Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

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.

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