huge stone wall that held the water back had been there for centuries. Planned by a man and built with the cooperation of men and dwarves. It was not a large construction compared to Minas Tirith and some of the other Gondorian marvels, but it was still impressive.

They reached Esgaroth just before sunset. Boromir took his leave from the caravan master as soon as he was sure there were no caravans leaving to the west the next day and his mount and baggage were safe for the night. He was intercepted by an agent of the Master of the Town and escorted to the main hall. Brushing at his clothes as he walked to remove some of the trail dust, he wished he’d been given time to clean up before having to present himself. It was more a city than a town, with business booming despite the growing orc and goblin problem.

His footsteps echoing on the broad wooden walkways stretching over the water, Boromir strode toward his destination. There were faces peering at him from the surrounding houses and openly staring from the sides of the path. Esgaroth was equally as impressive as the lake itself, having spread to the far side, though there were fewer platforms near the middle where the water was deepest. The main hall was located there and was actually a floating building attached to large pylons, which held it in place.

Despite the layer of trail dust he knew was still with him, Boromir felt confident that his appearance was suitably impressive as those within the hall turned startled eyes upon him. No doubt the story of the ambush along the river had preceded him, adding to the already over-exaggerated (to his mind) reputation that had spread here in the north. But he was more than willing to use that reputation if it helped him to accomplish his goal, the quicker the better.

The Town Master rose to greet him, giving him the deference he would to one of Thranduil’s sons, and Boromir accepted it as his due. In his life, he had only bowed to his father and then, only in high ceremony, and he would bow to no other except his king. He felt a pang at the thought of his king and his head turned to the west of its own volition, as if he would be able to see something. There had been a growing anxiety in his heart for the last few days that was definitely coming from the west. Turning back to his host, he smiled an apology, which was quickly accepted, and joined him at the head table.

The other people along the river didn’t keep track of time in the same way that Boromir was used to, but here in Esgaroth they used the old Númenorean calendar. To his surprise, he learned it was the 10th of October, making his journey now ninety-six days. Suddenly he felt almost desperate to reach Imladris and solve the riddle his brother and he had heard in their dreams. It pushed him to inquire of the Town Master if any were to be heading into the west. By the end of the meal, he’d managed to convince the man to send him with a single escort into Mirkwood to ask aid of its king, as the men of Esgaroth had close ties with the wood elves.

As the food was finished, the main section of the hall was cleared for dancing and musicians began setting up for an evening of celebration. It wasn’t often that such a distinguished person came from so far away. He joined in the merry-making even though his heart wasn’t into it. It would have been rude to refuse. As his eyes roved the hall he recognized the three musicians Faramir and he had rescued years ago in Anorien. Moments later, he was joined by the twins Felida and Feleda, now showing a few signs of age, though still beautiful.

Later he found himself in their bed with their two husbands who were also twins, a most happy circumstance as far as he was concerned. Since he’d been given no clear idea of how far his journey would be yet, he decided to make the most of this night. Lying on his back with Felida impaled on his hard cock and her husband buried balls deep in her ass, he reveled in the feel of them. Feleda and her husband lay one on each side of him, their hands and mouths touching him everywhere. It wasn’t as good as when he was with Faramir, but some part of him could still tell that the two women had been with his brother before. It eased his heart somewhat and he could almost hear the voice of his beloved little brother.

In his bed in Henneth Annûn, Faramir felt his brother’s contact with the twins. It made him smile as he thought of the nights they had spent with them nine years previously. The young ranger who straddled his hips and rode his hard cock held only part of his attention as he let the bond with his brother feed his lust. It was so good to be able to share this in their limited contact, making Faramir hope that Boromir would always have companions with him until he returned home.

It had been made clear to Éowyn before they’d even started that it was a dangerous endeavor to test the blood of a wizard’s minion. Still, it took only a moment and the slightest of mistakes to demonstrate what could happen. The knife lay on the dressing table waiting to be cleaned of its sample of blood. As Brinel stepped closer to the table, her knee gave out again and without volition her hand went to catch her balance, her fingers coming in contact with the blade.

At her choked cry, Éowyn turned from a cupboard where she was gathering supplies to see what had happened. She saw Brinel’s hand held out before her slowly blackening and withering, small wisps of smoke rising above it as if it were burning in invisible flames. The older woman had her other hand nearly all the way in her own mouth to stifle the screams she couldn’t quite hold back. From the lore she had learned, Éowyn knew instantly what had happened and grabbed an axe from its place on the wall, rushing toward her beloved companion, hoping she wasn’t too late.

Knowing that she was immune to whatever potions Gríma might ingest, she grabbed the shriveling limb and pulled it outward so the she could have a clear strike at it. As she straightened the dying arm, it came away in her hand and she watched Brinel slowly sink to the floor, the withering blackness rising up her neck to her beautiful face. Dropping the axe and the disintegrating appendage, Éowyn stepped back and could only bite her lips in horror as her friend, teacher and confidant turned into a pile of dust before her eyes.

Beside Éowyn, Rina took several shallow breaths, followed by a deep one as her automatic systems took over and she prepared to scream. Again acting on her careful training, the princess turned and slapped the young maid hard enough to knock her to the bed. “Be quiet, you fool,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “We cannot let this be discovered.”

Tears streaking her face, Rina nodded in agreement, the blow helping to bring her to her senses.

“Build up the fire, I will dispose of everything there,” Éowyn said, battling her own tears, knowing that too much would be revealed if Gríma discovered Brinel’s fate. With half choked sobs, she gathered the ashy remains in the now almost empty clothing. ‘It is too soon, I still need you,’ her heart cried out to her now dead mentor.

“It never hurt you, my Lady,” Rina whispered through her tears.

“He has to make sure I am immune to his poisons if he is to claim me,” Éowyn said bitterly. “But my maids are not immune, so bethink you, a moment’s inattention can loose all. You are all I have left, Rina, do not fail me.” As the maid wept at her feet, swearing her undying allegiance, the princess worked her own minor magic to hide what had happened from any eyes that may be prying. She regretted not being able to speak with Gandalf when he’d come to see her uncle; she might have been able to learn more.

But Gríma had been able to keep her from exchanging more than a few innocuous words before the wizard had been rushed from the hall. Éowyn knew that her allies within the city of Edoras and Meduseld itself were beginning to become dangerously thin. To hold the Riddermark, they needed the Eorlingas afield, so she was becoming isolated amongst her enemies. She hoped that she would be strong enough to hold against the rising tide.

It was just after the evening meal when Gríma felt the wave of unease that told him some magic associated with the endless spells his master had cursed him with was occurring. Since he was attending the king, he couldn’t rush to his scrying bowl to see what it was. He could only hope that the White Wizard would know and that he would be willing to share his knowledge with his servant. Often, Saruman would scoff at him and berate him for his weaknesses, only telling him what he thought was absolutely necessary. It had been part of his training that he be kept fully aware of just how insignificant and worthless he was.

Wiping the drool from the king’s chin, he decided it was just as well that he didn’t know everything. He wasn’t even sure that the wizard himself even knew half of what was going on. If he had found out about Gríma’s weakening in the presence of both Boromir and Éowyn, he would have punished his servant in any of a thousand horrible ways. When no retribution had come from Isengard, Gríma had begun to believe that maybe the all-seeing eyes of the palantiri weren’t as infallible as he’d been told. Maybe somewhere in the future he would be able to make a break from the evil wizard that held him as thrall. As unlikely as that was, in a small corner of his heart he held to the smallest bit of hope.

Only time would tell.

The smell of the endless fires and unwashed orcs no longer registered in Saruman’s mind as he watched the busy production going on below him. He smelled only victory as a steady stream of uruk-hai moved about the business of preparing for war. Despite the escape of Gandalf, there would be no escape for the race of men. Already the Ringwraiths were on the move, scouring Middle Earth for the one ring, and soon his own hosts would join in the hunt.

A small tendril of unease touched him, some disturbance in the magics he had cast over Rohan. It was too small, or too shielded for him to be able to tell what it was. There were so many spells he had set in motion there. He would see if he could catch it on the palantir later, if not it was too insignificant for his notice. After all, he was destined for greater things and nothing in that primitive land could seriously challenge him. Soon, his uruk-hai would destroy the horsemen’s forces and his agent in Edoras would take over the throne. It gave him a thrill of pleasure to think of the beautiful, haughty princess forced to marry Gríma, who was nothing more than his creature, owned body, heart and soul.

In the end, it would be Saruman who would triumph. He had been working toward his goals for a very long time and knew all the players well. When Boromir returned, his orcs would succeed in making sure the Steward’s son never made it back to Minas Tirith alive. Then it would be a simple matter to take the power in Gondor from the doddering and greedy Denethor. Faramir was too weak to resist him, and already Borril and Calin were showing signs of being as corruptible as their grandfather.

It was clear to him that there was no way he could fail. The weak men of Rohan and Gondor could cling to their vain hopes. But in the end, it would do them no good.

Part 26: THROUGH THE WOODS

It had been approved for older boys to stay behind in Minas Tirith if they had an adult relative to look after them. The boys knew that they were to spend a portion of each day helping to garrison the city, mostly by working as messengers and food and water bearers. Still, time was made for them to spend time in play after their work and lessons were completed for the day.

As Calin watched one of the large supply drays come through the main gates, he noticed two young boys riding on one of the oxen that pulled it. Dirty and dusty from the road, he almost didn’t recognize them. Barely a year apart in age at eight and nine they were even harder to tell apart than he and his cousin Calinir.

“What are you two doing here?” he asked them as he took one in his arms and turned so the other could climb on his back as he walked beside the oxen. Carrying them to the side of the road he placed them both on the ground in front of him, careful to keep a hand on each.

“We’ve come to help protect the city, brother,” Sayil, who was youngest but most daring, told him.

“Our mother doesn’t need our help anymore, cousin,” Faril added. “She has returned to her life in the brothel and left us with Belgar, who has no need for us either.”

“So he sent you both here, little ones?” Calin asked, knowing that he would never do such a thing, especially since they seemed to be without escort.

“We didn’t see the need to bother him with such petty details as ourselves,” Sayil told him with an impish grin.

“We do not belong in Lamedon,” Faril continued. “The city is our home.”

“Just as I thought,” Calin informed them. “We will see what Borril has to say about your mischief. He is in charge of the family here while our sires are gone.”

The two boys looked at each other with wide grins. Borril was a favorite of theirs and they knew that he would wait until Faramir returned before sending them back into exile. That would give them a chance to convince everyone that their place was here in the city they had always called home.

They were woken before dawn by a messenger Prince Ororin had sent to escort Boromir to him. Dressing quickly, Boromir was more than happy to have a personal guide into Mirkwood. Hopefully, it would shorten his journey so that he could return home to his brother. The night spent with the twins had added to the homesickness that was beginning to beleaguer him.

To Boromir’s surprise, they didn’t follow the river but headed directly west toward the forest. Chail, his guide and obviously half-elven, started out at a ground-eating canter, which barely diminished when they entered the dark wood. The trail was narrow, but Boromir’s mount was well able to keep pace with the half-elf’s horse. He couldn’t help but notice that his guide was not quite as good a horseman as his brother, and no where near Éomer. The thought of the two of them caused another flash of loneliness as he watched Chail, who had long brown hair and wasn’t anything at all like them.

There was no chance to speak with each other until almost midday, when they reached a wider bit of trail and dismounted, leading their horses to rest them. “Prince Ororin was most favorably impressed with your ability to fight and your bravery, your grace,” Chail let him know. “It is also known that, despite the lack of aid from Lórien, you evaded a large force of orcs while traveling the borders of that land. There is a long-time feud between our king and the White Lady, so it pleased him to allow you special passage through his realm.”

“I will be glad to give him my thanks, Chail,” Boromir replied courteously.

“I doubt you will get the chance, your grace,” the half-elf answered. “The fighting has increased in the south and King Thranduil leads most of his fighters against the minions of the dark. The only princes not at his side are Ororin, who guards the home caverns, and Legolas, his youngest son, who is now on his way to Rivendell from the south as emissary.”

Nodding at Chail’s words, Boromir continued at the quick pace his guide had set. They talked companionably as they went, although each kept a wary eye to the surrounding woods. The Steward’s son learned that Chail’s mother had given him his name from her people who had originated further north and east than Esgaroth. The half-elf told him of his people, both Silvan elf and human. He was much older than he looked, over three hundred years, and had participated in many wars and battles. He’d seen the dragon Smaug drive the dwarves from Erebor and nearly destroy Esgaroth, only in turn to be driven out and destroyed himself. At Dol Guldur, he’d nearly been killed as he rode with the elvish forces to drive Sauron out of Mirkwood. Again, Boromir felt pangs for Faramir. How his brother would love to hear these tales from one who had been there.

It was nearing dusk when Chail slowed and called out to a guard that was hidden in the trees before them. Boromir was gratified that he’d spotted the guard before his guide, in fact had been noticing others among the foliage for a while now. Some had smiled in acknowledgement when he looked at them, while others ignored him. But he felt no doubt that they all knew he’d seen them, while his companion had barely noted one or two. Despite his age and experience, Chail spent too much time indoors to be a real woodsman.

To Boromir’s surprise, they were led to a well hidden cave entrance, which was barely wide enough for their horses to enter. The interior was well lit; it could almost have been one of the passages through the walls of Minas Tirith. Tired from the long day, he followed his guide into the caverns of Mirkwood.

It had been amazingly easy for Mordel to join the ranks of servants in the White Tower. Many had been evacuated to safer posts, leaving a large number of vacancies. It had helped that his references were impeccable, even if they were unable to be checked thoroughly with all the confusion in Anorien. Hopefully, by the time any faults were found it would be too late for anything to be done about it.

Stefle, who kept an ever-vigilant eye on those who served the Steward and his sons, assigned him to mostly minor and unimportant tasks. But, with the months of comparative calm after Boromir had departed Gondor on his quest, it hadn’t been difficult for him to slowly bring himself to the Steward’s notice. Mordel had been trained to gain the Steward’s trust, and was firmly ensconced as his chief servant by the first day of fall. Now, as the day for the reinstated harvest festival approached, he was nearly ready to begin acting on some of the plans that his master had been forced to abandon when Galmar had been killed.

Saruman was well aware that his minion had been executed by the Steward’s sons, even if Denethor didn’t know it himself. That left Mordel with only the smallest and most unreliable of networks to help in his efforts, as well as the knowledge that certain death awaited if he was discovered. So he felt little joy as he made his way to the Steward’s private chamber, advancing one more plot to bring down the ‘House of Hurin’. But he was a more cautious creature than his predecessor and had taken every precaution. The one constant for the agents of Saruman was that failure meant death.

The horses were long gone, led away by elves who’d assured Boromir that his mount would be well cared for. He had little choice but to trust them since he would be lost in the labyrinthine tunnels if he tried to set out on his own. After about an hour, they came to a large, well-lit hall where Ororin was waiting with food laden tables.

“I’m glad you could join me, my Lord Boromir,” the prince told him, taking his hand in a firm clasp. “I was worried that Chail might have missed you.”

“I’m glad he found me so quickly and that you were able to help me with my journey, your Highness,” Boromir said.

“My father was most pleased with your aid with the orcs and decided that it would be only proper to aid you in your quest,” Ororin said with a broad smile as he ushered Boromir to a chair at the high table. “I hope you will accept an evening’s hospitality from me before beginning your quest in the morning?”

Looking about the beautiful hall, Boromir was impressed with its opulence. It was far beyond anything he had ever seen. “Your father’s hall is most glorious and I would be more than happy to spend this eve with you. If my journey didn’t beckon, I’d gladly stay longer.”

Ororin looked surprised at his words, then laughed good-naturedly at his guest’s mistake. “This is my hall, Lord Boromir,” he told him, pressing a warm hand to his shoulder to make sure he didn’t take offense. “Compared to my father’s hall, this is but a side-room. It has been nearly six thousand years that we have been building and expanding our home. The depredations of the dark one keep us from building in the trees as some elves do, but I think our halls are comfortable enough to suit our needs.”

Joining his host in laughter, Boromir looked around the hall again. “I don’t think you need envy any, elf, dwarf or man, my Prince,” he said with a smile. “After all, your own beauty outshines the brightest jewels and is worth more than the best mithril.”

Ororin laughed again at his words. “You flatter me, Boromir,” he said huskily. “Of course you haven’t met my father yet, who is of the oldest and most glorious of the Sindarin, even if others call him wild. Or my youngest brother, Legolas, who is the most beauteous combination of Sindarin and Silvan elf. He is the only son of my father and his treaty-wife from the marriage that gave him control of the whole north of Greenwood the Great. I am indeed fortunate that he has already departed for Imladris, or you would not be able to pull your eyes away from him.”

“No, it is I who am fortunate, my Lord Prince,” Boromir assured his host. “If my brother had accompanied me, none would have noticed my presence. He outshines me like the sun does the moon. But I think you and I shall fare well enough in each other’s company.”

With that, they turned to their meal and shared it with great amusement and familiarity. Each was confident in his own appeal, while sure that their younger brothers would have cast them into shadow.

Rarely were there fires in Henneth Annûn. It was never cold enough to need heating and a hot spring in one of the lower caves allowed them to warm their food and bathe without betraying smoke. The inner caves were lit by smokeless candles, though they mostly counted on filtered daylight to see the maps and dispatches they needed. Faramir missed the great fireplace that added a comforting crackle nearly year round in his bedroom in the White Tower. It always calmed him and helped him to clear his thoughts. Without that aid, he stood in the shadows behind the great waterfall and gazed at the surrounding forest.

He could almost hear the whispering of elves. In the months since his brother had left, he seemed to hear the voices of the past more often and with more clarity. He didn’t mind the elves; their voices were usually raised in song and laughter, fair noises from a fair people. Tonight’s murmurs blended with thoughts of Boromir and he knew without a doubt that his beloved brother ate in elvish halls. It seemed to echo through his mind and he hoped that it was a sign that he had reached his goal, but the underlying tension wouldn’t let him believe. It had taken him so long already that he despaired of seeing Boromir again before the end of the year.

With a sigh, he turned away from the forest and back to his room for the night. The Steward expected him to return soon and he needed to make sure all his reports were complete before he retired. Even with his and Boromir’s children so close to Denethor, there were still many things that could go wrong. He tried not to let his sadness show in his gait as he made his way to the room.

It always surprised Denethor that this new servant, Mordel, could make his favorite tea as well as Galmar had been able to. Or at least it was close enough to fool his memory. He felt as if he must have done something right somewhere to be rewarded with one who fit so well in the shoes of his lost serving man. When the servant had quietly followed him to the room at the top of the tower and stripped before placing his hands against the wall in the place that had been worn smooth by decades of similar usage, the Steward knew he had at last found someone who could again fulfill his needs. The echo of the whip in the nearly bare room was soothing to his nerves, calming him.

Mordel was much younger than Galmar had been and Denethor felt he might have many years of service from him. He was beginning to feel like he could cope with Boromir’s absence and having to rely on Faramir in his place. His grandsons were a comfort to him, but they would never provide him with this. And this is what he had always needed, since the years when he was just a teenager when Galmar first came and showed him.

It was late and Boromir was just getting ready to follow Ororin to his lodging for the night when a messenger rushed into the hall. Orcs had broken through in one of the southern caverns and the whole stronghold would be endangered if they managed to establish a stronghold. Boromir was quick to offer his aid.

“I am grateful for your offer, Lord Boromir,” Ororin told him. “But it would delay you far too long. There are many gathering at Imladris and I feel that it is important that you share your news of the far south and the black land with them. Chail knows the way, I will have him lead you. You can travel much of it through the western caverns, but you will have to cross the Misty Mountains on one of the northern passes. It will still be nearly two weeks before you reach your destination.” He paused at Boromir’s look of protest. “This is not the first time we have faced our foe, and there are many things which give us advantage in this effort,” he assured Boromir. “Trust me and the knowledge of our people, we will drive them back before you reach the edge of the forest. I’m not sure that you will be able to reach Imladris before it is too late.”

Boromir was used to his brother’s premonitions and easily accepted the elf prince’s. He would miss a chance to fight at his side, but his quest drew him on. He also felt the need for haste in his journey. Therefore, he spent a few hours in rest before starting out on the final leg of his quest.

It was cold in the pass. Though they had been able to swing further south than they originally hoped, it had taken over a week of travel, topped by this seemingly endless climb. Thankfully, it hadn’t snowed and their only obstacle was the never ending cold which froze everything. Even Chail suffered greatly from the cold.

To their surprise, an outpost was set up at the top of the pass. A small building, obviously built to be defensible, held a small group of elves. Their leader greeted Boromir warmly and offered him shelter for the coming night. “I can have someone lead you the rest of the way tomorrow. It is a four day ride and my Lord Elrond asks that you make haste, for there is much evil afoot and he would have the son of the Steward of Gondor give his counsel.”

“It is I who would be grateful for his advice,” grinned Boromir. “But I will do my best to aid where I can. If my mount is fed and rested well this night, the journey may be quicker. He was loaned to me by Éomer of Rohan from his personal stock and I doubt there are many who could beat him on the trail.”

“I will send my best to guide you then, my Lord,” the elf smiled in challenge. “I think urgency warrants that we put your horse to the test.”

It was only a few hours before sunrise, not quite forty-eight hours later, when Boromir and his guide reached the top of a ridge that marked the northern boundary of Rivendell. A new escort waited to lead him the rest of the way to the ‘Last Homely House’, which is what Lord Elrond called his home. His gelding was showing signs of fatigue, but was clearly in much better condition than his guide’s mount. It made Boromir proud to receive praise for the breeding and training skills of Éomer.

As he followed at a steady lope down the trail, he could see the lights in the near distance marking their goal. In less than an hour, he would be in Imladris. It had taken him one hundred ten days to reach the fabled land. He prayed to all Valar that it would hold the key to defeating the dark lord.

Part 27: THE COUNCIL OF ELROND

Boromir followed his guide beneath a beautiful arch into a well-lit courtyard. There were elves waiting to take their horses and more to welcome them to Imladris even though the hour was late. A group of elves had just arrived from the west as well and, as he looked at them, a blond elf was dismounting his horse. He was the most beautiful creature Boromir had ever seen. The elf turned as if feeling Boromir’s eyes on him and froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. After a few moments, the elf smiled at him and winked, causing Boromir to laugh.

The blond elf moved as if to approach him, but was stopped by another of his blond companions who was obviously distraught. With a sigh and a shrug in Boromir’s direction, he returned to his party to attend to the other elves.

“I am Erestor, Chief Councilor of Elrond,” a black-haired elf introduced himself. “I’m sorry about the delay in welcoming you but, as you can see, the prince from Mirkwood has just arrived as well.” This elf didn’t sound as if he really approved of the prince. Just then another blond elf joined the other party amid loud cheers and much hugging. “Of course, Glorfindel is there to aid and abet, I mean keep him company.”

Boromir laughed again when he saw the mischievous gleam in Erestor’s eye.

“You laugh now, young man,” he told Boromir leading him toward a doorway. “But those older elves are nothing but trouble. “King Thranduil’s youngest has been banned from several places and Glorfindel was even evicted from the Halls of Mandos. A terrible twosome if ever there was one.”

“Gossiping again, dear Erestor?” said a melodious voice as a proprietary arm went across the elf’s shoulders. The tall blond elf Boromir assumed was Glorfindel smirked at him from the far side of the councilor, only to cry out in pain a moment later as the object of his amusement gave him a hard elbow in the side. “We just want to meet your human friend here,” he said with a pout, rubbing his side.

“You know very well that this is Boromir, heir to the Steward of Gondor,” Erestor snapped, all sign of playfulness gone. “You also know that he hasn’t slept in two days because you were there when the messenger arrived. So none of your nonsense will be allowed tonight. The man needs some sleep before tomorrow’s council, not a sample of your immature pranks. This, my Lord Boromir, is Glorfindel of Gondolin, Seneschal to Lord Elrond, and Prince Legolas of Mirkwood.” He paused in his leading to introduce the two.

If Boromir had been any less tired, he would have challenged the protection of Erestor. As it was, he hoped he wouldn’t embarrass himself with some faux pas because of it. “I would be happy to meet with you both after the council tomorrow,” he told the two blond elves who were watching him with strangely curious eyes.

“That would be splendid,” said Legolas, whose voice was even fairer than Glorfindel’s, with a slight accent.

“Yes, I’m sure it will,” Erestor cut in. “Now off with you two or I will have a talk with Lord Elrond.” At the threat, the two blonds returned to the courtyard. “Watch yourself with those two, they are full of trouble. I don’t know what Thranduil was thinking, allowing Legolas to attend such a gathering. A recipe for trouble if ever there was one. Of course, everyone knows that Thranduil doesn’t think of much beyond his bed, other than fighting that is. Who else would ever have thought of staging an orgy in the forests of Mirkwood just to lure giant spiders into a trap? Well I guess the sex thing was part of it too. Unbelievable sluts, those Mirkwood elves. Of course, Glorfindel is just as bad. He’d fit right in there if Thranduil didn’t have that silly prejudice against the Noldor. It’s not as if he even took part in all that kinslaying, even if he is a slut.” Erestor showed him into a well-decorated room. “This is the best I could do with such short notice and all the other guests who have dropped in recently. Lord Elrond sends his greetings and thanks that you have agreed to attend tomorrows meeting. There is so much going on, he felt it best that we all should get together as soon as possible.”

“This room will do just fine,” Boromir assured the elf, trying to hide his smile as he entered the room he’d been assigned. “I am also anxious to consult with Lord Elrond and his council. It is no problem for me as I am used to long travel and little sleep.”

With a courteous bow, Erestor left him to settle in for a bit of rest before the council that was due to start in just a few hours. It was a pleasant room, though small. After washing his neck and face, he realized he was still too wound up to sleep, so he decided to look around a little. Maybe he could find the two elves from the courtyard for a little relaxing diversion.

He passed down ethereal hallways and across fragile looking bridges. There was a vague similarity in design here to the caverns of Mirkwood, but everything was open to the air rather than surrounded by the earth. Finally, he came to a large chamber with an equally large picture of Isildur cutting the ring from the hand of Sauron. Standing before the picture, he admired the workmanship as well as the subject matter. That this was a piece of legend that had probably been painted by one who had been there sent shivers down his spine.

Suddenly he felt a chill on the back of his neck and turned to see a man, not an elf, watching him. There was a strange familiarity to this man’s face and a strange pull that made his heart race. Even though his greeting was rebuffed, the stranger not even giving his name, Boromir tried not to take offense. He was here as a supplicant, after all.

The shattered sword caught his attention and he couldn’t help but to draw near it. Taking the hilt in his hands, he could feel the connection to the history of his people and the power that had once stopped Sauron. As his finger touched the blade, a jolt of energy seemed to pass through it and, for the first time in his memory, he cut his finger on the blade of a weapon. At that point the urge to leave, which he had felt almost since he had spotted the other man, became overpowering. He was almost overcome by a wave of dizziness and hastily returning the broken piece of sword to its resting place, he turned to leave. The sound of Narsil hitting the floor made him pause and caused a pang of pain to his heart that he could be so disrespectful to an heirloom of his people, but the compulsion to leave wouldn’t let him hesitate for long.

When he reached his chamber, his mind was in a muddle from the encounter and he hoped that it would not cause him difficulties at tomorrow’s council. Shaking his head in dismissal of what he had no control over, he stretched out on the bed for a couple of hours sleep. Pushing the strange ache of disappointment from his mind, he closed his eyes. He would wait until the meeting to worry.

Aragorn had been startled by Boromir’s sudden appearance. He had known that the Steward’s heir would be at tomorrow’s council, but had expected him to seek his bed rather than roam the halls. This long awaited meeting had caught him by surprise and he secretly wished that it hadn’t happened and that Boromir would leave soon. Then, as if the Steward’s heir had heard his thoughts, he carelessly set the sword hilt on the edge of its resting place and all but fled the room. The open, friendly greeting followed by the swift and almost embarrassed retreat puzzled him as he reached to pick up the hilt of Narsil from where it had landed on the floor.

“Is he the man you told me of?” Arwen asked as she approached him from the shadows of the room, ever close to him when possible.

“Yes, that is him,” he answered rising to his feet to replace the sword in its resting place.

“He is quite beautiful,” she commented. “It is a shame that you sent him off so quickly, we might have been able to offer him comfort from his long journey.”

“I didn’t send him away,” denied Aragorn with a puzzled expression. “He left on his own and seemingly in a rush for all that he was so congenial at first.”

“It was your reticence and desire for him to leave that sent him away, my Lord,” she told him with a frown. “Don’t you feel the connection? He has sworn himself to your service through blood and strong magic and has been bred to be your right hand. If you don’t wish him to be in a room, he can’t stay in it. I thought you realized this?”

Aragorn’s eyes widened with sudden understanding. “I should have, my Lady,” he said with mortification. “We have discussed this enough, my surprise at his sudden appearance is no excuse.”

“Do not be too hard on yourself, my love,” she said with a smile as she leaned her head against his shoulder. “I didn’t foresee his nocturnal wanderings and I should have. It is only logical that his oaths would drive him to seek you out, whether he was aware of it or not. Tomorrow after the council, you can speak to him and ease any ill feelings that may arise because of this.”

“I hope so,” Aragorn agreed. “This is not how I planned to start out with him. Hopefully, it won’t make him as resentful of me as Denethor was.”

As Seneschal for Lord Elrond, it was Glorfindel’s place to introduce all those in attendance at the council. They sat at a large table on a sun-filled porch. First, he introduced Gloin and his son Gimli, both dwarves of Erebor. Next, he went clockwise around the table and named Legolas and his attendants, the two hobbits Bilbo and Frodo. With a laugh, he stated that everyone knew Gandolf or Mithrandir or whatever he was going by this week. This brought a slight release of tension in the group, for all but the wizard, of course.

All of the attendees nodded their heads in acknowledgement of their introduction until he came to the man who Boromir had almost met a few hours earlier. “This man most of us here know as Estel, foster son to Lord Elrond.” At the name, Boromir’s heart skipped a beat. “And many also know him as Strider, leader of the Dunadain. He also has a large collection of names he has used through the years but, as the time has come for all to be revealed, I must tell you that his given name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” There was a gasp of surprise from those assembled who were not previously privy to the information and also knew the meaning of the name.

Boromir paled at the knowledge that his future king had rejected him at their previous meeting. Through his own introduction he managed to nod graciously, though the smile that was usually ever quick to appear was gone. The loud ringing in his ears from the embarrassment he felt drowned out most of the rest of Glorfindel’s introductions. He was devastated that without so much as a word, he would be found lacking by the one he had sworn his whole life’s purpose to. Long experience with the court of Gondor allowed him to hide his true feelings, but his peripheral vision showed him that Aragorn was becoming unsettled and casting glances in his direction.

Calming himself forcefully, Boromir relaxed back into his chair. This was not the time for him to be worried about his personal problems, time would solve them. He needed to concentrate on the meeting at hand.

The dwarves were called on to tell their tale first. Gloin spoke of how Balin had followed the call to Moria and, after a few years, they’d lost contact with him. Even more disturbing was the messenger sent from Moria to Dain and King Brand, demanding the hobbit thief who had aided the dwarves in retaking the Lonely Mountain. Both communities were vulnerable to attack, especially with the Mirkwood elves so busy with Dol Guldur.

Next, Aragorn spoke of the increased orc and goblin activity everywhere in Middle Earth. He told of his long search for the creature Gollum, and how he had finally caught him in the dead marshes near Dagorlad the previous fall. Boromir looked upon the king/ranger and realized that it was he who had been in Forlong’s camp when he and Faramir had stopped on their way to Rohan. Aragorn continued until he told of leaving the sad creature with the elves of Mirkwood.

There, Legolas took up his portion of the tale. Gollum had been quite docile in captivity, only begging for a bit of freedom in the night. It seemed the creature couldn’t stand the light of day and barely tolerated the moon. Prince Legolas had taken it upon himself to escort Gollum a short distance away from where he was imprisoned and let him move about a bit each night, weather permitting. “We let him climb upon a tall tree in the center of a clearing, it seemed to cheer the wretched creature so. One night, when the moon was dark and clouds covered the stars, a large band of orcs fell upon us as we guarded our charge and he escaped as we fought them.”

“Once we had driven them back,” continued Legolas, “we discovered that Gollum had fled and we lost his trail amongst those of many orcs. It did lead us to discover a sneak attack from Dol Guldur and we have been fighting them ever since. In the last few weeks, the strength of their attacks has increased, but my father released me to come share our dire news with you anyway.”

“Let me tell all present of the history of what seems to be transpiring in our world,” Elrond said, his voice sad but strong. He told of the rings of power and Boromir saw that not a few present weren’t familiar with the tale. The whole tale unfolded through the second age of the world until the final battle at Gladden Fields, where Isildur cut the ring from Sauron’s hand. It passed out of the knowledge of the world at Isildur’s death and had been all but forgotten for many long centuries.

Here the old hobbit, Bilbo, told his part in the tale of finding the ring while fleeing goblins in the depths of the mountains. It had been his constant companion as he lived peaceably once he returned home to the Shire. At Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday, which was also his nephew Frodo’s thirty-third birthday (as well as his coming of age), he left the ring and all his earthly belongings to his nephew and left to travel the world before coming to settle here in Rivendell.

Now came Gandalf’s part of the tale. He told of the portents that led him to suspect that Frodo’s ring was dangerous and of his visit the previous year to Minas Tirith to find a way of testing the ring, letting them all know that it was indeed the ‘One Ring’. Many were alarmed and surprised when he told of his imprisonment by Saruman when he went to Isengard to seek his aid. Boromir alone seemed to expect his tale of the perfidy of the white wizard and also the failing health of King Théoden. Frodo, who looked very pale and weak, finally brought forth the ring at Gandalf’s bidding and all fell silent as he set it before Elrond.

Finally Boromir spoke up, telling those assembled of the dream his brother had on the eve of a great outpouring from Minas Morgul. His tale was carefully edited of the incidents of sabotage, but he was quite honest about the current state of Gondor and the hideous loss of life while they kept the dark forces from crossing the last bridge of Osgiliath. Long used to discussing the ever- increasing death toll of his people, his voice was dispassionate as he told of the imminent fall of Minas Tirith. As he spoke, his eyes remained locked on the gold ring that lay before Elrond and it was almost as if the dark lord himself stood there.

The fatigue from so many months on the trail and the last two days with almost no sleep weighed heavily upon him. The despair from the desperate plight of his people and the rejection of his king made his head pound in agony. His heart ached with loneliness and the long separation from his beloved Faramir. There before him was the symbol of all that was wrong and evil in the world, disguising itself as an innocent piece of jewelry. Then came the voice, sweet and seductive, whispering promises.

Suddenly he recognized the voice. It had plagued his brother’s nightmares and stolen their sleep when Denethor had first disturbed the palantir at Minas Tirith.

Boromir rose suddenly, knocking his chair over behind him. “I’m sorry,” he said to the council, “but I cannot abide one more minute in the presence of that abomination.” Turning swiftly, he left the gathering and returned to his room.

Faramir woke before dawn and could not return to sleep. He was too agitated to attend the day’s meetings and sent for Borril to take his place for the day, knowing that his nephew was well able to cover for him. By lunchtime, the stress was so bad he threw up everything that Stefle had forced down him earlier. It was obvious to him that Boromir was in some sort of difficulty, though he didn’t sense anything life-threatening.

Finally, he allowed his servants to lead him to his bed where they washed his brow with scented cloths and did all they could to calm him. He tried his best to send soothing thoughts to his poor brother, wishing that he could be there to help him.

The council was shocked at Boromir’s sudden departure. Aragorn felt even guiltier for alienating the younger man. “He has had a long journey after many long months of fighting,” he told the others, “once he has had some rest, he will be all right.”

“I’m surprised he made it to the meeting at all,” added Erestor in Boromir’s defense. “He has had less then three hours sleep in the last two days and arrived only this morning.”

“That is surprising from what I’ve seen of men,” Gloin said. “Many of those we have to deal with are lazy and greedy.”

“I think you will find Boromir of Gondor to be quite different from any other man you’ve encountered before,” Legolas told them, the gleam of lust in his eyes only discernable to those who knew him well. He looked across the table at Erestor who carefully mouthed the word, ‘slut’ with a straight face. Giving the chief counselor his most innocent smile, he was well aware of Elrond’s slight frown at their exchange and Glorfindel’s smirk of complicity.

“He is the most capable general and brave man I’ve ever met,” Aragorn added, making sure that all present knew his opinion. He only wished he had told Boromir before the meeting started, now he had to seek him out at his earliest opportunity and make reparations.

He was tired. There had been only enough time for a short rest before the council of Elrond, he’d not even had time to change his travel stained clothes. Once he’d reached his room he had fallen asleep for a few hours despite his upset. Upon waking he found a tub of hot water awaiting him, with several full buckets at the fireside ready to add.

The bath felt wonderful, he just hoped he didn’t fall asleep and drown himself. Of course, if his brother or father ever learned of just how much a fool he’d made of himself, drowning just might be a good idea. Maybe he could die heroically on his return and his family need never know what an absolute idiot he’d been. With a wry smile, he sank beneath the hot water to thoroughly wet his hair. He really hated having dirty hair.

Legolas knocked on the door to Boromir’s room. He had promised Aragorn that he would make sure the man understood that Aragorn was proud of him and would explain his actions of the previous evening as soon as he could escape his pressing duties. Legolas had been scandalized by Aragorn’s behavior and not at all shy about telling him. Not hearing an answer, he opened the door anyway. The man was completely beneath the water, causing the elf to pause, not quite sure if he was drowning. Then the man rose from the water and Legolas was captivated by beautiful green eyes.

Surprised by his visitor, Boromir said the first thing that came to his mind. “Did you come here to drown me or to keep me from drowning?” he asked with a lopsided grin.

“I wanted to talk,” the mesmerized elf said haltingly. It had been several millennia since he’d been caught so flat-footed by a pretty face.

“Yes?” Boromir queried, with a raised eyebrow.

“Let me help you while we talk,” Legolas said, rolling up his sleeves and moving to take up the shampoo. Despite his intentions to speak with the Gondorian, the feel of soft hair beneath his hands held him mute. His mind wandered completely off track to thoughts of what was hidden under the water, teased by the sight of the delicious scars that marked his shoulders. He had heard rumors.

Quite sure that he recognized the look in the elf’s eyes, Boromir spoke to his royal attendant. “I think you should know that I have been on the road without another’s touch for almost two weeks now,” he said. “It would be terribly cruel to tease me, and I’m not sure what my reaction would be.”

With a lustful grin, Legolas kissed the man’s shoulder running a hand down his beautifully scarred and muscled body until he reached the fully erect cock. He broke off the kiss with a look of surprise; the man was huge. Boromir grinned at him as the elf wrapped his hand around the waiting erection and began expertly working it. It had been too long since Boromir’s cock had felt the touch of a hand other than his own. He leaned his head back on the edge of the tub and arched his back, exposing his throat to Legolas’s greedy mouth. It only took a few minutes for him to reach orgasm, his whole body convulsing into it.

Legolas returned to washing the man’s hair, wanting him to have plenty of time to recover. The elf rinsed the soap away, Boromir completely relaxed in his hands.

“Would like to join me?” Boromir asked him.

“Are you ready for more?” Legolas asked surprised again.

Without a word Boromir took the elf’s hand and held it to his hard cock. Legolas’s eyes widened at the man’s quick recovery. His clothes seemed to just disappear, and then Boromir had a lap full of horny elf. Surprised by the enthusiastic response, the man laughed and kissed him.

“We can talk later,” Legolas said as he grabbed Boromir’s cock and began guiding it into his ass.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Boromir moaned.

“We don’t have much time,” Legolas panted, once he had taken all of him. “The banquet will start soon and we both have to be there.”

The elf began moving energetically and Boromir felt another orgasm quickly approaching. He grasped Legolas’s not inconsiderable cock and used his own expertise to bring the elf with him. Legolas slumped against him and licked his neck.

“I wanted to make sure you were all right after you left the council,” Legolas said sheepishly.

“I didn’t make a very good impression, I’m sure,” Boromir admitted. “My father would skin me alive if he found out.”

“I know how that is, my father has assigned me a watch dog for when I’m here in Imladris,” Legolas laughed.

Just then there was a knock at the door. “It is time to get dressed your highness,” came a voice through the door.

“Did you bring my things, Saelbeth?” the elf responded.

“Of course, your highness,” came the reply.

Legolas looked to Boromir for permission, who shrugged in acceptance. “Come in Saelbeth,” The elf prince called, rising from the tub.

“You got your hair wet,” the newcomer said with distinct dismay. He dumped the robes he was carrying on Boromir’s bed and went to the dressing table fussing over the toiletries. Picking up a brush and comb, he gestured to Legolas impatiently. “Come, let me fix your hair,” he said through clenched teeth.

Boromir almost laughed at the poor elf, realizing that Legolas was unrepentantly spoiled. “Come Boromir,” the prince called. “I can dry your hair while Saelbeth braids mine.”

This brought an exasperated sigh from the other elf. “You’re going to be late again and you know who will get the blame,” he hissed. Then his breath caught in his throat as he saw the naked man drying himself. He was staring open mouthed, not sure if he was attracted or repelled. The muscles, the scars, the tattoos, that huge cock, all presented a picture that made his own cock harden and sent tingles down his spine. A hard pinch from Legolas brought him back to the task at hand and he gave a sharp, retaliatory tug to the braid he was working on.

Boromir sat at Legolas’ feet and allowed him to towel dry and then comb his hair. He found himself craving physical contact after spending so much time alone. The prince kissed his head when he was done and indicated the clothes that had been left for him to wear while his own clothes were cleaned and repaired. As he dressed, he noticed the blush and quick glances from Saelbeth and recognized the name as the one Éomer had told him.

Legolas grinned at Boromir impishly. “I was wondering if you would be interested in sharing my quarters while we’re both here in Imladris?”

Saelbeth threw down the comb and dropped the braid he was working on. “You are trying to either drive me crazy or kill me. Your father will have my head if he finds out.”

Turning quickly, Legolas took the distraught elf in his arms. “Ada knows that you can’t control me, my sweet one,” he said, nuzzling his ear. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Let’s finish your hair and get you dressed,” Saelbeth sighed in resignation. “It is just the punishment I deserve for running off on an adventure without his permission.”

“Are you interested in my offer?” Legolas asked the man.

“Since I hate sleeping alone and I’m sure you will make it worth my while as well, I say let’s give it a try,” Boromir answered, while putting on the soft shoes that fit his feet perfectly.

“Good,” the prince said, taking over the braiding of his own hair and sending Saelbeth to hold up the various robes he had brought so that he could choose. He picked out a floor length green robe with matching shoes, waving away the pants. “They’ll just get in my way later,” he said.

“Later?” Boromir asked.

“It’s a surprise,” Legolas answered.

The emotions he was sensing from his brother were stronger than ever before on the journey. Faramir felt sure that Boromir had reached his goal but that there was some problem there to greet him. He sent as many soothing and loving thoughts as he could, hoping it would help. By dinnertime, Boromir was greatly relieved and Faramir was almost feeling good enough to join his father. However, he decided his most important duty was to make sure he was there if his brother needed any more comforting.

Hopefully, Boromir would be able to get some real sleep soon and his worries would be resolved.

The all too familiar guilt ate at Aragorn as he hurriedly dressed for the banquet. He knew that it was quite likely that Legolas had completely forgotten to give his message to Boromir. He could only blame himself, for this and for all the other mistakes he had made in dealing with the line of the Stewards. With a heavy sigh, he left to the great hall, hoping to have a chance for a word with Boromir before the festivities started.

There was too much conflict in the past for him to ever be able to work with Denethor and he had counted on having Boromir as his chief advisor. It was what he still desired, but he couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t already destroyed that choice.

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.

Part 29: THE KING’S PROPERTY

He woke in a strange bed, with a smooth warm body in his arms. Sleeping alone had been the second hardest thing about the long months on the road. He remembered going to bed with Legolas, and knew it to be him in his arms.

His morning erection rubbed against the elf’s back, and felt so good. Still half asleep, he moved down so that he could lick and tongue the elf’s ass to readiness. Legolas had far less body hair than he was used to, and smelled and tasted very different from humans. His lithe form, the way he wiggled beneath Boromir’s mouth, the soft gasps, all reminded him of Faramir. This incited his passion, for he missed his brother more than anything.

He slowly entered the elf, with short pushes and withdrawals. When he was completely within, he paused to kiss the back of the prince’s neck. Then he began long, slow thrusts, pulling almost all the way out, than pushing all the way in. Soon Legolas started squirming and groaning, trying to make him move faster. Boromir pinned the elf’s hips down with his hands, and continued with his long, slow, hard thrusts. His mind was filled with the smell, feel, and sound of Legolas beneath him, and peppered with thoughts of his brother. He was thoroughly enjoying the wiggling male, keeping his pace steady. The gasps became cries, which turned into begging, and then almost screams as Boromir stroked inside his ass.

Finally, he pumped harder, just twice, and the elf screamed his release. The man continued the long, slow thrusts until the elf started wiggling and moaning again. Pausing, he rose to his knees and sat back on his heels, bringing Legolas with him. One hand went to the elf’s cock and the other stroked his body. He ravished the elf’s neck and face with his mouth, soon bringing him to the brink of orgasm again. Boromir kept him there by tightening his hand or slowing his attentions until Legolas was again begging and screaming. Then, he allowed the elf’s release, aiming his cock so that the cum sprayed the front of his body.

Turning Legolas as he let him collapse onto his back, Boromir licked much of the cum off his chest. Then he gave the elf a deep, almost endless kiss that had him whimpering. Taking Legolas’s knees in his hands, Boromir pushed them back so that they were against his sides. He watched Legolas’s eyes widen, and his breath quicken, as he entered him again.

This time, his strokes were fast and hard, slamming into the elf and making the bed groan. Watching his own rehardening cock with disbelief, Legolas was at the mercy of the man pounding into him. Sweat dripped from Boromir’s brow, as he slammed harder, faster, and deeper. The elf grabbed his own cock and pulled as he started cumming for the third time. Boromir finally climaxed, long and hard, crying out as he did.

He collapsed on the bed next to Legolas, breathing heavily. “Good morning,” he said, brushing a lock of hair from the elf’s face.

“Do you always wake like that?” Legolas asked, still almost breathless.

Boromir laughed. “Only when I can,” he answered. Then a shadow fell across his face. “There has not been much time for any pleasure of late. My brother, Faramir, and I have spent nearly every day in the saddle, fighting our enemies, and protecting our people.” He sat up with a sigh and moved to the edge of the bed. “I need a bath and clothes. Some food would be most welcome. I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”

The elf laughed, “Well, you did sleep a whole day and a night. There is a bathing room through that door,” he pointed the way. “Your things are in that trunk,” he added, then paused as he saw Boromir’s eyes widen at the life-size paintings on the wall.

“That almost looks like you,” Boromir commented. There was a front and back view of a naked elf, both in suggestive poses. In the front view, his hands where behind his head, displaying his well-developed chest, which had rings in both nipples and a chain running between them. In the other picture, he was sitting backward in a chair and looking invitingly over his shoulder. His back was almost covered by a tattoo of a double dragon topped by elvish script. “That is truly amazing,” Boromir said, feeling himself becoming aroused at the sight.

“That,” Legolas said with a devilish grin. “Is my father, Thranduil, King of the Greenwood.”

“Does he know you have these?” Boromir asked incredulously.

“He’d skin me alive,” the elf grinned. “He commissioned the portraits, and I paid the artist a considerable amount to make these copies. I just couldn’t help myself after seeing the originals. He is even sexier in person.”

“I couldn’t imagine thinking of my father as sexy,” Boromir said, still unable to tear his eyes away.

“Me either,” Legolas agreed.

“What?” Boromir asked, turning to look at the elf.

Blushing, Legolas realized his slip too late to take it back. “We didn’t really hit it off too well,” he added lamely.

“You know my father?” Boromir questioned.

“It was a long time ago. I’m sure he doesn’t even remember me,” he said quickly.

“I’m quite sure my father wouldn’t have forgotten you,” Boromir said with a smile. “He probably wouldn’t have cared much for you either. He is a bit on the stern side.”

“A bit,” Legolas laughed. “My father tends to be a bit on the prejudiced side. He barely tolerates men, but can’t abide dwarves or hobbits.”

“I’m going to take a bath,” Boromir said heading for the door. He had better things to do with his time then discuss his own father, even if it looked like Legolas’s father might be interesting.

“I will send for some food and join you,” Legolas said, taking a robe and leaving the room. Mirrors lined the walls and Boromir looked at his nude body with a Grímace. He’d lost a lot of weight on his journey, and muscle tone as well. He would have to do some serious working out and eating as well. There was a pool fed by a small waterfall; it was warm, almost hot. He stood under the pounding water, letting it soak him. Strong arms embraced him for a moment, then threw him into deeper water. They wrestled for a while, before washing each other playfully.

The sight of Boromir relaxed, floating on his back, holding to the edge of the pool, was too much of a temptation for the elf. He slid between the man’s legs and began working his cock into his ass. As he pumped in and out of the tight hole, he was amazed again at the size of Boromir’s penis. Every time he thrust into the man, it jerked sharply and stuck out of the water like a mast. Legolas was enthralled, watching while Boromir floated, eyes closed and groaning his approval. Aragorn stopped in the doorway and watched the two. Water sloshed out of the pool as Legolas sped up, and they both started crying out as they neared orgasm. Boromir’s cock was only about two inches longer than Aragorn’s, but was easily twice as thick. He was becoming increasingly turned on as he watched them. Then the two in the pool began to cum noisily. The semen from Boromir’s cock shot in a large arc and splashed at Aragorn’s feet, splattering his shoes and the hem of his robe.

“Not bad for an elf,” Boromir remarked.

“Hah!” Legolas cried and pushed him beneath the water.

The man came sputtering and laughing to his feet. “I’ll get you for that later, but I need to eat now.”

“I brought the food,” said Aragorn from the doorway.

Legolas was pleased to see Aragorn, but Boromir appeared almost angry.

They swiftly climbed out of the pool and went to find clothes. A trunk revealed garments Elrond’s people had provided for Boromir, so that he wouldn’t have to wear his trail clothes during his time in Imladris.

The food was on a table in the sitting room. They took their places on the low couches surrounding it. “I want us to come to an understanding, Boromir,” Aragorn said. “I don’t expect you to regard me as your king.”

“No!” Boromir interrupted, “We all know who you are Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and if any will ever be called king in Gondor, it will be you. I am not pleased that you did not tell me whom you really were when we first met, but that was your choice. Even so, whether or not you choose to fulfill your responsibilities as king, you’re still the heir to the crown. It is not meet that you should serve me, the son of your Steward, in any way.”

Legolas stifled a laugh behind his hand, while Aragorn was frankly embarrassed. “I had no idea you felt so strongly, I am not used to being regarded in such a way,” he said, blushing. “As foster son to Elrond, I’m used to serving his guests. There was no intent to insult you.”

“It is sometimes hard for me to remember that not everyone holds to the strict rules of precedence my father insists on,” Boromir said, ruefully. “Everything is different here, and so unexpected. So far, elves are not at all like I was told.”

Legolas laughed openly at that. “We don’t always share every aspect of our nature, Boromir. You would not have been invited to join us the other night if your reputation hadn’t preceded you.” At his questioning look, the elf added, “Something about you, your brother, and a pair of twins in Anorion. They passed through Mirkwood on their way home.”

Boromir smiled fondly, “Ah, yes, they were identical, they thought Faramir and I might be twins. Lovely young ladies, we had a memorable time. I was able to renew their acquaintance when I passed through Esgaroth.”

“I’ve heard they dance quite regularly in the taverns there,” Legolas said. “Let’s eat. I’m sure you are hungry.”

The food was varied and good. They talked of the scouting parties that had already left, and those yet to leave. Boromir wished he could send a message to his brother and Éomer, but secrecy denied that to him.

“Speaking of secrets,” Aragorn added. “Elrond and most of the elves of Imladris are pretty straightlaced. They turn a blind eye to what goes on in this wing as a courtesy to the Mirkwood elves who keep these rooms for state visits.”

“We have a bit of a reputation with the other elves,” Legolas added with a smirk. “Also with the dwarves, men, and I guess about everyone else, too. There is nothing like a party in Mirkwood.”

“Tomorrow I need to ride out and meet with some of the scouts. I was hoping you would let me show you around Rivendell today,” Aragorn said.

“I would be honored,” Boromir answered.

“I would join you, but a messenger arrived from my father last night. I’ll be tied up in meetings all day,” Legolas told them. “Besides, Elrond has been dying to tell me how scandalous I’ve been.”

“He has your best interests at heart,” Aragorn said.

“Which is the only reason I allow it,” the elf remarked as he left.

The two men spent the rest of the morning exploring Aragorn’s boyhood home. Rivendell was beautiful and totally beyond anything in Boromir’s experience. The open view of the valley was the complete opposite of the caves and tunnels of Thranduil’s domain, which was all that he’d really been able to see there. It was a little disconcerting to hear Aragorn addressed by so many different names, and in such a familiar manner, but he soon became used to it. This was clearly not Gondor.

During their private lunch in Aragorn’s rooms, Boromir felt the connection, which had begun in dreams strengthening. They talked idly while they ate, with frequent comfortable silences. They had been quiet for some time, when Aragorn turned to Boromir. “What does the tattoo on your shoulder mean?” he asked.

“It means that I am your property,” Boromir answered, looking him in the eye. “My brother and I have dreamed of you for years. We both decided that we belonged to you above all else.”

Sliding from the couch to his knees, Boromir took one of Aragorn’s hands in his. “It is my destiny to serve you,” he said. “My brother’s dreams have never erred, and he has seen you saving our city and our people, as have I. He has seen me bringing you back to Gondor.” He shared the dream with Aragorn, except the part about his own death. “We established a rather large following in preparation for your return. My father still resists the idea, but he has made several grievous errors in the past year and has become more amenable to my counsel.” Then Boromir proceeded to tell him of the sabotage of the bridge at Osgiliath and of his father’s use of the palantir.

Aragorn drew Boromir back up to sit beside him as he continued. Boromir gave him a complete report of the state of both Gondor and Rohan, including the intelligence gathered from their extensive network of spies. “I should probably apologize to the wizard for not trusting him. If we had warned him of Saruman’s activities, he might not have been captured,” Boromir said.

“He can be stubborn sometimes as well,” Aragorn told him. “He might have sought to verify your findings and accidentally revealed your knowledge and sources.” He paused, thinking of his old friend for a moment, “but I’m sure he would appreciate an apology.”

“Then I will be sure to give him one as soon as possible,” Boromir assured him. “What of this quest to destroy the ring? It will be difficult for the hobbits, even as brave as they are, to travel all the way to the black mountain.”

“I had hoped that you might agree to accompany them with me, at least as far as Gondor,” Aragorn told him. “However, if your father is using the palantir, we might not be safe there.”

“My brother has showed me how to detect him using it to spy on me,” Boromir advised. “If Frodo keeps the ring concealed, we shouldn’t even need my warning.”

“But if Saruman or the Dark Lord learn that you are traveling with hobbits, they may guess our errand,” Aragorn worried.

“They would more likely believe that we sought to use it ourselves, my Liege,” Boromir disagreed. “Gondor is sorely pressed and I could easily see those of the Dark Lord’s ilk thinking we would stoop to using their vile tools.”

“The ring affects you so strongly then?” Aragorn asked. “Even now that you’ve had some rest?”

“I could tell that the halfling still carried it when we saw him earlier,” Boromir acknowledged. “Though with it out of sight, it didn’t cause me as much distress as it did at the council. I’m sure I could travel with them. We’ve lived for quite some time with the unshielded effects of the palantir; this isn’t any worse.”

“Then I will tell Elrond that you are willing to go at least as far as Gondor,” Aragorn said. “I’m sure that your knowledge will be invaluable.”

They discussed possible routes for their journey and what they might need. Aragorn began to feel more comfortable with Boromir’s manner; even as leader of the Dunadain he wasn’t treated with such deference. As afternoon faded into early evening, a knock at the door brought servants with food and drink for them both.

“I made plans for us to spend the evening together,” Aragorn told Boromir. “That is, if you wish to, my Lord.”

“I am honored, my Liege,” Boromir accepted.

“I’d wager that you always knew your place in this world,” Aragorn said, putting a hand on Boromir’s cheek.

“Since birth,” Boromir agreed, placing his own hand over Aragorn’s. “My father has told me as often as possible that I am the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor. My brother made sure I understood the history of our line and, together, we swore ourselves to your service.”

“I was twenty when Elrond told me of my heritage,” Aragorn told him sadly. “I had wanted to be a healer and had studied at his side whenever possible. Though I did learn some statecraft there as well, I’m sure you know he was herald to the last elven high king, Gil-Galad.” Aragorn continued telling Boromir of his childhood among the elves and how he had left Rivendell to make peace with his destiny.

As Aragorn spoke, Boromir realized that his face was familiar from more than just dreams. “My uncle, Imrahil, has a portrait of you in his study at Dol Amroth,” Boromir said into the silence that arose when Aragorn paused, trying to think of how to tell him of his prior history as Thorongil. “You served as advisor to my grandfather, Ecthelion II, and also to Thengel.” He paused, looking deeply into the eyes of his future king. “You were also at Forlong’s camp last fall; you didn’t want us to know you were there.”

“I didn’t want to cause unnecessary strife between you and your father,” Aragorn confirmed his statement. “Though how I managed to leave without full discovery is beyond me. One of Faramir’s manciples even approached me just before the morning’s battle.”

“It was what you wished,” Boromir answered, now more sure of his connection with his liege. “Belgar was going to tell us who you were, but I ordered him to silence. It was what you wanted me to do.”

Aragorn was stunned. He knew that there was some measure of control he held over Boromir from his talks with Arwen, but not this much. “I had no idea you were so sensitive to my desires.”

“It is more than we had hoped, my Liege,” Boromir said exultantly. “My father uses the palantir to spy on his people, usurping a power which is reserved for you. It has brought great distress and almost ruin to us. I believe the wizard Saruman uses it to control him, or at the least to feed him false knowledge. We decided that if we could know your will without waiting for messengers or relying on the old ways, many of which have been corrupted, then we would all be the better for it.” He told Aragorn of how they originally decided on the tattoos of the king’s seal on their shoulders and how, over time, they had worked them into the rituals and spells that their people used to strengthen their unity and keep them safe.

“There is at least one highly placed member who bears the mark in each of the noble houses of Gondor,” Boromir gave a self-deprecatory smile as he continued. “More often than not, it is the heir to the house and a first night offspring of either mine or my brother’s. We have bound them to you and to us by blood and oath, spell and kinship. If you were to return to Gondor today, all the great houses would support your claim.”

“Unfortunately we cannot return immediately,” Aragorn told him. “We must do what we can to assure the destruction of the ring before we turn our sights on home. If the dark one reclaims it, all will fall into darkness and be lost, no matter how well our plans are set.”

“I am yours to command, my Liege,” Boromir said, returning to his knees at Aragorn’s feet. “Body, heart and soul I am yours.”

Running his fingers through the soft blonde hair, Aragorn couldn’t help but to pull the younger man’s face up for his kiss. It was unbelievably easy to lose himself in Boromir’s complete submission. His previous lovers were mostly equals with a few of higher rank, at least to his mind. Even Arwen, maybe especially her, seemed to be far above him when they came together. Boromir melted into his touch, passively urging him to take control. Pulling his velvet tunic up enough to reach the laces in his pants, Aragorn began fumbling with the cord.

“Let me, my Liege,” Boromir whispered, low and sultry, making Aragorn even harder behind the restricting cloth. There was no little skill in those fingers that made such short work of their errand that the older man gasped in surprise when his engorged cock sprang free from its confinement.

Looking down at the blonde head, he almost began to worry at the amount of time Boromir simply looked at his fully erect penis without comment. “You are so beautiful, my King,” the younger man finally whispered as he leaned slightly forward and reached out with his tongue to capture a bit of precum from the tip. All his experience and all the rumors had not prepared Aragorn for the expert mouth that closed over him and slowly swallowed his length. Completely. He would have orgasmed right then, except for the adept hand that pulled his swollen balls just so.

As Boromir stopped moving, Aragorn almost cried out in frustrated lust. Then his hands were guided, one to each side of his future Steward’s head. Taking control, as he knew Boromir wanted, Aragorn began moving the sweet mouth in an ever-increasing pace on his copiously leaking cock. Never before had he experienced such a degree of control over his partner and knowing that Boromir could take whatever he could give him made the act even more pleasing.

Aragorn was well endowed, but Boromir took him easily to the root. He relaxed into his lord’s grip, only keeping the suction constant, not worrying about displaying any of his extensive skills. This was for his king alone and Boromir wanted him to experience the pleasure of complete dominance. It wasn’t long before Aragorn’s pace became uneven as he reached climax. On impulse, he pulled from the warm mouth to let his cum spray across Boromir’s face. He groaned as he saw the younger man open his mouth to catch what he could on his tongue.

Collapsing back on the low couch, Aragorn watched in newly rising lust as Boromir brought some of his spilled seed to his lips. It reinvigorated him and Aragorn felt himself hardening quicker than he ever had before. Leaning forward again, he began removing the light tunic Boromir had chosen to wear that day. With no other distractions, he saw the beautiful designs carved and tattooed into the younger man’s chest.

“Let me see,” Aragorn whispered as the tunic fell to the floor and he began running his fingers across the tree and the initials on its bole. “I’ve never seen anything like this before, so beautiful.” Once started, there was no stopping his hands from exploring the landscape of scarred and colored flesh over tight muscle. He could tell that Boromir had lost weight and maybe a little muscle tone. “I want you to take it easy and relax while I’m gone,” he said into a perfect ear. He gently turned Boromir until he could see his seal tattooed on the golden shoulder. The exquisite workmanship and detail took his breath away.

As Aragorn’s fingers came into contact with the warm flesh, a bolt of energy shot up his arm. Boromir arched back, crying out in surprise at the flash of power that coursed through his body. Moving restively beneath the hands of his stunned liege lord, he slid out of the soft slippers and loose pants he was wearing. Naked, he prostrated himself before Aragorn.

“I am yours to do with as you will, my Liege,” Boromir reaffirmed his earlier words. “I offer myself to you in hope that you will claim me as your own.”

Aragorn had read the words and was aware of all of the ceremonies. He even knew which rite Faramir had used to claim his manciples. This was more than he had ever considered possible and he knew there was no way he could refuse. With gentle hands, he grasped Boromir’s hips and pulled him to his knees, admiring the long beautiful line of the man down to where his shoulders still rested on the floor.

“I claim you as my own, Boromir, son of Denethor of the House of Hurin,” Aragorn said as he slowly entered the relaxed body. He was still wet enough from Boromir’s saliva and his own cum that there was little pain. “You are the first part of the kingdom that will be mine when we return to Gondor.” Wanting to say more, be more reassuring and masterful, he could only gasp in pleasure as his body moved of its own accord to finish the pledge between himself and this man. Before he could totally lose all restraint, Aragorn felt the movements and pressure from Boromir’s body guiding him back into control. It sent an indelible image to his mind of his Steward always being there to help guide him on the proper path.

Still, it was only moments before he reached completion, heard and felt Boromir cry out his own release beneath him. After a few minutes of lying side by side on the floor staring deeply into each other’s eyes, Aragorn urged him to his feet. “Come Boromir, let us retire to my bed,” he said.

“As you wish, my Liege,” Boromir quickly answered.

“When we are in private, I would have you only call me Estel,” he told him, stopping to put a hand to his cheek and look into his eyes once again. “It is what all those who know me and love me call me. There is no one I would have know me or love me more than you.”

“Estel,” Boromir whispered, tears slowly running from his eyes as he felt the bonds of prophecy and loyalty in his heart. “It is what I wish as well.”

Nervous energy had kept Faramir from spending his time with the court of Minas Tirith. Much of his day had been occupied inspecting the siege preparations and dealing with the unexpected problems that came up with displacing such a large populace so quickly and for so long.

Although he feared for their safety, he was gladdened to see Faril and Sayil amongst the children still in the city. The roads had become too dangerous to send them back with the onset of winter rains and increased enemy activity, so he exiled them to stay with the other boys their age. Though they pouted and protested, he knew they were thrilled to be allowed to stay in the city at all. Since both had been training as minstrels and had kindly brought their instruments with them, he assigned them to play for the men as they worked and for special occasions.

Faramir returned to his room as the odd feeling that had been plaguing him all day increased. He was about to bathe when a flash of energy passed through him. The tattoo of the king’s seal burned in a pleasurable pain so intense that he lost his footing. Stefle was able to catch him before he fell, his eyes widening as he saw flashes of light flare across the seal.

“He has found him,” Faramir whispered as he tried to regain his feet, unable to control the wide grin that covered his face.

• Looking at the elf in front of his desk, Elrond wasn’t fooled by his appearance of youth. When he had first met Legolas at the forming of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, he was already over a thousand years old. Now here he sat, still looking as if he hadn’t reached his majority yet.

“I am sending a dispatch to your father today,” he told him. “I’m letting him know of your intended participation in the quest to destroy the ring.”

“You do realize that he will come to stop me?” Legolas asked.

“I’m sure he’ll try,” Elrond answered. “But there is enough bad feeling between us, I will not conceal this from Thranduil. If you write him yourself, he might understand.”

Laughing outright at the idea, Legolas shook his head. “Ada still doesn’t believe I’ve reached my majority. There will be fireworks in Imladris.”

“What about the Gondorian?” Elrond asked.

“You haven’t written about him as well?” Legolas almost jumped from his seat.

“Of course not,” Elrond said. “But if your father comes, he will find out. Saelbeth will not say anything, but you haven’t been in the least discrete. Things are bad enough without an enraged father marching on Gondor to defend his son’s honor. We were barely able to stop him the last time.”

Legolas smirked at the memory, his face going quickly neutral at Elrond’s outraged expression. “If I have a half hour warning, I can take care of that problem,” Legolas assured him. Then a speculative look crossed his face. “It might solve a few other problems as well,” he added with a wide smile.

“What are you plotting now?” Elrond asked with a sinking feeling.

“Nothing world shattering, my friend,” Legolas told him. “But rest assured that I have learned how to deal with my father quite well in the last age. Of course the whole thing with Isildur would have gone a lot better if my grandfather hadn’t been throwing such a fit. He never cared much for me since my birth gave Ada sole rulership of the northern half of Greenwood. Besides, I never make the same mistake twice.”

“I’m not sure I entirely trust your confidence, Legolas,” Elrond was honest. “But you know Thranduil better than any of us here. Just remember there is much more at stake here than just the ring. Boromir will not thank you if you make your father his enemy.”

“All will be well, Elrond,” Legolas said with a grin. “Boromir is not Isildur and I am not even the same as I was back then. You will see.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Elrond said with resignation. “Galadriel took a lot of convincing to lift her ban on you. If things go badly before you even leave, she might change her mind. Will you have a letter ready for your father in two hours?”

“I have one now,” Legolas said with a smirk, pulling a sealed missive from his robes.

“There are times you almost unnerve me, Legolas,” Elrond told him as he took the sealed letter. “If I didn’t have Glorfindel and Erestor to counter you, I might feel completely lost.”

“Ah, yes. I should speak with them as well this evening,” Legolas smirked. “Boromir will no doubt be spending the evening with Aragorn, so I shouldn’t allow myself to be at loose ends. You never know what kind of trouble I might get into on my own.”

With a sigh, Elrond dismissed the younger elf and called for the Mirkwood messenger. A startled cry from the other office told him that Erestor would soon know of Legolas’s intention to keep him and Glorfindel occupied for the night. Despite his chief counselor’s posturing, he knew the three were fast friends and more, whenever possible. It helped to ease his doubts. Both Noldor elves were much older than him and had proven to be completely reliable. He could only hope that their trust in Legolas would again prove worthwhile.

When the beautiful elven princess who was to be his lord’s queen entered the room, Boromir made to rise from the bed in courtesy. At her signal, he relaxed against his liege and watched her cross the room. As she sat on the bed beside Aragorn, he stirred in his sleep until she ran a hand down his cheek and whispered words of comfort in his ear. Sighing, the older man nestled into the man in his arms and returned to his dreams.

“He has been very worried for you, my Lord Boromir,” Arwen said quietly. “He was afraid he had turned you against him.”

“I would die first, your Grace,” Boromir spoke up quickly. “Most of my life has been spent preparing for his return.

“My father gave Estel’s kingship as a requirement for my hand in marriage,” she told him. “He despaired of fitting in as ruler despite his many years of service in Gondor and Rohan. In all that time, he never really felt he fit in, even though both Ecthelion II and Thengel placed great trust in him. I think that his failure to win your father’s friendship affected him greatly.”

“My father calls no man friend, Liege Lady,” Boromir said with a sad smile. “I seem to be the only one who has ever found his approval, and sometimes that was even grudgingly given. I have read all the accounts of Estel’s leadership and even his martial treatises. He has no need to doubt his abilities.”

“Both you and I know that, my Lord,” Arwen whispered. “But I think he still needs reassurance. I can think of no one better than you to guide him and show him what a great leader he is.”

“It is my privilege, Liege Lady,” Boromir assured her. “There can be no higher honor for a Gondorian.”

“I have every faith in you, Lord Boromir,” she said before resting her head against Aragorn’s shoulder closing her eyes to sleep, a sign of her human heritage.

Boromir also closed his eyes, secure in his liege lord’s arms. His thoughts turned to home and, as always, his beloved brother.

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.

Part 31: RIVENDELL

Boromir had found a pleasant sunny spot in the extensive gardens to sit and relax, as Aragorn had ordered him to. The older man had left to meet with the scouts and rangers as his foster father had bid him. Legolas hadn’t been in the rooms they now shared when he’d returned that morning, so he decided to spend the day in idle contemplation. At least until lunch when he was sure he could find a worthy opponent to spar with. It wouldn’t be disobeying, really, since he was at his most relaxed when he held a sword in his hand. Boromir was also interested in getting to know the hobbits better, especially since he would probably be traveling with them soon.

As he thought about the halflings, he became aware that two of them, Merry and Pippin, were moving across the small glade in front of him. Almost as hard to see as a hiding game bird, they seemed intent on an elf tending a flowering bush not far away. Then Pippin turned his gaze to Boromir and winked. He watched them as they walked silently through the grass until they were directly behind the unsuspecting gardener.

“What’re ya’ doing?” asked Pippin, his face a picture of innocence.

The startled elf leapt straight up into the air and landed in an undignified heap at their feet. He glared up at the two rascals, before rising to his feet in a graceful movement. “Didn’t Lord Elrond tell you to stop sneaking up on people?” he snapped.

“Oh, we weren’t sneaking,” Merry replied. “Lord Boromir could tell you, he saw us plain as day.”

“And everyone knows that men aren’t nearly as sensitive as elves,” Pippin put in, his face completely guileless. “At least as far detectin’ things,” he added, as if just now seeing the double meaning of his words.

The unfortunate elf gave Boromir a dark glare before huffing loudly and stomping off. He’d never suspected that an elf would huff or stomp, let alone be surprised by two childlike halflings. Unable to help himself, Boromir burst into laughter.

“You shouldn’t laugh at the gardener,” Merry told him as they approached. “We’ve been told that they aren’t here for our enjoyment.”

“Yes, twice by Elrond and once by Gandalf,” Pippin added, sitting in the grass next to Boromir.

“I’ll bet you have,” he said still chuckling. “Maybe the gardener earned your attentions.”

“Oh, he’s a fine smart fellow, he is,” agreed Pippin. “Why, our very first day here, he gave us a very informative lecture.”

“Yes, indeed,” confirmed Merry. “He told us we were to be careful not to harm his plants, us being so young and ignorant.”

“Aye, if he hadn’t wised us up, we might never have made the connection that this garden has plants in it, just like our own at home.”

“Sounds like he’s a bit puffed up,” Boromir commented.

“We have found that there are some very important elves here. We might have missed them, but they were kind enough to let us know,” said Merry.

“We keep trying to show them how much we appreciate their superiorness, but they just don’t seem to understand,” was Pippin’s comment.

“I hope I don’t have the same problem with them,” Boromir said. “I’m not sure I could be as patient as you two.”

“I don’t think that they will hold you in the same regard as they do us,” Merry commented, looking at the large man who, even in the elaborately decorated tunic and pants the elves had given him, looked very dangerous.

“After all, everyone knows that we are a young race and not given much to seriousness,” Pippin added.

“I would have thought that those of the Eldar race would have learned better than to judge by appearances and rumor,” Boromir said.

The two hobbits exchanged a pleased look before turning back to the man. “According to the maps Bilbo has showed us, Gondor is quite close to Mordor.” Merry changed the subject, knowing that it was quite possible that other ears were listening to their conversation and wanting to avoid any further lectures from the wizard or the Lord of the Valley.

“Too close,” Boromir answered. “I have been fighting the forces of Mordor and their allies most of my life. My people have been at war with them since before I was born.”

“We’ve never been to war,” said Pippin.

“It wasn’t until we set out with Frodo that we ever even held a sword,” added Merry. “Not that they did us much good against those nasty Nazgûls. If it wasn’t for Strider, they would have got us for sure at the inn.”

“Or at Weathertop, where they stabbed Frodo,” continued Pippin.

Boromir had heard only bits and pieces of the hobbits’ journey to Rivendell. Though he knew Frodo had been injured, he hadn’t known how. “Tell me of this trek of yours,” he said. “It sounds very brave.”

The two hobbits told him in great detail, with many half-hearted complaints about missed meals, of their adventures. What they told him coincided with what he’d already heard, and he realized there was very little exaggeration in their tale. Of course, it needed none.

Pippin told of the eerie journey he had made with Frodo and Sam from Bag End to the Ferry at Bucklebury where they’d been met by Merry and taken their rest at the house at Crickhollow. Both hobbits told of the frightening adventures in the Old Forest where they were almost eaten by the trees and rescued by Tom Bombadil and treated to the great hospitality of his Lady Goldberry. Then they shared the tale of how they’d been lost on Barrow-Downs and almost taken by a Barrow-wight and again rescued by Tom. Eagerly, they each showed him the Westernese blades Tom had given them from the barrow.

Boromir was quite impressed with their tale and listened avidly to the rest as they shared the food they were carrying in their pockets with him. He knew that storytelling was something they did regularly as they recounted vivid descriptions of the village of Bree, the meeting with Strider and the narrow escape from the black riders. Though their journey was easier once Strider became their guide, it was only shortly thereafter that Frodo was wounded and the rest of the distance to Rivendell had become a true nightmare as they feared so greatly for their cousin’s life. It was only because of Glorfindel and his horse Asfaloth that Frodo was able to cross the Bruinen to safety ahead of the dark riders. There the magic of Elrond had washed all of the Nazgûl away in a great rising of the water and they hadn’t been seen since.

“I am glad to know such brave fellows,” Boromir told them. His estimation of the hobbits and Aragorn had risen greatly.

“We still need to learn how to use our swords,” said Merry.

“What I can teach you, I will,” Boromir offered.

“Splendid!” Pippin cried, leaping to his feet. Then he paused, his hand going to his stomach. “Would you mind terribly if we wait ‘til after lunch?”

A long morning of endless meetings turned into a long afternoon of interminable conferences. None of them required his presence and he couldn’t understand why his father had insisted on him being there. The unseasonable warmth of the day, aided by the incessant rains, added to his boredom and the irregular sleep he’d been getting since Boromir’s departure had him only half aware of the subject under discussion. Faramir’s eyes glazed over with thoughts of his brother and what wonders he must be seeing in the lands of the elves. The great archives beneath the city held numerous paintings, drawings and descriptions of Imladris and the other elven realms. He imagined Boromir exploring the graceful architecture and seducing the many elves that inhabited the exotic halls.

There was no doubt in his mind that his brother would be a favorite among the Eldar race. He had yet to meet anyone not entirely tainted by the Dark Lord that could refuse the charms of Boromir’s golden tongue and masculine beauty. There would be Dwarves as well as men from other lands, and the halfling of their vision, maybe more than one. A smile curled his lips as he thought of the concise and detailed report he would receive. Most likely while being reintroduced to the tender affections of his most beloved brother. And the King, the King would probably be with him.

“What are you grinning like a fool over, Faramir?” Denethor’s voice cut across his musings. “Didn’t you hear how much was lost when the Pelennor was burned? A good fourth of the northern fields hadn’t been harvested yet!” He exclaimed angrily.

“It was excess grain, father,” Faramir responded, trying not to be condescending and not quite succeeding. “It would have been more than it was worth to finish the harvest and then transport it all west. Our resources were better engaged moving people and weapons into their strategic positions.”

“So every croft and holding has been filled?” the Steward asked in disbelief.

“The last wagons are headed to Nimrais, my Lord Steward,” Faramir told him, not informing his father of the wide stretch of land west of the Anduin and south of the Entwash that had been evacuated of all but military forces. Suppressing a sigh, he gazed down the long table, looking to see who had brought this point up. It had been discussed so many times already that he found it almost unbelievable that it was being raised again. From the expression on Borril’s face, where he sat next to the Steward, Faramir knew it was part of one of the many plots that had been surfacing to try to undermine his position. “Everything is going exactly to plan as we laid it out last spring before Boromir left. The only changes have been the abundant harvest and the early rains. If we had worked any longer on the fields, we would have been mired in mud. All of Gondor is endeavoring to secure the safety of the kingdom and we are in a better position than we had hoped for.”

He paused to let his words sink in a little. “Provision has been made for all those were not able to harvest their crops. We are at war and, as we saw last summer, the enemy has forces we have little defense against. Fortunately, most of them will be incapacitated until the rains stop, which we know will happen sometime in February.” He sighed heavily as he thought of the outposts he’d rather be inspecting.

“Maybe your time would be better filled if you were back in the field, my Lord,” Borril said with just enough unctuousness in his voice to make it sound like he wanted nothing more. “With the detailed plans that have been drawn up, I’m sure that we can handle everything here in the city.”

“Yes, that might be best,” Denethor said, feeling that his son’s absence would give him more control and more time to sway Borril to his wishes. “After all, you are the acting Captain General until Boromir returns.”

With another heavy sigh, Faramir didn’t attempt to hide the relief he felt. “I can be ready to leave at first light,” he said. “It has been too long since I’ve seen firsthand how our troops are holding up.”

Mordel could barely hide his elation at the news of Faramir’s imminent departure. He’d had to concentrate all his efforts on concealing his own actions from the far-too-observant man. Now he could advance several projects almost unwatched, some of which dealt with removing the Steward’s youngest son permanently.

A light sprinkle of snow melted immediately upon contact with the stone of the courtyard. Éowyn felt the pull of the broad steppes of the Riddermark in the chill wind, which accompanied the unseasonable cold. This was the farthest she’d been from Meduseld in months, yet she was still well within the confines of the walled city. At least she’d been allowed to greet the small group of Rohirrim who had brought her gifts from the east. She was actually quite surprised that she’d even been permitted to receive the gifts at all considering who and where they came from. As she watched the dark woman carrying a large satchel dismount from riding behind a shieldmaiden, she couldn’t hide her grin. There weren’t many people of this coloring in Gondor and even fewer who would be coming directly from Faramir.

“Your Highness,” the woman addressed her, bowing deeply. “I am Saphron of the House of Hurin. My Lord Faramir sent me to be of aid and comfort to you in these dark times.”

“Welcome Saphron,” Éowyn said with heartfelt geniality, recalling the tales Brinel had told her of this woman. “I am grateful that he saw fit to gift me with one of the treasures of his house.”

“You are overgenerous with your praise, your Highness,” Saphron replied, blushing at her words. “It is I who am blessed to be allowed to attend the ‘Jewel of Rohan’. I grew as impatient as my lord to meet you and now I see that the stories of your beauty pale to the reality.”

Éowyn couldn’t help the peal of laughter that escaped her at these words. Despite the numerous compliments she received on a daily basis, she had never thought of herself as a beauty. “Be careful with your compliments, you will swell my head. Come,” she said, throwing her arm over the other woman’s shoulders in comradeship. “Let me show you to my room and where you will be staying so that we can get to know each other.”

The sound of his Princess’s laughter went straight to his heart as he watched from his hidden vantage point.

“The woman she is talking to is the one I was telling you about, my Lord Gríma,” the informant whispered into his ear. “They say she is a witch of great power and that she uses ink to enspell all those who oppose her lords.”

A smile crossed Gríma’s lips as the women walked away toward the Keep. He knew far more about the Princess’s new retainer than the man next to him. Not only had he received many reports over the years from his own sources in Gondor, but also, he’d managed to intercept the messenger carrying Galmar’s journals all those years ago. He’d never forwarded them on to Saruman, knowing that the more knowledge he kept to himself, the better his chance of survival.
And now things had changed.

“I’m sure you’re anxious for me to reward you for your efforts,” Gríma told the man as they took a winding path back to Meduseld.

“I have been looking forward to being here in the city permanently, my Lord,” the man agreed.

“Well come along, I’ll introduce you to the captain of my guard,” Gríma said with a smile. “Do you have any proof of this woman’s position in Minas Tirith, anything I can send along to our employer?”

“I wasn’t able to get much, my Lord,” the informant said with regret. “Everything is here in my saddlebags.” He patted them where they hung from his shoulder.

“I will need to see it all.” As they entered the barracks room near the back of the Keep, the slightest of hand signals alerted his men to what he wanted. It took only moments for the guards seated at the door to have the man pinned on his knees a rough hand over his mouth to keep him from crying out. Another quick signal had one guard bringing a sharp knife across his throat. Retrieving the saddlebags from the new corpse, Gríma turned to address his captain. “Let this be a warning to all that it doesn’t pay to seek to rise too quickly. I will not tolerate insubordination.” With a cruel grin, he left, knowing that no further orders were necessary to see that the body would be properly disposed of.

Knowing that he had just made the game he played that much more dangerous, Gríma smiled as he returned to his rooms. He would burn everything after he read it, committing it all to memory as he’d been trained. It was possible that the man had set up contingency plans and that copies would be forwarded along to his master in the tower of Isengard, not that he felt the informant was that smart. If such occurred, Saruman’s wrath could be fatal – or worse. Still, a part of him that had chided and pricked at his mission in Rohan since the confrontation in the baths, rejoiced that his Princess was just a little safer. Maybe, if the fates were kind, she would find some solace in the care of her new companion.

A warm breeze came in from the balcony off Legolas’s bedroom. He’d been told that magic kept the valley of Imladris warmer than the surrounding mountains. Boromir thought that the many hot springs might have a good deal to do with it as well. In the past week, he’d recovered much of his strength but was admittedly still below his usual health. He’d gotten to know the Hobbits quite well and though they’d acquitted themselves well in the sword lessons, he still couldn’t think of them as anything other than children. Pippin didn’t mind much, having a couple of years to go before he reached the accepted Hobbit age of majority. Merry, however, would sometimes be a bit annoyed and other times amused at Boromir’s difficulty in adjusting to them. He’d gotten to know some of the Dwarves as well, despite their obvious dislike of Legolas, who was almost constantly at his side.

It was beautiful here and Boromir had many congenial companions. But he wanted to go home. He stirred restlessly, thinking that maybe he should get up and wander the halls rather than wake the others.

“Where are you going?” Legolas asked as he made to sit up.

“I can’t sleep,” Boromir told him.

“I know how it is to miss your home,” the elf whispered, pulling the man closer. Reaching behind himself, he nudged Saelbeth awake. “Cousin, use your magic voice to sing Boromir to sleep.”

The dozing elf stirred and looked to the blue eyes that had long led him into trouble. He could never resist. Scooting up the bed and waking the two elf maidens that had fallen asleep with him, he leaned against the headboard and started a lullaby. It was an old Sylvan song he’d learned from his mother. The women joined him, their voices blending with his and sending all who heard them into the land of dreams and reverie.

The bed he shared with his brother was before him, a figure lying in the shadows at its center. Boromir stepped closer, peering through the darkness in an attempt to see who it was. Singing he couldn’t quite make out carried him forward. The man in the bed turned, and by his very movement, Boromir recognized his heart’s desire. The blue eyes pierced the darkness and called him forward, the bright welcoming smile drove out all thought of anything else.

“You’ve come back to me,” Faramir’s voice caressed his ears as he reached for him.

“Always,” Boromir whispered before claiming his brother’s lips. He melted into his beloved’s welcoming body, unable to stop the tears that fell from his eyes. He wanted to say more, but couldn’t force himself to move far enough away from the embrace to speak. Their hands roamed each other, relearning every detail.

The hard muscled body beneath him was all that he remembered and more. Finally he was able to break the kiss, but only to run his lips across a stubbled cheek and taste the sweet tears of his most beloved. Grabbing a tender earlobe between his teeth, he sucked it into his mouth, reveling in the soft gasp that blessed his ears. There was the scent of the incense that burned to keep the wards going and Faramir’s own smell, so special, burned into his memory. He knew he was home again, in the place he most wanted to be.

“Please,” Faramir gasped as he arched and grasped at Boromir’s shoulders. Impatient as always. “I need you, my brother.”

“Yes,” Boromir groaned into the neck that was bared to his lips and teeth. For this time, he would give all that his love demanded. His arms slid down the writhing form below him, taking a firm grip on the strong buttocks and positioning them to receive his more than ready cock. He thrust forward, embedding himself completely into the hot, waiting channel. There could be nothing in all the worlds of men and elves to equal this pleasure. So tight and welcoming, so very much his own, it called him to lose every bit of control that held him back.

Sliding his hands to push his brother’s legs up so that his thighs lay tightly against his chest, Boromir began to thrust hard into the body beneath him. There was no tenderness now, only the unrelenting need to rejoin what had been parted for too long. It was brutal and blessed to both of them, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through the room. Faramir’s hands reached to pull his brother’s hips in an even faster, harder rhythm.

They became locked in time, in an endless embrace that would end all too soon. Their harsh breath brushed each other’s faces as they panted out their desire and lust. Pushing, pushing until there was no more holding back. At the peak of time they cried out their completion, leaving both to collapse in total bliss.

Only moments later, Faramir rolled to his side pulling Boromir into a tight embrace. “Come, my brother,” he whispered, urging Boromir closer. “Let us not waste what little time we have.”

Boromir leaned against his brother’s chest, running his fingers through sweat dampened hair. His other hand stroked the lean body, feeling the muscles work beneath the skin, as Faramir returned his caresses. They began a rhythm old to them, begun before there was anything more than innocence in their touch. Their foreheads pressed tightly together, they touched each other affirming their wholeness, whispering sweet endearments. More than lust stirred them bringing an ache to their limbs as they submerged themselves in the love that had bound them all their lives. Tender, as the first time he held his newborn brother in his arms, Boromir embraced him.

Stilling, they looked deeply into each other’s eyes before allowing them to fall closed as they entered another kiss. With painfully slow movements, they continued pressing their bodies close together. Aligning their hard cocks with a slight twist of hips, rubbing rough scarred skin against rough scarred skin, they immersed themselves in the feel of their close contact.

Despite the leisurely pace of their movements, they began to pant, short hard breaths of arousal surging through them. Long sweeps of flesh against flesh and Boromir broke the kiss to bury his face in his brother’s neck. Both arms went around the younger man’s body so he could pull him closer to his own. He slowed them even more so that they were gently rocking into each other.

Faramir’s hands fluttered down his brother’s back at the change of pace, wanting more, faster, now. Then he surrendered to the strong grasp and wrapped his own arms around Boromir, running his hands up the hard body until they were entangled in his hair. His mouth opened wide as Faramir felt his brother’s lips and tongue at his throat and he couldn’t hold back the moan that came from the very depths of his soul.

“My love, my treasure,” Boromir whispered into Faramir’s flesh. “I desire only to return to you, to be with you where I belong.” He slid a leg across his brother’s thigh, pulling them just a bit closer while slightly increasing the speed of their movements.

“I await you, my beloved brother,” Faramir cried out, lost in the ecstasy of their contact.

Their pace steadily increased, their movements harder as they lost the ability to hold back. This was what they had been missing in all those long lonely months of separation. There was nothing that could replace it, no one who could substitute for the other. All nights had seemed dark and cold since their parting, no matter the company. They could feel the difference held so closely in one another’s arms.

Sliding his left hand down to grasp his brother’s buttock, Boromir thrust his profusely leaking cock into Faramir’s. They drove against each other with greater urgency, Faramir matching his brother’s movements with his own. As they neared the peak, Boromir ran his right hand across Faramir’s back until it covered the warmer flesh that lay beneath the King’s seal. As Faramir copied his motion, they both felt the blinding pleasure of their release, Faramir sinking his teeth into his brother’s collarbone. They were engulfed in white light, separating them from the physical, though it was still there at the edge of their awareness. They had reached that place where they were whole, truly one, lost in the bliss of true joining.

It lasted only moments, or was it centuries, before sliding back into their bodies so far away. Sleep grasped them, pulling them under before the pain of parting could fill them. Boromir’s last conscious thought came from his brother’s mental translation of a line in the elvish song that barely registered in his ears.

“And our love shall bind us here forever.”

With the last ounce of his energy, Boromir pressed a kiss to Faramir’s brow. A smile graced his lips as he sank into his most peaceful sleep since leaving home.

Legolas gazed up at his cousin with lust and shock-glazed eyes from where he lay beneath the now peacefully sleeping Gondorian. He licked the blood from his lips and tentatively wiped at the deep wound Boromir now bore. In all his long centuries of life, he’d never experienced anything like this. He wondered if even Galadriel of Lórien had ever felt its equal with all her powers of mind speaking. But even as he parted his lips to question Saelbeth on what magic he had woven, exhaustion claimed him and pulled him into his own deep slumber.

The younger elf looked to his two singing companions who returned equally mystified looks. It was old Sylvan magic to call forth dreams and all three were well versed in its use, but none had ever encountered or even heard of such a thing before. They had all seen Legolas’s visage disappear beneath the vision of a man whom they assumed to be Boromir’s brother. The following scene had been so thoroughly erotic and enthralling that they would have stopped to watch, but some unseen forced had compelled them to finish their song.

They shifted restlessly for a few moments, considering leaving to find a less disconcerting place to sleep. Before they could come to any decision, they too succumbed to an overwhelming lethargy.

Mablung looked across the threshold to his fellow manciple. They’d both witnessed their lord’s dreams that he shared with his brother, but this was the first they knew of where Boromir actually manifested over the one who lay in Faramir’s embrace. It disappointed and relieved them when the dream faded away and their lord was left sleeping more peacefully than they’d seen in months in the stunned embrace of the ranger who lay beside him. The three men exchanged one more astounded look before the two at the door returned to their job of guard duty. The man in the bed pressed a kiss to Faramir’s forehead, ignoring the bloody wound on his own neck, then snuggling closer and joining him in his rest.

Sitting up abruptly from where he lay sleeping in the night’s cold camp, Aragorn looked around for the cry that had woken him. There was no echoing sound in the surrounding mountains, even though it still rang through his head. Looking down, he noticed where his pants were damp and becoming wetter from the release he hadn’t expected. It had been decades since he’d lost such control in the wilds where it was dangerous to add to his already too strong scent. It would do his errand no good if he were caught out by the betraying musk of sex.

Rising and rinsing himself and his pants in a nearby stream, he ignored the cold in favor of muting the sharp tang of cum. He chose to break camp, saddling his horse with practiced ease even though it was much too dark to see clearly. If what he suspected were true, then the cause for his untimely lack of control lay at his journey’s end, in Rivendell. It was past time he returned with his reports and to discover what had brought about such a startling event.

Soon they would be venturing south into lands dangerous and wild. Much of it held under the sway of the enemy. All would fall to ruin if their presence was betrayed by a slip such as had occurred this night.

Part 32: UNEXPECTED

“Would these rooms suit our Princess better, my Lady?” Gríma asked as he pushed open the double doors that led to the largest suite in the hold of Meduseld.

As she stepped forward into the chamber, Saphron was well pleased. She’d heard of the private chambers of Elfhild, Queen of the Riddermark, long dead wife of Théoden, and they were as beautiful as rumor said. It was most fortunate that the King was in no condition to nay-say his niece on her future occupation of these rooms; she’d had enough trouble talking Éowyn into making this move. “These may just be acceptable, my Lord,” she told the fawning advisor, moving toward the center door at the back of the large room which she guessed led to the sleeping chamber. “Show me all of it.” When the guards moved as if to follow, she stopped and turned, a look of disdain upon her face.

Gríma, ever anxious to please this most gracious of women, shooed them back to the doorway. “I’m quite capable of showing the Lady Saphron around on my own,” he told them impatiently. “Wait here until we are finished.” With that, he pushed the doors so that they came together with a resounding clang.

Saphron was careful to examine everything. She wanted the future transfer of Éowyn to Minas Tirith to be as smooth as possible. If the Princess wasn’t acclimated to the large rooms and constant presence of servants, she would be at an extreme disadvantage. While these quarters weren’t nearly as impressive as the ancient and oversized ones in the White Tower, they were a good starting point. All she would need now was the appropriate staff to help Éowyn adjust to being the center of attention.

When they returned to the center of the main room, Saphron turned in a circle taking the whole of it in once again. Without thought, she reached out and caught Gríma’s wrist in her hand, meaning to call his attention to a minor detail. She had been so long a sheltered and loved member of the House of Huron that she’d forgotten that there were times she must use caution herself. The surge of power that ran up her arm almost numbed it with its strength.

More than that though, it revealed a secret that she was sure the King’s chief advisor didn’t want revealed to anyone. After the briefest of pauses, she continued in her dissertation of the suite’s suitability as if nothing had happened at all. Later, when she was safely away from Saruman’s minion, she would deliberate on her new knowledge.

Looking down the length of the room, Denethor frowned at the sight of his younger son moving amidst the gathered crowd. After months of slowly fading from his brother’s absence, he was suddenly as bright and cheerful as he’d been in earlier years before the press of war had brought grim lines of worry to his face. There had been no messengers, that Denethor knew of, who could have brought word of Boromir’s whereabouts or health, yet it was as if Faramir had spoken with him. Denethor had seen it often enough through the years, though he’d always ignored it before.

At his elbow, ever ready with advice that helped him see through the deceptions and intrigues of the court, Mordel had been quick to point out the sudden change in Faramir’s demeanor. Denethor recalled the discussions he’d had with his sons about their dreams, many of which they shared, or so they said, and began to seriously wonder if they shared them even at a distance. It would explain much of what he had witnessed over the years; much of what he’d seen of late. As these thoughts passed through his mind, Denethor began to feel more than a little angry. He had always tried to be a good father as well as Steward to the realm of Gondor, and he couldn’t understand why he would be excluded from the bond his sons shared.

More, he was feeling cut out, as if his sons had judged him and found him wanting.

“You seem much revived of late,” Denethor couldn’t help mentioning as Faramir approached. “Is there some news you would share with your father?”

There was barely a pause or change of expression, but it was enough to add to the Steward’s insecurities. “We have held out better than planned, father,” Faramir said with a broad smile. “And I feel confident that soon Boromir will return to us with the wherewithal to overcome our enemies completely.”

“Perhaps there is some new reason for this confidence, my son,” Denethor said, his eyes taking on a cold edge as he leaned closer to his youngest. “It was not that long ago that you were almost inconsolable about your separation.”

“I’ve had dreams, father,” Faramir confided leaning closer as well, smiling shyly at the now frowning Steward. “They are not as clear as I would wish for, thus I have not shared them with you even though I know you long for Boromir’s return as much as I do. I’ve seen little more than flashes and shadows, but they have heartened me because I could feel his presence. He will return to us, father, and when he does we will be better off than we can imagine.”

It struck Denethor in that moment that Faramir was not just a leader of the cult that his sons had started in Gondor, but a true believer. A chill went down his spine at the thought of what might happen if some unexpected disaster befell them. He had never been one to put any trust in faith and could only see Faramir’s clear devoutness as fanaticism. A danger, not only to Gondor, but also to him personally.

After all, who would Faramir turn to for retribution other than the father who had long stood as a source of opposition? Denethor would have to make sure that he was prepared in case the worst happened.

It was unexpected that Boromir would be awaiting his arrival at the stables in the middle of the night with a small retinue of elves to take charge of his baggage and mount. All that was needed was a small gesture to have what he required taken in hand by the man himself. Estel could only smile tiredly as he was accompanied to his suite where a fire burned in the fireplace and a warm meal was being offered up by the two youngest hobbits who joined him, somehow almost energizing him with their excited chatter of all that had transpired since he’d left.

“We will be able to hold our own against any orc now, Aragorn!” Pip said through a mouthful of stew. He paused briefly to wash his food down with a small tankard of ale. “Boromir has shown us how to use our size to best advantage. We will be unstoppable.”

“Don’t be too brash, Pippin,” Boromir cautioned. “Those of the dark lands have many orcs and goblins to spare, while we only have one Pip and one Merry.”

Estel couldn’t halt his laughter at the brazen young hobbit, though it was tempered by the memory of the completely untrained little ones defending Frodo with more courage than skill from the Nazgûl attack. “Fortunately for us, you are well skilled in stealth as well, my friends,” he said. “It will most likely do us in much better stead on our errand.”

They finished their meal as four friends reuniting after a long parting. It was pleasant and relaxing, not at all what Estel had thought he’d return to, at least not on his first night. The last scraps were devoured by the hobbits before they swiftly gathered the dishes and bowed themselves out of the room. Estel started to his feet, intent on reporting to his foster father.

“Lord Elrond sends his respects, my liege,” Boromir told him as he took his arm and guided him toward the bathing room. “He said he would wait for your report first thing in the morning.”

“I really should speak with him tonight,” Estel said as he weakly resisted the gentle urging of the younger man.

“Is there really anything you could tell him tonight that would make that much difference on the morrow, my liege?” Boromir insisted. “He told me earlier that you should wait until you had refreshed yourself with some rest before drawing him from his warm bed.”

A mild blush colored Estel’s cheeks that he hadn’t considered his foster father’s comfort. Relenting, he allowed himself to be skillfully stripped and submerged into the small pool that was the centerpiece of his bath. He’d never experienced anything like the care-filled ministrations of the man who was quickly becoming indispensable to him. There wasn’t an inch of skin or a single hair that went untended by his self-appointed hand servant.

“I have missed you, Estel,” was whispered into his ear as Boromir joined him in the water. He was expertly maneuvered so that he half-reclined on top of the younger man, one hand wrapped around his cock stroking lightly, while the other gently massaged his balls. “Being parted from you makes my very soul ache,” soft lips imparted as they caught delicately at an ear.

He’d never felt quite like this before, his body cradled within the larger man’s hold while he was brought inexorably to the heights of arousal. “Boromir,” he gasped as he arched uncontrollably. There was nothing he could compare with the feel of being guided, encouraged, so very surely led over the edge of completion by the warrior beneath him.

“You bring me completion, my Liege,” Boromir called out hoarsely as he found his own release in his sworn lord’s.

So surprising, Aragorn thought as he was gently dried and led to his bed. Here in his childhood home where he had grown to manhood, he was beginning to learn what his destiny was all about in the hands of the son of the only man who’d ever regarded him with open hatred.

The bedroom alone was three times the size she was used to and there had been no cessation in the traffic of servants and guards in any of the rooms since she had begun her occupation of them. Éowyn was overtired from trying to adjust to sleeping in the middle of the chaos her private life had become. There had not been a moment untended by Saphron or one of the six other keepers (as she now thought of them) who’d been appointed the task of watching over her every moment. Sighing with exhaustion and more than a little exasperation, she turned to the balcony that abutted the bedroom. As she leaned wearily against the stone balustrade she felt the soft touch of her chief handmaiden brush across her arm.

“I have one more surprise for you, my treasure,” she whispered in a tone that the young Princess had come to both love and hate. “Come look.”

Obedient to the older woman’s urging, she followed the short distance to where the rail met the exterior wall of the building. Watching carefully she saw the simple hand movements which caused a section to slide easily to the side so that they could pass down the outer wall of the keep. The path was narrow and hidden within a fold of the curtain wall that separated the inner stronghold from the city proper. The fierce wind laden with freezing moisture deterred neither woman as they descended.

At the base of the building was a small courtyard which she had never seen before, even in all her childhood explorations. At the far side of the sheltered space stood a familiar and well-loved figure. With a cry she leaped across the distance to wrap her arms around her beloved cousin.

“I have missed you so, Théodred,” she said as she pressed kisses to his face. “It has been so hard to be parted from you.”

“I have missed you too, Éowyn,” he said laughing and weeping with emotion. “If only we’d known of this place sooner.”

“But now that we do, I can see you both more often,” Éowyn added as she reveled in being with Théodred after so long apart.

“Oh dear cousin,” The young Prince whispered as he hugged her tighter. “The orc and goblin attacks have worsened with the coming winter, especially in the Westfold. Our only salvation has been the grain and hay shipments from Gondor. We’ve even filled the storage vaults at Helm’s Deep and already many of the Eoreds and their families shelter there. It is only because I’m coming from there to meet with Hirgon who is currently charged with the western forces of Gondor.”

She gave a sharp gasp and broke away from him. “What are you saying, Théodred?” she asked sharply. “Are all our efforts for naught that we will all be driven behind stone walls where our proud steeds will starve and our people fade away? Will we become prisoners in our own lands?”

“No, no, my precious one,” he comforted as he brought her back within his embrace. “Winter is the peak time for the forces of the dark ones. We will shelter through the winter, but be assured before the frost is well gone in the spring we will be back to crush them.” His voice was so sure and his face filled with such confidence that she had no option but to believe him.

“And my brother?” she asked, not quite able to hide the disappointment she felt.

“Ah, yes, dear Éomer,” Théodred all but laughed. “He has begged me to let him and his Eored patrol the northern borders. I will be returning to the west and watch over the Gap of Rohan, lest Boromir return that way.” He paused and looked up at the darkening sky, “though I can’t see a Southerner like your betrothed traveling in this weather.”

“He crossed the White Mountains in winter last year if you remember, silly,” she said poking him in the ribs. “You know as well as I that he is not like common men.”

“No, neither of them are, and more lucky you to have two such men,” he replied, smiling wickedly at her blush.

“But I don’t have either yet,” she all but pouted. “Sometimes I feel as if I’ll stay buried in this great heap of stone until I’m ancient and wasted away.”

“I swear to you, cousin,” Théodred said, his demeanor turning serious, “this war will be settled before Beltane’s fires. You will finally be freed from Edoras and Meduseld.”

“Freed no matter the outcome,” Éowyn added, equally serious. “I will not live under the rule of the dark lords and I will take all of their minions I can with me.” There was an edge of anger and hatred to her words that chilled Théodred as he listened, even though he felt the same.

“When you see me next, dear one,” he added, “it will be in victory or after I have passed beyond the reach of our enemies in this world.”

“So soon,” she cried out, clutching desperately at his arm, though she knew he couldn’t stay.

“Take heart, Éowyn,” he said with a smile. “I have been trained by the best, as have you. It will take more than a few orcs or goblins to bring me down.”

“May the grace of our ancestors protect you, cousin,” she responded, not even trying to hide her tears. “Take care until we meet again.”

The house that stood just outside of the seventh gate was large enough to hold several families, even those of higher rank. Denethor followed his son’s heir to the drawing room, looking about in curiosity. It had been years since he’d visited this house. Indeed, it had been a long time since he had deigned to enter any of the houses of those he considered his inferiors. He’d felt it only proper that they seek him out in the White Tower.

“I am honored by your presence, my Lord Steward,” Borril said as he ushered Denethor into the large, well appointed room where Calinir waited. “May I offer you some tea?” he asked, even as he poured from the waiting pot.

Denethor could tell by the smell that is was his favorite and felt satisfaction that the young man had remembered. “Thank you, my boy,” he said with a smile. “Please be seated,” he added, signaling them both. “We are all family here with no need to stand on formality.”

“As you wish,” Borril replied, bowing his head in respect.

“I am worried about your uncle,” Denethor began without preamble. “He seems to be rather unstable of late.”

The two younger men exchanged an unreadable look before Borril answered for the both of them. “We know that he misses our sire and that his ‘dreams’ seem to distract him, my Lord.”

“Yes,” the Steward agreed solemnly, while he practically crowed in happiness at their acquiescence. “I fear he may not be able to respond properly in an emergency if he continues as he has been.”

“We have noted his behavior and made…” Borril paused momentarily before beginning again. “We’ve made preparations should it all become too much for him.” He smiled conspiratorially.

“I knew I could count on you,” Denethor said with a wide smile. “It is good to see that your father’s competence runs in you both.” He bent to take a sip of his tea and didn’t notice the grimace of distaste that barely passed Calinir’s face. “I think we should discuss possible future plans.”

Looking down the length of table to where his long-time friend Elrond sat, flanked by his chief advisor, Erestor, and his Seneschal Glorfindel, Gandalf was both alarmed and comforted by the company gathered there. To the wizard’s right sat Frodo who was finally looking almost completely recovered from his Nazgûl wound, even though it would never truly heal. Sam had refused to sit and stood behind his master’s chair ready to aid in any way he could. Next were Merry and Pippin, for once acting with uncharacteristic sobriety. Gimli and his father, Gloin, were beside the two younger hobbits. The two dwarves seemed to have warmed considerably to Legolas since they’d first encountered each other at the council weeks ago. Across from them was the mischievous youngest son of Thranduil, who had also adopted a more serious mien than the Itsar was used to seeing on his youthful face. Arwen and Aragorn completed the complement back to Gandalf’s left. Behind them stood Boromir, also refusing to sit and most likely the influence behind Sam’s behavior.

In fact, the wizard was quite sure that the Gondorian’s presence strongly influenced most of their company. He’d known most of those present their whole lives and over the past weeks he’d watched them blossom under the tutelage of the High Captain of Gondor. The hobbits were profoundly effected, each seeming to come into a greater sense of self-worth through the daily arms training Boromir gave them tirelessly. He even worked with Frodo, and all concerned were relieved the ring was now in a silken pouch to help contain its dark energy. The little people all stood a bit taller, more secure in their own abilities with the weapons they bore as well as those that nature had provided.

Most surprising had been the blossoming relationship between the Steward’s son and his future king. Despite the reassurances of both brothers, Gandalf had never quite believed that Boromir would accept Aragorn as heir to the throne of Gondor. It had gone even further than that, he knew as one evening he chanced to hear Arwen in counsel with her betrothed’s professed servant on the design of a banner that their mutual lord should carry into battle. He’d glanced into the room to see Elrond’s daughter faithfully copying the tattoo that graced Boromir’s shoulder, while Boromir gave her details on what the differences should be. Only once before had he seen the famous symbol that was said to be on the heirs of all the great houses of the Southern kingdom. It shocked him. Somehow, with no outside direction, the sons of the Steward had changed the very integrity of their homeland. In the process, they had brought forth a solid foundation for the return of the king their father hated beyond all else.

As a large detailed map of the lands they may have to travel through was spread across the table, Frodo, Merry, Pippin and the rest leaned forward to see what few others had seen in centuries while Sam, following the example set by Boromir, used the distraction to refill glasses and plates. As potential routes were discussed the Gondorian pointed out hazards and benefits he had discovered in his own journey north. Only a slight tightening of his lips showed his displeasure as the possibility of shelter at Lórien was mentioned. All present knew, through one source or another, the lack of welcome the man had received as he was pursued by orcs on the southern borders of that wood. It only gave further proof that the one that Gandalf had feared would be the weakest link in the group could quite possibly be the strongest glue to hold them all together and make their quest successful.

The storm was barely heard within the great keep at Dol Amroth as all within celebrated the birth of the new prince. Lothiriel cooed at the impossibly small bundle in her arms. Fortunately it hadn’t been too hard to convince her father to remarry after her mother’s death and find a suitable wife for him. It wasn’t that she didn’t love and miss her mother, but Gondor needed an heir to its strongest principality. A manchild born of the seed of the current ruling Prince. With all the uncertainty and chaos of the war, they needed a living, breathing symbol of the continuity of the kingdom.

She had long ago decided that she really would rather spend the rest of her life facing a sea of grass rather then ocean waves. Éomer had more than drawn her eye and, even if she would end up married to his cousin, she knew that the two men shared more than just a bloodline. She was sure that what she did to strengthen Dol Amroth, strengthened Gondor and eventually strengthened Rohan. It was her destiny and all of her decisions were tempered with this knowledge.

But this was unexpected. The small warm infant had totally captivated her, much like his mother, who was two years her junior, but completely devoted to her husband and now, her child. Faramir had cautioned her early on that allowing such close bonds had rewards and pitfalls. There was nothing that could compete with the fierce warmth that filled her in the presence of her beloved family, but the loss of even the least of them was almost too much to bear, even in thought.

Dahlia, her stepmother, entered the nursery and sat next to Lothiriel where she held her young brother. “He is a lusty young one,” she whispered in her soft voice as the child was passed off to his wet-nurse. “If only I were strong enough to keep up with him on my own.” Her soft brown eyes were filled with doubt and sadness as she watched her firstborn.

“You brought him safely into this word, my Princess,” Lothiriel reassured her. “Even my father, as demanding as he is, could ask for no more than that. Look at what a fine young princeling he is and be proud that you brought him forth for all of us.” She reached out and brushed a stray lock off the other woman’s brow before pulling her into a snug embrace. “Once you have recovered from his birth you will feel much stronger and the sadness will leave you. Remember the women we have tended with the healers? You have seen for yourself how hard it can be to make the transition from bride to mother, especially in these trying times. I know that you are as strong as you are fair, my precious one. I will be here for you through the storms of winter and in the spring you shall be renewed with the rest of Dol Amroth.”

There was a stifled sob against her breast as Dahlia succumbed to the comfort of her step-daughter. “I so feared that you would hate me replacing your mother,” was the tearful outburst that followed.

“You have no need for that fear, my darling,” Lothiriel whispered, pressing a kiss to her crown. “My mother lives in a different place in my father’s heart and mine then you. There is always room for more love. If nothing else, my cousins have taught me that. Take comfort in the oath we both share, that which makes us part of the foundation of Gondor’s future. When I leave to my own marriage bed, you will be ready to lead the people, the new heir of Dol Amroth most of all in the new ways we have established.”

“I will try my best,” Dahlia stuttered submissively.

“No,” Lothiriel said becoming stern for the first time, raising the younger woman’s tear-stained face. “You will succeed, for there is no other choice for such as us. To doubt and falter will bring ruin to more than just our own small lives. We are of the royal houses and all our people follow where we lead. Tomorrow, we will have a ceremony thanking our ancestors for the delivery of our new princeling, which you will officiate as I have taught you. Before the altar of our faith you will begin the first steps towards our future.”

Though it was late and the day had been long, Dahlia gathered the dregs of her tattered will and nodded acknowledgement into the arms of her companion.

Part 33: PREPARATIONS

Since Estel had insisted that he not only join this small council but sit among them, Boromir sat on the floor at his liege’s feet or, more correctly, at his and Arwen’s feet. They were in Elrond’s study along with Mithrandir, Glorfindel, Erestor, Legolas and the Lord of Rivendell himself. For the first time in his memory he felt uneasy, almost embarrassed by the subject they’d come to discuss.

“So, your dreams caused no difficulty traveling the wilds on your way to us?” Elrond questioned again.

“I have shared dreams with my brother the whole of his life,” Boromir told him, letting his exasperation show with his tone. “I have been a warrior of my people for over twenty-five years and always the dreams have been with me. Normally they are but a shadow of thought, just enough to comfort us when parted. What happened the other night is something I’ve never encountered before.”

“It was Silvan magic,” Legolas hurried to say before Elrond could ask another of the same questions he’d been asking. “That combined with what Boromir normally shares with his brother was bound to be outside of all of our experiences. I have no urge to perform the same type of magic once we have departed on our quest, even if I could. I’ve no doubt at all that he will be fine on the trail. There will also be Gandalf, Estel and myself to assist if needed.”

“I think that we can trust Boromir in this,” the wizard said, surprising Boromir with his support. “Long have I known of his connection with his brother, though I must admit that until recent events I was not so sure of it.” Boromir could only guess that his apology and long discussion with the wizard on the situation in Gondor and Rohan had aided Gandalf’s comprehension of the situation.

Boromir sought to assure the group that the dreams would not interfere with their quest. “I understand as well as anyone, if not more, the danger that could befall us if I were to broadcast or be incapacitated in such an exchange while on the trail to the south,” he said.

“Still,” the elven lord responded, “I, and I think all of us, would feel more comfortable if you worked with my daughter, Arwen, to gain more control.”

“Agreed,” Boromir replied, his eyes rising with admiration to his Liege Lady. “I have nothing but confidence in her ability. It would be my pleasure to work with her in this.”

With a smile, Arwen reached a hand down to stroke Boromir’s hair. “It is I who am pleased, and more than pleased to work with the Sword of Gondor. There is much, I’m sure, I will be able to learn from one who has spent most of his life in such a bond. The gift of prophecy he has shared with his brother is an added boon.”

Elrond was not sure what to make of his daughter’s words or actions. The man from Gondor was nothing like he had expected. His own dreams had been filled with the dark visages of an arrogant lord who neither gave, nor asked for, quarter. He was not prepared for the winsome person he’d slowly been getting to know and respect. Here was an experienced warrior and commander, long used to battle and the ordering of troops. Yet, here was also a patient and gentle teacher who spent endless hours working with peoples he’d never encountered before to make sure that they would be able to work together on their future journey. A journey which saw at its end the loss of the kingdom his father had chosen for him.

He couldn’t hide the smile that curved his lips as he watched Boromir nuzzle his cheek into Estel’s leg as he readily accepted the familiar petting of Arwen. There was no need to hide it either, as all those present, except Boromir, had the same expression on their faces.

Maybe there was a better chance for the quest to succeed than he had foreseen.

THE WILD ELF OF MIRKWOOD

It was late afternoon when Legolas lured Boromir to the bed they shared for a little pre-dinner diversion. As they lay panting to recover their breath, Legolas gently fondled Boromir’s cock. He smiled as it began stiffening, even though they had both just climaxed only moments before.

“How can you do that?” he asked.

“What?” Boromir queried, enjoying the stimulating hand.

“Get hard again so quick, stay hard so long,” he clarified. “I’ve never known anyone else, elf or man, who could do that.”

Boromir laughed at his words. “My brother is the same. We have had a couple of times when we could get away from the fighting for a few days and spent the whole time having sex. When we were younger, I would lie with him in my arms at night and see how long I could wait before I would have to leave the bed and find my release in my own hand or with a servant. But then, as soon as I got back in the bed and felt his warm body next to mine, I was hard again. I didn’t want to go too far with him when he was young. After a while, I got so that I could sleep fairly decently with an erection. But it started getting difficult again when he started having the same problem I had.”

“Your father let you sleep together?” Legolas asked, obviously surprised.

“Oh no,” Boromir laughed. “I cut a hole between our rooms, and then Faramir had the servants turn it into a concealed doorway. Father was livid when he found out, though that was years later.”

Legolas was laughing at his tale, but stopped suddenly, cocking his head to the side as if listening. His face went through a multitude of expressions and then he looked at Boromir in alarm. “I need you to do a favor for me, Boromir,” he said.

“A favor?” Boromir asked, his voice full of suspicion after having been trapped into uncomfortable circumstances by previous ‘favors’ for the elf. He didn’t notice the sound of many horses arriving in the courtyard below their balcony.

“It’s about my father,” Legolas said in a rush. “He doesn’t want me to go on the quest, he wants me to return home.”

“And I can help you with this?” Boromir queried.

“Oh yes!” the elf exclaimed in excitement. “You are the only one, and I know you will enjoy it as well.”

About this time, even Boromir could hear the yelling in the outer chamber of Legolas’s rooms. “I don’t think I’m going to like this,” he said.

“You’ll love it,” Legolas promised. “I haven’t led you wrong yet, have I?”

“If I get killed because of this, I’ll haunt you forever,” Boromir told him with a groan of capitulation.

“Just go along with me, please,” Legolas begged before sitting up suddenly and putting his mouth over Boromir’s semi-hard penis, sucking it to full hardness and leaving it wet and glistening with his saliva. Just then, the door slammed open and an enraged elf stepped into the room. “My father is here,” Legolas said unnecessarily, as Boromir recognized the elf from the paintings he was standing in front of.

“Have you ever seen such a magnificent cock, father?” Legolas said in Sindarin, using his most persuasive manner. Boromir could only understand a few of his words, but had a good idea of their content as he watched Thranduil’s whole demeanor change. Legolas ran his tongue up Boromir’s cock and then sat back away from him as if in offering. “Wouldn’t you love to feel it in you?” he continued, running a fingertip where his tongue had been moments before. “Don’t you just want to ride this excellent body?” He brought his hand up Boromir’s body, drawing the older elf’s eyes with his movement.

As Boromir locked gazes with the legendary ‘Wild Elf of Mirkwood’ he felt his cock harden even more. The look had changed from rage to burning lust. Thranduil approached the bed, throwing off his clothes as he went. Of course, he was wearing very little in the first place – just a low-cut pair of skintight pants, boots, weapons and a cape. It all hit the floor with amazing speed and then he was on the bed.

The king crawled over Boromir, using centuries of skill to excite him even more. He recognized the challenging look in the elf’s eyes and was more then willing to meet it. Grasping Thranduil’s rigid cock, he squeezed the firm flesh, noting that a ring went in through the slit at the end of the elf’s penis and came out the top of the head. Unable to resist, he gave it a gentle tug and heard Thranduil gasp in pleasure. Boromir’s other hand ran up the muscled chest and he hooked a finger in the chain connecting the two nipple rings. The response he received brought a lascivious grin to his face.

Legolas quickly slipped out of the room, grabbing a robe on his way. He gave a sorrowful glance to his paintings as he left, knowing that his father would not let him keep them. Saelbeth looked at him in shock as he closed the door. “How many did he bring with him?” Legolas asked, rushing to the window. A small troop of elves waited below in the courtyard, still mounted on their horses, one holding the king’s mount. With relief, he saw that none of his siblings were with them, so his orders wouldn’t be countermanded until his father was finished with Boromir. And that would be a long time if he knew either of them at all.

“Straighten out this room and make sure no one disturbs them,” he ordered, as he dressed himself, not waiting for an answer to his first question.

“How long do you think the human can distract him?” Saelbeth asked.

“Longer than he’s ever been distracted before,” Legolas said with a mischievous smile. “Just make sure no one bothers them. You know that Ada won’t let himself be outdone by a human, and Boromir can last for a very long time.” With that, he went to see Lord Elrond and make arrangements for housing Thranduil’s entourage.

Elrond waited for Thranduil’s approach in the side courtyard that fronted the Mirkwood wing, Glorfindel at his side. He truly hoped that Legolas’s plan would work, at least enough so that there wouldn’t be another war to worry about. As the wood elves rode into the courtyard at nearly full speed, Elrond felt a thrill of lust at the sight of their leader stopping his mount with precision. They glared briefly at each other before the King leaped from his horse and strode to the wing that housed the delegation from Mirkwood.

Moments later, the loud pleadings of Saelbeth were accompanied by the angry yelling of Thranduil. The sound of a door slamming against the wall was followed by silence. All of the elves in the courtyard looked at each other tensely. Elrond noticed Bilbo cowering in a corner, startled by the sight of his long-ago jailer. Suddenly he was very glad that the dwarves preferred to be farther from the courtyard, where caves had been transformed into living quarters for them.

There was a sigh of relief all around as Legolas appeared. “Lord Elrond,” he called as he strode across the courtyard, his hair unusually mussed and his tunic mis-buttoned. “We would be grateful if you could provide lodging for my father’s men and horses.”

“Of course,” Elrond responded with a raised eyebrow, giving a prearranged signal to the waiting servants.

Turning to his father’s escort, Legolas smiled brightly. “Father will be delayed a couple of days, and would like you to take your ease while you wait for him,” he told their leader.

“Can I speak with him?” asked the captain, fully aware of the tricks of the king’s youngest son.

“I’ll take you to where he’s at, but I wouldn’t suggest disturbing him,” Legolas said just as the King’s cry of ecstasy echoed in the courtyard. All eyes went to the balcony of Legolas’s room, in time to hear the King cry out again.

“More, faster, ride me harder,” he screamed in Sindarin. The looks on the faces of those who understood him ranged from shock to amusement.

“I don’t really need to talk to him now,” the captain conceded with a smirk. It had been a long time since anyone had convinced the King to bottom. Sliding from his horse, he leaned close to the prince. “What sort of elf do you have up there?” he asked in a whisper.

“It’s a man,” Legolas replied, not even trying to hide his glee.

“This I will have to see,” the captain said. “Later, though.”

Once the escort and their horses were led away, Legolas approached Elrond and Glorfindel. The latter was trying to suppress his laughter so hard that he was actually snorting. “I will have servants warn the unsuspecting away from this courtyard,” Elrond told him, casting a reproving glance at Glorfindel, who’d finally lost control and was snickering. “Maybe your father would be willing to join us for supper?”

“In about three or four days, I would guess,” Legolas said. “But then, he will probably just want to return home.”

For all his experience, Boromir was a man just forty years of age. Beneath him impaled by his thrusting cock lay a creature born at the very dawn of time, while all the world still lay in darkness. Yet, they were well matched. It wasn’t even the freshness of his human age and heritage that made the difference, but more Boromir himself.

Hour after hour they continued. Legolas would wait patiently at the door until he heard them, then he would quickly enter the room and bring food and drink, taking away the used dishes. He planned to let them keep each other busy as long as possible. His father would lose more of his anger the longer they took.

“I think Merry and Pippin are in danger of becoming thin,” Aragorn said as he entered Legolas’ sitting room. “They’ve spent most of the last three days in the tree watching.”

“I tried joining them for a while, but I kept losing my grip,” Legolas replied. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things they have been doing to each other. Boromir is far more experienced then I thought.”

“He’s made it a habit to visit every whore in every town he goes to since he was fifteen,” Aragorn laughed. “Not to mention the bonding process he and his brother use to assure loyalty and the tons of children across Gondor and Rohan that belong to them. Boromir’s oldest son is twenty-five and Faramir’s is twenty-two. They may be humans but they’ve each almost made a profession of sex.”

“I am ready for them to stop now,” Legolas almost pouted. “Hardly any work has been getting done because everyone who comes within smelling distance of my rooms is practically rutting in the halls.”

“Have you worn them all out, my friend?” Aragorn asked with a smirk.

“Yes,” the elf confirmed. “And I have to wait for them to come to me. Ada would kill me if I weren’t here when he finishes. Is Elrond angry?”

“Livid,” the man replied. “He pretends not to notice your and Boromir’s absence or the extra guests, but he is very short tempered with everyone. I’m sure he considers it a serious breech of etiquette that Thranduil didn’t ask for permission to enter Imladris, and didn’t greet him when he got here. The fact that they haven’t said a single word to each other in over three thousand years not withstanding, I think he is quite put out.”

“You would think they would get over it after all this time,” Legolas responded, rolling his eyes. Then a grin came across his face. “You wouldn’t have a little time you could spare for an old friend?” he asked.

They hadn’t slept in three days. Boromir had completely recovered from his lonely trek and was up to his usual stamina. Elves normally needed less sleep than men and Thranduil was an ancient elf of great power who had never needed much sleep. So far, the thought of stopping hadn’t crossed either of their minds. The hours passed in a lust- filled haze aided by the constantly replenished trays of food and drink, as well as the bathing room which added even more interesting dimensions.

But, finally, after nearly five days, both man and elf were tired and sore. At least enough to call a draw to their undeclared competition for now. Boromir chose to soak for just a bit longer as Thranduil pulled on his clean clothes that waited folded neatly on a chest near the door. As he fastened the clasp to his cape, he noticed the paintings on the wall and ripped them from their frames, even though he felt more than a little complimented by their presence.

“Ada,” Legolas said, going to his knees as his father entered the anteroom of the suite.

Thranduil chastised himself thoroughly even as he succumbed to the sweet pleading of his youngest child. “What am I to do with you?” he questioned as he thrust the paintings into the merrily burning fireplace, not that he didn’t suspect that more of the same waited in some concealed trunk.

“I only live to serve,” Legolas replied as he gazed up adoringly with limpid blue eyes.

‘Yes,’ Thranduil thought, ‘he knows just how to play me.’ Looking down into the sweet face at his feet, he warned: “One of these days you just might go too far!”

Boromir leaned against the doorframe between the two rooms and watched the reunion of father and son. He felt more than a little jealous at their loving exchange. His relationship with his own father had been strained for so long that he couldn’t even imagine them with such a close bond.

“I live as you have taught me, Ada,” Legolas said with all the ingenuity of a favored child. His lips pressed to the inside of Thranduil’s thigh causing a noticeable jump in the ancient elf’s cock. “This is my errand, Ada. What I have waited through the long ages of the world for. Whether it brings me death or allows me to return to your side, I must fulfill my destiny.”

Thranduil looked down at the sweet and loving face. This was his most lamented weakness, his best beloved strength. His eternally youthful youngest child who had brought him control of the northern Greenwood with his birth, as only a treaty child could. It was Legolas’s ethereal beauty that had brought near ruin to the last great joining of men and elves and his sense of justice that had kept the peace. Orophir himself had died in battle against Sauron rather than against the men he’d felt had violated his beloved grandchild on that fateful night he’d wandered into the wrong tent.

Of course, Thranduil would never be completely sure what role Legolas had in the whole sordid affair. Legolas had been young and impressionable at the time, only a thousand years or so. But, nevertheless, here at his feet, was the most desirable creature in all Middle Earth.

“My lovely, beautiful child,” he whispered in exasperation. “Only you would vex me so.” He turned his head and looked at the man leaning against the doorway to the inner-chamber with only a towel about his hips. “Am I foolish to trust you to the care of this man?”

“I would care for myself, Ada,” Legolas said indignantly.

“I’m sure you’d try, my son, but you face dangers not seen in this world for an age or more. Brave and strong as you are, I have sheltered you beyond the norm.” Thranduil ran a hand through the long blond strands of his son’s head. “It would crush me and all those of the fading Greenwood if we lost you. Especially now, as the enemy presses us so sorely.”

Legolas sighed deeply and pressed another kiss to his father’s thigh. “No matter the day or the year, I will return to you, Ada. Such has been foretold by all the seers of our people. I know it pains you to release me, but neither of us has a choice. It is time for me to take my place in the world.”

For only a moment of time Thranduil bowed his head in defeat. Then, he straightened and strode toward the main door of the suite. “I expect you to have a full report when you return home and to bring honor to our people.” Turning toward the man observing their exchange, he continued. “He is my youngest, my most beloved. If you can, bring him back to me.”

Boromir grinned at the Eldar’s words. “He is my friend, my Lord. If it lies in my power, he will return to you in much the same shape as he is before us today.”

Thranduil stopped at the man’s words and turned to look at his son. “I leave you in the care of a man I deem most capable, but I expect that he need not tend you as a youngling.”

“I will prove your faith, Ada,” Legolas said with conviction. “I live to serve.”

It was the second time Thranduil had heard the phrase from his son, but he thought he was beginning to discern a pattern in his behavior. “I only live for your return, my son,” he said.

“I would help to drive the darkness from Middle Earth so that all the magic of our kind need not be exiled from this plane.” Legolas’s honest blue eyes looked up into his as he continued, “We shall remain here as long as we desire and not a moment less.”

With a final nod, Thranduil left the suite only to encounter Elrond in the corridor.

“You could at least stop and spend a minute with me so we can update each other on our mutual positions,” Elrond said.

“Haven’t we gone past this?” Thranduil questioned as they paced each other down the corridor.

“We are at war against a common enemy,” Elrond countered. “Don’t you think it might aid us both to keep abreast of each other’s plans?”

“Is there some event that has happened in my realm that you have not been apprised of in the last millennium?” Thranduil asked caustically. “Those of our people who keep the borders also keep us both informed. What more do you need?”

“Perhaps we could coordinate our efforts,” Elrond replied.

“You have so many fighters to spare, Elrond?” The blond king sneered down at the Lord of Imladris. “I have been away from my realm too long, stop wasting my time with your pathetic efforts at friendship. I’ve no time to spare and less patience than time.”

“There will be great changes wrought with the destruction of the great ring,” Elrond said in a lowered voice. “Things will be far different from what we’ve all become accustomed to.”

“I was born before your parents peeked between their mother’s thighs, Elrond,” Thranduil rebutted. “In the starlight, I spent my youth. I will not be one of those shy shadows of elfdom that seeks to return across the wide water and escape the fate of Middle Earth. As for great rings, they might as well be bawdy baubles, of which I have plenty. I do not keep my realm by power wrought from elven blood or the Dark One’s trickery. What next?”

Elrond blushed at Thranduil’s words. “Still the same after all these centuries,” he said sadly. “Legolas’s presence had given me hope that we could overcome our past differences.”

As they entered the courtyard below where Thranduil’s guard awaited ready for the trail, the king stopped and turned his full attention to the other elf. “You make a grave mistake in seeking to use my son as a tool,” he hissed in rage. “I do not keep him at my beck and call as a mere political tool or allow him to fritter away his time on useless journeys of revenge.” His words an open challenge and rebuke to Elrond’s own sons.

Turning, he walked briskly to where his captain held his horse ready for him to mount. Once in the saddle, he continued at a more normal tone. “I return now to fight the forces of darkness which plague my land. Come Spring, we will all see where I go next.” With the threat still heavy in the air, he rode at speed from the valley.

Part 34: ON THE ROAD

It was the same courtyard that he had arrived in, where they assembled in the gray of predawn. Boromir noted Sam looking a bit mournfully towards the stables, not quite appeased by the man’s arguments for leaving the pony he’d grown attached to behind. The hobbit’s journey had already been quite far and he instinctively clung to the familiar, but Boromir’s questioning of what would happen to ‘Bill’, as the hobbit called him, if they should have to take to the river or some of the other terrain that was less than hospitable to his kind had convinced the kind-hearted servant that it was in the pony’s best interest to leave him behind. There was also the even greater victory of successfully challenging Elrond’s advice to travel by night. Boromir’s long years of battle against the dark lord had given credence to his opinion, but the parting comments of Thranduil had given his voice merit beyond his short human lifespan.

“I am well pleased that my betrothed has one so stalwart and loyal to guard him on his journey, my Lord Boromir,” Arwen addressed him from where she stood in the center of the courtyard. “I look forward to us meeting again, next time as I take my place as your queen.”

A thrill of pleasure ran through him at her words, knowing that she saw their future just as he did. “I shall mourn the days my Liege is parted from your presence and I am denied your beauteous inspiration, Liege Lady,” he replied, bowing and kissing her hand.

“I find it hard to doubt my heritage or destiny with such a shieldman at my side,” Estel said running the fingers of his right hand through the younger man’s hair while his left rested on the hilt of the newly reforged sword he now wore. It had almost overwhelmed him when he’d been presented with the Sword of Elendil. The broad grins shared by his foster father and Boromir let him know who was behind the elves remaking of Narsil.

On its blade was engraved a device of seven stars set between the crescent moon and the rayed sun. All of it, blade and hilt were covered with many elvish runes and not a few dwarvish as well. It was one of the few works in over a millennia that had been jointly completed by elves and dwarves. He renamed it Andúril, Flame of the West.

“Your words honor me, my Liege,” Boromir said half bowing while he turned his attention to the last minute preparations of their party. “If you would both excuse me, I’ll make sure that everything is in readiness.”

He double checked all of their packs while everyone made their last goodbyes. Soon he found himself near the gate where he leaned against the wall with some of his attention to the partings taking place within but most of it turned to the road that lay before them. Their chosen path was west of the mountains until they were much further south. It wasn’t long before all was ready and the entire party gathered at the gate. Urged by an inner calling, Boromir stepped through the gateway and to the side. Bringing the Great Horn of Gondor to his lips, he sounded it in three long calls. This was the signal that would alert those of Gondor that their arms should be close, but not yet the call to battle.

Elrond laid a hand on his shoulder, not quite in admonishment. “Perhaps you should be a bit more wary in announcing your departure from Imladris.”

“Only those of Gondor know the true meaning of the Horn,” Boromir assured him. “Long have I been parted from my people. It is time I return home.”

So began the journey southward on a misty winter morning.

It was only shear force of will that kept the smile on Mordel’s face as he followed the Steward into the great hall for what appeared to be a celebratory breakfast. Only he had no idea what was being celebrated and by the gleeful countenances of all they encountered, he was the only person in the tower and possibly the whole of Minas Tirith, even Gondor, who didn’t.

“It appears that your optimism was accurate, my son,” Denethor said ecstatically as he embraced his youngest son. “Hopefully Boromir’s return journey will be much shorter.”

“So we all wish, father,” Faramir exclaimed joyfully as he returned his father’s embrace. “We are well prepared to make sure Gondor retains its strength until his return.”

Mordel felt just a little faint at the exchange. Something had signaled the Steward, his son and most of Gondor that Boromir was on the return leg of his trek. He was also, presumably, in possession of a secret weapon to defeat Sauron. His mind shifted into high gear as he detailed who should receive this news and how quickly he could get it to them. If Boromir should return to Minas Tirith, there was no doubt that Mordel wouldn’t survive the experience. There were ways his master could watch for the Steward’s son, some of which hadn’t been used to this purpose before. Maybe such as the crebain could be loosed to watch for the Steward’s eldest son and whatever he brought with him.

Saphron stood near Gríma’s elbow as they watched Éowyn. “She is truly the brightest treasure of Rohan, don’t you agree, my lord?” she said as the young woman danced a country dance amongst others her age.

“Oh yes, my lady,” the advisor returned somewhat breathlessly.

“It would be a shame to see the glow fade from her cheeks, much as it has been wont to do these past months,” she added, drawing Gríma’s full attention to herself. “Think of how her countenance will grow harsh with pain and hatred if the plans of the dark lords are successful.”

Gríma’s mouth opened as if he would speak, while fear, shock and then realization chased across his face. He turned back to watch the princess with repressed tears hot in his eyes. He had little doubt that at least one of the dark lords would succeed.

“Not that she would fade with age,” Saphron continued with cold determination. “At the earliest opportunity she would seek her own death, taking as many of her foes as possible with her. And Éomer,” she paused for a moment. “There just might be enough magic in the potions available to bend him to the will of others, but such a victory would be only temporary and empty. He would undo everything in the end.”

His head hung wearily at the vision of his beautiful prince and princess broken and cold with death. The pain in his heart from the thought stole his breath away.

Now was the time Saphron knew she must take a gamble, for Gríma was far more than any, possibly even the wizard who made him, knew. What she had observed and what had been told to her about Lord Boromir’s last visit to Rohan had convinced her that she could turn this most useful weapon of the dark wizard to their purpose. “It need not come to that, my lord,” she said sotto voice. “There are things that may be accomplished by those who love our princess and the golden princes who would have her to wife. Even now, the elder brother speeds southward bearing the wherewithal to claim a decisive and final victory over their enemies.” She paused again to let her words sink in. “I know that you have had warning that Boromir has set forth to return home and that word has been sent to those who wish our princess less than well.”

He cast her a wary glance, neither confirming nor rebutting her statement. Her words were everything he longed and dreaded to hear.

“This knowledge must be passed on, as others will have it as well. We cannot have any doubt or suspicion turned to you in your post,” Saphron continued. “But it may be possible to pass it along in such a way that would be advantageous to our beloved ones.” She reached toward the advisor, her hand pausing before actual contact and continuing the length of his arm just close enough to make each hair stand on end. The yearning in his eyes was unmistakable. “You have met our beloved lord, who guides us with his example and commands our very breaths. He is the gold of the summer corn and his eyes the green of the first growth of spring. You’ve yet to meet our beloved Faramir, who can heal with a touch. He is the ruddy gold of the setting sun and his eyes hold the grey of a storm laden sky. I know you have read the reports and speculations. Never doubt that Lord Boromir makes all the decisions, tempered by the advice of his brother who could coddle a child on his knee whilst carving the heart out of the living breast of the enemy.”

Gríma’s breath caught in his throat at her words and actions. He knew all she said was true, and from the depths of the soul he’d always been told he did not have, he wanted her to be right. “Anything, my lady,” he whispered.

“We must proceed carefully,” she responded. “There must be no warning of the change of tide in Rohan, even if the death toll rises.”

The soft trill of bird song floated in the morning air. Boromir glanced without really looking at the copse of trees that held the four hobbits. Squinting into the midday gloom he moved his hand as if to wipe the nonexistent sweat from his brow, signaling the stealthy little folk that they should move a bit further south in their concealment. Estel and Legolas were on the opposite side of the road.

In the still, damp morning air, not even so much as a blade of grass was disturbed by the hobbit’s movement. The ranger and the elf, older and more experienced, were far less accomplished in this skill. They were large, even hulking in comparison to the hobbits, and stood no chance at all of outdoing them in the morning’s challenge.

Boromir knew that the evening camp would be blessed with the eggs and food plants gathered by the hobbits, while his future king and the elven prince would stare with confused shock at the bounty that awaited them for dinner. He smiled smugly to himself. As a long time leader of men, it had been his purvey to utilize the skills of each of his men to their best advantage. Here, he was given an unequaled opportunity to pass a small part of this skill on to his Liege as well as bolster the confidence of their small companions.

An amused grunt from Gimli proved that the dwarf was far more observant than his people were given credit for. Mithrandir turned his head briefly to see what they were about. He turned his attention back to breaking their trail, muttering to himself about frivolous youth. Boromir smirked at the wink Gimli gave him at the wizard’s words. It appeared that Estel and Legolas would not be the only ones surprised at the end of their day’s journey.

The soft trill of bird song floated in the morning air. Faramir glanced without really looking at the copse of trees that held the two rangers who shadowed the road running the length of the mountain range that bordered Mordor. Squinting into the midday glare he moved his hand as if to wipe the nonexistent sweat from his brow, signaling his men to move further south. At times like this he felt closer to his brother. They had worked out the signaling system along with the Ithilien Rangers who had long established their own system. It had been a week since all true Gondorians had heard the call of the Great Horn. He knew that Boromir was on his return journey and that this was the most dangerous time in his absence. But he also knew who returned with his brother. Soon all would change and nothing would ever be the same again.

He also sensed that great danger traveled with his brother. Something at the edge of their nightly dreams spoke of great evil. It made them more brief and cautious in the communication. Still, there was no doubt in his mind that he would recognize each of Boromir’s eight companions should he encounter them. This was part of the reason they were scouting Ithilien. Part of what he felt told him that it was important to know what passed here.

“Come,” Boromir whispered as Sam moved to clean up from their evening meal. They’d all learned not to interfere with this and the other self appointed tasks the hobbit had set for himself.

Estel watched Boromir communicate his intention to speak privately with him by the swift hand signals he’d been teaching them all. This was in fact one more of many days which had been spent without a word spoken aloud (other than the disgruntled mutterings of Gandalf who only grudgingly used or acknowledged the signals).

They stopped only a short way out of camp. Estel found his back gently pressed into a tall oak while Boromir leaned close, his lips brushing against his ear as he spoke in the merest breath of voice. “I would serve you, my Liege,” he said while his hands traveled down to the fastenings of Estel’s pants. “You have grown tense with the burden of our quest and the pressures of leadership. Let me ease you.” The words came softer than the morning breeze and warm lips moved to seduce him.

He knew he should refuse. but could make no protest as his already hard cock was released from its confines and Boromir sank gracefully to his knees. Green eyes captivated him as the unshaven cheek nuzzled against him while tongue and lips moved first to his filling testicles before running from base to tip of his fully exposed penis. Clever hands brushed across his perineum and belly, spreading warmth with their contact as he was taken wholly within Boromir’s seeking mouth.

He hadn’t been sleeping well, worry for the ring and the hobbits pressing upon him despite Boromir’s best efforts to show him just how capable the little people are. He’d already known they were more than they seemed, but the fears implanted his whole life about the dark lord fought with his knowledge of his own allies. The huge scope of their trek all the way to Mount Doom in the very midst of Mordor across over a thousand miles of mostly hostile territory was more than daunting. As a skilled finger massaged and then entered him, he remembered Boromir’s words to him the previous evening.

“We can only take this journey one step at a time, one day at a time. If we were to try and gather it all together as if we could do it all at once, we would fail. We would fail not just because the size of it would exceed our grasp but because we can’t even begin to anticipate all the twists, turns and detours we will encounter along the way.” He had paused with the gentle smile that he usually saved for Estel alone. “I have had visions, my Liege, of the completion of our quest. Visions shared by my brother that tell of our victory over the dark lord. So, do not let the length or breadth of our quest or the difficulty bring doubts to your mind and heart. We only need get through today.”

He leaned against against the tall oak only a few feet outside of the evening’s camp, his index finger caught in his teeth to help stifle his gasps of pleasure. Looking down at the blond head, watching his own cock slide in and out of the talented mouth, was too much and Estel lost all control.

Boromir gently tucked him away before rising to his feet, one battle-roughened hand carefully picking up the amulet that Estel always wore. “I believe you will find it easier to rest before we have to rise my Liege,” he whispered before placing a kiss on the object in his hand. “I pray that your lady presides over your dreams.”

They all reached the top of the next rise together. Boromir was unimpressed in many respects, but the tallest peak before them was beyond any of his previous accomplishments. Caradhras stood tall in the afternoon sun.

“It is the mountain we must seek passage with,” Mithrandir said as they looked on one of the possible ways they must seek next. “No magic can make changes here. We must ask for and abide by the decision of the mountain itself. “

“And how shall we ask the mountain for safe passage?” Boromir enquired shading his eyes from the bright reflections from the snowy peak.

“We must make for the pass and watch for signs,” the wizard answered. “It may be too long into winter or the mountain may simply not want us along its highest points.” He continued, “We won’t know until we get there.”

He’d never been this cold before. Despite the precautions he had taken in wrapping his hands and face, he still felt as if his flesh were on fire. It weighed on him that the hobbits were most likely suffering more then he. It was only the encouraging words of Boromir in front of him, using his greater size to break a path through the snow with Merry and Pip close in his wake, which kept him from despair. When they attempted the pass for the fifth time, only to bring on another onslaught of snow, he had to admit that their persistence was useless. The loud crack of breaking ice accompanied by the dark voice of the mountain itself brought a final halt to their doomed attempt at the high pass.

“Let us make for lower ground as quickly as we can,” Aragorn counseled as they gathered as best they could on the barren mountainside.

“It may cost us delays we can ill afford if we take the wrong route now,” Gandalf rebutted. “There are only two paths we can take from this point. The first and most obvious is southward towards the Gap of Rohan. The second is the trail under the mountains through Moria.”

“My cousin Balin would be more than happy to assist us,” Gimli hastened to add. “If he is still alive beneath the mountain. We have not heard from him for over fifty years. I have studied the maps my people have saved and should be able to find our way through the passages even if we do not find any welcoming hosts within, but I must counsel discretion in taking this path. There may be goblins or even orcs within.”

“Théodred watches the Gap of Rohan and the greater lands of the West Fold,” Boromir contributed. “However, our enemies will have just as tight a watch on that pass. We know that Saruman has been breeding orcs and goblins. We suspect he has created a new type of Uruk, one that can travel in the full daylight without distress.” He shook his head sadly as he continued. “Even if we were to bypass the gap and go further south crossing the Isen into Langstrand and Lebennin, we would be facing heavy orc patrols.”

“This is most alarming news,” Mithrandir said with a frown. “Why did you not speak of it earlier?”

“It was only speculation when I left,” Boromir replied. “Lately I’ve seen them in my dreams, but only in the West Fold and Ered Nimrais.”

“I traveled the way through Moria long ago,” the Wizard spoke, though he did not seem too happy with the idea. “Even then it was dangerous to outsiders and the unwary. However, it may cut as much as a week off of our journey. It is less than one day’s journey to the borders of Lothlorien from the eastern gate. We have received promises of aid from Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel.”

“As long as they are more helpful to our fellowship than they were to a lone traveler beleaguered by orcs,” Boromir couldn’t resist adding.

“I’m sure they will be most apologetic when you meet them. They had no idea that you were an ally,” Mithrandir spoke swiftly trying to diffuse Boromir’s anger.

“I would not deny shelter to any person, whether they be man, elf, hobbit, dwarf or something I have yet to encounter,” Boromir replied somewhat heatedly. “I will cause no trouble if we should end up taking that path, but I fear that I will not be at ease in their company.” He looked round at his companions, slowly, as if weighing the merits of each of them. “Our journey is long, no matter which route we take. I have been away from my home longer than ever before in my life and parted from my dearest family. If my voice counts for anything, I would have us take the shortest route.”

His words made each of his companions except the wizard, who was a different sort of creature from all of the rest, think about their family and homes. They thought about the many miles they’d yet to travel and how they might eventually reach their goal and return home to those they’d left behind.

“I could endure the questionable hospitality of strange elves,” Gimli said thoughtfully. “As long as they don’t bind me like a prisoner.”

“Yes,” said Frodo, who usually spoke for all of the hobbits. “I would prefer that this quest take as little time as possible. Especially if we can receive aid and supplies for the next leg of our journey from those at Lothlorien.”

“I passed through the Dimrill Gate once, long ago. The journey was hard and dangerous but I have some memory of its passages. Also the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel are the grandparents of my betrothed, Arwen,” Estel said quietly. “I will do what I can to aid us in our quest.”

“Hopefully, we won’t need that much help,” Boromir said.

“So,” Mithrandir questioned, “is it decided that that we should venture under the mountain through Moria?”

They all agreed to chance the underground passage. With grim determination, they turned their backs on the Redhorn Gate and headed towards Moria.

Their trek back down the mountain was much easier as the snow had stopped and the way was even clear once they’d left the vicinity of the pass. At sunset, Boromir and Sam, who had become honorary camp masters, chose a sheltered spot to set a smokeless fire to warm them all as well as a bit of food to aid their sleep. They’d barely settled for their supper when howls were heard to the south and west. They were sheltered on two sides by unscalable walls of rock. The open side of their camp was lower ground, easily defendable with an alert watch.

Though they were all close to exhaustion, a staggered watch was established for the night. Legolas insisted on the first half of the night as he needed less sleep than the others and had not been hindered by the snow as they had. Pip, who was too restless to sleep yet joined him for the first two hours, followed by Merry.

It was near midnight when Sam rose to take his turn. Aragorn had also stirred to relieve himself and check the close environs of their camp. He had barely refastened his breeches when more howls sounded from the darkness, much closer than they’d been all night. All of the Fellowship tumbled forth from their bedrolls, even the ancient wizard who was whispering curses and other imprecations at being disturbed.

In moments their assailants were upon them. Giant Wargs and wild night birds fell upon the company. Not in great force but with enough presence to cause alarm. Boromir wielded his great sword whilst Gimli pulled forth the huge double bitted axe he carried, ever ready upon his back. Legolas and Estel both held themselves low beneath the striking range of Boromir’s sword and the dwarf’s axe to take their own blows at the enemy. The hobbits were able to establish an even lower position with their smaller stature. It wasn’t long before the enemy was routed and sent off into the dark reaches of the night.

Yet here they stood revealed on the mountainside to all who cared to look.

Despite their fatigue and the darkness of the night around them, they decided to press on to their next destination.

Moria.

Part 35: Into the Great Dark

January 13, 3019, The West Gate

It was nearing dusk when they reached the causeway, exhausted and on edge. The ancient broken road led to a long strip of land between the surrounding cliffs and the lake. The water was dark and fetid, the odor strongly reminiscent of the dark clouds that drifted from Mordor. As they walked between the gnarled old oaks, they crossed the small beds of long dead streams until they neared the gate. As they came to the only stream still running, a shallow rill that hardly dampened the pathway, Gandalf held up his hand to halt them.

“This water feeds the lake,” he said. “It would be best to not let it touch any of us.”

Without comment, Boromir reached to gather Merry and Pip into his arms before taking a long stride to avoid any bit of the languorous stream. Following his example, Aragorn gathered up Frodo while Legolas took Sam across. Gimli leapt in the ungraceful way of dwarves, managing to avoid leaving any trace of his passing.

The road broadened to an avenue as they approached their destiny, finally ending at the cliff face between two ancient oaks. The wizard approached and passed his hands over the blank wall, speaking too softly for his words to be heard by his companions. When he stepped back, the wall began to glow with lines brightened by the moon. The design, accented by runes, was of both Dwarvish and Elven origin.

“The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak friend and enter,” Gandalf translated as the words glowed against the cliffside. Almost without thought he whispered, “Mellon,” which signaled the great slabs of stone guarding the western gate to move aside.

The wizard moved forward into the entrance, closely followed by Gimli and Frodo. Aragorn drew Anduril, which lit their way with its eldritch light. As they entered the cavern, there was the thick sound of something moving in the tarn behind them. When the last foot passed the threshold, an elongated tentacle followed it, reaching to grasp at Frodo’s ankle.

Sam cried out, feeling his master being pulled from his side; he turned and grasped at a reaching arm. Boromir stepped forward, his greatsword raised to strike. The next few minutes were occupied with grave sword strokes and ax hefts as they sought to free Frodo from the grasp of the creature of the lake.

Suddenly, the tentacles released their grip on the hobbit and, with great energy, thrust closed the western gate of Moria. They were enclosed in total darkness with no sound other than their own harsh breaths.

A few dull strokes against the stone brought Gandalf’s staff alight. “It is only forward we may venture from this point,” he stated in the encroaching darkness. “It may take all of our combined skill to make our way through the mines. Be aware, there are older and fouler things than we have yet encountered in the deep places of the world!”

Minion

“My beloved husband was a great healer amongst our people, as I’m sure you know, my Lord,” Saphron said as she stirred the potion heating on the small brazier. “We were able to combine our knowledge from before we met along with that stored in the great archives beneath the White Tower to make some very interesting discoveries.”

Gríma watched with a strong combination of anticipation and fear, knowing the step he was contemplating could mean the end. It could also mean the answer to his recently realized dreams.

“Through all the long ages, Morgoth, and later his minion Sauron, have experimented with various constructs of life,” she lectured as she worked. “Their intent, we know, was to turn all to their dark purposes. Some of their efforts, such as the orcs and, more recently, Saruman’s Uruk-hai have been quite successful.” She removed the small pot from the heat but continued to stir it as it cooled. “When my beloved died in his efforts to save our Prince, I continued some of the ‘darker’ aspects of our research. It seems that orcs, goblins and all their brethren are sensitive to more than just sunlight.”

Gríma winced at her words, wondering if they were a veiled reference to his own circumstances.

“And I have learned, my Lord,” she continued, setting aside the spoon she stirred with and picking up one of the narrow bodice daggers favored by Éowyn, “that there are many ways to circumvent even the best laid spell. I’m quite sure that your master will note that something about you has been altered.” She dipped the tip of the blade into her mixture and turned to look at the Princess who had been watching it all attentively. “We must give as much truth to the tale as possible,” she added offering the hilt to Éowyn. “The wizard will see very little to cause alarm when you tell him that Éowyn stabbed you again and you think the blade may have been poisoned. The wound will be clearly visible. With all that is on his plate, I doubt that he will take the time to thoroughly examine every aspect of one of his longest lived and loyal minions. It is not the way of his kind to really care about the misfortunes of those who serve them.”

Éowyn took the knife and looked to the pasty white shin exposed on Gríma’s shoulder by his opened robe. The area was liberally peppered with small scars made by previous efforts on her part. This was the first time she’d seen any of his flesh below his neck and something about the pale color repulsed her. It took little effort for her to plunge the blade into him.

She was unable to remove the blade immediately, as she’d grown accustomed to. Even though Saphron had advised her that this would occur, she had trouble holding back her panic before the dagger slid free.

Gríma threw back his head in an ecstasy of agony. Once freed of the knife’s hold, he fell to his knees gasping at the pain that was almost beyond his bearing. By the time he’d recovered enough to close his robe and rise to his feet, all had been cleared from the table.

“By tomorrow we will know if we were successful. If you survive the night, we will make plans for future infusions.” Saphron ignored the smell of burnt flesh and the salty smell of Gríma’s release as she made for the door, careful not to touch him. “I apologize for her Highness’s impetuousness,” she said loudly as she held the door open for his exit. “Maybe she will be of a more congenial mood later, my Lord.”

He left the room unhurriedly, though anyone watching could tell that he held one shoulder stiffly.

Éowyn stood before the dressing mirror looking at herself and trying not to feel horrified by what had just happened. Like a whisper in the back of her mind, she could feel the Worm’s progress back to his own rooms. “I feel as if I’ve become tainted,” she murmured to her reflection.

“Not at all,” Saphron said standing behind her and meeting her gaze in the mirror. “Years ago we bound the invading energy of the Dark Lord to my Lord, Faramir, as it invaded Minas Tirith. The spell brought it under control but endangered both our lords. Since then I have learned how to make the binding only one way. The part of Gríma, small as it may be, that is untouched by the darkness is now bound to you. However you can sever the bond at any time and will know immediately if any seek to touch you through it. I have made very sure of that, my treasure.”

Éowyn continued to contemplate her own reflection. Maybe the dark couldn’t touch her but she knew that what she had just done had changed her. Maybe brought her closer to the darkness.

They descended into the heart of the mountain, the flickering of torchlight reflecting off the walls of long unused passages. The air here was dry, unlike that of most caves he’d previously encountered. This made it perfect for storing the older records, ones from before the world changed and the sun and moon lit the sky. Mablung held the torch to the two mounted on the wall opposite the door they wished to enter to help increase the light. Stefle unlocked the door and hurried into the room with the lantern, quickly lighting it and placing it on the stand over the small room’s only table.

Already, Faramir was examining the scrolls and books lining the walls. Pulling an oversized volume from the shelf, he placed it on the table. Carefully turning the ancient pages he read aloud, automatically translating from the elvish script, pausing and repeating as Stefle noted all he said on the pages he’d brought for that purpose. Arithel, particularly talented in her drawings as well as tattoos, made swift, sure copies of the few plates and diagrams showing the creatures described.

They hadn’t even considered bringing any of the books up to the counsel rooms. The oldest archives were so deep within the mountain that some items had been known to disintegrate when brought out of their long held resting places. It took hours to sort through all the stored material, comparing the notes made from one volume with those from another. Later others would take the information they gathered and make a new book using both the information on the beasts and weapons of the Dark Lords, as well as the methods used to combat them. There was a book of lading, at first thought out of place, but it held the storage locations of items made for the defense of Minas Tirith.

Faramir blinked and stuttered as he read about one of, possibly, the most important items. A net made of mithril and enough to cover almost the whole city, protecting it from flighted drakes and other winged creatures of the dark. Even the instructions on how to handle the dangerously thin substance, which could cut through flesh to the bone by its mere weight, were included. His breath caught in his chest as he thought of the many terraced corners of the city that by tradition, more stringent than any law, had been kept unchanged since its founding. He’d never dreamed of a boon such as this to aid in his defense of his home.

The great fortress that was Minas Tirith would take weeks, maybe even months, to capture from the ground. There were so many traps and pitfalls that even betrayal at the very center of their defenses had a bulwark to defend against it. But this was the first he knew of something to hold back the aerial foes they might face.

Some wizards could call upon the great swans and eagles to help them, but none within his city had that power. Maybe if Mithrandir returned before the final battle, but he would not, could not rely on chance.

With a sigh, Faramir turned to the next page in the volume he was reading. One of the few color illustrations was on the following page. All reds and black showed the creature displayed. It caught his breath and somehow he knew it bade danger to the path his brother trod as he looked upon the image of the Balrog. Fire and darkness was stalking his beloved and he could do nothing to stop it.

It had been so long since they’d had a decent night’s sleep that even Gandalf stumbled on the occasional step. When they reached a branching of paths, the exhausted wizard looked up each of the three choices before them and sighed in exasperation. “I have no memory of this place at all,” he said, standing uncertainly under the arch. He held up his staff in the hope of finding some marks or inscription that might help his choice, but nothing of the kind was to be seen. “I am too weary to decide,” he said, shaking his head.

To the left of the arch was a half closed stone door. The party circled it while Gandalf held his staff aloft and Boromir pushed it fully open. Aragorn and Legolas were at the ready with bows, all four hobbits with their slings while Gimli advanced into the room with his smallest axe at the ready.

It was a smallish room with a privy hole in one corner. Obviously it was meant as a guardroom to protect the branching corridor. “I expect that you are all as weary as I am, or wearier. Let us halt here for a time until we are rested and ready to continue our journey,” said the wizard once it was verified that no present danger lay within.

In only minutes, the party had established a suitable campsite using the methods they’d developed on their trek. Sam and Boromir had a small, nearly smokeless fire going in the long abandoned fireplace with one of the hobbits’ pots hanging from a well placed hook. Merry and Pip attended the bedrolls while Aragorn set the guard schedule for the evening. Mithrandir sank gratefully onto the pallet set aside for him and turned his attentions to Frodo who was, if anything, even more exhausted then he.

Everything about the room was defensible; from the stone door with murder holes above it to the isolated water supply near the fireplace. It spoke well of the engineering and planning capabilities of the dwarves. Since they were too deep within the earth to be able to tell night from day, the company adopted a system of counting introduced by Boromir. There were places within his usual jurisdiction (not that he revealed their location) that required such methods to assist with keeping the time. As all prepared for a period of rest, the wizard counseled the ringbearer before taking himself off to the side of the chamber to have a bit of smoke. In the end, Frodo joined him for the taste of the best weed from the Southfarthing and he took comfort in the taste of smoke they shared.

As the company fell to silence, Boromir carefully used a small portion of water to wipe away the dirt of travel from his liege’s flesh. “I will wake you and Legolas for the morning watch,” he whispered. As he loosened Aragorn’s clothes to reach every part of him. Aragorn resisted briefly, more by habit than any hope of forestalling Boromir’s ministrations.

A few hours later, Boromir stirred from his listening to the small rustlings in the endless darkness alerted by Gimli’s hand on his arm. “Something lurks nearby,” the dwarf barely whispered. “It is watching us.”

A cold shaft of fear ran down Boromir’s spine at his words. He adjusted his clothes and position just enough to cover his own faint reply, “can you see it at all?”

“Barely,” came his answer. “It is nothing I have encountered before, should I fetch Gandalf?”

“Let me,” said Boromir since he couldn’t see the creature at all. “You keep an eye on our guest.”

The wizard came awake like an old campaigner, silently prepared to do battle. He gave a nod at Boromir’s report and gathering his staff moved to the door without making any sound. After a few moments observation, he struck his staff lightly on the ground. “The darkness will not hide you from our sight, Gollum!” he said as his staff came alive with light. It was very dim, although it was almost blinding to Boromir after so long in the darkness.

He was still able to make out a dark shape scuttling away into further gloom. “Should I pusue it?” he asked, recognizing the name from the tale of the cursed ring.

“No,” Mithrandir replied sighing and turning away from the door. “We have no way to hold him, even if you could capture him.”

Boromir took no insult at the wizard’s words. The creature had lived in caves for centuries so he most likely wouldn’t be successful in catching it anyway. He looked over to their sleeping companions and noted the position of the ringbearer in the dim light from the staff. The hobbits slept in a pile, having put their pallets together and he could make out that Frodo had been kept to the center. Sam looked back at him with a worried expression. “We will keep him safe,” Boromir whispered.

The hobbit gave only the barest of answering nods in acknowledgement, though the worry didn’t fade from his eyes.

January 25, 3019

Gimli wailed his grief as they examined the remains of his kinsmen in the antechamber of the greathall. Still, the hobbits held their position on guard with Boromir as they had trained to do every at every opportunity. Despite their vigilance, it was only chance that brought Boromir’s attention to the door in time to avoid the arrows that embedded themselves in it. Chance and the rising odor he knew well from defending Gondor. Slamming and barring the door in a hurry, he turned to his companions. “We have company,” he told them grimly. “Goblins, about twenty and they’ve brought a cave troll.”

Quickly they fell into formation, with Pippin, the youngest, guarding the small door they had found in the back of the chamber. Aragorn and Legolas shot arrows through the holes in the tattered doors while Gimli and Boromir covered them with their shields. Gandalf drew his sword and the other three hobbits found sheltered places along the walls to use their slings. The doors burst open suddenly, the enraged troll entering the room using the end of the large chain hanging from the collar around his neck as if it were a morning star. At first, he took out only the goblins that accompanied him, giving the companions time to take a new formation. Only the hobbits had never fought trolls before, so by unspoken agreement they concentrated the missiles from their slings on the goblins. Legolas leaped to a position high on the walls to shoot his deadly arrows, while Gimli used his short stature to duck beneath the troll and hack at its feet and legs with his double bitted greataxe. Aragorn, Boromir and Gandalf spread out around the beast, each stabbing and slashing at it when it turned its back to them.

Three hobbits can use their slings with great effect and the small nuggets of heavy metal they’d gathered with Boromir’s encouragement from the mine tailings they’d passed increased their deadliness. In only minutes, all the goblins were dead and they turned their attentions to the larger foe. Blood covered the monster from all the wounds the company had given it and it was beginning to stagger from the onslaught. Boromir grabbed the end of the chain, joined quickly by Aragorn, and they managed to topple the beast. With a fearsome leap, Gimli reached its back and brought his axe down upon its neck. Once, twice and the third stroke severed the head from the body.

As they stood for a moment breathing heavily, Legolas looked out the door and into the distance of the great hall. “More are coming,” he said with urgency. “We have no time to linger.”

Pippin already had the back door open as they all made for it. Legolas and Boromir went first to guard the way, leaving Aragorn and Gimli to guard their rear. The steps were narrow and covered with slime, dangerous at any pace, but fear kept them at a fast walk as they descended into darkness. At last they came out into a lower level of the hall, the chattering of a host of goblins on their heels. They began to run at a faster pace, Gandalf now leading them toward the bridge of Khazad-dum. When they reached the center of the hall, it became clear that they were surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands of goblins. They fell into a defensive circle as their enemies drew near, prepared to fight to the death.

Frodo wrapped his hand around the pouch holding the ring, fearing that there was no way he could keep it out of the hands of the Dark Lord. “If we are to fall to these foul creatures you must swallow your burden,” Boromir said into his ear. “They will fall upon our bodies and make a swift meal of us before their master’s arrive. There is a chance IT will go unnoticed and be consumed to fall into obscurity once again.”

Looking at the man and to Gandalf, who nodded his grim approval, Fodo was ready to agree when a loud grating noise silenced the goblins. Flames roared to life at the distant end of the hall spurring the goblins to instant retreat.

“What evil comes from the depths?” Boromir asked, fear washing the color from his face.

“A Balrog,” Gandalf replied bringing to all their minds Glorfindel’s account of his fatal encounter.

Boromir lifted the horn of Gondor to his lips and gave the call for aid, which stopped the nightmare creature momentarily. “Run!” he called out and the whole party turned and fled toward the bridge.

“There are drums in the deep.”

The sun was beginning to rise as Mablung turned sharply from looking out the northern window at the strange echoing voice, which was followed closely by a single deep drum note.

As if from the furthest depths, the sound of drums echoed through the room. First just one but soon followed by many. Mablung’s breath hitched in his throat as he gripped the window ledge and realized that there was no vibration with the sound.

Knowing that he would see nothing himself, Mablung moved quickly to his Lord’s side to offer whatever aid he could.

And the drums stopped.

A long, low, grinding sound rose from the darkness of the night and flames spread in ghostly shadows as Mablung took Faramir’s arm. The creature he could barely make out brought such terror that he could neither move nor speak.

Faramir sat up, looking past him into the dark night. “What evil comes from the depths?” he asked.

“A Balrog!” came a familiar voice out of the darkness as the horror from the deep swiftly advanced.

The creature came to a halt as the Horn of Gondor sounded but for only a moment. “Run!” came Boromir’s voice as if he were in the room with them.

“They are fleeing!” Faramir called out near panic in his eyes. “Don’t stop!” He yelled seeing into the far distance. Mablung clung to his Lord, but closed his eyes, not able to watch.

“We send our strength to our Prince and to our King, may they outpace their enemies and reach the light of day,” spoke Analil in the familiar form she used for praying. All in the room repeating her words through habit.

“We send our strength to our Prince and to our King, may they outpace their enemies and reach the light of day,” she intoned again, repeating after hearing their refrain. She continued turning her words to a chant with the others following as they witnessed the spectral flight of their beloved Boromir from the nightmare creature of legend.

Borril couldn’t stop the flow of words or tears as he stood with his brother and cousin. They’d entered the room just as the drums began and were all but frozen in terror at what they watched.

It seemed as if those they prayed for gained against their pursuit to reach a dangerous looking stairway. It curved and and descended with large broken sections and no guardrails of any kind. The company continued downward, unaware of their hopeful audience. At last they came to a narrow landing leading to a narrow bridge. They crossed it with Boromir and a dwarf in the lead, keeping four little people close behind them. An elf and tall man kept the few goblins who dared to get near away with well shot arrows until Mirthrandir stopped and urged them past him. “This is a foe only I can stop,” he reprimanded sharply when the man balked at his order. “You must finish this quest, you must take the lead now.”

The man stumbled slightly as he backed unwillingly away from the Istar before he turned to join the rest of the group on the far side of the bridge. They did not progress from there, but turned to watch the old wizard face the Balrog.

“Over the bridge!” cried Mirthrandir, recalling his strength. “Fly! This is a foe beyond any of you. I must hold the narrow way. Fly!” Boromir and the man did not heed the command, but still held their ground, side by side, behind Mirthrandir at the far end of the bridge. The others halted just within the doorway at the hall’s end, and turned, unable to leave their leader to face the enemy alone.

The Balrog reached the bridge. Mirthrandir stood in the middle of the span, leaning on the staff in his left hand, but in his other hand Glamdring gleamed, cold and white. His enemy halted again, facing him, and the shadow about it reached out like two vast wings. It raised the whip, and the thongs whined and cracked. Fire came from its nostrils. But Mirthrandir stood firm.

“You cannot pass,” he said. The goblins now joined by orcs stood still, and a dead silence fell. “I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udun. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass.”

The Balrog made no answer. The fire in it seemed to die, but the darkness grew. It stepped forward slowly on to the bridge, and suddenly it drew itself up to a great height, and its wings were spread from wall to wall. Still Mirthrandir could be seen, glimmering in the gloom; he seemed small, and altogether alone, grey and bent, like a wizened tree before the onset of a storm.

From out of the shadow a red sword leaped flaming.

Glamdring glittered white in answer.

There was a ringing clash and a stab of white fire. The Balrog fell back and its sword flew up in molten fragments.

The wizard swayed on the bridge, stepped back a pace, and then again stood still. “You cannot pass!” he said.

With a bound, the Balrog leaped full upon the bridge. Its whip whirled and hissed.

“He cannot stand alone!” cried the man suddenly and ran back along the bridge. “Elendil!” he shouted. “I am with you, Gandalf!”

“Gondor!” cried Boromir and leaped after him.

At that moment Mirthrandir lifted his staff, and crying aloud he smote the bridge before him. The staff broke asunder and fell from his hand. A blinding sheet of white flame sprang up. The bridge cracked. Right at the Balrog’s feet it broke, and the stone upon which it stood crashed into the gulf, while the rest remained, poised, quivering like a tongue of rock thrust out into emptiness.

With a terrible cry, the Balrog fell forward and its shadow plunged down and vanished. But even as it fell, it swung its whip, and the thongs lashed and curled about the wizard’s knees, dragging him to the brink. He staggered and fell, grasped vainly at the stone, and slid into the abyss. “Fly, you fools!” he cried, and was gone.

The fires went out, and blank darkness fell. The Company stood, rooted with horror staring into the pit.

Borril and all within the room still chanting with Anilil watched the man take the lead with Boromir taking rear guard as they started up the stairway out of the chamber. Then the eerie scene faded from their vision and only the morning sunlight illuminated the room. The chanting slowly faded until Anilil’s voice came to a tired stop.

There were nearly thirty people within the room, guards, servants and those with family business before they faced the court of Minas Tirith. Borril crossed the room and fell to his knees at his Uncle’s bedside. “My Lord, what has happened?” he asked taking Faramir’s hand.

“Boromir returns with our King,” Faramir said, tears sliding slowly down his face, “and Mirthrandir has fallen into the depths with a Balrog.”

TBC

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