Faramir Fiction Archive

A Soldier's War (NC-17)

Written by Vejgeta9

04 January 2006 | 20900 words | Work in Progress

Title: A Soldier’s War
WIP Author: Vejgeta9 (Send email)
Pairing: Faramir/Berethor
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Faramir and his ‘companion’ Berethor set out on a journey to retrieve Boromir, as Denthor realizes that sending the elder brother was a huge mistake. The journey takes them through Rohan, where they find a least expectant soul in need. They make it to Rivendell, learning that the party has left days before. Danger is now around every corner, and death is in the air. With all the events that have happened before now, how will these changes effect the parties progress?
Warnings: Contains RPS elements. Physical Abuse; rape in chapter 3. Caution is advised.

Work in Progress

The Mission

“What are you doing?” asked David. He had taken to looking over my shoulder whenever I was at the computer now.

“Finishing chapter three of my fic,” I said.

“Another Lord of the Rings fic?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Can I read it?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said with a laugh.

“Nothing,” I said, looking in his eyes. It seemed like yesterday, but it had really been over 10 years since we got together. In that time I had written over five hundred works of fiction, and he had read every last one. Ironically enough, it was a fic that kicked off our relationship to begin with.

As I sat in my chair, lost in flashbacks of a wonderful ten years, I realized just how hard it had been for us. We almost lost everything – family, friends, and co-workers, even each other. Yes, it had been a hard ten years, but wonderful, nevertheless. Almost blissful.

“Karl? Earth to Karl!!”

“Huh? What?”

“You were telling me to pull up a chair so I can read.”

“I was?”

“Yes.”

“Never!!”

“But… but… why?”

“Now you sound like a five year old.”

“In which would hardly be appropriate to be in a romantic relationship with a thirty-seven year old man.”

“Precisely. And you know the rules. No reading until it is complete.”

“Aww… no fair. NO fair!!”

I smiled at him. True he was ten years older than me, but he looked the same age as me. None of his features had changed. There were no visible signs of aging, no grey hairs, crows’ feet or wrinkles. He looked the same.

Me, on the other hand, I HAD changed. The soft black hair that flowed down to my earlobes had turned first grey, then silver. My brown eyes had turned a deep soft grey, like my grandmother’s, and my beard, now full, had turned the same silver. That was normal, for I had known these things would happen since my twenties. The only difference was that I stopped cutting my hair.

“But, you can read this one,” I said.

“You finished the other one?”

“Yeah. Took long enough.”

He picked the manuscript and walked over to the couch.

“Come read with me.”

That look. How could I resist? I got up from the computer and walked over to the couch where he was now laying across. Taking my place, I leaned back into his embrace, his left arm crossing my stomach, his right hand holding the large loosely bound book. My hands mirrored his.

“Comfy?” he asked.

“Mmhmm.”

“Good.”

The Lord of the Rings The Battle for Middle Earth

By Karl Urban

This is dedicated to the Lord of my heart. ~Karl

“Aww”, he said. “My first dedication. I feel so special.”

“You should.”

A Short Prelude

The One Ring. The root of all evil. Over the years, it had many owners. First, there was Sauron, the creator of the One. It was bound to him and him to it. It then went to Islidor, the King of Gondor when he cut it off Sauron’s hand. After his demise, Sméagol or Gollum, as he is now known as, had the pleasure of its company. Bilbo, whom by now have knowledge of, then found it. Finally, it was passed to Frodo, Bilbo’s nephew.

There were several Rings crafted – The Rings of Power. Three were given to the Elves, for it was their knowledge that crafted such fine rings. Seven were given to the Dwarf Lords, who in their halls of Moria and beyond crafted Mithril armor and weapons. Nine were given to the Kings of Men, whose wisdom and kindness were rivaled only by the Elves.

But in secret, Sauron forged another ring – a Master Ring, in which a portion of his own power was transferred. It became one with him, and he with it. It was tied to the other rings, and with it, Sauron was able to look into the minds of the other ring wearers to see their thoughts, desires, and plans.

Things were fine for a while. All lived in harmony and peace. None had the notion that his inner-workings were being scrutinized almost daily. It was the Elven Lords who discovered the link to Sauron, for the Ring, bound to him as it were, betrayed him as well. The Elves and Dwarfs removed their rings, but the Men, whose will was not nearly as strong, were ensnared, and became Nazgûl.

“Are you retelling LOTR?” he asked.

“No… well, not really.”

“Well, what are you telling us?”

“Read it and find out.”

But they will have their say later, for this story is not about the Fellowship, Sauron, or Saruman, well not entirely. This story is about the smaller Fellowships that helped the Ring bearer and his friends on their quest, and how their actions impacted the well-known friends on a much grander scale.

??Chapter 1.1: The Mission

Berethor, son of Brenethor was summoned to the castle. He was woken from his sleep before the crack of dawn with a request for his presence in the Steward’s office. With sleep still hanging in his eyes, legs that did not willingly cooperate, and the cool darkness of the night clinging to his breeches and tunic like an ex-lover, he made his way into the castle, where a castle guard was waiting.

“Berethor.”

“Benton.”

The two guards stared at one another.

“Your business here, solider?”

“I was summoned by the Steward. I am not exactly sure of the details, but it was related to me that it was of the up most importance.”

“No word came to me that you were to see the Steward, and certainly not at such an early hour.”

There had once been a friendly rivalry between the guards. It had started out in childhood, them pushing each other to be the best they could. But over time, their friendship fell through, and all that was left was competition. It was Berethor who decided to join the Citadel Guards first, with Benton doing the same.

Berethor rose quickly through the ranks, earning the rank of Captain within five years. Benton advanced just as quickly, but had been recently demoted because of reporting to his shift at the castle under the influence on more than one occasion. It was Berethor, who had made the decision to demote Benton, who in turn stated that Berethor didn’t want the competition. Hence the end of their friendship.

“If you were not told, it is not my problem,” said Berethor. “You should be well versed in your duties and orders.”

“Trust that I am,” replied Benton. “And I have no need of anyone of your station to remind me.”

“I suggest you watch your tone of voice. Need I remind you that I am your superior, and it would do you no good to forget your place.”

Benton was about to respond, but was interrupted before he could begin.

“Captain Berethor!”

Berethor looked over Benton’s shoulder. A guard of the castle’s Royal Battalion was approaching them.

“Lord Denethor is waiting in his office for you. Why did you not come up?”

“That would be my error,” Berethor said. “I have not seen my childhood friend in some time, and I took a few moments to say hello.”

The guard nodded.

“Fine. But in the future when the Steward summons you, it would be wise not to keep him waiting. Go – he will want to see you straight away.

On his way up to the Steward’s office, Berethor’s thoughts turned to Boromir.

Boromir, son of Denethor, was the type of man every boy wanted to become. He was a renowned warrior, brave and just. His actions far preceded him throughout Minas Tirtlth, and throughout Gondor. When Boromir was five, his father had him his own sword and a suit of armor crafted just for him.

By the time he was seven, he was sparring with boys five years older than him – and winning. By fifteen, Boromir’s prowess was known through Minas Tirith, and none dared challenge him. And although Berethor admired Boromir and wanted to be just like him, he was not the reason that he joined the guard.

It was Boromir’s brother, Faramir that made Berethor join. Berethor had known the youngest son of the Steward since they were both five. They followed Boromir everywhere he went, when they were allowed. They became close over the years and were virtually inseparable.

At fifteen, Berethor noticed that Faramir’s admiration for his brother came from him becoming a solider, and so to impress him, Berethor decided to become one, too. It worked. At seventeen, Berethor did two things: he took the oath to become a Citadel Guard, and he told Faramir of his true feelings. It surprised him when Faramir not only took the oath of the Rangers, but confirmed his own feelings as well. All was well for a time.

“So let me get this straight”, said David. “Berethor and Faramir have entered into a relationship?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Ok. But who’s Berethor?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, who inspired you to create his character?”

“Why is that important?” I asked.

“Because I want to find out he’s set up to mimic. Everyone wants to shag Faramir, but there are very few that CAN actually do it, you know?”

“Just read and stop being such a pain in the arse!”

At the age of thirty-five, Boromir was summoned by Denethor with orders to go to Rivendell.

“You’re leaving again, aren’t you,” said Faramir. It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes, little brother. Father sends me to Rivendell to take counsel with Elrond,” he said with a sigh. “I leave at first light.”

“But you just got back from a scrimmage!! Surly Father granted you some time to spend with me. It is almost like I am not your brother any more.”

Boromir crossed the room, placing a calloused hand on Faramir’s shoulder.

“It is not so, nor will it ever be. But, little one, you are the reason Father sends me out again so quickly.”

Boromir recalled an earlier conversation with his father.

“He refers to you as a distraction… A temptation.”

“A temptation? To you?”

“Yes.”

He regarded his little brother. Yes indeed, Faramir was a temptation. But, when had he truly noticed? It had been quite some time ago, possibly in their early twenties. Boromir acknowledged this attraction to his brother, though he didn’t consider it a temptation. Instead, it was more admiration first, love second, lust last. Temptations just didn’t set well with Boromir, as they always seem to be just out of his reach.

“He… he also says that he will not accept the fact that his two sons would rather consort with…”

He could not say the words. He could not repeat what his father had said to him. It was not his father’s place to decide whom he or his brother could love. But, that was Denethor; anything that could or would make his sons happy was denied. Especially when it came to Faramir.

But Boromir did not need to repeat it; for Faramir already knew. It was no secret between Faramir and his Rangers the lifestyle that he led. They cared not. His men had always known Faramir as a wise and kind captain. His war strategies and attack plans were always first rate, as all knew that his goal was to keep his men alive to fight another day.

It was also known that Faramir’s heart had belonged to two people – Boromir and Berethor. They were his rocks, and while growing up, when Boromir was in the fields, Berethor was there with him when there was no one else. Boromir had commissioned him to watch over Faramir while he was away, and he did just that.

But his promise to protect Faramir with his very life grew into love, and by the time Berethor turned fifteen, he knew that there was no other for him. His biggest fear was that Boromir would learn of his love and slay him on the spot.

Luck, as it happened, was on Berethor’s side. Boromir was nowhere around when he made his feelings known, and he was relieved that he did not have to prove himself to his idol – the Warrior of Gondor. Faramir was the one who told Boromir about Berethor. And even if Boromir had been against his brother being with Berethor, he would not have told him so. Boromir was wrapped around Faramir’s finger, and could deny him nothing.

“That sounds familiar,” David said, for the same was true with us. I had him wrapped around my finger, and could be denied nothing.

“I know,” I replied, a smile present in my voice.

Berethor walked through the halls of the castle. He had spent most of his life here, first in secret, when he was not formally allowed on the castle grounds, and once found out, with the permission of the Steward himself. But, when his wandering was first discovered, Faramir had been given the lash for it, even though Boromir countered that he was training Berethor. Denethor believed him and punished Faramir ‘just because he was there’. Just one of the many instances that Faramir was punished due to some ridiculous, insignificant flaw that Denethor saw.

Or maybe it was out of pure hatred.

He climbed the stairs and headed down another hall and around the corner. Two Royal Guards stood by the door to the study. Upon seeing him, they saluted him, and allowed him passage.

Denethor sat at his desk, scrolls covering every inch of it. He did not bother to look up. Berethor stood silently.

“Have a seat,” said Denethor, still looking at scrolls. Berethor sat.

“I have no time for formalities, so I will get straight to the point. I need Boromir here. I want him to return at once. Reports have come back stating that Orc activity has increased in large numbers. Our efforts to repel them have been to no avail.”

He motioned Berethor to move closer to the desk so that he could see the scrolls.

“This report,” he continued, “tells of two hundred soldiers were sent out. None returned. The report was made when a scout on another mission stumbled across the battlements. In this report,” he said, passing it to Berethor to review,” four hundred soldiers were sent out. Two returned, one of whom died two days upon his return.”

“Who led these scrimmages?”

“The first was Captain Jonas, son of Jerias. A good man, from what I was told.”

“Yes,” said Berethor. “I knew him.”

“The other was Avisor, son of Randar. It was his first scrimmage, and from how it was explained to me, he was not a good leader. Not enough experience with the matters of war.”

Berethor processed this before continuing. Jonas deserved a much better fate than he received. But then, so did many other soldiers that fell in battle.

“So, you want me to go to Rivendell and retrieve Boromir, correct?”

“Yes. I am afraid that I overlooked the safety of the people in Gondor. The people are losing faith with these attacks killing our men. Not to mention the fact that they are growing closer to the city. Boromir is the only one who can restore that faith in the people.” He paused.

“I realize now that I should have sent someone else in his stead.”

“Like Faramir.”

Denethor paused. In truth, he knew Faramir was a much better choice, but it was not in his nature to admit Faramir was good for anything.

He shook his head.

“No. Faramir is better off somewhere that he can do the least harm.”

Berethor felt his blood boiling in his veins and before he could stop himself he said, “Faramir is regarded by his men as a wise and fearless Captain. He has more than proved his worth and quality –”

“Do not lecture me on the ‘worth’ and ‘quality’ of Faramir,” he spat coldly. “You are not aware of the boy’s uses – which are very few. He is unworthy of this family’s name.”

Berethor said nothing. If he risked defending Faramir more, Denethor may do something even worse to him while he was away. He hated the idea of leaving Faramir behind, but asking Denethor for his permission to take Faramir with him would be like asking him for his blessing in their relationship.

In that he would be dooming them both to a miserable, empty existence. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Well then, since he’s so useless and worthless, then you would not mind me taking him with me.”

“I do mind!”

“Why?”

“Because… Because he’s my son!”

“Hmm… well, I figured since he is so useless to you, then maybe I can find a use for him. After all, it is you that is sick of the sight of him. If I do not take him, the he will have to take over my garrison at the fort here, which means…”

“Absolutely nothing. You are a Citadel Guard which…”

“Also ties directly with the Rangers. I have direct control over their orders and their garrison, my Lord.”

“I know that, Captain.”

“Then you also know that he is the best that I have.”

“If he is the best that you have, then you are blind.”

Berethor frowned at this. He paused and said,

“What I see and what you see may never meet eye to eye, my Lord. So, since he cannot travel with me, I shall have him moved here until my return. And since he will be taking over my post here, that does mean…”

Denethor waved him off. He knew exactly what it meant. It meant that he would see Faramir on a daily basis, not exactly a joyous prospect in his mind. As much as he hated to grant Faramir anything that would make him happy, he would be miserable if Faramir stayed. And at the same token, anyone that was willing to remove what he considered to be a ‘eyesore’ to his kingdom either sympathized with his point of view about his son, or was a complete idiot about the whole matter.

He knew that Berethor was neither.

“Fine,” he snapped. “But if he is the cause for your sudden death, then it will only be you to blame.”

Berethor said nothing.

“You will leave at first light.”

“Wow. You make Denethor sound worse than he is in the book!!” David said.

“You think that’s bad? Wait until you see the later chapters!!”

“Well, I know you are,” he said, tightening his grip around my waist.

“I’m what?”

“Bad”, he whispered into my ear.

I smiled.

“Love, didn’t you know? Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Berethor left Denethor’s office in a much higher mood than when he entered. He would not have to leave Faramir behind, which was good; he knew how much Faramir missed his brother, and they had rarely been apart for more than a few days at most. It was nice, having control where the soldiers were sent, because he could make sure that Faramir was only a short ride away.

He though about spending time with Faramir on this mission. No Denethor, no men needing direction, no orcs… Well, maybe some orcs, but that was nothing to worry about. No one would get close enough to hurt his Faramir; they would have to kill Berethror first.

Suddenly, without realizing it, he was in the living quarters of the castle. He decided to go and wake Faramir and tell him the news, since they would be leaving at first light.

He approached Faramir’s door and knocked. He heard a groan.

“Go away.”

“Faramir, it’s me.”

There was a silence. In fact, it was a long silence. Berethor was beginning to think Faramir had gone back to sleep when the door opened. There stood his Faramir, half sleep. He looked fabulous, hair disheveled and arrayed wildly, sleep evident in his eyes. Although still sleepy, Faramir smiled brightly upon seeing a face that he had not seen in days.

“You do realize that had I, which is me, been your father, which Denethor is, you would be hauled up to my office, tied to my desk, and severely punished, right?” Berethor said with a humorous tone.

Faramir ignored him.

“What are you doing here? And at this hour?”

“I merely came to see you.”

“You did no such thing!!”

Berethor smiled. He loved Faramir more with every passing moment, and his vocal and facial expressions only deepened his feelings. In that moment, Berethor was more aware of Faramir than anything else, and he had almost forgotten the real reason he came.

“Yes I did.”

Faramir grabbed his hand and pulled him inside. Upon shutting the door, they shared a long passionate kiss.

“Really now,” Faramir said after they broke apart. “What are you doing here?”

“I really did come to see you. I have some news.”

Faramir frowned. He heard the change in Berethor’s voice.

“News”, he said, trying to hide the fear in his voice.

“Yes,” he said. “Your father has sent me on assignment outside Gondor.”

Faramir looked sick. Even in the dim glow of the fireplace, Berethor could see the worry etched on his Faramir’s otherwise gentle face. He decided to put him at ease, as he knew why the look was present.

“You will be going with me, so stop looking at me like that,” he said with a broad grin.

“Surely, you jest,” he said.

“Never a jester, my love. I just got the orders from your father. We leave at first light.”

“First light!! But that’s –”

“I know. We have a lot to do, and very little time to do it in.”

After pulling Faramir into another kiss, Berethor began walking to the door.

“I will return as soon as its daylight. Be packed and ready. It is a long trek to Rivendell.”

“Rivendell? But why…”

Faramir stopped because he realized what Berethor was saying. His father was sending them after Boromir.

“Who is Berethor?” David asked.

I turned around and kissed him.

“Well, his name is from some LOTR game I was watching our son play some time ago. His character, however, represents everything that I feel for you. All the love that my heart possesses.”

“Oh. Well, I knew all the time. I just pretended like I didn’t know.”

“Sure you did.”

“So, would you really defend me that way?”

I looked at him. How could he doubt me? Did he really think that I wouldn’t?

“I would never let anyone talk about you that way. Always know that.”

He smiled. That I think he did know; he just wanted to hear me say it.”

On his return to his own quarters, Berethor began to pack. Everything he would need to make the journey was placed on his bed. He made several self-notes about the things he did not have. He had no honey mead; he was short on food stores and essential supplies crucial to survival.

On the bright side of things, his armor was mended and polished, his blades were sharp, and his axe was… Where in the Hell was his axe?

The axe in question was not a true war axe. It was more like a hatchet, but the edges were curved and it was double-sided. How it looked wasn’t as important as why he wanted it. The axe had belonged to his father, Brenethor.

A soldier returned it to him after a scrimmage. His father told him that he never used it in battle, but the soldier said that was found lodged in an orc’s head. Not too far from that, Brenethor’s body lay, riddled with black arrows, his sword shattered to the hilt. There was no chance of his survival; the arrows were poisoned.

The soldier told Berethor how hard his father fought. “You should know that your father died a hero. He died saving me.” This did not surprise Berethor, as he knew his father would go out of his way to help another solider, even if it meant risking his own life. They sat and talked into the wee hours, in which the solider recounted the battle up until his father’s demise.

The solider could not stifle a yawn. The hour had grown late and it was at this moment that Berethor wanted to be alone. In turn, he thanked the solider, and walked him to the door.

“What is your name, friend?”

“I am Jonas, son of Jermathor. We shall see each other soon.”

But soon never came.

Berethor sat on his bed and began stuffing things into packs. While he did so, he thought off and on about the axe, his father, and Jonas. Where would it all stop? What was the point? Why was life so cruel? What in the Hell were they really fighting for? Was he destined to die like his father, with only an axe he could not find to leave for his beloved Faramir?

In truth, for a long time, he blamed Jonas. If Jonas weren’t there, would his father still be alive? No, because if not been Jonas, than he would have died defending another fallen soldier. He got up and crossed the room. Clearing scrolls off a table, the axe lay there, gleaming in the dim light of the approaching morning. He picked it up and placed it in his belt in his right side, picked up his packs, and left his house.

“Wow.”

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing. It’s getting good,” he said.

“I’ll be changing this chapter, I see.”

“Why? I just said it was good!”

He tightened his grip around me again.

“It’s good. I just can’t wait until the action starts is all.”

“That starts very soon.”

“Good.”

He pressed a kiss to the side of my temple.

“I can’t wait.”

Berethor approached the stables. Although they had agreed to meet at Faramir’s room, he found a fully dressed, fully packed Faramir, saddling Berethor’s horse, Regal, inside. Faramir’s horse, Galant stood silently, pawing the ground in anticipation of the journey.

“My love, what are you doing?”

“Saddling your horse,” he said without looking up from buckling the straps. Regal stood still, allowing Faramir to do his work.

“I think my horse loves you.”

“I think so too. Galant never stands still. He gets excited when I bring out the saddle. Silly animal he is, but wonderfully talented.”

“Much like his handler,” said Berethor.

“So you think I’m silly?”

“No,” said Berethor, walking over to Faramir.

“Well, what do you mean?” he asked standing, turning to face Berethor.

Berethor took him in his arms and replied, “I think you’re wonderfully talented. And I love you just as much as my horse does.”

Regal neighed softly as if in agreement. Berethor smiled as Faramir broke away and continued his ministrations.

“I see you’re all packed,” he said as he placed the bridle on the horse.

“Yes. But there are some things that I didn’t have.”

“Like?”

“Well, we have no mead.”

“I’ve packed some. We should have just enough to make it to Rivendell.”

“We also should pack more food stores.”

“We should be fine, love.”

Normally Berethor was calm and organized when beginning a journey, but normally he traveled by himself.

Faramir raced around, packing the horses while Berethor worried. It then occurred to him that Faramir was possibly doing the same, but threw himself into keeping busy not to show it. Berethor understood this, and joined him in evenly distributing the packs between the two horses.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, everything was set; the sun had risen. With a final kiss before their impending journey, Faramir, son of Denethor and Berethor, son of Brenethor led their horses out of the stables. It was time to start out.

There were no large crowds to see them off. No ladies to throw flowers at their horse’s feet. It was just the steady clip – clop of the horses’ hoofs hitting the cobbled streets. The guards at the main gate saluted the two soldiers upon their exit. The gates swung back revealing Pelennor Fields. They looked at each other and headed out.

“So, that’s the end of chapter 1.1?”

“Yep. What do you really think so far?” I asked.

“Hmm… Truthfully? It’s good so far. I think that you should go a little more into detail about how Berethor got the axe, though.”

“I got tired of typing right there.”

“Well, next time let me know, and I’ll massage your hands and fingers.”

“Or you can dictate for me.”

“I can’t type.”

“Well I guess the massage sounds good. I’ll have to remember that.”

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