Faramir Fiction Archive

To Merry From Faramir (NC-17)

Written by Buttonbright

16 November 2004 | 6532 words

Title: To Merry From Faramir
Author: Buttonbright
Email: pdana@sfopera.com
Pairings: Faramir/Boromir, Mithrandir/Beregond; mention of Faramir/OMC, Faramir/Merry
Rating: NC-17
Summary: This fic takes the form of a letter to Merry from Faramir. Though written a few days after the Captains of the West have returned from the Black Gate, it concerns itself primarily with events from Faramir’s unhappy youth. It references my earlier fic, “An Ending And Two Beginnings”, but it can still be read independently.
Warning: Brotherly incest may be squicky at best, and here it’s a source of real trauma. Fortunately, that’s only in the first half. Things do lighten up in the second half.
Feedback: I’d be grateful!

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My dear Merry,

It may surprise you to know why I’m writing you this letter. I’ve come to think of you as my heir, Merry – the heir, that is, of the Faramir who died in the Houses of Healing, in your loving and generous arms. I am a different man now. A new path has been laid at my feet, and that new path has brought me the love of an extraordinary woman.

The old Faramir, though he has been put to rest, will live forever in my memory. I remember how he was born from the crippled heart of a young boy; how he was taught to love himself and others; and how he kept that love alive by passing it on to men who needed it. The love of men is a sacred torch, Merry. For me it has lit the way to enormous joy. I am passing that torch to you, and in order to do so I must first tell you my story. Please bear with the unhappy beginning, for which I ask your sympathy but not your pardon. That unhappiness is the necessary prologue to all that comes after.

How much better this story would be if I could begin with my first real lover, a boy called Edrahil. He, however, was not the first person who had my body. That sad distinction belonged to someone else.

My brother Boromir first came to my bed when he was eighteen and I was only thirteen. You may ask, how can such young boys know love? The love of mother and father should be well-known to them. But our mother died when I was five, and our father loved Boromir only. Me, his second son, he loved not at all. The only love I knew was my brother’s, and love was an art he never really mastered.

Of course I idolized him. Everyone did. He was beautiful, he was brave, he brought hope and courage to all who knew him. I thought myself lucky to walk in his shadow, and luckier still to enjoy his brotherly protection.

The nightmare really started when he had just turned sixteen and his friends took him out one night. Next morning he came to me, almost feverish with excitement, and told me where they’d gone. On the second level of the city, it seemed, there were houses where you could buy women for an hour or two. He boasted to me of what he’d done with the woman he bought, in far more detail than my eleven-year-old mind could grasp. What I did grasp was the picture of my handsome and beloved brother naked and godlike, a golden flame that could heat without burning. I imagined his arms around me, his face against mine. I imagined losing myself in the warmth of his embrace. I imagined a love that wrapped me up like a cocoon.

Beyond that my young mind could not go. Children don’t know what physical love is. Nor should they, till they are well and truly ready.

But Boromir had discovered physical love, and he went back to the second level again and again, night after night. He had all the boundless energy of youth together with the power and position to indulge it. I’m sure he tried every woman in every brothel he could find. Months went by. His vigorous young body could not get enough, and after a year he took to visiting his women by day as well as by night. Other duties suffered: first his studies, then his swordplay. That, some months later, was why our father finally took action.

He commanded Boromir to control himself. Then, knowing that this alone would not suffice, he imposed harsh penalties on the houses that entertained him. One he closed down for good. Soon my brother met only barred doors wherever he went. He raged, but there was no remedy. For the time being, his womanizing came to an end.

More months passed. He appeared to calm down in time, and gave our father no cause to complain. His eighteenth birthday was celebrated with wine and song; my thirteenth with silence.

But Boromir had not really stopped. He had simply discovered other ways, as he finally told me. He had discovered boys.

“It’s a whole different world,” he said. “With women, you go to a brothel and there they are. But we don’t have boy brothels in Minas Tirith. You have to know someone who knows someone, and then maybe they’ll set you up. If Father found out what was going on, he’d close them down. So they’re very secretive. What’s great about it is, the boys don’t make any demands. Women want affection. I don’t know why. With boys all you need is a little bit of spit to smooth the way. You’re in, you’re out, and that’s it.

“Lately, though, I’ve been thinking: why should I waste myself on trash like that when I could do it with someone . . . closer? A friend, say. Or my own brother.”

I heard the unsubtle suggestion. It thrilled me! During the last two years my own body had begun to mature, and when I touched myself it was always with the vision of naked, golden Boromir in my mind. I imagined him gazing at me with eyes of love. I imagined him kissing my mouth. I imagined him making love to me, slowly and deeply. And now, here was my chance to win him. Whatever he asked me to do, I would do. I thought myself well and truly ready.

What did I know of these things?

Reality was nothing like my fantasies. The first few times I didn’t even see him naked. He kept his shirt on, for one thing, and his leggings never came off altogether. They just bunched up around his ankles. Moreover, he preferred to keep me on my stomach. He may not have known there was any other way. And as he had said, for him there was no affection with boys, no tenderness. He never kissed me. He never even looked at me. It hurt every time, from start to finish. It hurt a lot. He may not have known that, either. I certainly never told him, and I would have died rather than cry out.

But there was always one moment that made it worthwhile. It happened just after he came, when his cock gradually went soft inside me and his body lay spent on top of mine. That was when I felt the full weight of him on my body, pressing me down into the mattress. He covered me, the side of his face against my neck, his chest against my back, his hips against my buttocks, his legs between my legs. It never lasted long. Invariably he got up too soon, pulled up his leggings and left me to manage my own small climax. While it lasted, though, it felt more like love than anything else in my life.

I loved my brother, even when he hurt me.

And I was the one who spoiled it, such as it was. I wanted to see him, all of him, naked as I’d always pictured him. I wanted, what’s more, to watch him while he was inside me. I wanted to see his chest, his shoulders, and most of all his face. I wanted to see love in his eyes while he ground away at me. Surely, I thought, it could be done. I practiced lying on my back with my knees against my chest, opening my small cleft to the heavens. I became convinced that this was possible. And one night I told him.

He seemed doubtful. But he couldn’t say just why, so in the end he reluctantly agreed to try the experiment. Off came his clothes, which was certainly a step in the right direction. The body he revealed was every bit as entrancing as I’d hoped it would be, even if my adoring gaze seemed to make him more than a little uncomfortable. And then the positioning worked well enough on a mechanical level, once he’d adjusted himself. He dug in with his usual gusto. I fought back my usual grimace of pain. The adventure was underway.

But something began to go wrong almost immediately. I stared up at him, willing him to meet my gaze. He would not. I put my hands on his chest and squeezed his pale, pinkish-brown nipples. He batted my hands away. I touched my own cock, stroking it to hardness. He rolled his eyes and turned his head.

Why wouldn’t my brother look at me?

“Boromir,” I whispered. He did not answer. He was pounding me hard now, the slap of flesh on flesh punctuating his short, sharp grunts. My awkward position made the pain, if anything, worse than usual.

“Boromir!” I whispered again. He ignored everything but his cock, jabbing in and out of my body. Clearly his aim was to climax as soon as he could.

But I wanted so much to see the love in his eyes! If only he would look at me, I thought, I would see it. It had to be there, even now, and it would be mine if I could just manage to catch his eye. Desperate, I reached up and touched his cheek with my fingertips.

Our eyes met. For an instant his whole body froze.

“What are you doing?” he snapped.

I looked at him in shock. There was no love in his eyes. There was only contempt.

He had not come yet, but his cock was suddenly shrinking inside me. He pulled out, swung himself off the bed and started throwing his clothes on. I was horrified. I knew I shouldn’t speak, but I couldn’t let him go like this.

“Boromir!” I said. “What is it? What have I done?”

He’d already gotten into his leggings and was flinging on his shirt. “What have you done!” he echoed. “How can you even ask me that? Acting as if you like it! Watching me! Touching me – as if there were something between us!”

“There is something between us,” I shot back. “I’m your brother!”

“Not when I’m pumping you, you’re not!” Boromir retorted. “When I’m pumping you, you’re just a means to an end. All right? I thought you knew that. You’re an easy tumble, and I appreciate it. Believe me, I do. But I don’t appreciate seeing your dewy-eyed face while I’m at it! Men don’t feel that way about each other. Look what it does to me – I can’t even stay hard! And me buck naked, too, on top of everything else! Because you had to make a point of it.”

He strode to the door, paused, and glanced back.

“Put your clothes on, Faramir,” he said. “You look like a whore.”

Then he was gone.

I don’t remember much about the next few months. Boromir avoided me, day and night alike. And why not – an object he couldn’t bear to look at while he pounded it? I understood. I didn’t want to look at myself.

Eventually, without explanation, he returned to me. Everything went back to the way it had been. Again, I understood. Girls were running scarce. I lay flat on my face and waited for the brief moment when his body melted into mine. It always came. It always went away. I gave up wanting more.

Five years went by in this fashion. Outwardly I was the Steward’s son, a paragon among my peers. I studied. I learned the arts of combat: sword, spear and bow. I learned the arts of warfare: strategy, discipline and leadership. If anyone observed that I had no real friends, they probably chalked it up to pride. But I knew the truth. I was unfit for the company of men. They were better off without me.

I continued to give Boromir what he wanted, as often or as seldom as he wanted it. What else did I have to give him? What did I have to give anyone?

One other person did take an interest in me during those years. It was Mithrandir, the wandering wizard who sometimes dared to advise my father on matters of state. He developed the habit (on those rare occasions when he came to Minas Tirith) of watching me at swordplay or at archery. Afterward he would come and talk to me about Gondorian history, or he would suggest reading matter that he wanted to discuss with me. Soon I realized that he knew our ancient library a great deal better than I knew it myself. I resented him for it. But the Steward’s son in me would not let this challenge go unmet. I read what he told me to read. I listened to his comments. I even made comments of my own. And some of it actually sank in.

Yet I felt, all the time, that I was merely fooling the Wizard along with everyone else – fooling him, that is, into thinking me worth more than an easy tumble. Or if I had not fooled him, I reasoned, then he couldn’t have been much better than I was myself. Otherwise, why would he seek my company?

One night, when Boromir had just come inside me and I lay waiting for the feel of his body melting into mine, he stiffened.

“Mithrandir!” I heard him say. He got off the bed and pulled up his leggings, which as always had bunched up around his ankles.

I raised my head. Just inside the door stood the Wizard. He was watching me.

My gorge rose. I stuffed my knuckles into my mouth. In that moment I realized that his good opinion mattered to me, mattered more than I’d thought possible. And if I’d ever stood a chance of gaining that good opinion, I’d surely lost it now.

Boromir finished tidying himself. He faced Mithrandir defiantly. “Filthy graybeard!” he snarled. “I hope you enjoyed yourself. How long were you watching?”

“Long enough.” Mithrandir’s voice was cold and dry.

“I suppose you’ll tell our father!” Boromir sneered.

“Is that what you would do?” Mithrandir asked him.

Boromir hesitated, then looked back at me. In my shock I’d made no effort to cover myself or get up. What was the point? But the sight of me seemed to enrage him.

“You’ve had me for the last time!” he shouted at me. “Now get out!”

Mithrandir gave a small, angry chuckle. “Boromir,” he said evenly. “You seem to have forgotten – this is your brother’s room. You’d better go now.”

Boromir glared at him. For once he was at a loss. Then, with a last furious glance at me, he ran. I heard his footsteps pelting down the corridor.

Mithrandir closed the door. When he turned to face me, his expression was unutterably sad – the saddest, perhaps, that I’ve ever seen. I thought he would follow Boromir and leave me alone. Instead, he rummaged in the chest till he found a clean nightshirt, which he helped me put on. He smoothed my rumpled sheets and bade me lie down on them. He drew the blankets over me and carefully tucked them in. He took the chair that went with my desk and moved it over by the bed. Then he sat down. I was dumbfounded. A small, hard knot of rage appeared behind my ribs. Why, after what had just happened, was he still here?

“Do you want me to go?” he asked.

I gave a small start.

“You must see, Faramir, that I cannot possibly leave you alone – not when you’re probably thinking of doing something that would hurt a great many people, including some you don’t even know.”

Had he read my mind? For years now I’d wanted the courage to take my own life. This seemed as good a time as any.

“It’s not hard to divine the thoughts of a troubled young man,” Mithrandir went on. “Even one as brilliant as you, Faramir. You imagine no one would miss you or mourn your passing. You are wrong. Even if there were no one else, I can name one who would spend many nights mourning your death.”

“Do you mean my father?” I inquired bitterly.

“Your father would certainly mourn for you,” said the Wizard. “More than you know. As it happens, though, I was not referring to him. I was referring to myself.”

“Don’t bother lying to me!” My voice reached my own ears, it seemed, from a long way off. It sounded harsh and shrill – not like my voice at all. “I know what you saw just now. And if you expected anything different, you’re a fool. This is who I am. It’s all I am. Why pretend?”

“I never pretend,” Mithrandir said firmly. “And it’s not at all clear that you know what I saw here tonight.”

I shrugged. “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Maybe there was nothing to see. Just my brother, pounding away on the bed. Pounding away at nothing.”

“Do not tell me what I saw! When you tell others what they have seen, you learn nothing. You must ask, Faramir, and then you must listen to what they tell you.”

He was right, but I saw no reason to admit it. “I don’t care what you saw. I know what was there to be seen.”

“You know what you feel,” Mithrandir corrected me. “That is no more than anyone knows, from the most ignorant beggar to the wisest sage. It is only one part of what your really are, and not necessarily the most important part. How much better you would know yourself if you could see through other eyes. Borrow mine! Ask me what I saw here, Faramir.”

What did he mean? I was curious, but I was also afraid. The confirmation of my own darkest fears would leave me with less than the nothing I already had. Yet as much as I dreaded that final humiliation, I also wanted it. “You don’t need my permission,” I muttered. “You can say whatever you like.”

“No. Not if you will not listen. Faramir!”

He was reaching for my hand. I flinched. He paused, his hand suspended above mine. Something in me, something that had long ago stopped struggling against the darkness, strove to pull my hand away from his. What stopped it was nothing I could honestly call hope. Rather, it was the numbness that had taken the place of hope.

Not much of a beginning, perhaps. Yet my hand stayed where it was. And at last Mithrandir took it.

Years ago I had imagined the bliss of losing myself in Boromir’s arms. I had imagined myself enveloped in him, in the strength and heat and beauty of his body. Oh, my imaginings! Imagination is another word for hope, isn’t it? Both had gone, leaving only the numbness. Now, in this room, my fingers curled up tight within the knobbed and calloused hand of Mithrandir. And my numbness stirred.

You know how it feels, Merry, when you try to stand on a foot you’ve been sitting on – the sting of new life creeping slowly into lifeless flesh? A human heart is no different. No pain could have hurt more than the stir of my deep numbness. The knot of anger under my ribs turned abruptly to a sob. I choked it down. I would not give in to it!

“Very well, then!” I all but shouted, loudly enough to drown out the tremor in my voice. “Have it your way. Tell me what you saw!”

“Are you ready to hear?” asked the wizard.

“Yes!” I cried. And when the angry echoes had died away, I said it again, more quietly now. “Yes, Mithrandir. Please. Whatever it is, I’m ready to hear it.”

And so he told me.

Even now, almost twenty years later, it hurts to repeat what he said that night. It hurts because, rather than invoking the horror of my darkness, my nothingness, he invoked the still-living, still-breathing heart that lay beneath, pretending to be dead. That, he said, was what he saw. He invoked it in the name of my ancestors, the Faithful who had sailed with their king from fallen Númenór to the shores of Middle-Earth. He invoked it in the name of Gondor at its height, the glorious fulfillment of Númenór’s dreams. And he invoked it, last of all, in the name of a Gondor that might rise again under a new king yet to be revealed.

He told me more, much more. That night, for the first time, I heard of the love of men and its place in the history of my people. Only recently, he said, had the love of men lost favor among us. Ruling stewards, and even the kings who had preceded them, had honored that love even when they did not practice it themselves. A few had practiced it, though, and the wizard told me that our own library contained their chronicles, historical treasures I could read for myself. In them I would learn how small communities of men had taken root in remote places such as Ithilien, and even at times in Minas Tirith itself. And Gondor had opened its arms to them.

He told me, too, of his own long life and many lovers, especially the very first.

“It is often wise,” he said, “to begin with someone a bit more experienced than you are yourself. There are exceptions, of course. Some men reach a great age without ever learning what it means to make love, and these do not become good teachers. In that respect I was luckier than most. I had Cirdan, the oldest elf in Middle-Earth.” Cirdan, he explained, had taught him lessons that were a joy to learn. A still greater joy was the discovery that these lessons could be bequeathed to others. For as his own experience ripened, Mithrandir came to see himself as a messenger in this, as in so many respects. “Teaching men to love,” he said, “not just with their bodies but with their hearts and minds, became a mission of mine when I came to these shores. And in the time that remains I must make sure there are others to carry on when I leave – perhaps even to bring back what has been lost. The love of men can find honor again, Faramir, but only if it first finds a new champion.”

Mithrandir could not have spoken better. Not once did he say, “You are that champion, Faramir.” Not once did he say, “You will lead.” If he had, I would not have believed him. I was a blighted thing, not a champion born to lead men far stronger than I.

Instead, he planted the seeds of a new dream to replace the one that had died. The love of men! The glory of Gondor! It was a dream immeasurably greater than one boy’s sorrow, and I saw at once that it deserved a lifetime of dedication. Could I ever be worthy of it? Could it lift me out of my darkness into dawn?

I am weeping as I write these words, Merry. I am weeping as I read them aloud to my future wife, my Éowyn, the beautiful and strong. She knows what it is to dwell in darkness. She knows what it is to hesitate, bewildered, when a helping hand appears in the gloom. Her eyes shine, for she imagines that I did one day become the champion of Mithrandir’s great dream. I did not. That dream never had just one champion. It had many champions, a multitude of champions. My men, my lovers, the Rangers of Ithilien, all rode to battle for the glory of Mithrandir’s dream. They led one another, as they led me, to victory over darkness.

They died. But first they lived, and lived beautifully.

My first real lover died in Ithilien before I ever came there. It was Mithrandir who brought us together. The morning after our long talk, he sent me to the library for a particular scroll. “The Fellowship Of Men,” he said its name was. It had a subtitle, too: “A Chronicle of the Rangers of Ithilien.” Here, he said, I would find not only much lore on the love of men, but also some rather detailed descriptions of their intimacies. Since he could not bring me a lover like Cirdan, he said, he would at least bring me practical information. You can imagine how excitedly I ran to the library next day after sword practice!

But events took a surprising turn. The scroll was not in its place. Another boy was reading it. I could see him at a corner desk, the scroll in his hands, his dark head bent over it.

I knew him. His name was Edrahil, and he had come here from Dol Amroth when his parents died. Now he lived with distant relations – nobility, which was why he had sword practice with me and my peers.

That is, he should have had sword practice. He rarely came, however, and now it seemed I’d found out where he went. This, the great library of Minas Tirith, was his refuge.

I peeked at him over a scroll I’d grabbed hastily (it was called “Animal Husbandry In Lossarnoch”). Though tall, he was not an active boy. He had fine, straight bones and fair skin like marble. Some might have thought his forehead too high and his eyes too deeply set. I had always thought he looked intelligent, but he kept very much to himself, so who could say? What I could say, and did in the privacy of my mind, was that I found him beautiful.

And here he sat, reading a scroll full of details about the intimacies of men! I had to speak to him.

No sword had ever terrified me so much. But I remembered Mithrandir and his dream. Where better to begin the great work than in the library of my forefathers? Taking a deep breath, I walked across the chamber and sat down at the desk beside Edrahil.

He looked at me. Then he looked away. Then he looked back, alarmed to find me staring at him. I cleared my throat.

“That scroll you’ve got,” I said. “Someone told me it’s worth reading.”

“Did they?” Edrahil blushed. “It is . . . interesting. Informative.”

I attempted a smile. “How much of it have you read?”

“Oh. Well.” Edrahil fidgeted uncomfortably. “I’ve already read it through once. Now I’m reviewing . . . certain chapters.”

This admission excited me tremendously. It will hardly surprise you, Merry, to learn that my leggings suddenly got a bit tight. But Edrahil still had a guarded look and I couldn’t think what to do about it.

When I held my tongue, he said, “So – someone recommended it?”

“That’s right. Otherwise I never would have heard of it.”

“Neither would I,” agreed Edrahil. “Who told you?”

“Mithrandir. You know, the Grey Pilgrim.”

Edrahil’s eyes grew wide. He put down the Chronicle. “Mithrandir? What a coincidence! He told me to read it too!”

“He did?” I was thunderstruck. “When?”

“Just this morning, not two hours ago. He always finds a moment to speak to me when he’s here, but this was the first time he’d come to my guardian’s house. My guardian didn’t know what to think. I don’t imagine he likes wizards. Anyway, Mithrandir said I should hurry to the library at once, that very minute. He gave me the name of the scroll and then he left.”

There was a pause. We looked at one another with mounting interest.

“When did the Wizard tell you about it?” Edrahil asked.

“Last night,” I replied vaguely. In point of fact, it had been very early in the morning. Our talk had gone on well past midnight.

There was another pause. Finally Edrahil said, “Faramir – or rather, I should say, my lord –“

“Please call me Faramir!” I interrupted hastily. “Anytime I hear ‘my lord,’ I think it means someone else.”

“All right. Thank you.” Edrahil smiled. It may have been the first smile I’d seen on his face. It made him even more beautiful than before. “Faramir,” he began again. “Perhaps I’m wrong, but this may be more than just a coincidence – our meeting like this. Do you think it might be a plot? A plot of Mithrandir’s?”

I was smiling too. I wondered if I would ever stop smiling. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I think a plot is just what it is. Do you – do you mind? About its being a plot? Because I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all. But if you do –“

“No, no!” Edrahil assured me, blushing again. “Absolutely not! I definitely, unequivocally do not mind. I even think – I think it might be a good plot.”

“I think it might be an excellent plot!”

“A great plot!”

“A wonderful plot!”

We were laughing now, with a delicious combination of relief and happiness. We knew, suddenly, that in a little while we would be holding hands. And soon after that we would be kissing. And soon after that . . .

Abruptly I stopped laughing. My heart sprang into my throat.

I realized that Edrahil was looking at me. He was looking at me the way I’d always wanted Boromir to look at me.

I couldn’t believe it. He was gazing into my eyes, deeply and intently, as if he saw something real, something alive, something more than the nothing I’d known myself to be. He was gazing into my eyes as if he’d found the answer to an ancient riddle. He was looking at me. At me!

And he was glad.

Falling in love, of course, is all very well and good. But practical considerations pop up almost at once. Where could we go to do something about it? He shared a room with two other boys of his household, both much younger; and as for my room – well, I couldn’t bring Edrahil to the bed where my brother had used me so often. The very thought was insupportable.

There was only one person we could go to for help, and that was the master plotter himself.

Mithrandir had taken a small two-story house on the fifth level. We ran there as quickly as we could and knocked at the door.

No one answered. I knocked again, a little louder this time, and the door drifted open in front of me. We looked at one another.

“Does Mithrandir always leave his door unlocked?” Edrahil asked.

I shook my head. “Never,” I said. “Maybe there’s something wrong.”

Slowly and quietly, we entered the house. No one seemed to be about. The front chamber was empty. So was the guest bedroom, though a lamp burned on the bedside table. The bed had been freshly made. This seemed odd and unsettling.

Then we heard it – sounds from upstairs.

No, not just sounds. Cries! Wordless cries in two distinct voices. Was the Wizard in some kind of trouble? Without another thought, we bounded up the stairs and pushed open the bedroom door.

Lamplight glistened on Mithrandir’s bare chest and shoulders. His head was back, his eyes closed, his mouth open, and he seemed to float just above the bed, as if he were riding an ocean swell. Yes, he rode up and down in a rocking, undulating motion, his knees straddling – what? Another man, lying face up beneath him. And the other man was writhing, arching his back – he was naked! We could see his hard cock disappearing into Mithrandir’s body as he rode it up and down. The man’s hands were on the Wizard’s own cock and balls, and indeed both men were climaxing while we watched. White fluid spattered on a hairy chest. Hoarse cries reached their peak.

We couldn’t move. We couldn’t look at each other. It was only a minute or two later, when Mithrandir finally opened his eyes, that I remembered how to speak.

“So sorry!” I said. “Didn’t mean to intrude. Back later!”

Mithrandir burst out laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous, my boys! Stay right where you are. I’ll introduce you to my friend, here, and you can tell us what the matter is while we’re cleaning up. Pass us that pitcher, will you? And the cloth?”

Edrahil found the items on a bench and handed them over. He obviously didn’t know where to look. Neither did I.

Mithrandir showed no embarrassment at all as he dipped the cloth into the pitcher and began wiping off his friend’s sticky chest. “Boys,” he said. “I’d like you to meet Beregond, newly appointed to the Third Company. Beregond, please meet Lord Faramir and Edrahil.”

“I hope you’ll excuse me if I don’t get up, my lord,” Beregond said. He clearly had no choice in the matter, for he couldn’t budge till Mithrandir removed himself. “I’d offer you my hand,” Beregond went on, “but it’s not fit to be touched just now. Mithrandir, wipe off my hands, won’t you?” Mithrandir complied, then shifted backwards in order to mop up Beregond’s crotch. We watched in fascination while the damp cloth was rubbed efficiently over cock, balls and pubic hair.

“Now then,” Mithrandir said while this was going on. “Boys. How did you manage at the library?”

Glad of the distraction, we poured out our story. No one interrupted, though the mopping up did move on to Mithrandir’s own crotch and various other exposed areas. At last all had been told.

Beregond laughed. He was sitting on the side of the bed now and pulling on his leggings. He looked to be about twenty-five, strong and handsome and full of good humor. “So that’s it!” he said.

“That’s what?” Mithrandir inquired.

“Oh, you can play innocent if you want to,” the grinning Beregond replied. “But I’ve seen what an old matchmaker you are, Mithrandir. A lamp in the guest bedroom? Fresh linens on the bed? You knew the young gentlemen would end up here and you’ve got their little love nest all prepared. I should have guessed.”

“Someone’s got to help them out,” Mithrandir shrugged. “If I don’t do it, who will?”

“It’s not for me to say.” Beregond was fully dressed now. “I’m due for the watch. My lord, will you excuse me?”

I extended my hand with as much manly ease as I could muster. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Beregond. And please accept my apologies. I didn’t mean to interrupt your . . . what you were doing.”

“No harm done, gentlemen. Thank you for your kind hospitality, Mithrandir. I hope to enjoy it again soon. Good day.”

We heard his boots on the narrow stairs. Soon his merry whistle drifted up from the street outside, growing fainter as he strode off.

Mithrandir reached for his robes. “An admirable fellow, Beregond,” he said appreciatively. “It’s a pleasure to meet him at any time, with or without his clothes. And in spite of his many duties, he still has a great deal of energy left for the bedroom. Ah, youth! Is this the first time you’ve seem two men together, Edrahil?” The boy could only nod. “What did you think of it?”

“I hardly know,” Edrahil replied. “It was so unexpected. I felt awfully foolish barging in that way. And I didn’t know you could – that men could – I didn’t know it was possible!”

“Oh, it’s eminently possible,” Mithrandir said. “And highly enjoyable too, if it’s done right. Now, I’m in the mood for a long, brisk walk. As Beregond guessed, the downstairs bedroom is for you. You’ll find a vase of fresh lubenas flowers on the shelf. Enjoy yourselves!”

Then he left.

And that, Merry, is how I met my first lover. We made love in Mithrandir’s guest bedroom. We made love twice – once that afternoon and again next morning after we woke. We did not do all the things that men do together. We couldn’t. I was bruised and sore from Boromir’s rough usage, and I couldn’t bring myself to use Edrahil the same way. Yet, loving him with my hands and my mouth, I passed some of the happiest hours of my life. Just kissing him, and being kissed by him, brought me joy I’d never expected to know. And of course we thought this was only the start of our lovemaking. We foresaw a life-age of lovemaking ahead of us.

It was not so. By noon the next day, my father had found out.

My father, the Steward of Gondor. He is dead and I will not speak of him now. He had spies everywhere. A company was leaving for Ithilien next day. Edrahil was sent with them. Three months later, word came that he’d been killed after a single week.

You will say, and rightly, that this tragedy boded ill for Mithrandir’s great work. I certainly thought so at the time. When I begged my father to send me to Ithilien, it was in hopes that I would die there myself, as my beautiful Edrahil had died. I did go to Ithilien. But I did not die. Instead, over long years and much hardship, I built the company that fulfilled Mithrandir’s dream. And it, in its turn, built me.

This is the torch I am passing to you, Meriadoc Brandybuck, the last of my lovers. When you and I comforted one another in the Houses of Healing, we still feared that war might sweep away all that we cared for. Now, to my great joy, I see you setting out into a world of boundless hope and newly won peace. You must take our torch into that world! You must shine its light on the many who now have a chance to grow and prosper!

Wherever you go, my love will go with you. So too will the love of my Éowyn, standing here beside me. She knows the true measure of your courage, none better. It is because of your courage that she can read this letter today and know our story. We both know you will find your heart’s desire in a world that will welcome all you have to give.

Go, my dear Merry. And be blessed.

Your loving Faramir

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