Faramir Fiction Archive

A Soldier's War (NC-17)

Written by Vejgeta9

04 January 2006 | 20900 words | Work in Progress

Chapter 2.1: The Road to Rivendell

Berethor and Faramir were now three days into their journey. They had lost a few hours to Berethor’s need to find an alternate route if the main route proved to be impassable, and quite a few more, with Faramir needing to make ‘nature calls’ what seemed like every ten minutes.

Berethor could understand that, though. It had been at least two months since they had found the opportunity to be ‘physical’, due to their duties in the field and their demanding steward/father. Not to mention that when they were in the same area together, the chances for privacy had been few and far in between. He could go and offer his ‘assistance’ in these nature calls, but then they’d never make it more than a few miles before nightfall.

Not a good idea in the areas they were headed in.

They decided to go north through Osgiliath, heading northwest past Druaden Forest. After traveling about 50 miles, they hit Erelas, where they stayed the night. The following morning, they continued on, staying in Calaenhad the following night. The third night would be spent in Firien Woods and the road from there would lead them straight to Edoras (The Great West Road).

Upon arriving at the desired campsite, Faramir checked around the surrounding areas to ensure that there were no orcs present. The first day of travel, Berethor pointed out tracks that he believed belonged to a small band of orcs, and it was the next day that confirmed his beliefs. As they approached a small clearing, they saw signs of battle. It was apparent that there were no survivors, orc or otherwise. The bodies were strewn across the forest floor amongst various weapons, most were beyond repair.

They piled the bodies of the orcs and set fire to them, while burying the bodies of the soldiers in a shallow grave under a nearby tree. It was this short funeral that seemed to set Faramir’s mood that day and the next, and by nightfall all attempts made by Berethor to console him were nullified. He had tried everything to raise his beloved’s spirits, and when nothing worked, he almost slipped into a panic. He was at a loss as to how to handle this situation, as he had never failed to rouse his Faramir before.

Once Faramir completed the scouting, they gathered wood for a small fire. Dinner was silent and simple, with them eating nothing more that a brace of small conies and some berries from a nearby bush. Berethor tried again to raise Faramir’s spirit’s by poking fun at his own culinary skills, but not even jokes at his own expense changed the quiet mood of the brooding man to his right.

“Faramir, please tell me what is wrong?” he asked.

“I am fine. I am just in thought.”

“But you have been ‘just in thought’ since yesterday. I may be a solider, but that does not mean that I am a fool.”

Faramir looked over at him and said nothing. Berethor moved closer to him, and placed his arm around him. He had hoped that this night they would be able to make up for lost time, but with Faramir in such a down state, he would not even consider suggest anything more than a kiss, at least for now. He went to speak again, but something attracted his attention.

There was a rustle in the bushes nearby, momentarily distracting them from their conversation. In an instant, they were both at their feet, drawing their swords. The rustling intensified from the east, and the men prepared themselves for what may be an ambush. There was nowhere for them to run.

Berethor flexed his grip around the hilt of his sword. He motioned to Faramir to begin to circle to the left, but Faramir had already disappeared into the shadows behind them. Berethor was not used to situations that called for stealth; he normally just went in, hacked and slashed, and later figured out what body parts belonged to whom. He had to be more aware now, as Faramir was out there.

Into the clearing walked a horse carrying a man in leather armor. He was bent over his horse’s neck and was not moving. Berethor approached the horse unhurriedly. Again, he may have been a solider, but he was no fool. The solider was breathing slowly, and even in the dim light, Berethor could see that the man had a fever. He only had to whistle once before Faramir returned to his side as quietly and quickly as he left. They took the man off the horse and carried him by the fire. It was then that they saw the cause of the fever.

“Poisoned arrow,” said Faramir softly. “Quickly, get him some water.”

Berethor quickly walked over to his horse and returned with his water skin. He held the man’s head back and slowly poured water in his mouth. The man sputtered before letting some of it stay in his mouth. He began to shake slightly.

After surveying the arrow and the wound, Faramir decided that he could remove the arrow and dress the wound; however, he also knew that it was an extremely thin chance that the man would last the night. He hoped that he would at least wake long enough to learn his name and what happened. If orcs were still in the area, he would like to know what their position was in the field.

He walked over to Galant, retrieved a small leather pouch and hurried back to the man’s side.

“Hold him down,” he said, while searching for the herbs needed to heal the man.

Berethor nodded and braced the man’s arms. The man continued to shake occasionally. Faramir took his bundle of herbs and placed them in a piece of torn clothing. He rubbed the pouch in his hands to crush them, and then dropped it into a small pot of boiling water. Turning back to the man on the ground, he grasped the lower end of the arrow.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Don’t you think you should be asking him that?”

“No need to now,” said Faramir, holding up the arrow. “You maybe a solider, but these things still make you a bit squeamish.” He reached over to the pot and quickly retrieved the pouch and applied it to the wound. The man thrashed around for a few moments before moaning and slipping off into a deep sleep.

“At least he shall have peace for this one night, though I fear it may be his last,” said Faramir. Berethor looked at him. Taking his hand, Berethor led him a small distance away from where the sleeping man lay. They sat on a log in silence for a few moments. Faramir looked up at the night sky. His eyes lit up when the Valor treated him to a shooting star. Berethor noticed this slight change and smiled.

“Did you make a wish?” he asked. Faramir nodded. “Will you tell me what it was?”

“That the Valor continue to watch over my brother. I have no real way of knowing how he is, or even where he is at this moment.” He went silent for a moment.

“I had a dream before he left. A vision, if you will.”

“Yes, I remember well.”

“I have since had another. It happened the night that you awoke me from my sleep. The night on which we departed from Minas Tirilith.”

Berethor nodded. He steeled himself for whatever Faramir might say; he had a feeling that this journey would be included. “What was it about?”

“The beginning was somewhat cloudy. I could hear voices, but could not see faces.” He paused. “It was like a maze with many roads and paths to walk down. And there were a few paths I could see clearly. One path led through Rohan. I saw two enter the city, but three left. Another path led out of Rivendell. There was a path that led to a dark place. But it is the last path I saw that concerns me the most.”

Berethor listened. He had no idea what to say, so he rubbed his thumb over the back of Faramir’s hand, giving him the only comfort he could. Faramir continued.

“The last path connected with the first. Twelve will walk that path. There were sounds of battle, shouts and war cries. Death was everywhere. The path then split in three. Three walked on one path which later, a fourth joined. The fourth will not survive. Two walked away, only to rejoin with six. Later one more joined.”

“But that was not your reason for somber mood as of late, was it?”

“Yes, along with what I heard next, coupled with what I saw yesterday.”

Berethor frowned. He was aware that the guard would not have been Faramir’s first choice as a career move. In fact, he was sure that Faramir would become a scholar, while he and Boromir kept their home front safe. He was not surprised, however, when Faramir followed in his brother’s steps. Perhaps if he and Boromir had a more supportive father, or if times were different…

“What did you hear?”

“I do not remember all of it.”

He would not share the complete vision. He knew that Berethor would not take it well.

“There is one thing that I do remember. There is a major part that we will play in Rohan. Sides must be chosen, and all is not as it seems. ‘The foe that once was shall rise again from the ashes, his creatures shall reign the darkness.’” He frowned and continued. “‘One must be saved to defeat the other, for the one that is of darkness can be shown to the light. All is not what it seems.’ I know not what that means, but I feel that Éomer may need our help. Do not mention this to anyone upon our arrival.”

Berethor nodded. “Do not worry. I shall not say a word.” He looked in Faramir’s eyes, and was relieved to see the shadow of sadness and worry was not present.

“There is one thing that bothers me, though,” said Berethor.

“And what would that be?”

“You said that twelve walked the last path. The path spilt into three more and three walked down one with one joining later, which doesn’t survive, two left and then were joined by six, with one more joining. That doesn’t equal twelve.”

“I know.”

“So that means-”

“Someone will die. But, it was just a vision, and what was showed to me doesn’t mean it is the Valor’s fate.”

Berethor nodded. He moved to kiss him, but was stopped short when Faramir stood.

“I must see to this solider,” he said. Berethor nodded. He stood and followed Faramir over to where the young man lay. The man was still sweating. Berethor grabbed his water skin and tried to give him water. Suddenly, the man’s eyes shot open. He began to thrash around in Berethor’s arms.

“Calm yourself, friend! We are only trying to help,” said Faramir as he checked on the arrow wound. The man, seeing that he was in no immediate danger, calmed and let Faramir finish. Afterwards, Faramir asked him his name.

“I am Orias,” he said.

“Where are you from?”

“I am from Calaenhad. Where are the others?”

Faramir and Berethor looked at each other. “What do you mean?”

“The others in the party? Were we the only survivors?”

Again, the men stared at each other. Then realization hit them. The small clearing that they had come across, the dead soldiers and orcs… Everything fit into place.

“We were not in your party, Orias,” said Berethor. “Do you remember anything from the past few days?”

Orias thought for a moment. “I can only remember the battle. Before that and after are mostly a blur.”

“What happened?”

“We were patrolling the woods. There has been much orc activity as of late, and we were sent to wipe out their numbers. We found many tracks, dead carcasses and such, but no sign of them.” He shook hard, and Faramir guessed it was the poison reacting to his system. He wanted to get as much information from his as he could, but also wanted the man to stay calm.

“Our commander called us to halt. We had been marching all morning. It was over before it actually began. Arrows were flying from no where, striking most of the men. Then, they rushed upon us. We had no chance to defend ourselves, and if it had not been for the second party that started off with us, then we would not have been able to mount a defense.

“It looked as though we would surely win, but then, more arrows flew from the trees. The soldiers that were at our aid were struck down. I managed to escape when the commander called for us to retreat. It was shortly afterwards that I realized I had been struck by an arrow.”

“I removed it. I am Faramir. This is Berethor.”

“Lord Faramir? Captain of the Ithillen Rangers?”

“Yes.”

The man’s face lit up. “You are known by all in these parts. Your brother as well.”

Faramir smiled, gently. “Thank you, my friend. You should rest now.” The man nodded. As he drifted off to sleep, Faramir and Berethor talked amongst themselves. It was decided that Berethor would stay awake for a short time, and then wake Faramir to stand watch while he slept.

The next morning, Berethor awoke to find Faramir covering the body of Orias with dirt.

“He is finally at peace,” said Faramir without turning around. “He died sometime in the night.” Berethor nodded. He approached slowly until he was standing behind Faramir. He reached out and wrapped his arms around his waist. After a moment, Faramir’s hands covered his own.

“I want you to know that I am always here, my love,” he whispered in his ear. “No matter what happens, I am always at your side.”

Faramir turned around in his arms and nodded. They kissed briefly, and then set about the task of righting the campgrounds. After there were no visible traces of their presence, they mounted their horses and headed to towards the Great West Road.

Upon reaching The Great West Road, they discovered it was impassable due to rockslides. Instead, they continued north to the Great River and headed east until they reached the Entwash. They followed it until they reached the Snowbourn River, which went straight to Edoras. It added an additional three days to their trek, during which they had very little sleep.

“I’m curious. Why did it take them six days to reach the Gap of Rohan?” he asked.

“I never said that they were at the Gap of Rohan. Edoras is a six to eight day ride from Minas Tirith, so there’s a difference. Now STOP INTRUPTING!”

“Sorry.”

“S’ok.”

Éomer came out to greet them as they mounted the stairs to the King’s Court.

“My friends! What are you doing here?”

Berethor smiled at the horse lord.

“We are headed to Rivendell in search of Boromir.”

“It is true, then? I had heard rumors that he had gone there. He stopped here as well.”

Faramir’s eyes lit up.

“When? Was he well? How long ago?”

Éomer laughed, which was a rare sight in these troubled times. When they were children, Faramir, Boromir, Éomer, and Berethor used to play together when Denethor would come for meetings with King Théoden. Faramir would often ask questions – so many in fact that everyone would plead for his silence. He would pout and try to scowl – which made Éomer howl with laughter – which made him scowl even more.

Éomer’s laughs were often forced and dry, but when Faramir was around, Éomer would remember that look and it always produced the same results.

“Still full of questions, I see. Come. Let us eat and drink. I shall provide the answers you seek.”

They walked into the main hall. The soldiers stood at attention near pillars that supported the roof. The hall had looked the way that it did the very first time Berethor walked through the doors. The wooden pillars and floors were sanded and polished, and there was a faint smell of leather. However, something felt different, felt wrong. King Théoden sat on his throne, with Ewoyn standing at his side. Upon seeing them, King Théoden stood and welcomed them.

“Berethor! Faramir! Welcome!” cried King Théoden. Berethor and Faramir bowed. Ewoyn came down to greet them with hugs. When she hugged Faramir, he blushed. She smiled at him when noticing this, which caused him to blush even more.

“It has been so long, Faramir! How have you been?”

“I… I’ve been fine, Éowyn.”

“And you, Berethor?”

“I have been well, also.”

Éomer watched the exchange of words and decided to interrupt.

“Come, now! Let us go and feast! You will be our guests and sit with us at the head table.”

As they walked to the dining hall, it was then that Berethor saw what had felt wrong. A man with pale skin, greasy, black hair and eyes followed them. As they sat at the table, the man stood left of King Théoden. He saw Berethor looking at him and after locking eyes with him, turned his attentions back to King Théoden. Éomer saw this and whispered,

“I see that you have noticed the worm.”

“The worm?”

“Yes,” he said. “Gríma Wormtongue. He has been an advisor to Théoden for many years. Since we were children. I never recalled seeing him, but King Théoden insisted his presence was not known to all. “

“Where did he come from? I never recalled seeing him either.”

“It has been said that he may be a spy from Isengard, sent by Saruman. I think that there is something more sinister at work here, and I am glad that you reaffirmed my earlier thoughts. I was beginning to think I was going crazy.”

Éomer was about to say something else, but Berethor nodded in the direction of where Gríma stood. He was staring at Ewoyn and Faramir, who seemed deep in conversation. Berethor felt the desire to strangle him, just because.

“We will continue this later,” said Éomer. “There is also something else that I would like to discuss with you.”

“And what would that be?”

Éomer took a quick look around and said, “Boromir.”

Berethor looked at him. There was no look of real worry, but there was something else, but what it was, Berethor wasn’t sure of. He nodded.

“Brother dear, a word?” Both Éomer and Berethor looked to where the voice came from.

“Yes,” they both replied. Éowyn laughed.

“Not you, Berethor. Éomer?” she said, offering her arm to him. He took it, and walked out of earshot of Berethor. When he returned, he whispered to Berethor.

“Éowyn wants to have a word with us on the morrow. Faramir is to join us as well.” Berethor looked slightly puzzled, but realized that now was not the time for questions.

Éomer continued his earlier conversation. “You shall come to my quarters after Faramir is settled in your room.”

Berethor, who was busy looking at Faramir, Ewoyn and Gríma, almost missed the comment. He whipped his head around to see a smiling Éomer.

“How did you know?”

“‘Tis easy for me to see such things now. There are no worries, friend. It is an acceptable act here.”

Berethor smiled in relief. He had never known that things were so… open here. Only when he thought about it specifically did he notice that most of King Théoden’s court was ‘comfortable’ in that fashion. It was a welcome sight to Berethor’s eyes.

“Hmm… maybe Faramir and I should move here,” he said, mostly to himself.

“That would be acceptable to us, Berethor, but I am quite sure that Denethor and Boromir may have some objections to that idea.”

“Perhaps Boromir would, but I doubt Denethor would care one way or the other. It would give him just the excuse he needs to disown Faramir completely,” he said. “And actually, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Hmm, do I hear bells ringing?” asked David.

“Christmas Bells?”

“No, smart arse! Wedding bells!”

“For who? Us?”

“Maybe. In the future. But I was referring to Ewoyn and Faramir.”

I paused. The words replayed themselves over in my mind. ‘Maybe. In the future.’ I had no idea that he had even given that any thought. Sure, it had crossed mine, but, maybe? I decided to ponder over that and engage in answering the question on the table.

“Um, you do realize that this is a slash fic, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. I was just hoping that the entire story was not going to be completely AU, or all slash.”

“Well, it is partial AU, partial canon. And also, there may be some het here. Excuse me while I gag. That word will never roll off my tongue again.”

He smiled at me. “You know, this is starting to get good,” said David. “I have one more question, for now.”

“What?”

“Why do you keep implying that there is a relationship between Faramir and Berethor? You have not once used the word ‘gay’ yet.”

“Well, I figured that what men did together back then wasn’t referred to by that name, and same-sex relationships were only implied to begin with.”

“Ok. That works, but you have to acknowledge the fact that these relationships are what they are, love.”

“I know, I know.”

“I know you do, but I wanted to tell you before some other idiot says it in a nasty way, and I have to kick his arse.”

The feasting went on for hours. There was enough food to feed all of Edoras and Osgiliath. The drinking went on longer than the feasting, and it was well after dark when Éomer showed Faramir and Berethor to their room. Faramir was quite puzzled by the arrangements, but Berethor explained the whole situation to him. It made no difference, since Faramir was hammered. They went in the room and Faramir immediately collapsed on the large bed.

After tussling to remove his boots, tunic and breeches, Berethor put his Faramir to bed. It would be strange to have him there, as they rarely had time alone. He kissed his forehead, and in his sleep, Faramir smiled, as if he knew whom the kiss was from. Éomer had waited outside, and was smiling when Berethor exited the room.

“I trust that you will be comfortable tonight?” he asked as they walked toward his quarters.

“Yes, I think so. I think I will just find it a bit odd.”

“Sharing a bed with the one you love?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. We have lain together, but have never shared a night.”

“Well, that shall change tonight, my friend,” said Éomer. “You shall take advantage of this, as there shall not be many chances for a spare moment such as the one you have now.”

Berethor nodded.

“Do not worry. I shall not keep you long. Please, come inside.”

Berethor walked into Éomer’s room. There was a fire going in the fireplace, and on the mantle were several helms arranged from smallest to largest.

‘From child to adulthood,’ Berethor thought.

Each had the hair of a horse’s tail attached to the top, and as each helm grew in size, the hair attached also grew longer. Berethor turned and surveyed the rest of the room. The large room had many trinkets of war – swords that Éomer had grown out of adorned his walls, spears from the enemy were in one corner while in another was a shield bearing the Crest of Rohan on the front.

There were other things there to see, but one particular object that caught Berethor’s eye. There was a lock of hair that was braided and banded with a thin strip of black leather. Upon closer inspection, Berethor saw that the color was much like Faramir’s…

“Drink?”

Berethor looked up. Éomer was pouring himself some wine. Berethor nodded in approval. After pouring the wine in goblets, Éomer joined Berethor near wear the braid resting.

“When did you cut your hair?” he asked.

“It’s not mine,” Éomer replied after taking a slow draft from the goblet.

“You shall find out about that conquest later,” he said. “How are thing between you and Faramir?”

“Fine, I guess. We really don’t get to see each other very often, due to his father’s requests for his constant removal from the castle.”

“So that doesn’t leave time out for ‘other things’, I take it?”

“There’s never time for other things, brother.”

Éomer smiled.

“You have not called me that in many years, brother. I miss hearing it.”

“Ok, ok… hold it!”

“What now, love?”

“Are you saying that Berethor and Éomer are brothers? That’s impossible!”

“No I’m not saying that!”

“So what the Hell is up with all the ‘brother, I missed you’ shite?”

I sighed. “Berethor was an only child. For the longest time, he only had Faramir and Boromir to play with. Then, on a trip with Denethor, he met Éomer. Boromir and Faramir already knew him. They became very fast friends and they bonded. Not to mention I did briefly mention this a short while ago.”

“Oh. So, you mean like in a ‘best-friend’ brother sort of way?”

“Yep. Now will you read and be quiet?”

“No, not yet. So why did Denethor decide to take Berethor with him and his sons to a meeting? Especially since he hates poor, cute, little Faramir so much?”

A question that caught me completely off guard.

“And what about the history between these two? I mean, I’m quite sure that Faramir didn’t look out his window one day, see Berethor walking along the streets and decide ‘Hey, I know! I’ll make that bloke fall in love with me by shagging him senseless!’”

“There is a bit of history about them, in the beginning of the story –”

“But that may not be enough. I know! How about a flashback of the night Berethor told Faramir of his feelings, eh?”

I love the man, but I hate when he does this. I hate when he tries to rewrite my stories. That’s why I have Haleth, my trusty beta and collaborator.

“And what of his mother?”

“She took care of Berethor up until the age of twelve, when she decided to run off with a retired soldier. The note she left stated that she couldn’t deal with Brenethor in the fields fighting, while she took care of their son. They came home one day, and only her note remained. Now, will you stop interrupting?”

“Yes, love.”

“Thank you.”

“It is not my fault that you have not been around much. Mind you, I could have used your advice a few years ago.”

“About?”

“Telling Faramir about how I felt.”

“It looks like you’ve done a good job of that on your own.”

Berethor smiled at that.

“I guess I did. So, what of Boromir?”

It was Éomer’s turn to smile. “Have you not figured it out?”

“Figured out what?”

“Berethor, to whom do you think that braid belongs?”

Berethor thought for a moment. He looked at the braid again, much closer than his first inspection.

“Boromir,” he concluded.

Éomer nodded.

“So, what did you do?”

“It is a promise from him to me.”

“A promise?”

“Yes. He promised that he would return to me once his journey was over.”

“He promised?”

“Yes.”

Berethor was shocked to say the least.

“I do not understand, brother. What is the reason for this promise? Did you two start a mock fight that you wish to continue?”

Éomer laughed.

“Dear brother! Do you think that you are the only one that can be in love? He gave me a lock of his hair as a symbol of dedication – and if you had looked, you would notice that a lock of my own hair is missing as well.”

Berethor looked closely, and on the left side, near the hairline, there was a space where a lock of blonde hair missing. He smiled at Éomer, who blushed slightly.

“I am happy for you. But, how does Théoden feel about this arrangement? I mean, Boromir is a man of Gondor.”

“My uncle does not care who I choose, though I will admit it did disappoint many other suitors.”

“Like who?”

“Like you!”

Berethor laughed. “If I were not with Faramir, than maybe… although you would have to cut your beard. I’m dreadfully ticklish, you know.” Berethor batted his eyelashes for effect.

“I honestly thought that Faramir was more… your type.”

“He is actually. But, for the past few years, he has been ‘My Brother’s Love’,” Éomer said.

“So you are saying that if he and I had not… connected, then you would have pursued?”

“In one word: Yes.”

“But that was four. Have you forgotten how to count, you tit?” Berethor was on the verge of laughing. He knew that Éomer would fall into his word trap. He could never refuse a good banter session.

“Have you forgotten how to suck cock, you pimple on the backside of an old orc whore?”

“Have you?”

They looked at each other, trying hard not to fall to pieces before shouting out in unison “NO!”

Éomer shook his head in laughter.

“So, how long?”

“How long, what?”

“How long have you two been committed?”

Éomer paused. Should he say?

“Since his last journey here. About two months ago.”

Berethor raised an eyebrow. There were only two people that he knew better than himself. One was sleeping in his bed, and he was currently staring at the other. Éomer sighed and continued.

“Although it has been an on-going thing between us for some time. Six years, in fact.”

“Six years?!”

Éomer nodded.

Berethor drained the wine in his goblet. This was too a little too much for him to take right now. Éomer laughed.

“Care for another?”

“Yes, I think one more would just about do it.”

They drank all the wine in the pitcher. By the time it was empty, they were laughing about any and everything.

“Do you remember the first time we drank? You were so sick, and when your father asked us why you kept throwing up, Faramir told him you may be pregnant!” Berethor said in a roar of laughter.

“Yes, I remember! Raised a lot of questions that did. Especially from Háma! But I also remember you didn’t fare so well when your father found out. I recall he made you drink two pitchers of honey mead, and you passed out!”

“I was so dizzy! You know, I couldn’t see straight for a week!”

“Do you remember the drinking contest between Boromir and Háma?”

The memory of it caused them both to fall over with laughter. Berethor had tears streaming down his eyes.

“The sight of Boromir in the maid’s dress! Though I will admit, the colour did suit him!”

The laughing soon turned to crying, as the friends broached more serious topics.

“Faramir’s horse died two years ago. He is still upset by it.”

“I can understand. I cried for almost two weeks after Bringard passed.”

“I have not lost a horse, but I have lost both parents. I still think about them.”

“You still have not found your mother?” asked Éomer.

“No. I have searched, though. I wanted to find her when my father died so I could tell her, but it is as though she disappeared.”

Éomer looked at Berethor and saw him struggling to keep his tears hidden. He scooted closer to Berethor and put his arm around him.

“Come now. It shall be fine,” said Éomer, his own voice thick with emotion. They sat for a time in silence, and soon, both found themselves drifting off to sleep. Éomer helped Berethor back to his room. Outside the door, they stopped.

“I will be fine here,” Berethor said.

“Do not be silly! I shall help you inside.”

“You do not need to, Éomer.”

But his protests fell on deaf ears, and before he could provide any physical protest, Éomer had escorted him inside, and was undressing him. Berethor tried to push him out, and ordinarily he would have, but under the influence of honey mead and wine, his strength failed him, and he gave in.

Éomer made short work of Berethor’s breeches, boots and tunic, and helped in into bed. Once he realized where he was, Berethor snuggled up next to his Faramir, who in turn, snuggled closer to him as well. In a matter of moments, Berethor was asleep. Éomer couldn’t help but to smile. It made a lovely view.

However, the effort of tussling with Berethor made Éomer hot, not to mention the tiredness that had settled in. He sat on the side of the bed, just to rest a moment. As he watched the two lovers sleep, he leaned back against the footboard of the bed. His mind began to drift, wondering if they were dreaming the same things, how would this journey impact their relationship, would they be safe, if they would even make it back alive?

Before long, Éomer was sleeping too, at the foot of the bed. His thoughts could wait until morning, which was not very far off. None of those things mattered much right then; they would be safe until it came time to part ways.

The next morning, Berethor awoke warm and sated. His mouth was dry and his head slightly pounded, and there was a comfortable weight on his chest. After focusing his eyes, he looked down and saw a mass of blonde hair.

“Faramir,” he breathed.

The weight shifted slightly, and two arms snaked around his waist, as if the sleeping body next to him thought he might leave him at any moment. There was also something else: along his right side was a warmth that did not come from blankets alone. A warm breeze graced the side of his neck. Upon further inspection, an arm was draped across both he and Faramir, and he then felt the roughness of a beard against his shoulder. He turned his head to the right.

Éomer was there. Sometime in the night, he had moved from his sitting – sleeping position at the foot of the bed and had got under the blankets. Berethor shook his head and smiled.

‘I told him that his beard was ticklish!’ He sighed contently, imagining the wonderful picture they must make.

‘It does get rather cold here at night,’ Berethor thought, pulling the blankets around them all. With that, he closed his eyes and drifted back off to sleep, hoping that when he awoke, his headache would have disappeared.

“Awwww! That’s so cute!” said David.

“You just have to make a fuss about everything, don’t you?”

“It’s not a fuss, love. I just think it’s cute how they all fell asleep in the bed.”

“I thought so, too.”

Hours later, or so it seemed, Berethor re-awoke. It wasn’t his body telling him to wake up, but the sounds in his ear. The sounds he heard were soft cries, much like a child in distress, but far too upset to completely break down. He looked to his right. Éomer was still there, snoring like there was no tomorrow, still holding him and Faramir. He turned his head to the left, and found the source of the noise.

It was Faramir, but not quite him. His face was not peaceful as it was last night. In fact, it now held a look of absolute pain and terror. Berethor smoothed Faramir’s hair out of his face, which caused his love to shudder violently. The more he tried to soothe his love back into the conscious world, the worse the shudders and the crying got. At once, Berethor realized he had no other choice – he shook Faramir hard.

The results were immediate. Faramir’s eye’s opened wide with shock. He took a look around and began to try to escape the arms that at that point he did not recognize.

“Faramir! Stop it!”

But Faramir, whose dream was still holding him hostage, wouldn’t hear of it, and began to struggle. Berethor was puzzled, to say the least, when a fist connected with his jaw. It dazed him, which caused his grip on Faramir to loosen. Taking the opportunity, Faramir jumped out of the bed, and began to rush to the door. He thought he was free, but what he hadn’t counted on was Éomer.

The shouts didn’t wake Éomer; on the contrary, it was the bed shaking due to Faramir’s struggling. He had awoken just in time to see Faramir strike Berethor. Although he Éomer had no real clue for the reason behind the punch, he also knew that Faramir would never strike anyone unprovoked, and that Berethor loved Faramir entirely too much to provoke him into an attack. He jumped out of the bed just as Faramir did, barring his escape from the room. Berethor, seeing this, jumped up and grabbed Faramir from behind, dragging the young man to the floor.

“Let me be!” he shouted. “Free me at once! You have no right to hold me here!”

“Faramir! It is me, Berethor!”

The struggling mass in his arms ceased almost at once.

“Berethor?” he asked slowly, as if it was the first time he had heard the name.

“Yes, love. Your Berethor, remember? Just as you are my Faramir.”

Faramir struggled in his arms again, but not to escape. He turned around, eyeing Berethor with amazement. The look in his eyes suggested it was almost like it was the first time they’d seen each other, or at least the very first time for Faramir.

“Berethor?” he said again, this time more sure of the face he was looking upon. Berethor nodded, a small smile present. And that’s when it hit him. He saw the red ring around Berethor’s eye. That would surely darken by the end of the day.

“What happened to me?” he asked in a small whisper.

Berethor sighed gently. “I know not, my love.”

Faramir touched the reddening flesh around his eye. “Was it my hand that caused this?”

“Do not worry yourself over that.”

“Why should I not? I could never forgive myself if I caused you pain or grief in any way.”

Berethor pulled Faramir close to him and kissed him softly. “There is nothing to forgive, love. You are safe and that is all that matters.”

He kissed Faramir again. Faramir, in turn deepened the kiss.

Éomer cleared his throat. Berethor and Faramir whipped their heads around to look upon the handsome horse lord. They had forgotten that he was there. He was panting slightly and his eyes had a slightly glazed look in them. It was like he was looking upon the most heavenly thing on Middle Earth, or he had been placed in a trance.

The sight his eyes rested on was a heavenly sight indeed. A naked Faramir from behind looks a lot like his naked brother.

Éomer started walking slowly towards them, and it was Berethor who spotted the problem. A large, hard problem. Éomer was naked… and aroused. He looked down at himself, and then finally to Faramir and noted that they too, were naked. By the time the notion of what was going through dear Éomer’s head, he had reached them. He dropped to his knees besides Faramir, and without so much as a word, he placed a kiss to his lips that caused Faramir to shiver.

Berethor’s first instinct was to stop him. He felt the urge to punch Éomer hard – in the face – but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The sight of his love being kissed by Éomer, with his head tilted back slightly and his back arched… Faramir was, as always, beautiful. Éomer was beautiful as well. The realization of his attraction to Éomer slammed into him abruptly.

He further realized that he’d always felt it but never acknowledged it. He wasn’t sure what Faramir would think, but he was sure Faramir would understand, since he was moaning into Éomer’s mouth.

Berethor reached out with both hands, unable to decide which man he wanted to touch more…

“You’re making my character out to be a slut!” said David.

“How? Come on, like you don’t think that Éomer is hot!!” I said.

“I never said that he wasn’t!! All I said was that you’re turning Faramir into a slut!”

“So what do you think that Berethor is going to do, just sit back and watch?”

“You’re… you’re setting them up for a threesome?!”

“Umm… yeah! What’s hotter than being sandwiched between you and Éomer? Well besides being sandwiched between you and Boromir… or Aragorn… or Captain Jack Sparrow…”

“But Jack Sparrow was never a character in LOTR… And… you… you’re a freak!”

“And you love it, too!”

He was silent for a moment.

“Guilty as charged”, he said.

The kiss between Faramir and Éomer deepened, both moaning at the simple contact that was shared between them. Berethor moved behind Faramir and pulled Éomer closer to him, watching their interaction intently. He started kissing Faramir’s left ear, and began a slow decent down to his neck. Éomer, in turn, broke his kiss and began a rough assault on his nipples. Faramir moaned loudly at the sudden attention.

“Do you like that, love?” Berethor whispered in his ear. Faramir nodded. Éomer, in the meantime, began to set his sights lower. His hands were already on Faramir’s cock, massaging the foreskin that covered his head. A taste was in order, and in one fell swoop he had inhaled Faramir’s entire length in his mouth. The moan that erupted for Faramir gave Berethor one thought: ‘I guess he hasn’t forgotten how to suck cock!’

As Éomer’s oral assault became more intense, so did the harshness of being on a hard, wooden floor.

“Perhaps we would find more comfort on the bed,” panted Faramir. The other two men agreed, and extracted themselves from the floor.

Berethor reached the bed first. He sat on the edge, watching Faramir and Éomer kiss each other once again. The kiss was passionate, in-depth, and thorough. He suddenly felt out of place, like he was watching a very intimate moment between two lovers. He even felt inadequate. True, he was a solider. True, he was the captain of three units in Minas Tirith. He even had his own house and a small fortune. But, he was no Éomer.

His nose was crooked after being broken twice, his hair was not as shiny, and at times he was downright cranky. But he loved Faramir with all his heart, with everything he possessed. His thoughts were cut short when the men joined him on the bed.

“I told you that thoughts were best left to those not engaging in fantasies of the body”, said Faramir, smiling gently. Berethor smiled back at him and said nothing. Éomer placed himself between them, and began to let his hand explore the two bodies on either side of him.

There was a knock at the door. Faramir and Berethor looked at each other, and then turned to look at Éomer. The knocking increased.

“Éomer?” said a familiar voice. “Are you in there?”

Éomer became immediately annoyed. How dare he come and interrupt his ‘morning actives’?

“What is it, Háma?”

“I was sent to… extract you. Lady Éowyn said that you may have forgotten.” Éomer retrieved his breeches and yanked the door open.

“You can tell her…”

“Tell me what?” Éomer whipped his head to the left. There was Ewoyn. The irritation flowed off her in waves.

Éomer cleared his throat. His temper was legendary in Rohan, but not even his temper matched the radiant beauty standing before him. He was now at a lost for words, as he knew that he could never win a battle of the tongues with her.

“I sent Háma to remind you of the appointment that you promised you’d attend. I decided that I’d come as well, to spare Háma from your early morning temper.”

Éomer looked at Háma. It was true that he had been less than polite to him on several occasions; usually the mornings were the worst. Éomer respected his friend, but respect went out the window when he was disturbed from sleep, or any early morning actitives.

“I suggest that you come with me. I have other things that I need to see to and do not have all day to devote to this matter.” She said as she turned on her heels and started down the hall. Háma and Éomer stood still, staring at her before her voice floated back over her shoulder.

“NOW!”

The words were not lost on Berethor and Faramir, who were still sitting on the bed, now in various states of dress. Donning breeches themselves, they headed out the door and down the hall, following Éomer and Háma.

For once, David had not spoken. He did not know what to say, I guess. I kissed his cheek and turned my attentions back to the book when I heard:

“At least they locked the door.”

I did not respond, did not ask him what he thought of the last section. The fact that he was rock hard and was throbbing against my back was proof enough. Thank you Haleth!

The walk to Éowyn’s quarters ended with sore, cold feet, not to mention sore balls due to lack of release. Éowyn noticed the limps and slight groans from the three men, but chose not to address it.

“If you were properly dressed, then you would not have cold and sore feet,” she said as she watched Faramir rubbing his toes. Éomer snatched a piece of toast from her breakfast tray.

“So what is this about?” he asked, barely keeping his temper in check.

“It is about Théoden. Surely you have noticed his health has declined as of late?” she asked.

Éomer nodded.

“I have noticed. I have even asked him if he wished for the doctors to come, but he will not hear of it. He thinks that he has grown stronger, while he looks like…”

“He is dying,” finished Faramir. Éomer nodded. He did not like discussing the King’s condition because it caused him to change his mood and feelings, and he could not control them. He would rather be angry than cry.

“What do you think is the cause of Théoden’ health?” asked Berethor?

“Only one person comes to mind: Gríma Wormtongue. My uncle was not ill in any fashion until he came along. How could this snake have been here since my childhood and we not remember him? It is as if he has cast a spell on all of the inner court.”

“All of those that who do not wish to see the truth,” said Berethor. “We four know the truth. We know that he was not here in our childhood-”

“You mean we five,” corrected Háma. “I was here before any of you and have never seen this man before.”

“I stand corrected, Háma,” said Berethor, smiling.

“It is agreed that this Wormtongue has been causing the King’s illness, yes?” asked Faramir. Everyone nodded. “So, where is the proof? And how do we prove this to the King if he is under some sort of spell or potion? It would mean treason for us.”

All were silent at these words.

“Someone has to search his rooms,” said Háma. “The proof would be there. We just have to find it.”

“No!” said Éomer. “I will not have any of you risk danger – of any kind.” On his last words, he found himself looking directly into Faramir’s eyes. Faramir did not break eye contact, but instead, blushed slightly.

“Éomer, danger is here for us whether we take action and try to help your King, or if we wait for it,” said Faramir, finally breaking eye contact. “I personally would prefer to die knowing I tried to help, than die doing nothing. The orcs shall come soon. They will attack from the Doors of Mordor, trampling the City of Minas Tirith.”

“And you have said that you have slain many bearing the White Hand of Saruman,” said Éowyn.

“So they attack from both fronts. If Rohan has no King to lead your men into battle, then all is lost. Minas Tirith cannot withstand an attack on that scale,” finished Faramir.

“We will not leave you to your own devices,” said Berethor. “We will help you in any way we can.”

Éomer said nothing, but nodded his head. He knew that there was no other choice; he had no one else to turn to.

Faramir quickly devised a plan that called for two of them to distract Gríma, while the other two search his quarters. Háma would ensure that they would know when time was up.

“He was staring at Éowyn and I as if he couldn’t make up his mind on who to molest first. So we will distract him, while you and Éomer search his rooms,” said Faramir.

“I think that you and Éomer should go,” said Berethor. “You are needed there more than in the decoy mission. Éomer could handle anything military, but you have much more experience in books, herbs, and medicines. Éowyn and I shall act as decoys.”

It was agreed upon. The mission would take place this afternoon. As Faramir and Berethor walked back to their quarters, Faramir couldn’t help but think about all that had happened over the last few days. He couldn’t help but wonder why Éomer stared at him. What was that about?

“Well, what did you think?” I asked him. The throbbing hardness was still present in my back, so turned on was what I assumed to be his answer.

“I see that the action is starting to heat up. This is what I was waiting for! So, is Gríma going to die?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

“You know I hate surprises.” I turned around in his arms to see his smile. It never failed to warm my heart.

“Well, you’ll like this surprise,” I said before bestowing a kiss to his lips.

“I hope so… for your sake!”

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