Faramir Fiction Archive

The Battle of Cormallen (NC-17)

Written by Ithiliana

03 November 2007 | 9671 words | Work in Progress

Part 2

Part 2 was inspired by and thus is dedicated to caras_galadhon who weaves webs of power in her woods!

“Scum!” The empty jug crashed past Boromir’s head, breaking against the stone wall, shattered pottery flying in all directions. “More ale!”

He ducked his head. The keg was draining fast, but he was determined to get all he could out before tapping another, his last full one. He shuffled over to the makeshift table made from an empty keg, and set the half-filled jug down, tugged vaguely at the walnut stain dyed hair that hung raggedly around his face, and shuffled back, ignoring the few coins scattered on the wood. Laughter rose behind him.

The cloth wrapped around his chest and shoulder gave him a hunched look. He was wearing a grease-stained ragged tunic and too-large leggings, begged from one of the cooks at camp. The loose cloth disguised the large knives strapped to his thighs. His own boots worn on the wrong feet made sure his walk was cramped and halting. The stain that colored his hair also darkened his skin.

Anborn brought in a barrel or two most days, reluctant though he had been to agree to Boromir’s plan. They’d set up outside the crumbling wall on the east side of Osgiliath. A half dozen others had similar ideas, bringing in ale, or women, or both, to sell to Aragorn’s army. If Boromir’s spot was more popular than any of the others, it was only because he was pretending to be a half-wit who forgot to charge some of the time.

“It won’t take much pretense,” Anborn said when Boromir had proposed the plan. Boromir had grinned but not responded.

He had not remembered how he’d been wounded when he woke in the rough camp, surrounded by a few of the oldest and toughest Rangers, men he’d commanded years ago. Somehow they’d gotten him out of the battle. In pain, drowsy from the spirits of wine they forced down him, he had not been able to do anything for days. Mablung, dark hair long and streaked with grey that Boromir did not remember, had tended him, flask in hand and more songs than words. Anborn, a man as large as Boromir himself, the one who’d taught him the largest number of dirty tricks to use in a fight, had not only kept command over the small group but had gone into the ruined city to learn that Aragorn led the forces, and that Faramir was alive but captive.

They’d argued half the night Anborn returned. They wanted him to return to Minas Tirith, to beg new forces from his father, the Steward. Remembering how depleted Gondor was, Boromir was not sure there were any more, and he would not leave Faramir in Aragorn’s hands for long. Finally, Mablung had agreed to go, with a letter from Boromir, and Anborn had agreed to provide the ale only when Boromir had threatened to go into Osgiliath himself.

Before the last barrel was empty, Boromir finally heard Faramir’s name, heard the drunken men speak of a fight the next day. They were betting on Faramir’s death, and Boromir had to struggle not to make sure of their own.

Leaving the keg for any who willed to finish, Boromir kicked off his boots and picked them up. He walked quietly along the wall, hidden in shadow. He would sleep near a broken gap in the wall he’d discovered a few days ago. He’d enter Osgiliath before sunrise. He just hoped he would sleep instead of lying awake as he had past nights, thinking of Aragorn all those years past, trying to understand what had changed the warrior who’d fought to save Gondor from the enemy as hard as Boromir had, if not harder. Thorongil had told Boromir his true name after they’d served in Ithilien together, when they’d returned to Minas Tirith. After they’d become lovers.

It took longer than Boromir had planned the next day to find the fight. When Gondor had re-taken Osgiliath years ago, they had repaired some of the buildings, but much of the city still stood in ruins. Aragorn’s men and orcs were spread throughout the city, some on guard, some eating, some walking and laughing. Boromir kept his face down as he walked, feeling the weight of the knives strapped to his legs. Finally, more through luck than planning, he came out into an open square crammed with bodies.

Frustrated, Boromir halted. He dared not push his way through the armed warriors. When shouts began to go up, shouts that included Faramir’s name, Boromir began to move around the square. He had to step over and around piles of rubble, sidling along where a narrow space had opened when the throng had pressed forward.

When he thought he was nearly half way round, silence fell so suddenly Boromir flinched. He caught himself on a column, pulled himself up to stand on the base. His head rising above the crowd, Boromir’s breath caught.

In the center of an open space, Faramir stood, back to Boromir, facing two men wearing leather surcoats, the emblem of the White Tree clear in the sunlight. On a balcony above, Aragorn stood, arms folded. The sun streaked his dark hair with red glints, and he wore rich cloth, green and gold. No weapons showed. Aragorn was facing Faramir, his look so intent Boromir thought he could safely stay where he was, not moving.

“I will not fight men of Gondor.” Faramir’s voice carried easily in the still morning air.

“Fight, or die.”

Faramir drew his sword, the hiss of metal against leather sounding louder than it should. Boromir tasted blood, then relaxed as Faramir knelt, setting the sword on the ground, placing a knife beside it. He stood slowly, lifted his hands and head.

“I will not fight.”

Silence filled the courtyard as Aragorn stood, unmoving. Boromir barely breathed.

“You have heard the terms, men of Gondor. Whoever wins this fight goes free.”

Swallowing bitterness, Boromir began planning the fastest way through the crowd. Before he could move, leaping off the column, the two men facing Faramir moved to stand beside him, turning, weapons drawn, facing their enemy.

A harsh growl rose, the men in front shifting forward. Weapons flashed in the sun.

“Halt!” Aragorn’s voice rang out as if on a battlefield. “Drop your weapons. You will not be harmed.”

Graceful and swift, Faramir retrieved his weapons, stood ready. “Today, perhaps, but what of tomorrow? Why not end it here?”

Aragorn rested his hands on the balustrade, leaning forward. The curve of his body spoke to Boromir of urgency although the calm voice did not change, carrying easily over the sounds of discontent from men promised a fight for which they did not have to shed blood.

“Surrender to me, and I will set these men free, unharmed, with safe passage back to Minas Tirith.”

Time stretched, measured only by the pounding of Boromir’s heart, until Faramir nodded, dropping his weapons, stepping away from the protection of the two men beside him.

“My lord!” The note of protest was clear, one of the men starting forward.

Faramir turned, shook his head, held up a hand. The man stopped.

“Return to the City. Tell my, the, Steward, what you have seen.”

Faramir moved to stand below the balcony, head tilted up. “Your word, they will not be harmed.”

Aragorn said, “You have it.”

The tension faded, the mob of men breaking up.

Boromir forced himself to move slowly, stepping down, and back, moving slowly around and between the clumps of men, listening with half an ear to their plans for drink or gambling or sleep until he found a place where he could see through the thinning crowd. Faramir stood between two orcs who gripped his arms.

Aragorn walked through an archway, crossing to stand in front of Faramir, close enough their bodies were touching.

Too far away to hear, Boromir watched Farmir’s back stiffen as he tried to pull away. Aragorn stepped back, gesturing to the orcs. They marched away, pulling Faramir between them, through the archway. Aragorn watched them leave, then moved away, talking to the remaining men, crossing the open space toward the opposite gate.

Boromir could not follow both and was torn. As Aragorn left the main courtyard, Boromir cursed softly and followed him. Faramir was guarded. Aragorn seemed to be alone. As Boromir began tracking the green and gold figure, he told himself the lack of guards was the only reason.

Once, Boromir had known Osgiliath well, had fought here with Aragorn in one of the endless clashes with Mordor. He found that half-buried knowledge coming back as he ghosted after Aragorn, keeping his head down, moving toward the River. The streets became clearer, the buildings in better repair, with men and orcs working side by side.

Aragorn walked slowly, talking to workers he passed. On the other side of the broad road, Boromir kept pace behind until Argorn turned and entered a building.

Checking to make sure his knives were at hand, Boromir crossed the smooth stones and paused. Seeing no one, still expecting a challenge, he entered. He was standing in an empty room, passages opening to either side. He did not know what way to go, stood, trying to guess, until a small fat man came out of the left-hand passage and spoke.

“Here, you, take these into Lord Aragorn!” He pushed a pile of towels into Boromir’s arms, and pushed him to the right. “Hurry! He’s waiting!”

Boromir fell back a step, then turned, face hot. He trod down the passageway.

When he entered the warm and steamy room, he saw Aragorn sitting on a bench, elbows braced on spread knees, watching the door.

“I knew you were not dead.”

Boromir gripped thick cloth. He should have remembered he had never won any of the tracking games he and Aragorn had played, for jest or for sex. Taking a deep breath, he crossed the room, set the towels on the bench beside Aragorn, and knelt, playing the courtier.

“You won this round, my lord,” Boromir spread his hands, then let them fall loosely at his sides. He dtilted his head, eyes intent on Aragorn. “What forfeit do you claim?”

The large hands, wearing only a single ring, green stone set in silver, familiar to Boromir, clenched, knuckles white.

“Tell me what happened. Were you injured? Were you with Faramir?” Aragorn’s voice was low, tense.

Boromir nodded. “Yes, and yes,” he said, and waited.

Aragorn’s hands relaxed, and he sat up, body relaxing. “So he did not lie.”

In that brief moment, Boromir reached through the slit in the baggy leggings, pulling out a knife as he slid forward. Within a breath, he was resting the large blade of the knife against Aragorn’s crotch, eyes on Aragorn’s face, pale against the dark hair.

“What did you do to my brother?” He breathed in the familiar scent.

Aragorn did not move, other than to rest his hands on the bench. “He is safe. As you saw.”

“What have you done?”

Aragorn said nothing, breathed in and out. Boromir waited.

“Healed him. Fed him.”

“Why the fight?”

Aragorn smiled widely, leaned forward, shocking Boromir who eased back.

“To bring you out into the open. Why else?”

Boromir kept his face still, cursing inside. Anborn had been right. “And now?”

“He is my captive.”

“And me?” Slowly, carefully, Boromir leaned forward, increasing the pressure, caught in unwilling memory of play with another knife. He told himself this was serious, ignoring the rising heat, his hardening cock.

“Would you be my Steward?”

Faramir walked back to his cell. After leaving the Courtyard, the orcs had released him to walk behind, muttering to each other. He listened but soon realized they were speaking in their own tongue, the harsh gutturals low but holding more meaning than he could grasp.

They entered the building where he was imprisoned, seeing few men inside. The passages were empty, echoing, as they moved from sun to shadow.

The shock at seeing men he knew, men of Gondor, facing him had taken his breath for a few moments, but then he had felt his fear drop away. He did not have to worry about surviving this fight. He did not have to fight. He had expected to die, not at their swords, but at Aragorn’s command.

He turned down the passage to see the locked door.

Here he was alive. And still armed. He had walked through the streets, armed, and had not tried to escape. As they approached the cell, he wondered if Frodo would even still be there, if he should still try to strike at his guards and escape.

“You did not kill.” The words were difficult to understand, but the orc was speaking the Common Tongue.

Faramir turned, shocked, to find one of the orcs standing so close while the other stood back, holding a knife. “What?”

“You did not kill.”

“No. They were my men, they fought with me.”

The orc nodded, brown eyes intent. He stood more than a head taller than Faramir, dark coarse hair pulled back and tied, with well worn but cared for gear.

Faramir had fought orcs in the past, but he’d never spoken to one. His only memories were of blood and fear. Here, standing in the passage, the scent of the orc’s hair and skin, unusual but not unpleasant, mixed with the familiar scent of oiled leather. He could not read his expression, did not know what else to say.

The orc unlocked the door, pushed it open. “Weapons.”

Faramir unbuckled the swordbelt, handing it over, knife and blade sheathed.

“Good.”

Faramir moved inside at the gesture, confused.

All thoughts of the encounter dropped away when Frodo jumped to his feet and dashed across the cell.

Faramir dropped to one knee, nearly toppling over when Frodo flung his arms around his neck, sobbing. Wrapping his arms around the warm body, Faramir held him until he stopped shaking.

“What’s wrong?”

“I was sure you’d be killed, or terribly wounded.” Frodo’s voice was muffled against Faramir’s shoulder. “I heard them talking, there was some plan. What happened?”

Breathing deeply, Faramir closed his eyes, relishing the soft spring of curls against his face. “They brought two prisoners, two of my own men, to fight. I refused.”

Frodo tensed, pulling back and releasing Faramir. “What did Aragorn do?”

Gritting his teeth against the pain from muscles still sore from yesterday, Faramir rose, drank from their water bucket. He sat down on the pad of blankets, noticing absently they were neatly folded and stacked. He tugged his boots off, tossed them aside.

Frodo came and sat next to him, sliding into his arm, wrapping his own arms around Faramir, squeezing. “Tell me!”

Leaning back against cold stone, Faramir said, “He offered them their freedom if they fought me, killed me. They refused. I thought we’d be killed by his men, but Aragorn stopped it. It only took him one word.” He was back standing in sun, warmed more by the loyalty of the two at his side, seeing the mass of men and orcs ready to strike. And Aragorn had stopped them.

“Then he told me if I surrendered to him, he’d send the others back to Minas Tirith, unharmed.”

Frodo moved closer, arms tightening, head against Faramir’s chest.

“Then he ordered me back here.”

When Frodo spoke, his voice was low. “What did he say to you?”

Faramir closed his eyes. He did not want to say it. Frodo waited, the silence growing heavy as a stone.

Aragorn had come down to stand so close, that Faramir could feel the heat, felt hardness pressing against his thigh, as Aragorn spoke.

“He told me I was more like my brother than he’d realized.” Faramir’s lips were stiff, his throat was tight.

Squirming free from Faramir’s arm, Frodo straddled his thighs, hands sunk in the cloth of Faramir’s tunic.

Voice low and hoarse, he tugged Faramir forward. “I will not let him have you.”

Heat flashed through Faramir’s body.

The night before, they had lain together, holding each other, skin to skin, but had only talked, sharing kisses but not more.

Faramir had not even thought of trying to escape today because Frodo was here.

As their lips met, as Faramir pulled Faramir close, he realized even if the cell door was standing open, he would not wish to leave.

Not alone.

Would you be my Steward?

The words rang in the room.

Boromir sank back on his heels, his hand, clasping the knife, dropping to his side.

Aragorn sat still, lips apart, watching Boromir.

“You jest,” Boromir said, uncertain.

Aragorn shook his head.

“Steward? Of what?”

“Osgiliath, reborn.” Aragorn leaned back, then stood, stretching, hands clasped beind his head. Kneeling in front of him, half-hard, Boromir could not help but remember their last day.

Aragorn had been in a strange mood all day, half-teasing, half angry. After the daymeal, Boromir had followed him down into the City, dreading what might come of it.

Aragorn had known he was being followed, as always, and had led Boromir a weary way, passing through six of the gates, then turning back to wind their way upill again, his long legs leaving Boromir, winded, far beind. He had caught up with Aragorn only in the Courtyard, watching the water drip from the dead Tree, deep in silence.

By then, it was dark. Boromir dared come close, stand behind Aragorn, sliding his arms around him.

“What can I do, love?”

Silence. Boromir tightened his arms, refusing to admit any fear. He whispered, “Anything you want, I promise.”

Aragorn turned, gripping Boromir’s arm. “Anything?” His eyes shone in the moonlight reflecting off white stone.

Boromir nodded, was tugged forward. He followed Aragorn into the darkness of the Hall, patched with silvery light which shone through the windows, down the aisle between the statues of dead Kings, their footsteps loud in the silence. The throne of Gondor sat high on its dais.

At the base of the steps, a low black chair sat. As Aragorn pulled him around the chair where Denethor sat daily, Boromir saw the white Rod of the Stewards, forgotten after today’s argument, on the seat. Then they were on the other side of the dais, standing in shadows. Hands heavy on Boromir’s shoulders, Aragorn urged him down.

Boromir knelt, heart racing. Aragorn pulled his head forward, and Boromir rubbed his face against the soft cloth, feeling hardness underneath.

“Here?”

“Here.”

Boromir felt the heat rise, suddenly so hard it hurt, at the sound of Aragorn’s voice, the echo in the Hall, for he had spoken normally. Earlier today, he’d argued with Denethor about the question of Osgiliath, voice echoing the same way until Denethor had stood, left without speaking further.

Fumbling in the dark, he ran his hands up the strong legs, tugging at snarled laces, finally opening the leggings enough to reach the silken hardness. He worked his mouth, then licked and sucked, his hands flexing against the hard muscle of Aragorn’s arse. Cold stone caused his knees to ache, kept him conscious of where they were, but that only drove him to suck harder, trying to achieve what he had not yet been able to do, trying to half swallow the thick shaft.

His throat working, Boromir’s head swam. When Aragorn groaned, hips thrusting forward, Boromir exulted. He swallowed, pulling back to breathe, dizzy, triumphant.

The flash of the single torch seemed bright as day to Boromir, and he blinked, eyes watering.

Denethor stood, a torch in one hand, the white rod in the other.

Boromir blinked, bitterness heavy in his mouth, looking up at Aragorn. He had left Minas Tirith the next day, and Boromir had been ordered back to Ithilien. Osgiliath had been left with only a small guard, one that could not stand against the might of Mordor.

Boromir dropped the knife from his aching hand, stood, pushing forward to catch Aragorn’s arms. They were of equal height now.

“You left.” He turned to push Aragorn away from the bench, the open fire.

Aragorn slipped free, moving easily into a defensive stance. “Your father gave me no choice,” he said. “Leave, or be tried for unnatural acts. With you.”

Boromir had known something like that had happened, but he was in no mood to admit it. He moved forward. “Then you return with an army, taking Osgiliath, and my brother.”

Refusing to remember all the times Aragorn had defeated him in practice, in sword play and wrestling, he attacked. The flurry of movement lasted longer than he remembered, but came to the same end—Boromir pinned face-down under Aragorn, straining to move.

Panting, Boromir twisted, cursing, until he ran out of breath and energy.

Aragorn’s breath was warm against Bormoir’s cheek. “So you will not be my Steward?”

“I don’t know!”

Boromir lay still, the ache in his half-healed shoulder grinding through him. He tried to remember the last time he’d eaten, hard bread and moldy cheese the day before. His head ached. He could not have planned any response to such an offer, could not have imagined it being made.

“Let me see Faramir,” he said. “Then we will talk.”
A moment, and Boromir felt the weight lift. He sucked in breath, and rolled over. Aragorn offered him a hand, but Boromir shook his head, pushed himself up, rubbing his shoulder.

“Take me to my brother.”

To Be Continued

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