Faramir Fiction Archive

Narsilion: The Rise of Osgiliath (NC-17)

Written by E. Batagur

15 July 2009 | 10405 words

Part 2

Faramir left the chamber softly with Éomer napping before supper. He had finally pulled his consort to the bed and kissed him into submission. A quick and gentle hand to Éomer loins and he was Faramir’s to command. Faramir brought him to climax as he continued to kiss his delightfully full lips. He then pulled his clothing back in place and headed out to find his lieutenants. He didn’t have to go far. Anborn was waiting with Melgil one of the wardens of the guard. They waited in the large chamber before the passage to Faramir’s.

“And there you are, Pollywog,” Anborn said with an amused twinkle in his eye. “And you stink of sex!”

Faramir smiled warmly. “Éomer can be insatiable, but I do little to discourage him.”

“We did not train and bring you up to be a fool,” Melgil added with a jolly chuckle.

“And it was only a matter of time before I heard ‘pollywog’ again.”

Anborn put a hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “I would wish my prince to feel completely at ease in his own home. Thus I endeavor to surround him with the familiar.”

“So,” Faramir said, sobering. “What news from Emyn Arnen and beyond?”

“It remains the same, my lord prince,” Melgil replied. “Pockets of Orcs here and there, making night travel treacherous, but that is little more than a nuisance. “

“We should remain wary and keen,” Faramir advised. “Sauron is gone, but evil still pours from Mordor. They are leaderless now, but if one should arise in their ranks…”

“As improbable as it seems, it could happen,” Anborn said before Melgil could refute Faramir’s words. “Then a mob of united Orcs could do much more damage raiding villages and pillaging farms.”

“I can see your reasoning now, my lord prince.” Melgil gave Faramir a respectful bow. “I will strengthen the garrison to the east of the Arnen. Ten more men will bring the compliment to thirty.”

“If we have ten more to spare,” Faramir said.

“More come daily, following the path of the south Anduin, our brothers that had been cut off from us by the corsairs and the minions of the Nazgûl. “

“Be certain of their loyalty before you take them in,” Faramir said. “Many of those same corsairs and Haradrim that had plagued the land for so long may try to slip in among us as they are now adrift and useless.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Tomorrow I hope to ride out to Osgiliath with Lord Éomer. I want him to see his city.”

“See it and despair the task set to him by our king?” Anborn joked.

“Anborn, you do not know my Éomer’s strength of resolve,” Faramir replied smiling.

“Obviously his resolve is strong enough that you smell of rutting before suppertime,” Melgil added, chuckling.

“What do the men think of Éomer?” Faramir asked plainly. Both rangers sobered.

Anborn spoke. “They know he is a Rohirrim and they have a few… ideas… about Rohirrim ways. I’ve heard no man speak ill of him yet…”

“But they think less of men from Rohan,” Melgil interjected. “You know this. They know that the blood of our northern cousins has little of what was distinctly Númenor. Some even judge them as a race of bumpkins from the high plains, no better than the wild men of the Dunlands.”

“The man who would mistake my consort for anything less than my equal as a man and a warrior would be a naive individual indeed.”

“As I said before,” Anborn said. “I’ve heard no man speak ill of your consort yet.”

“That is good,” Faramir replied to Anborn. “Let us hope none are so foolish as to start.”

“I must go check the men of the Guard before supper, my lord prince,” Melgil said, giving Faramir a quick bow and a smile. He moved off, patting Faramir’s arm as he passed.

Anborn moved closer to Faramir and spoke in a softer tone. “I did not want to say in front of Melgil,” he said, “but I have heard men of the Guard say things of the Rohirrim that I fear they may try to justify by your consort’s behavior. For example, this lustiness you have spoken of so lightly… There are those who believe that the people of Rohan are sluttish and indiscriminate. They breed like conies and have an abundance of bastards.”

“I’ve heard these tales told of the people of Rohan before,” Faramir said, “but usually whispered by old wives in the markets of Minas Tirith and not by Rangers of Ithilien. The first man I hear say such filthy lies, I will send back to Minas Tirith to tend a booth in the lower town market place. Let him speak his trash there with the idle tongues of old women.”

“Yes, my lord prince.”

Supper was mainly roasted wild pheasant, beets and brown bread; the rangers sat and ate, talking quietly amongst themselves. It was nothing like the laughter and loud conversations that could go on in the Golden Hall on a fine evening. The quiet murmurings made Éomer slightly edgy. He didn’t care for this subdued tenor among men at arms. It seemed unnatural. There should be laughter and loud disagreements and even louder jokes.

The ale was bitter, but he had been prepared for that. He had tasted Ithilien stout before. It was strong stuff and not for the faint of heart. Éomer knew he could grow accustomed to the taste. It was strangely refreshing.

He looked over at Faramir who was chatting calmly with his lieutenant Anborn. He had heard the man call Faramir “Pollywog” several times now. It was obviously a nickname, but one that Faramir had not yet mentioned to Éomer. He would have to ask Faramir about it later.

Just past Anborn sat more men who talked quietly and rarely looked up beyond their plates. Every now and again, Éomer felt eyes on him, but when he looked up and about all he saw were men whispering conversations between bites of bread and meat.

And although the dinner was delicious, Éomer found that his unrest was stealing his appetite. He looked down at his barely tasted food and frowned.

“Is the meal not to your liking?” Faramir’s voice was soft in his ear and he nearly startled out of his musings.

“The food is fine,” Éomer replied. “I find my appetite lacking. It could be fatigue.”

“Then we will retire early. I will see you well rested and ready. It has been rude of me to use you so…”

Éomer grinned at his mate. “Who used whom, lover?”

“Insatiable!” Faramir whispered.

Anborn stood and called out across the tables. “Rangers, men of the White Guard, we welcome today out newest member and the consort of our prince, Éomer, son of Éomund, a son of Rohan. The Elessar has given him the title of Earl of Osgiliath and he has served with great valor and distinction with the Horse Lords. His sister is the Queen of Rohan and his uncle was the most honorable Théoden King of Rohan who died in battle, answering Gondor’s most urgent call for aid.

“We bid him welcome to our ranks as a fellow warrior, a commander, and the joy of our prince’s heart.”

Anborn lifted his cup. “Hail to our Earl of Osgiliath!”

The men in the room stood, thumping a hand down to the wooden tables. They then lifted their cups and drank. It was not like a toast in the Golden Hall where all me would have shouted “Hail” in return, lifting their cups and tankards high before drinking.

There was much to get accustomed to here in the caverns of the Rangers. Regardless of their welcome, Éomer knew that he would never truly be one of them. He turned to look at Faramir.

Faramir was smiling gently at him.

“You are my love and my consort, my chosen mate. You belong here,” he whispered.

Faramir always knew. It was as if he could read Éomer’s heart through his eyes.

“They are so quiet on a good evening. No songs nor jokes?”

“Habit,” Faramir explained. “Long years of quiet warfare. We were always the few against many. Our silence was one of our greatest tools. It served us well. Even the secrecy of this refuge would be compromised by loud festivities. We never celebrate here. Henneth Annûn is a quiet place.”

Éomer nodded.

It was still early evening as they lay together on top of the bear skin that covered the bed.

“My mother died when I was five,” Faramir said softly. “She was only thirty eight, too young for a Dunedain. They say she weakened after my birth and never recovered. I remember her. She was small and fragile and she loved me. She held me often and sang to me songs from Dol Amroth.”

“I am sorry, my love,” Éomer whispered. “I lost my mother too when I was young. Not as young as you, however. Théodwyn died when I was eight. She caught a chill in the early spring, a year after my father’s death. I remember how the fever consumed her until she no longer recognized her own children at her bedside. She passed in the night, the fever too strong for her to fight.”

Éomer paused, taking a deep breath. “A chill… No, it was grief. She lost her will to fight because my father was gone from her side. She left Éowyn and me alone to live in a world that grew darker by the day.”

Faramir pulled him close, kissing his temple softly. Éomer nuzzled closer to him, pressing kisses to his jaw line and neck. He let his lips brush lightly over the short ginger hairs of Faramir’s beard. Faramir had elf blood in him from Denethor. It was this that impeded his beard growth so that his whiskers were short and sparse like a younger man’s.

Éomer ran a tender hand over his love’s face, feeling the soft lips that kissed his fingertips as they passed.

“Promise me, lover, promise that we will always be together…” Faramir whisper so softly that it was almost imperceptible. Éomer immediately knew why the request had been so softly spoken.

It was a promise that he could not make. He would die before Faramir and that was just a fact of life. “Hush,” Éomer whispered in response. “My heart is yours for eternity. No matter where I go, it will ever be yours.”

Éomer kissed Faramir’s lips gently, feeling the sweet tenderness of love flow through him. Before he had been excited to at last take his mate in this bed; now he just wanted to hold him and care for him. Éomer wanted to love him with gentle hands and tender kisses. He wanted to enfold him in a protective embrace while he filled him, joining their bodies to make them one heart and one soul.

“Let me love you, my sweet prince,” Éomer whispered against his ear. His hand ran softly over the swell of Faramir’s tight muscled, beautiful buttocks. Faramir shivered lightly in his embrace. He turned his body so that Éomer spooned him.

Éomer nuzzled kisses against Faramir’s neck and shoulders as he let his hands run over his smooth flesh. He pulled Faramir against him and tenderly fingered a nipple on his chest. Then his hand moved down, smoothing over Faramir’s flat stomach and curving about his sharp hips. Éomer ran his hand along the hard muscles of Faramir’s thighs as he breathed words of love into his ear. Gently, he guided Faramir’s leg, bent at the knee, towards the curl of his body, spreading Faramir’s thighs open.

Then Éomer’s hand moved back up Faramir’s thigh, coming around one of his perfect buttocks. Éomer’s fingers sought with tender strokes, moving over his perineum and tickling heavy bollocks. Then, at last, they touched the tight bud of Faramir’s entrance. Faramir sighed, his head falling back against Éomer’s shoulder.

Éomer’s fingers continued a soft massage of Faramir’s entrance as he nipped lightly at his shoulders. He reached back blindly for a moment, feeling for where Faramir had left the sweet oil on the small table near the bed. His long arm nearly knocked it to the floor, but Éomer caught hold of it.

With trembling hands, brimming with anticipation, he opened the small container and spilled some of its contents on his fingers.

“Sweet prince,” Éomer whispered again as he applied slick fingers to the tight bud. “Grant me entrance. Let me live inside of you.”

Éomer sunk one finger slowly in and Faramir gasped softly, whispering words in Sindarin. Éomer moved the finger slowly, savoring the feeling of the hot, soft passage. He was careful and gentle. Delicately, he added a second finger. Faramir began to move his hips back in sympathetic motion, fucking himself on the digits. Éomer reached in carefully, seeking the magic spot in his love’s body. He flexed his fingers gently and listened as Faramir moaned louder and shivered.

“Yes,” Éomer whispered. “Yes, just there. I will touch you there with my manhood. We will be one!”

Éomer added another finger, opening Faramir with care. He nuzzled into his ginger hair, breathing in Faramir’s scent. He then added more oil, coating his own erection as well. He placed his cock at Faramir’s entrance and slowly, patiently, pushed his way past the tight muscle. Faramir exclaimed, hissing words in Sindarin. Éomer held still for a long, trembling moment, letting both their bodies adjust.

Faramir sighed, his body relaxing noticeably about Éomer. Éomer applied tender kisses to his shoulder as he pushed in slowly. He pulled Faramir back against his chest, wrapping his arms about him protectively as he began to thrust with deliberate care. Éomer listened as his love moaned softly and whispered his name, speaking again in Sindarin. Faramir began to push back against him.

And on the end of every thrust, Faramir trembled and gasped, saying the Sindarin word for “good!”

Éomer began to lose himself in the feeling of their joining. He rubbed his forehead against the sweat-damp skin of Faramir’s shoulders and back. His hips moved with steady, deep thrusts now. His cock, surrounded by soft, tight heat, slipped in and out easily, touching deeply. In that moment, the world was full of love and light. There were no sorrows, and grief was washed away. They were one heart, one soul, joined and fulfilled.

He was lost inside his prince of the night sky. Éomer reached down and took Faramir’s semi-hard member into his hand and stroked it to firmness.

“Forever,” Éomer whispered against Faramir’s ear.

“Yes!” Faramir replied, trembling in his grasp. He then cried out, his head falling back against Éomer.

Éomer’s hand was covered in warm, wet ejaculate. He continued to stroke the softening cock. His hips moved in deeper, faster thrusts. Soon he was consumed by the light and heat of ecstasy. Éomer’s body ignited in orgasm, spilling deep within his love’s. It felt as if he was pouring his very soul into Faramir.

He trembled as the last of his climax released him, breathless and weak. Éomer wrapped himself about Faramir’s long frame and held on to him like a life line.

“Vasa?” Faramir whispered.

Éomer placed his lips against Faramir’s shoulder as he tried to catch his breath. “Yes, my prince?”

“Are you certain you will be comfortable here? There is a villa in Emyn Arnen, the traditional home of the stewards…”

Éomer nipped his shoulder a little harder to make him stop. “This is your home,” he said. “My home is wherever your home may be.” Éomer then laughed. “You think me some pampered nobleman or fop, that I would need the comfort of a great room and servants? I’ve lived more contented under the stars than I have under the roof of the richest halls.”

“I meant no slight, beloved,” Faramir said softly.

“I know.” Éomer snuggled against him.

“Tomorrow we ride to Osgiliath. You will see the city that is your domain.”

Éomer said nothing to this, and they lay quiet for a time, enjoying the warmth of their embrace. At last Éomer spoke.

“Why does the man Anborn call you ‘Pollywog?’”

Faramir chuckled heartily. “It was a name given to me by my brother and adopted by my mentors among the rangers. It means ‘young frog.’”

“I do not find that at all surprising.”

Faramir laughed again. “Sweet Vasa!”

“And you call me this endearment that I do not understand.”

“You are my sunlight,” Faramir said. “Vasa is the name of the sun in the ancient song.”

“Are you then my moonlight?” Éomer looked at Faramir from over his shoulder. “What then should I call you?”

“I would be your Rana,” Faramir explained happily.

Éomer thought this over for a moment. “I think I would prefer to call you ‘Pollywog’ instead.”

Faramir laughed loud and long.

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