Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 11: VENGEANCE

The sound of the marketplace was comforting to Faramir as he walked down the long aisles of wares; it helped him forget that the war was not going well. The dark lord’s forces outnumbered them, even if his forces were distinctly inferior. Faramir was well known among the stallkeepers, and they all welcomed his presence. There were many offers of free wares to the youngest son of the Steward, but he usually laughed and turned them aside. Occasionally, he would give in and a merchant would be blessed with extra customers for a while. Boromir had been detained by the armsmaster, but hopefully would be joining him soon.

He stopped at a fruit stand and was gifted a large ripe peach. Closing his eyes as he bit into it, he imagined his brother licking the juice from his chin, as he would when they were in private. With a smile, he decided to buy some more for his brother on his way back. He was cleaning the last of the juices from the fruit from his fingers when he noticed Beregond, one of the men from his troop, talking earnestly with an attractive young woman. She seemed quite upset with him, arguing quietly until a child’s cry made her turn with an air of finality and go to the crying child. With a last exasperated look at her retreating back, Beregond started back towards the barracks.

“What is wrong Beregond?” Faramir asked.

Startled, the man jumped at his captain’s voice. “It is nothing, my lord,” he answered shyly.

“We both know better than that, my friend,” Faramir told him, taking him by the arm and leading him to a nearby inn. They were both silent until after their drinks were in hand.

“Tell me,” Faramir ordered.

“That was my betrothed,” he said. “She is talking about breaking off our relationship if I don’t leave the army. Both her brothers were killed in the last year, as was her father two years ago. Our son is nearly two and she is talking about leaving Minas Tirith to start a new life, taking him with her. I can’t abandon my duty, my lord. I will not live my life without honor, but without them I don’t know what I will do.”

“You should have come to Boromir or me long ago,” Faramir told him. “There is always a need for trusted men in the tower guard. In fact, I’ve received a request for a transfer out. It should be a simple matter of exchanging positions. Let me speak to my brother, maybe we can have a surprise for your lady by the end of the week.”

A very relieved Beregond sat and drank companionably with his captain. They talked idly while Faramir leaned back against the wall and watched the people passing by the opened double doors of the inn. Children played in the shade of a shop across the way, their laughter barely audible beneath the other noises of street and tavern. He loved watching children, often stopping by the orphanages, which were too full from the long war. It had become his chosen duty to make sure that all the children of Minas Tirith, and as much as possible, Gondor, were safe and cared for. He regularly checked on his brother’s and his own offspring. If one or both of their parents died, a suitable replacement was found for them. He often wished that he could keep them all himself, but he was too often in the field or spending long days in endless meetings. He believed children needed plenty of attention, and did his best to make sure as many as possible were cared for.

On a sudden impulse, he rose and headed to the door. It had been a long time since he had checked out the back alleys and poorer sections of the lower city. Sometimes those who worked as his agents missed children who were new to the city and unaware of the protection he extended to them. Without being told, Beregond followed Faramir. The two men walked the busy streets; occasionally, children would come out of the crowds and greet Faramir, usually by hugging him as best they could. He always laughed and returned their hugs, spending a few moments with all who came to him.

As they reached the poorest section of the city, the children were more reserved, but equally happy to see him. It was almost silent here, as most activity this time of day was in the marketplace. There had been very few incidents of outright child abuse since he’d dealt with Garus’ father so long ago, and he personally hadn’t been involved with any of them. Word had spread that there was no tolerance for it in the city; those who violated this unwritten law tended to disappear.

A scream cut through the air and Faramir felt a release of tension in his shoulders, as if it was the signal he had been waiting for. He was unaware of the loosening of his gait or the way his hands checked all of his weapons for readiness. Beregond watched his Captain with a rising feeling of dread. They had all seen him as he prepared for battle, and recognized the slightly glazed look that came to his eyes. There had also been rumors, ones spoken in whispers and never in the hearing of the Steward or his sons.

“My lord,” Beregond called as Faramir increased his speed. There wasn’t even a slight hesitation in the man he followed. There were no more screams but a steady weeping, accompanied by a man’s angry cursing, grew louder. They turned the corner into a small courtyard to the sight of outrageous violence. Several ragged children huddled in the arms of a bruised and frightened woman helplessly watching as a very large man attempted to kick what looked like a bundle of bloody rags in the corner. A blonde-haired boy of about fourteen was doing his best to interfere and getting kicked himself in the process.

“I don’t think you really want to continue what you’re doing,” Faramir said in a cold voice, noticing with satisfaction that the man wore a sword and some armor.

Slapping the blonde boy as he turned, the man glared at Faramir. “This is my family and I will discipline them as I see fit,” he growled. “No castle dandy is going to stop me either.” His hand went to the hilt of his sword.

With a feeling of satisfaction, Faramir drew his own sword. “No?” he questioned as he advanced.

Looking around frantically for help, Beregond saw some grimy faces peering around the corner. Fortunately, at his gesture one of the watching children came forward. “Fetch Captain Boromir,” he said quietly. “Hurry.”

Four of the larger children peeled off from the group and headed toward the marketplace. The rest of them eased around the corner to better see their champion as he faced the stranger. The clash of steel filled the small area as the man attempted to cut at Faramir. Beregond was briefly mesmerized as he watched his Captain in a less than life threatening situation.

It took very little time for it to become obvious that the other man didn’t have a chance, at least to everyone except the man. Faramir downplayed his own ability with the sword enough to keep him interested, but still marked the man with every flick of his blade. It was an uneven and bloody encounter.

Beregond moved to stand between the combatants and the woman and children, helping the blonde boy move the battered child to her side. He prayed that Boromir wouldn’t be long; it would be disastrous if Faramir killed the man, which was probably his intention from the way he behaved.

Finally, the bully realized that he was being toyed with. His eyes darted about for avenues of escape, or possible hostages, but there was nothing to avail him. Stepping back a few paces, Faramir began tapping his boot toe with the tip of his sword, watching the man with the cold, deadly eyes of a killer. At each of the man’s moves, he countered with a bare flick of steel, drawing blood and adding to the growing panic in his target.

The sound of heavy footfalls approaching brought a sigh of relief to Beregond, and a brief glimmer of hope to the man’s eyes. Faramir didn’t react at all, recognizing his brother’s tread.

“Faramir, what are you doing?” Boromir asked.

“I’m going to kill him, brother,” was the calm answer.

The man fell to his knees and began crying at Faramir’s words. Everyone else was shocked into silence. Stepping forward a little, the younger brother prodded the man with his sword, bringing forth squeals and more blood.

“Isn’t there another way we can deal with this?” Boromir tried, a sick feeling in his stomach at the emotionless tone. Glancing around the courtyard, he saw Beregond with the woman and children, making it clear to him what had happened.

“I don’t think so, Boromir,” Faramir answered, stepping back from the man a pace.

Moving as close as he could to his brother without touching him, Boromir whispered in his ear. “Don’t do this in front of the children, brother, they have already gone through enough.”

“Maybe they want to see this as much as I do,” Faramir said, turning his head slightly to look at the ones in question.

“Did you, brother?” Boromir asked.

“Yes,” he answered, looking his brother in the eyes so he could see the truth of his answer. “But not at your hands.” His sword reached out, quickly nicking the man’s leg as he tried to escape.

Boromir sighed, realizing that there were few options for him. He couldn’t let Faramir kill the man here, but he couldn’t stop him. “Let him run, brother, you can hunt him down. There will be too many questions if you kill him here.”

Faramir let the point of his sword drop a little. “You won’t let anyone interfere?”

“I’ll have Beregond escort him to the gate, making sure he stops nowhere along the way. No one will interfere,” he promised.

“You have to let me get supplies,” the man cried out at Boromir’s words.

“You won’t live long enough to need supplies,” the older brother told him. “My brother is trained as an Ithilien Ranger. He will find you and kill you.”

“Give him a three hour head start, brother,” Faramir said, giving in just a little. “That will give me time to see to the safety of the children.”

At Boromir’s nod, Beregond took the man’s arm and began hurrying him out of the city. Both brothers turned to look at the woman huddled with her children.

“Are you going to kill my father?” the blonde boy asked, his eyes defiant.

Faramir wiped his sword clean on his pants and put it in the sheath before stepping towards the boy. He ran a soothing hand down the boy’s cheek before answering. “He is not your father; my brother is,” he said looking at the woman. “Isn’t he?”

“Yes, my lord,” she answered, fear clear in her voice. “He wouldn’t let me say anything, my lord. He wouldn’t let me.” She began crying uncontrollably, and the boy cradled her in his arms.

“It will be alright,” Boromir said. “We will take care of everything.”

Boromir lay on the bed, waiting for his brother. The children and their mother had been settled with a widower, the marriage father of one of Faramir’s sons. Without Boromir seeing any messages being sent, several young women showed up to help, armed with baskets of clothing and food. They would have a trial period to make sure they would get along, but it looked like they would already.

The blonde boy was named Keril, and was Boromir’s oldest son at the age of sixteen. The boy was small for his age, probably from lack of proper nourishment. Boromir had always had a weakness for prostitutes, but thought that he’d monitored all of his encounters. After a few minutes in her company, he had remembered her from his first extended patrol. Faramir had insisted for years that there was another child of his out there somewhere. He claimed he could hear him crying in the night. Now Boromir would never be able to doubt his brother’s visions again, no matter how unlikely they seemed.

The changeover for Beregond had also been implemented and a house picked out for the young guardsman’s family. His request could not have been made at a better time. He would be able to protect the brothers’ interests when they were in the field, as they had assigned him to be in charge of the security of their suite.

Faramir had bathed in unscented water, and dressed in clothes he would wear scouting in the wilderness. His eyes had been flat with rage when he left, and Boromir was given a view of his brother he had never suspected existed. He didn’t know what to make of the angry, vengeful man he’d seen.

Sighing, he got up and went to pour himself a drink. It was rare that he had been drunk, but he felt like being drunk now. He knew the answers to his questions were far in the past, before the journals, for Faramir was strict about keeping them. He knew he might be able to get answers from Maran, Garus, or even Lani but he wanted to hear them from his brother. Their bond was important to him, and he felt just a little betrayed by the day’s revelations. Faramir had never lied to him, he was sure of that much.

It was well past midnight when the door opening and closing signaled the return of his brother. The smell of blood was strong about him, as well as the smell of victory. Faramir looked at him with partially glazed eyes and handed him a pouch. “Give this to your eldest son, my nephew, if he should ask. I want him to truly know that I have done as I have promised.”

“Did he have a tattoo?” Boromir asked, his voice slurring.

“Just a distinctive scar,” his brother answered. “You’re drunk.”

“Just a little,” he said, rising from the bed and throwing the pouch on a dressing table. “I was waiting for you.” He poured himself another drink, and one for Faramir. “Come, join me.”

Reluctantly, Faramir took the proffered drink, but turned away from his brother. “There are things I haven’t told you. Things from before the journals.”

“I have already guessed as much,” Boromir said with a sharp bark of laughter. He drank his wine in one swallow and set the glass down. Pulling his brother back against him by his hips, Boromir whispered in his ear. “You have bared your soul to me every day since you were fourteen. I never asked you what went on before then. I’m not going to ask you now. But I would welcome you telling me anything you want me to know. You are my most beloved one, the reason I exist.” He kissed Faramir’s neck and brought his arms up so that they crossed on his chest.

Pulling away from his brother’s embrace and setting his untasted drink on the table, Faramir was unable to stifle the sobs that broke from his throat. “I do not deserve your love,” he cried. “I’m as base and mean as father always said I was. Such poor material for a warrior such as yourself to cleave to. I killed Garus’ father because I couldn’t kill my own. Now I have killed Keril’s stepfather for the same reasons. Not for them, not for the children who bled and suffered at their hands. For me. To take revenge on a man who will never know. To punish someone who will never feel the touch of my blade, who I will never touch in anger or violence. I don’t know how you could ever forgive someone as selfish and cruel as I.”

Boromir put his arms around his brother, pulling him close and kissing his neck again. “I don’t forgive you, my love. There is nothing to forgive, you are the best person I have ever known, and I know that everything you have done was right.” He didn’t let him pull away this time, but turned him in his arms and claimed his mouth before showering his face with gentle kisses.

Faramir melted into the kisses that his brother pressed on him. There was nothing else he would rather do. It was a relief to tell him of Garus’ father, whose name he still did not know, didn’t want to know. It was a relief to tell him how he really felt. “I love you, my brother,” he said. “I will do anything for you.”

“And I would do anything for you, my sweetest love,” Boromir whispered in his ear. “Let me show you how much I love you.” For several long minutes he kissed his brother deeply, pulling him as close as he could.

Boromir’s hands were gentle and sure as they slowly removed his brother’s clothes. His mouth followed close behind kissing and licking, soft and tender. Faramir cried out at the feeling, arching his back into his brother’s touch. As Boromir’s mouth swallowed his cock, he cried out again. Then, after withdrawing it slowly, the older brother began kissing and licking its length and the tightened ball sack below. Faramir felt his knees giving way and his weight settling into his brother’s strong arms. He was gently lowered to the floor and the hands that held him began delivering soothing caresses. Boromir kept his touches soft but firm, urging his brother gently. He kissed his stomach and then his thigh, turning back to swallow his cock and suck it just a little, before releasing it again. Faramir could only cry out in need, his brother’s tender torture almost more than he could bear.

Moving slowly back up his body, Boromir rubbed against him and covered him with soft kisses and wet licks. Again he claimed his mouth, but with gentleness not often found in their kisses. He captured Faramir’s legs with his own and rubbed his still clothed pelvis against his brother’s arousal. “Let me love you brother,” he whispered in his ear, then ran his tongue around the edge and into the center.

“Please,” Faramir cried out. “Fuck me, brother. I need you in me now.”

“Shh,” Boromir told him. “Let me show you how much I love you.” He continued his tender ministrations, Faramir a captive to his soft caresses. Slowly he began moving back down his body, his hands and mouth gently torturing the aroused body beneath him. He spent an eternity at each nipple, leaving them red and puckered even though he’d been oh so soft. Faramir screamed in ecstasy as his belly button received the same treatment. His cock was rock hard and leaking as Boromir swallowed it again.

Easing his arms beneath Faramir’s legs, he sat on the floor and pulled his body up so that he could lick the long crack of his ass and press his tongue against the tight ring. Both of Boromir’s hands were wrapped around his brother’s cock, gently squeezing it, one thumb softly rubbing the weeping head. It was as his brother’s tongue breached the tight ring of his ass that Faramir felt the waves of his orgasm begin. His cock shot forth thick streams of semen that covered him as he arched uncontrollably and screamed again. Boromir continued his soft caresses and the gentle work of his tongue until he felt his brother’s body relax completely.

Lowering him to the floor, he looked at the incredibly sexy sight of his naked brother lying there with his eyes heavy lidded. Rising to his knees, Boromir opened his pants just enough to free his raging erection. He used some of the pooled semen on Faramir’s stomach to lubricate himself, then grabbed his brother’s legs and pushed them to his chest.

“I’m going to fuck you now, brother,” he said in a low growl, sinking his cock into the tight ass in a hard thrust. He leaned down and bit his neck hard, drawing blood, taking his brother with lustful abandon.

Faramir screamed again, not in pain, but in lust. He screamed his brother’s name and clawed his back as he pushed against the engorged cock that impaled him. He screamed louder as he came again, feeling the hot bursts of semen his brother released deep within him. Then he closed his eyes and let darkness overcome him.

A chill went down Denethor’s back and settled in his stomach as he read the detailed report. His agent had followed the stranger from the city and watched Faramir track him, herding him like an animal to where he wanted him to be. Then his son had taken a very long time in bringing about the man’s painful death. The description of the screams alone was enough to make his stomach sour. Then he had taken a trophy of his victim and returned to the tower.

He knew without a doubt whom Faramir was thinking of as he tortured the man to death. It made his bowels clench in fear to think of how dangerous and vicious his sweet and biddable son could be. The images of violence and rage overlaid the placid features, the screams of his victim drowning out the calm voice in his memories.

It could have been him. It should have been him. But he knew that his son would never harm him. If he were to take up his cane and beat Faramir again, he would just accept. And maybe others would die. They would deserve it, but it would be because of him. Because his son was obedient and loyal. And a killer.

Looking out at the pale light of dawn, he tried to calm himself. He didn’t want his sons to know that he was aware of what had happened. Their relationship had improved greatly, but there was a precarious balance that had to be kept. An unspoken conspiracy of silence they all knew about, and moved around with caution.

He would not delay seeing them; the anticipation would only grate on his nerves. Rising to examine his face in the mirror, he schooled his expression to one of stately calm, much like Faramir’s in his father’s presence. There was no going back to correct mistakes made in the past. He could only look forward to the future and hope that he could overcome the after effects.

Only the slightest falter of Faramir’s step as he entered the room betrayed to Denethor that his son knew. He didn’t meet his father’s eyes, but continued to his place at his left hand side, the deep bite mark on his neck clearly visible. Boromir’s eyes were cold, but without condemnation, as he sat at his father’s right. They both knew, even though he couldn’t think of anything that he could have done that had betrayed his own knowledge.

There were no questions or remarks about the matter and for once he was glad of the chatter of his advisors who had been invited to breakfast with them. He could turn his thoughts to other subjects as he ate, ignoring the churning in his stomach. Only those who knew them well could see the hidden tension in the three men. Garus, Stefle and Galmar, each serving their masters with extra care, trying to pretend that all was well.

The meal was interminable, but by the end of it the tension had eased. They knew that they could go on without revealing their secrets. There would be no confrontations. He would ask them nothing, they would volunteer nothing. They would stay at peace with each other.

For now.

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