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.”

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!”

Chapter 3.1: Gríma Wormtongue

That afternoon, Berethor and Éowyn made their way to the Great Hall. It was dark inside, despite the fact that the sun was shining out in full force. The Hall was empty with the exception of the handful of soldiers watching the entrance way, and the two stationed near the throne.

Gríma stood near Théoden King, staring at the two who approached him. He smiled upon seeing that Éowyn was smiling at him. She had rarely shown any sort of emotion towards him, not even hatred or disgust. Once in a while, he could have sworn that her eyes reflected pity towards him…

“Gríma”, said Éowyn, bowing slightly. Though she would have never addressed him before, today was different. Today she had a mission.

“Lady Éowyn,” he said, bowing as well. “How fare you?”

“I am well,” she said truthfully. “I have come because I would like to talk.”

Gríma smiled slightly. What was her game? Her wanting to talk? He decided to play along. It would be the only way to find out her ulterior motive. “And you needed a Gondorian Solider to help you?”

Éowyn chuckled lightly. In truth, she was glad that Berethor was there with her. Just looking at Gríma made her feel… dirty. “No. I have brought you Captain Berethor, son of Brenethor.” Berethor bowed, slightly as well. No need to overdo things.

“I did not have the pleasure of introducing you to him last night. He and Captain Faramir, son of Lord Denethor have a long journey ahead of them, and have stopped to rest in our fair city,” said Éowyn. He nodded. “Now, shall we sit over here and talk?”

Gríma looked over to the benches set up by the wall, away from prying ears. He slowly nodded, and followed them over, and sat, back against the wall.

“You know, I realized today, when Berethor asked me about you, that I knew nothing about you – other than the fact that you have been the advisor to our Beloved King for many years. I feel bad about never taking the time out before now. Can you forgive me?”

Gríma was shocked – inwardly. Over the years, he had learned never to show emotion. It showed what your weaknesses were. He swallowed hard.

“There is nothing to forgive, Lady. Times have been trying for us all, and I cannot blame you for things past.”

‘He speaks very well taught, for someone that looks so under–privileged,’ thought Berethor.

“You are very well spoken, friend. I take it you are from a family of high nobility,” said Berethor. He could feel himself getting sick after having to give such high praise to someone so undeserving of it. Gríma eyed him suspiciously.

“I often thought you may have been from a family of scholars. I have heard you speak many times, and the way you captivate you audience… it speaks of a scholar,” agreed Éowyn. ‘I hope he is buying this load of horse manure we are selling,’ she thought.

“Please, you flatter me unnecessarily. I have no higher learning. What ever it is that you are here to ask of me, I will try to grant. But do not flatter me, my Lady,” Gríma said, much more gently than he would have liked.

“There is no favor that we ask. We are here simply to talk and learn each other better. Is there something wrong with that?” she implored. “I have nothing to gain by this, other than your trust. Have you anything to lose?”

Gríma sighed. Maybe he was overacting for nothing. Lady Éowyn seemed genuinely interested in him. He looked at Berethor. He too, looked genuine. ‘If only I had Master’s ability to read the mind of this one.’ He briefly studied Berethor’s features, his posture and poise. There was no hidden agenda there above the surface, but beneath…

“No, I do not,” he said, smiling. “But this works two ways, you know.”

Éowyn and Berethor both smiled, agreeing to this admission. Things may be easier than they thought…

Faramir and Éomer had searched Gríma’s rooms from top to bottom. Éomer even searched hidden spaces that he though that Gríma may have found during his stay. They found nothing but a small crate of books. They sat down to read, hoping that one may mention what was happening to the King. What they found, even Éomer, with his usual nerves of steel, could not believe.

“These are journals,” whispered Éomer. Faramir nodded. “Where do you think the first entry starts?”

“I believe I have it,” answered Faramir. Éomer crossed the room and peered over his shoulder.

‘My last memory of my father was his funeral. My mother finally found a reason not to go out ‘working’ as she called it, and dressed myself and my brother. We walked to the hillside where my father’s father and his father before had been laid to rest. The hills were silent that day, no wind, no birds singing, nothing. It was as if time itself had stood still.

‘I found the tears falling down my face, not wanting to accept the reality of the situation. My father had fought his last war. There would be no more waiting at the gates, watching for his return. No more running to his horse. No more of his embraces, no more of him…

‘I found out that day that life was cruel, life had no sense of love or feelings… It had no emotions, or thoughts. It was simply what it is – life. There I was, seven and alone. I had to be what father I could to my brother. I would make my father proud, wherever he was. I would make him proud…

~Gríma

They were silent after reading such a sorrowful entry. The raw emotions behind the words were enough to soften the hardest heart.

“He lost his father,” said Éomer. “It happens in time of war. That is not what we are here for. Keep reading.”

Faramir looked at Éomer, but said nothing. He flipped to the next page, determined to find out more about Gríma’s past.

“So, your father was Gondorian,” said Berethor. “I though so. One Gondorian can spot another miles away. It is because we all share the determined chin.”

“And you must not forget the arrogant attitude,” laughed Éowyn. Even Gríma had to laugh at that.

“So, how old are you,” she said.

Gríma looked at her. “I am twenty-seven. Twenty-eight in less than thirty days.”

“Ahh. So I am the elder. Faramir and I are both thirty. Born a few days apart, actually.”

‘I cannot believe that I am enjoying this!’ Gríma thought. He had never had a conversation like this since his younger days.

“His mother was found dead when he was nine,” said Faramir, sadly. Éomer turned to look at him.

“It says that she was found murdered by one of her… customers.” Éomer’s eyes widened.

“His mother was a whore?”

“According to this, she was. The man that murdered her was hung days later. He didn’t even get to go to her funeral, nor did his brother.” Faramir paused before continuing. “His brother’s name was Rinan. They were sent to an orphanage.”

“So, is this ‘Get to Know Gríma’? Ok, so a few bad things happened to him. Are you saying we should pity him?” asked David.

“No. I am taking advantage of the fact that Tolkien never gave Gríma a background. So, I decided that he would get one in my story.”

“But, why so sad? Why so much pain? I mean, making his mother a whore?”

“Well, I doubt that they had lawyers and women doctors in those days. And a serving wench, from what I’ve picked up was also a whore in most instances.”

“Hmm, good point.” He kissed my ear. “I love you.”

“And I love you,” I replied.

“Is there anything else about him?” asked Éomer. It became clear to him that Faramir needed a reason understand why Gríma was the way he is now.

“There’s a lot more. At eleven, his brother was adopted by a rich Gondorian family. Gríma was shunned because of his age.”

“Or maybe the families just thought he was no good – a dud,” Grímaced Éomer. Faramir looked at him and then continued.

“At twelve, he was molested by the head mistress at the orphanage, and then beaten because she thought he was too eager. He had a lot of anger built up by then.” Faramir continued reading, and his eyes grew bigger at the next major entry. He got Éomer’s attention.

“Listen to this:

‘I was used to being picked on. Being thin, having no friends, and being bullied is apart of life. But what I did not understand was why did Brant like me? He was the one that started the other kid bulling me, picking on me… I guess I should start with what I remember.

‘A family had come in, looking for a child to adopt. We were called down the stairs and made to line up – a day to day occurrence. I found no reason to head down with the rest of them, as I had been passed over time and time again for a child younger, or stronger than myself. I stayed in my rooms, ignoring the visitor’s bell. I would rather spend my time reading, anyway.

‘After the couple left, the head mistress found me on my bed. I was hauled down to the ‘Room of Punishment’. I assumed the position, arms wrapped around the pole, while she beat me. The pain that the whip would normally cause, the feeling of my skin breaking under each lash, I felt it none. Instead of the pain that I normally felt, I felt a strange sense of peace. I felt as though someone was watching over me, blocking the pain from my senses.

‘She beat me longer than ever before. My back and legs were covered with welts and blood. She beat me raw. After she was done and left the room, I fell. There was no pain – only emptiness remained. The tears that I up to then refused to shed fell as well, and I found myself crying uncontrollably. Would no one come? Would no one look for me? Did anyone care? I fell asleep on the ground, past all caring.

‘The door opened, and shut again. She was back. She felt the need to drive the point home more than usual. I tried to stand, to assume the position that had become her favorite, but found that I could not. She would kill me for not giving her respect. But I was beyond caring. Death had to be much better than this.

‘Instead of the belt, of the whip, I felt two hands on my shoulders. I felt lips on my neck. So now, she would rape me again. I was used to that, too. But, then I heard a whisper in my ear. ‘I shall take care of you, Gríma. I will protect you. I will love you.’ It was not the whisper of the head mistress. I tried to turn, to see the face that the words were flowing from. ‘Let me love you, Gríma. Can I love you?’ The lips were on my neck again, and my ears were engulfed in wet, searing heat.

‘I was prepared, gently beyond anything I had experienced. Then, I was entered. The pain from my back and my legs entered in full force, and I cried out. His ministrations stopped. ‘Am I hurting you, my love?’ I was stunned at the words. No one had ever asked that; no one had ever cared. I shook my head, not wanting him to stop. The force by which he took me was unbelievable.

‘After it was over, I was turned around and held close. ‘I will protect you, Gríma. I will love you. I promise. When he drew back, I saw his face clearly for the first time. Brant…

‘I awoke in my bed, my back and legs carefully bandaged. I looked over towards the window. A figure was staring out of it. I tried to sit up, but the pain… I forgot how much it hurt the day after. In an instant, he was by my side, fingers running through my hair. ‘My Gríma,’ he said. I could not believe it. I thought it was a dream – it had to be. I reached up and touched his face. ‘I am real, my love,’ he said. ‘I am here. I will always be here.’

‘I was thirteen when I fell in love for the first time. I fell into eyes of blue that were deeper that the deepest pools… How I miss him now…

~Gríma

They were appalled. Faramir wiped his eyes, not realizing that tears had begun to fall. Even Éomer needed a moment to collect his thoughts.

“No child deserves that kind of treatment. Not even he deserved that,” Éomer said after a moment.

“I think that there is more than this. Pass me the next journal.” Éomer did so. At that moment, he realized just how beautiful Faramir really was. How his grey eyes were much more expressive than his brother’s.

“You know,” he began, “Gríma is not the only one that has his secrets. There is something I feel I must tell you.”

For the first time in many years, Gríma felt free. He felt as though no one was judging him, looking at him funny, or hating him. In the two hours that he had been talking to Berethor and Éowyn, he had told them parts of his childhood, leaving out details no one should know.

In turn, he learned that Berethor’s father was killed by orcs when he was twenty-four, that Éowyn never got to know her parents, and Éomer was just plain cranky. He reveled in this news, not so much to use it against them, but it was a comfort to know that he was not the only one that had suffered. He realized that there was no reason not to trust them. They really seemed like they wanted to be his friends.

A feeling that he had never experienced but only once before.

He also was aware of something else: His master would be calling him soon. It would be time to give Théoden his ‘medicine’.

“Yes,” said Faramir, not looking up from the journal he was reading. Éomer took a deep breath.

“Your brother and I are lovers.” He waited for his response. Faramir nodded once. Éomer was shocked slightly. “Have you nothing to say? Did that not surprise you?”

“No,” he responded. “Why should it? I have a male lover. Why should it surprise me that my brother engages in the same?”

Éomer said nothing. The thought had never occurred to him that this news would not shock Faramir in the least. Boromir was, and had always been, more rash. He thought with his fists a lot, and so did Éomer. Suddenly, something else became clear. His attraction to Faramir was due to the fact that he balanced him out. He realized that of the two brothers, no matter how he felt of Boromir, if he had a choice, it would always be Faramir. No questions asked.

“There is something else, as well,” he continued. Faramir placed the journal down in his lap and looked up expectantly.

“We have known each other for many years,” he said, pacing the floor in front of where Faramir was seated. “In that time, I have watched you grow from a young child, asking questions one your age would not have normally thought about, to the man in front of me now. We have romped and ran together, you and I. But…”

Faramir was now listening intently. He had a feeling that may both like and dislike what was coming next.

“I have not had a chance to think about the possibilities that this brings. I… care for your brother deeply, you understand…” Faramir nodded. He knew that Éomer felt himself too manly to utter the three word that he and Berethor reveled themselves in.

“I also care for you. Maybe more than I do your brother.” He looked at Faramir, hoping that he had conveyed the meaning of those words correctly.

Faramir understood what those words implied. But what he could not understand was why. He tried to process the sentences that his ears had heard, but could come to no logical conclusion.

Seeing that this conversation was not going as intended, Éomer decided that they should get back to reading. Faramir almost didn’t hear him suggest it. He picked up his journal, but found that he could not concentrate on the words written. Instead, he found his mind pondering over all the possibilities that those words from Éomer could mean.

This would change everything.

“So, this ends this chapter, huh?”

“Yes, love”, I said. “Pretty good, huh?”

“I must admit, there are some elements to this story that I did not expect.” David paused. I could tell that he was choosing his words carefully.

“I know that sometimes I can be a bit over – critical. At times,– overbearing, but it is because I love your work, and just want to make sure that you have considered things from all angles. I don’t mean – “

I silenced him with a kiss. It didn’t matter about all the things he was saying. All that mattered was that I could count on him to tell me the truth on everything I did. All that mattered was that he supported me in my endeavors, and the rest of the world be damned.

Chapter 4.1: Home Front Battles

Things were still in a positive mood for Gríma. But of course, all good things must come to an end. As he suspected, Saruman contacted him at that moment.

‘Gríma.’

‘Yes my liege.’

‘It is time.’

‘_But my liege, I thought that –’_

‘You thought what? That since you were babbling with your ‘new found friends’ that you no longer had an obligation to me?’

Gríma paled. Éowyn and Berethor both noticed, but said nothing.

‘It makes little difference to me whether or not you’ve made friends, my Gríma. But remember I own you. You are mine until I see fit to give you release. I can cause you great pleasure… ‘

Gríma shuddered at those words. The feelings they aroused in him were unbelievable. He could feel Saruman’s ‘hands’ rubbing his legs, almost caressing him. He had not been touched in such a manner since Brant.

‘Or I can cause you great pain.’

That point did not need to be driven home with Gríma; the flashbacks of the last time Saruman had caused him pain were enough.

‘What would you have me do, my liege?’

‘Prepare the king for his lesson of the day.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

This time, it was Éomer’s turn to read an entry.

‘I was sixteen when Brant left the orphanage. It was a sad day for me. He had kept his word, protecting me from the wrath of the head mistress, even taking a beating for me at times. It was bad to be on the receiving end of one of those thrashings; it was even worse having to help and heal one that you hold near and close to you.

‘For two years he was there. For two years, he was the one that meant more to me than life. How could I survive without him? The last night he was there, we lay in bed all day, talking and laughing. He tried to keep my mind off of what tomorrow brought. A new beginning for the both of us.

‘‘I will return for you, my love’ he said. I believed him. I believed that he would come back and rescue me for from what would become a hellish prison. I believed that he was invincible – nothing could touch him. He stood up to the head mistress; stood up to the other bullies who had once taken his orders. He even stood up to the adults that came in poking fun at my thin, frail form.

‘Morning came. And away he went. He went away with promises of return. Promises that he would secure housing, a job, and a new life for us both. He never returned. It was years later that I found out that he had been kidnapped, and was possibly a prisoner of war.

~Gríma

“There is more than meets the eye, I am afraid,” said Faramir. Éomer turned around and faced him.

“What do you mean?”

“Listen to this:

I now am in the commission of a wizard that has no intentions of letting me free from his control. I made this… this commitment in hopes that my love would be returned to me. Instead of me saving him, I fear that I may have made things worse. I only wish that I had known, that I had some sign that the Valar was leading me in the direction I should be headed down.

I hate this. I hate what I have become. I have become an enemy of what my Brant stood for. If he knew all the things I have done, all the things I have said… he… I cannot think what he might do, or say. The worse thing that could happen is for him to return, only to walk back out the doors of my life and my heart forever.

I fear him knowing what I have become. I fear him hating me for what the world around me has helped creating. Little does he know, a small part of me blames him, too.

Please forgive me, my love.

~Gríma

Éomer looked over at Faramir. The entries were lost on him momentarily as he watched Faramir. He found himself wanting to grab Faramir’s head and taste the lips that he Faramir was currently wetting with his tongue. Éomer’s thoughts began to drift back to that morning. He never got a chance to find out what that pink tongue could do, and he was acutely curious about the extent of its skill.

Faramir was aware of Éomer’s staring. He wanted to ask Éomer if he wanted a real show, but his goal was at hand, and he had to remain focused on that. Thoughts of Éomer’s warm, wet mouth were of no use to him. His chest, hard and sweaty, and not to mention his rock hard…

He looked up at Éomer, who returned his gaze. There was something there, some underlining attraction. That much was clear. He was glad to know that the feeling was mutual, but was unsure how he should really feel, or even_how_ he really did feel. Éomer made it clear that his attraction to him was not just sexual. And it was clear that he cared for Boromir. But just where did those feelings for his brother stop and the feelings for him began?

“If you would excuse me for a moment,” said Gríma. He detested his mission, and had often thought of refusing Saruman’s will. He could be free to live his own destiny, free to serve no one but himself. He could break free of the chains that bound them together. But every time he thought he’d found the strength, the promise of Saruman sprang into his mind. The first evening they met had been full of drunken promises and lies run amuck, and he had been left with the memories that cemented their alliance today.

‘Good evening, my lord.

‘Quite.

‘Might I interest my lord in some mead?

‘Wine is more my suiting.

‘Yes, my lord.

Wine was provided, and the man began to question him about his background.

‘I spent most of my life in an orphanage.

‘Why?

‘My father was killed in battle.

‘And your mother?

‘I do not speak of her.

‘Do you not have a brother?

‘How do you know of him?

‘I am a wizard of many talents. You have not seen him in many years, have you?

‘No… I have not.

He recalled the quiet look on the wizard’s face. The lines of the years showed, his skin weathered from the elements. But the eyes were full of life, and seemed kind in nature. Gríma had felt some comfort in this.

‘There is something else, is there not?

‘What do you mean?

‘Come with me to my quarters, and we shall talk more there.

Gríma had been tempted by the offer, but had not been sure if it was a wise move.

‘Come with me. I will tell you what I know…

He suddenly felt more at ease, more willing to go along with what was being requested of him at the time.

‘Who are you?

‘You shall know when you meet me, friend.

‘I shall be up when my shift ends.

Gríma worked much more quickly than he ever had before in his life. He could not recall wanting to see someone so badly. He could not explain it. As soon as he was given the ok, he had rushed out of the tavern where he worked and headed to the hotel where Saruman stayed.

Upon entering the room, the wizard sat on the bed, sipping out of a goblet of wine. Gríma stared at him, not really knowing what to say.

‘I knew you would come.

‘How did you know?

‘I am a wizard and know many things. I know that a small band of orcs was just killed outside of town. I know that the manager of the bar lusts after the barmaid of the poor farmer in town. I know that Brant was here shortly before you arrived.

‘What did you just say?

‘Brant was here.

The wizard took another sip out of his goblet.

Gríma paled slightly, but recovered quickly.

‘Who is that?

‘Have you forgotten the name of your first love? The one that promised to protect you always? The one to whom you pledged your undying love?

Gríma paled again.

‘I care for him not.

‘That is not what I can see. You love him. I can see that. You feel betrayed because he never returned.

‘No… I… I don’t. I-I just do not care for him.

‘Liar.

Gríma turned and walked over to the window. He did not want the wizard to see his emotions betray him.

‘I do not care for him… or what has become of him.

‘Then it would not interest you to know that he was working at the blacksmith for several months, correct?

‘No.

‘What about knowing that he had saved money to buy a house?

‘No.

The wizard paused. Gríma could tell he was choosing his words very carefully.

‘What about knowing the reason that he did not return?

‘I told you that I care not.

‘Then his kidnapping makes no difference either, correct?

Gríma turned around.

‘Kidnapped? When? By who?

‘Ahh… seems that it is some interest to you after all. Have a glass of wine.

The wizard poured him a goblet and Gríma took it, downing it swiftly. The wizard smiled.

‘You still have not told me your name.

‘I am the white wizard, powerful and all knowing. I have many names, but am known by most as Saruman the White.

He patted the space next to him on the bed, while gesturing to the pitcher that contained the wine. Gríma sat and passed him his goblet.

‘What happened to him?

‘Brant had traveled far and wide, looking for work. He was not suited for most types of work, and took whatever odd jobs he could to survive. When work would run out in the town he stayed, he picked up and headed to the next. When he arrived here, there were very few that welcomed him, as he was not known about these parts. After days of trying to find work, a blacksmith took pity on him and offered him an apprenticeship in his shop.

‘Brant learned very quickly, making sure the blacksmith did not regret his choice. He worked hard, and treated everyone fairly. Soon, he was known by all, and suitors began arriving, eager to marry someone of his stature and kindness to their daughter.

Gríma listened intently. His mind reeled with the idea that maybe Brant had not forgotten him, that his love was kidnapped, and the fact that this wizard is eager to help him.

‘He turned every offer down, simply stating that his heart belonged to another. It surprised many, and crushed many more.

‘How do you know all of this?

‘I come to this little town very often, and hear many things upon my visits.

Saruman moved closer to Gríma, who was holding his goblet out to be refilled.

‘I managed to speak with him on more than one occasion. He spoke highly of you, Gríma.

‘He did?

‘He said that his heart belonged to you.

Gríma downed the wine, and held the goblet out for a refill.

‘Who kidnapped him?

‘You look tired, my dear Gríma.

‘I am just fine.

‘I think you could use a rest. Please, make yourself comfortable.

Gríma decided that a short rest would be all right, and he did not want to be offensive to the wizard that showed him such a warm welcome. Saruman, in turn, sat next to him, and continued.

‘It was the Wild Men and Orcs that kidnapped him.

Saruman continued with the tale, ensuring Gríma knew how hard Brant fought. He was amazed at his brilliance in storytelling; it felt like he was right there, watching him defend the town.

‘How to get out of this mess… ‘ he thought to himself as he headed back to the throne where Théoden King sat.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something, my dear Gríma?

‘No, my liege.

‘As a matter of fact, you are. The company that you keep may see too much, you fool.

Gríma turned around to see Éowyn and Berethor engrossed in conversation. He hated to be rude to them but what other choice did he have?

‘I know you must truly miss him.

‘I do. I had no idea that he went through so much. How can I find him? How can I help him? Is he still alive?

‘There is nothing you can do. It is possible that after he served his purpose that he was killed.

Gríma’s heart sank to even lower depths. After years of wondering, hoping, searching, it was all in vain.

‘I refuse to believe that.

‘You believed that he had forgotten about you. Why not believe that he has already met his fate?

‘Because it was under different circumstances. It was easier to believe that he had gone on with his life, that he had met someone else, that he didn’t want me then it is to believe that he’s dead. There must be something I can do… You… You must help me.

‘I am a mere wizard. There are some things that even beyond my control.

‘But you knew everything about me!! How can you say that you can not help!! You are no wizard! You are no friend.

‘I did not say that I could_not_help.

Saruman stood and went to the center of the room. He closed his eyes and began a soft chant. As soon as the first words left his lips, the temperature in the room dropped. The room shook slightly as the magical essence that was Saruman filled the air. His chant got louder, and the windows blew open.

The wind outside the window rushed in, releasing the candlelight from their duties, while the ash from the fireplace was scattered everywhere. The chants filled the room, the wooden floors groaned as though they were under severe weight, glass shattered out of their panes, and the linen was stripped from the empty bed – all in mere seconds. As quickly as everything began, it stopped.

‘He is alive.

Gríma stared, mouth gaping. He had no idea what to say.

‘You have one chance to save him – me.

‘But I thought –‘That is your problem, dear Gríma. You think too much. Again, I never said I would not help. But, you never asked.

‘You said that there were things that were out of your control –‘Which is still true. Life is simply what it is, and we must make the best out of it. The situation that your Brant was thrust into is out of my control, but I have ways of turning the tide.

‘So, you can help?‘Yes, under one condition: There are a few matters that I could use some assistance with. These are things that I would normally handle myself, only there are other ‘projects’ that are working that need my constant and undivided attention. After which your mission is complete, then you may leave my services, if you wish it.

‘Anything to save him.

‘I need you to go to Rohan. The king, who is a dear friend of mine, is in need of an advisor. There are major decisions, and major events in the making, some that the King does not know about.

‘Like what?

‘That… does not concern you at the present. My major concern is that you are present when the Steward of Gondor arrives. I do not trust him and fear for my friend in his old age. You must protect him at all costs, and inform me if anything major happens.

‘How, if I decide to do so, would I contact you?

‘The mind possesses incredible potential, my friend. I will show you what I mean, in due time. Will you do me this request?

‘Can you guarantee that Brant will be returned safely?

‘Yes, of course.

‘Then, I am at your disposal.

“Please excuse my manners. The king is in need of his daily consultation and prefers to do this in private. I regret to say that we must continue our conversation later,” he said, upon approaching Éowyn and Berethor.

“Oh, of course,” said Éowyn. “Perhaps at another time.”

“Perhaps”, Gríma said, a small smile present. He watched as they turned and walked out of the main hall, leaving him alone to the King and his duty of being the vessel for the words that Saruman used. The key was to keep the King’s vision clouded, while zapping almost all life and strength out of him.

He turned, and headed back to the throne where King Théoden sat.

‘He is ready, my liege.’

‘You know what to do.’

Gríma placed his hands on either side of the King’s head, and recited the words that were forever committed to his memory. The soft – mannered voice one normally heard was replaced by a rough, harsh one that literally teemed with power.

“King you are, but will not stay_I shall have your mind and power this day._

The city of Rohan shall bow to me_Enemies of Orthanc shall turn and flee._

Heed my voice, the Day of Reckoning is here!

The Power of Saruman everyone shall fear!!”

‘He is trying to resist, my liege.’

‘Focus, harder, Wormtongue!! Maintain your focus!!’

The fight to overthrow a king’s mind was often a difficult one, especially when the one with the power to do so was so many leagues away. It was always harder on the vessel being used, as it was his job to be the conduit for the wizard in control. From day one, Gríma had the feeling that he was being used and once the transfer of energies and powers were once again switched, he had a familiar, throbbing, aching headache.

Stop being such a baby, Wormtongue.

I’m not… It’s just your power leaves me… weak, my liege.

As it will the rest of the world.

Is my part in this affair almost over?

Why? Are you becoming bored?

No, sire, it is just that… I miss –

Brant.

Yes.

I almost have full control over the king. You shall be rewarded soon enough. Saruman always rewards his faithful servants.

The echo in his head faded, and Gríma knew his mind was his once more. There had to be an easier way to life than being subjected to the madness his poor mind had to endure. He missed his love. He hated himself for that pain he was causing, and above all else, he wished he could reverse what he had already done.

“Hmm, somehow I don’t believe that he is sincere in his regret,” said David.

“You’re saying that because you just don’t like what he did in the movie. This isn’t the movie, luv.”

“That doesn’t matter. No one sends my Éomer away from his kingdom!!”

“Well, it’s good to know that you’ll claim him. Your Faramir seems quite reluctant to do anything more than daydream about his sweaty chest and arms and… OW!! What was that for?!”

“No one teases my Faramir!!

Éowyn and Berethor were heading towards the housing quarters. They both were lost in thought, and had no idea what really just happened.

“Why do you suppose he paled during our conversation?” asked Éowyn. “We didn’t say anything wrong, did we?”

“Not that I am aware of,” answered Berethor. “I hope that Faramir and Éomer found something.”

“Speaking of Faramir, is all well?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come now, dear Berethor! I have all but offered myself up to him on the main dining hall table with only grapes to hide my… unmentionable areas. He has someone, does he not?”

“Err… well no. I mean, I am not sure what you mean, my Lady.”

“I believe you do.”

Berethor was silent. Did this mean she knew? Who else knew? Did it really matter? Of course it did not. Berethor was more than happy to tell the world of his love for Faramir. He had said more than once that he would shout it from the highest rooftop in Minas Tirith if Faramir wished it. But that was just it. Faramir did not wish it so.

“I just want to know… I mean, is she beautiful?”

“Well, she is er… easy on the eyes.”

“Well, can she cook? Or mend things?”

“She is… talented in many areas.”

“Really?” She turned her nose up slightly.

“Yes,” Berethor said. Éowyn stopped in the hall.

“Can she wield a sword and defend her man if need be?”

Berethor stopped too. “Of all things, she can definitely do that. Maybe a bit better that Faramir.”

“I’d like to see her try. I’d like to see her on the battlefield. I’ll bet she doesn’t know which end of the sword is the hilt!”

As they continued their walk, she continued her ranting and raving about ‘Faramir’s new love’.

“She’s blonde, isn’t she?” she asked.

“She’s brownish blonde.”

“Not his type. Blonde’s are more him.”

Berethor smiled and shook his head. ‘If she only knew that is was my dusty blonde hair that set his soul on fire… ‘

“There is nothing more to read,” said Faramir, placing the last journal in the box. He was careful to put each book back in the box the same way it had been removed. He looked up and saw Éomer staring out the window. He walked behind him and placed his hand on his shoulder.

“It is beautiful,” Éomer said with a small sigh. “Every time I look upon the fields outside these windows, it never ceases to amaze me of how much has changed, and how wonderful and beautiful the land around us becomes.”

“It is beautiful,” agreed Faramir. They stood together in silence, simply enjoying the view.

“So what do you suggest we do?” asked Éomer.

“I know not what to do. If it were a battle of the minds, then it would be simple.”

“And if it were a battle of the swords?”

Faramir turned to him and smiled. “That is what you are here for.” Éomer looked surprised, but returned his smile. “So you’re saying that I’m here to protect you?”

“Would that be so bad?”

“No… as long as I get a proper reward.”

“It depends on the reward you’re asking for.”

Éomer stepped closer to Faramir. “Well, that would depend on the danger I faced.”

Faramir smiled again. “How about… 20 orcs?”

Éomer stepped close enough for Faramir to feel his breath on his nose. “Perhaps-”

“Perhaps what, dear brother?”

Both men whipped around in time to see Berethor and Éowyn enter in the room. Éomer’s mind went blank, and his face showed it. Faramir’s quick thinking allowed then to save face.

“Perhaps we’d better share the disturbing news about Gríma, instead of keeping it to ourselves.”

“What disturbing news?”

“Not here.”

They exited the room quickly, each group hoping that the other had a successful mission. Upon entering Éowyn’s rooms, they were all anxious to learn the happening of the other.

Éowyn told them of the conversation that she and Berethor had with Gríma. Nothing really surprising. Then, Faramir quickly relayed the information learned by reading Gríma’s journals. Berethor and Éowyn were horrified.

“You cannot be serious! No child should ever have to endure that kind of torture,” said Éowyn.

“I know,” said Faramir. “It has occurred to me – us- that Gríma really had no real desire to commit these acts upon the King.”

“You are serious, aren’t you? Despite all the hurt and pain he has caused this court? How can you even begin to take that thought into consideration?” asked Éowyn.

“No one took his feelings into consideration. No one stopped to think of how his or her actions would shape the man that we see today. It was the actions of those around him that caused the reactions from the man that is right now in this castle. The actions of falseness and trickery of a wizard is what caused the reactions of what you saw today.”

The other four in the room stared at him.

“Why are you insisting on protecting him? Our king, my uncle is the victim. Yes, the things that happened to him are dire and uncalled for, and yes, a part of my heart goes out to him for his suffering. But, he has become an evil man. I DEMAND justice be served!!” Éowyn was beside herself with anger.

“So you are saying that we should kill this man because he was tricked into doing the deeds he has done? Are you saying that we should not try to help him? That we should just turn our backs on someone who was a victim as well?” Faramir challenged.

No one spoke.

“I cannot believe this!! I cannot believe that you are willing to persecute a man who has never had a fair chance!”

“Then what do you propose we do?” asked Berethor.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, tell us what do you think we should do? You stand before us, preaching about fair chances. What chance are we supposed to give someone that has not given his victim a chance?”

Faramir walked over to the window, and a sharp pain went through Berethor’s heart. He wanted nothing more than to hold him, side with him, agree with what was being said, but none of it made sense. How could this ‘helpless’ victim allow himself to get into this situation? There was no way that Berethor would agree with that logic. And judging by the looks on everyone else’s faces, they agreed with him.

“So you make my character the rebel. Why?”

“Because Faramir has more of a trusting nature. He believes that there may be some good in this man, so he’s sticking to his guns,” I said.

“But why couldn’t your character believe in the slimy git?”

“Simple. It builds sympathy for our Dear Faramir. Remember, his brother died, his father tried to burn him alive, he rode off to his death, not to mention all the other slash stories that we’ve read where he was paired with orcs, Gríma himself, ect, ect, ect. Need I go on?”

David was silent for a moment. “No, you don’t. Will Berethor save him if he has to do any of that?”

“I don’t know. You’ll just have to keep reading, luv.”

After a few moments, Faramir turned and began to walk out the room.

“You never did answer my question. What would you have us do?”

“I would have you to do nothing. Nothing other than to continue on your paths of so – called self righteousness.” Faramir said as he left.

Berethor followed him. “Are you going to him? What are you going to do?”

“What the rest of you are not willing to do – give the man a chance.”

Faramir stalked off down the hallway, ignoring the calls of his beloved. If he did not understand, if his words did not move his heart, then his beloved Berethor was not exactly what he had imagined him to be.

 

To be Continued

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/a-soldiers-war. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!