Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 12: THE BLADE’S EDGE

Faramir sat on the bed he shared with his brother in the small room they’d claimed for their own in Henneth Annûn. He was undressed except for his pants, which Boromir had cut open to the hip on his injured leg, as they’d recently finished cleaning each other’s wounds. There had been heavy loses at the last battle and Boromir had gone to give what comfort he could to the injured. He’d ordered Faramir to remain here and rest.

It seemed that every time they started to make any real progress, their enemy would surprise them with some new terror. This time they’d only escaped total disaster because Faramir and the other archers had been able to blind the oliphants with their arrows. No one had ever seen such legendary monsters before.

Unable to settle enough to read, he sat up and took out the knife his father had gifted him. He kept it razor sharp, as he kept all his weapons. It had begun to figure prominently in his nightmares as the weapon that saved him from the shadowy figure that pursued him. Without thinking, he drew it across one of the stitches Boromir had put in the long gash in his leg. The threads parted easily, and he picked them out. Little chills went up his back as he pulled them. But his mind was miles away, thinking of the ever more threatening nature of his nightmares as well as all the comrades that had died this day. While he pictured his own helplessness and despair, his hands were busy undoing his brother’s careful work.

When the last stitch came free, he began making small cuts along his leg. The sharp pain was comforting, the light trickle of blood soothing. He moved on to the red patches of scar tissue along his arms and chest as all thought left him. He felt himself becoming aroused and began cutting his pants away.

The sound of the door closing broke the spell. “What are you doing?” Boromir asked, his eyes wide in shock.

Faramir dropped the knife and looked down at his body, confusion plain on his face. “I don’t know,” he answered.

Crossing to the bed and kneeling at his brother’s feet, Boromir took up the knife and placed it safely out of the way. He examined the now gaping leg slash and all of the little cuts his brother had put on himself. It was also impossible not to notice his growing erection, which jerked as Boromir looked at it. “Don’t they hurt?” he asked, trying to understand.

“Yes,” Faramir said, his voice husky with lust, “and no.” He ran one hand across the bloody wounds and pushed the other through his brother’s hair. “It makes me want you, brother,” he whispered. “I want you now.” Leaning forward and pulling Boromir to him, he kissed his mouth with avid hunger.

Boromir wasn’t repulsed by his brother’s actions, but he was unsure if he should actively participate in them. “Let me sew your leg back up first,” he said to delay him.

“No,” Faramir growled, biting his brother’s neck. “I can’t wait, I need you now.” He ripped Boromir’s shirt, pushing it off of his shoulders.

Grabbing his hands and forcing them behind his back, Boromir looked at him in surprise. Faramir struggled, rubbing his body against his brother’s. They wrestled on the bed, fighting for control. Suddenly, Boromir was seized by a lust almost as great as his brother’s and they were ripping off the last remnants of clothing. They slicked Boromir’s cock with Faramir’s blood and the older brother took the younger with a brutal thrust. It was quick and violent and messy. They held each other tightly when it was over, shedding tears of anguish.

Slowly, Boromir rose from the bed and retrieved fresh water and rags to clean them up. A quick wipe was sufficient for the cuts he’d made himself, but Faramir’s leg required restitching. When he finished, Faramir took the needle and thread and resewed a couple of stitches that had torn loose on Boromir’s side. They spread healing salve over each other and threw the cleaning rags and remnants of their clothing into a corner.

“What now, brother?” Faramir asked as his brother lay down beside him.

“I have to talk to father,” he answered, pulling him close. “I need you to supervise a scouting expedition to the south. We don’t want to be caught like that again. It’s too bad we had to abandon the outpost across the river from Pelargir.”

“I won’t let you down, brother,” Faramir told him.

“You never do, beloved one,” Boromir replied. “Just don’t cut yourself.”

“I’m not sure I can promise you that, brother,” Faramir said, running his hand through his brother’s hair.

“Is there anything I can do?” Boromir asked.

Faramir put his face against Boromir’s shoulder for several long minutes. “You can promise me, brother,” he said, his face still hidden.

“What do you want me to promise, my beloved? “ Boromir asked, a feeling of trepidation in his heart.

Leaning his head back, Faramir looked his brother in the eyes. “Promise that when I get back you will cut me yourself,” he told him.

“What?” Boromir asked, not really surprised.

“It isn’t very different from what we do in the sword dances, brother,” Faramir whispered, his hand moving to his face. “You know how good that feels.”

Closing his eyes, Boromir groaned at his words. He knew how good it felt, he could feel himself wanting it too. “We have to be careful, brother,” he said, opening his eyes and looking into Faramir’s. “We are fighting almost daily, and the blood loss could be dangerous. I wouldn’t want to weaken you before battle.”

Rubbing his newly erect cock against his brother’s, Faramir kissed his lips. “We will wait until we return to Minas Tirith, brother mine,” he said, nibbling on his lips. “We will go to our garden.” His hand moved to pull their bodies closer. “If there is enough time we can do a sword dance, and if not we will be creative.”

They moved together in slow sensuous actions, long tender strokes. The desperation had receded from their hearts and they let their love control their bodies. In the privacy of their room, they held back the darkness.

Boromir crossed the river at Cair Andros, to join up with the remnants of the heavy cavalry that had retreated to the west bank of the Anduin the day of the battle. He reassigned most of the men to other full units operating in Southern Gondor and Anorien. Taking only his personal armsmen with him, he hurried to Minas Tirith to report to his father.

Faramir, with a select group of twenty Ithilien Rangers, went directly south through the rugged forests and hills of Ithilien. The Rangers had always held his skill in awe, for he had been raised in the city and was as good as they were. Boromir was almost as good, but his larger size and bulkier muscles suited him better for cavalry.

The sweep he wanted to make of Southern Ithilien would take at least a week. Faramir wanted to go as far south as possible without being discovered, and get as many details as possible. He was hoping to find good ambush points along the trail from Harad.

Sitting alone in his study, Denethor considered all that his son had told him. They had been as hard pressed as this before, but not for a very long time. That the Haradrim were bringing the mumakil into play was a very bad sign. He would have some of the records of previous encounters with the beasts brought out of the archives to aid in stopping them.

Their worst problem at the moment was morale. There was no way to hide the loss of life in the last few months, especially this last disaster. And any attempt to hide it would only serve to cause more unrest. The harvest had been good this year, he could always call for a festival to celebrate that, but it was so out of character of him to do such, that it might look like the sop to the people’s feelings that it was.

A knock at the door intruded on his deadlocked thoughts and, with an exasperated sigh, he called for them to enter – only to be sunken to new depths of irritation by the identity of his visitor. “What do you want now, wizard?” he asked rudely.

Not waiting for the invitation that he knew wouldn’t come, Mithrandir took a seat before the Steward’s desk. He fussed with his pipe, ignoring the frown of disdain on his host’s face, before answering. “I’ve come to render what aid I can in this latest push from Mordor.”

“Mayhap you’re going to stand on the peak of the White Tower and cast spells that will keep the accursed and their allies in their own lands?” Denethor asked sneeringly.

“I would if I could,” was the answer. “But for now I thought a little fireworks display to brighten a harvest festival would be almost as good. The people, after all, are the real strength of Gondor.”

“Do not tell me what I already know, Gandalf,” the Steward rebuffed. “How shall I explain to the families of the newly dead that we are suddenly holding a celebration that we haven’t held in over twenty years while their sons lie in their cold graves?”

“You have built yourself a bit of a problem there, Denethor,” the wizard answered. “Thorongil told you it was a bad idea to stop the festivals; now you search for excuses to bring cheer and comfort to your people.” He continued despite the furious sputtering of the man. “Fortunately, I have brought just such an excuse with me. Théoden King has seen fit to allow his nephew Éomer to accompany me to your fine city. Since he is in consideration for the hand of your niece-by-marriage, Lothiriel, and second in line for the throne of your strongest ally, not to mention Third Marshall of the Riddermark, a feast would be most appropriate at this time.”

“I suppose Boromir has already installed him into his suite of rooms?” Denethor asked, still angry with the wizard.

“I imagine that is where he dragged him off to,” was the answer, “though they were most restrained in their greetings. Boromir was almost as reserved as you; it was quite amusing to watch. Especially when you take into consideration how much he will make up for it when they are alone.” Mithrandir couldn’t help the teasing remark. He had never cared for Denethor and what he had done to his youngest son had pushed his feelings dangerously close to disrespect.

“You go too far,” the Steward told him in an angry voice. “Keep your speculations about my son to yourself. About both my sons. I will not have you or anyone else subject them to rumor and scandal. They have brought more to this kingdom than any before them.”

“I’m glad to see that you are finally beginning to appreciate their contributions,” the wizard said. “As for rumor and scandal, the stories about them have spread far and wide, not with derision, but with respect. Their methods may be unorthodox, but they have managed to unite the people of Gondor closer than ever before. Even in Anorien, where over one hundred people were put to death for treason just two years ago, they have garnered the loyalty of the populace and the ruling families to almost fanatical levels. Their offspring are everywhere as well, low and high born. Even here, there are changes. Lothiriel asked, did she not, to be left at your court until her marriage? And her parents, known for their protectiveness, allowed it.” Gandalf paused in his tirade, to look with sadness at the Steward. “No one in Gondor, and probably in Rohan, would denigrate your sons, for it would most likely mean stoning by an angry mob.”

“I know you are right,” Denethor said. “But still, we walk a narrow line, my sons and I. We have reached an agreement of sorts and I will not have you and your interfering ways break the peace between us. Let it be, Gandalf.”

“As you wish, my lord Steward,” he replied. “Shall we set it for a week hence, that will give plenty of time for a large gathering?”

“And Faramir should have returned by then, he would be pleased by a festival,” Denethor said. At the wizard’s surprised look he went on. “Things have changed between us.”

“So a week from today?” Mithrandir asked.

Éomer was somewhat put off by the tall stone walls of the city and the less than warm reception he had received from Boromir. He followed him up the seemingly endless stairs to the rooms close to the top of the tower. He carried nothing since the small army of servants had gathered all of his baggage and made off with it at a speed that astonished. It gave him an eerie feeling.

Finally, they reached their destination and as soon as the doors to the brothers’ private suite were closed, Boromir pulled him into his arms. “I have missed you greatly, my wild one,” he said into his neck, kissing and licking his way to the full lips waiting his attentions.

“I was beginning to wonder if you even knew me,” Éomer said, not quite appeased by Boromir’s words.

“I’m sorry, my golden one,” Boromir added. “My father would skin us both if we made any public displays. But I will make it up to you.” Before Éomer could respond, he was whisked into the bedroom and their clothes were almost magically dropped to the floor. “I want you now,” Boromir growled as he brought them both down onto the bed. “I want you in me, my prince.”

Filled with desire for the man beneath him, Éomer lifted one of Boromir’s legs and began easing his hard and leaking cock into Boromir’s tight ass. If Boromir hadn’t shown him how it was done, he would never have believed it could be done so painlessly with only his own precum as lubrication. Moving slowly at first, then with greater speed, he was oblivious to anything other than the man beneath him. They fit together so perfectly. Éomer thrust into Boromir with all his strength, mindless with lust. It was hard and fast, and they both cried out their release.

As they lay panting on the bed beside each other, Éomer was surprised that there were three servants moving quietly about the room putting his belongings away. Leaning up on one elbow, Éomer looked around the large room, idly trailing a finger through the semen on Boromir’s belly. It was bright and airy with a large balcony looking to the north.

One of the servants came to the bed carrying a bowl of water and some cleaning cloths. With practiced ease, he began cleaning them as they lay there. Éomer was a bit shocked by the unexpected familiarity.

“This is Garus,” Boromir told him, watching the man blush at his introduction. “He is the one who brought us back to health after our infamous boar hunt.”

“I am pleased to meet you,” the prince said, smiling at the now furiously blushing man.

“Thank you, your highness,” he said. “We have fresh clothing awaiting you both, the Steward will be expecting you.”

“Ah yes, father,” Boromir said sitting up. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Where is Faramir?” Éomer asked as he began dressing.

“In Southern Ithilien, scouting,” Boromir answered.

“Isn’t that territory held by the enemy?”

“Yes, but we have to know more about what is coming up out of the south,” Boromir said. “We took heavy losses a few days ago, and if anyone can find out what is going on it’s my brother. He should be back any day now.”

“It will be good to see him,” Éomer said.

“How are your sister and cousin, are they making good use of the swordmaster I sent them?” Boromir inquired.

“Éowyn is beside herself with rage,” Éomer laughed. “Despite being the swordmaster’s favorite because of her skill, my uncle won’t let her ride with the shield maidens. He says it might spoil her chances of finding a civilized husband. I think it is because of that new advisor he has. A slyer snake I’ve never seen, but I’m considered too young to be knowledgeable about such things.”

“Father has agreed to send me to Rohan next spring to talk to Théoden King about a marriage agreement,” Boromir told him. “If I can’t influence him to let her ride, maybe I can get rid of this snaky advisor for you,” he offered.

Éomer laughed. “If it were only so easy; let’s go pay our respects to your father.”

“Afterward you can meet my cousin Lothiriel,” Boromir added. “I think you will like her. She is no shield maiden, but I’ve seen her shred vaunted scholars with her tongue alone.” He paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Some of the other things she can do with her tongue are pretty miraculous as well.”

As she watched Éomer give Boromir a most spectacular blowjob, Lothiriel mused on the changes in her life since she’d met her sexy cousins a little over ten years ago. Despite her parents’ belief that they had been strictly hands off, things were not always as they appeared. Once they had recovered sufficiently from their injuries, the brothers had visited her in her bedroom for a part of every night. Because of her young age, they had not indulged in anything more than heavy petting, but it had been fun and informative. Prior to her indoctrination by them, the idea of sharing her lovers, let alone her husband, was something completely against her nature. In fact, she had never shared anything other than her thoughts in her life.

They had written regularly, and she had been informed of their relationship with Éomer when the horsemaster and shield maiden had arrived to take up service with her. There had been other instructors; each with practical lessons that her parents could appreciate and other, private lessons, intended to make her more receptive to what the brothers wanted.

It had worked. As she watched one of her perspective husbands pleasure her oldest cousin, she reaffirmed in her heart that she would do anything they requested of her. When she balked at their requests, they would show her why it was in her best interest, and the best interest of Gondor. And Gondor was of prime importance to all of their plans.

As always, Boromir came beautifully, and Éomer shared a kiss with her that tasted of the semen he had milked from the older man’s cock. It was what she wanted, what she longed for. She leaned forward, drowning in the intense heat of the Third Marshal’s arms, and Boromir lazily traced the tattoo on her right shoulder that matched the one on his and his brother’s. They belonged to Gondor, and the king.

Before he reached Osgiliath, Faramir knew that Éomer and Mithrandir were in Minas Tirith and that a festival was planned in the prince’s honor. The trek to the south had taken longer than planned, but he had gleaned enough information to make a difference for several months. It would be good to return home, especially with two of his favorite people visiting and another already in residence. Not to mention his beloved brother, who he missed despite their shared dreams. Even though Boromir didn’t care much for the wizard, they both enjoyed Éomer and Lothiriel. It was looking to be a good week all around.

The ride across the Pelennor took less time than the long journey through the city to the White Tower. The sight of his brother and Éomer waiting for him brightened his heart, but he had to report to his father before he could properly greet them. As they walked down the long hall to Denethor’s study, Éomer suddenly grabbed him and kissed him soundly.

“I was beginning to worry about you,” he whispered against his neck as he gave Faramir a warm embrace.

“Me too,” Boromir said, claiming his own quick kiss. Faramir laughed at their impatience, then sobered as they reached his father’s study.

Denethor allowed Éomer to stay for the briefing, as he was a close ally. Catching the furtive glances of his oldest and the young prince, he accepted a brief preliminary report before dismissing them. At least the news was good for once, he mused as he sat contemplating.

The bath that was already waiting for Faramir was almost as hot as the kisses bestowed upon him. Although Boromir and Éomer claimed the right to bathe him, Garus, Saphron and Stefle claimed their own welcoming greeting. Éomer had grown used to the almost constant presence of the three, adjusting to them sleeping in a small bed in the same room. He’d even enjoyed watching Boromir slake his lust on them, once he had grown too tired to continue himself. It wasn’t a thing known in the Riddermark, but there were a couple of servants he might consider training in this way.

As always, the first sight of Faramir’s scars was a bit shocking. Boromir quickly removed the stitches that were still in the leg wound. “I’m glad you left these in this time, brother,” he commented.

“I’ve kept my promise, are you ready to keep yours?” he asked.

“Yes, brother,” Boromir said, picking a leaf out of Faramir’s hair. “Especially since it looks like you had to crawl through the bushes to get here.”

“What are you two planning now?” Éomer asked, looking at his now wet clothes and deciding to strip.

“He wants to go play with knives,” Boromir said, running his hand over the new pink scars on Faramir’s chest.

Éomer looked at the marks. “Did you get tired of waiting for your enemies to cut you?” he asked, and then got into the oversized tub with him. Sliding close to Faramir, he took him in his arms, hungry for his touch. The scars on Faramir’s chest alone were almost too many to count. He’d seen them cut each other in a sword dance and had sex with them afterward in the heat of their and his blood; this would be little different as far as he was concerned. Right now, he wanted to make love to the man in his arms.

The light from the curtained window was enough to see without lighting a lamp. Denethor made his way through the semidarkness, looking for a book he was sure had been left here. The long unused room was dusty with neglect, and he finally sighted his quarry by the window. The leather bound cover was cracked with age, but the pages were still clearly readable, all done in the neat handwriting of Thorongil. He hated to use the book, but it had the most concise information on dealing with Haradrim and their terrifying mumakil.

A noise from outside caught his attention. This level of the tower was fairly close to the ground level and the window overlooked a couple of small gardens. Parting the curtain, he looked to see what was below. The sight was shocking to him. His sons and the prince were all three naked and on a blanket in the middle of a small lawn. Faramir lay on his back and the others sat on either side of him, each with a knife in one hand.

As he watched, Boromir used the tip of his knife to draw a pattern in one of the ugly red squares on his brother’s chest. When he finished, he leaned down to kiss and lick at the new wound, Faramir arching beneath him, clearly aroused. Then the prince copied the older brother’s example, his free hand going to Faramir’s hard cock.

Boromir lay next to his brother, kissing his mouth and sliding his own erection up against him. Éomer’s hand worked Faramir’s cock energetically and long streams of semen shot up splattering all three. Once again Denethor was caught by the spectacle of his sons, having difficulty turning away from them. With a curse he fled the room, slamming the door. In the hallway he nearly ran into the wizard.

“Ah, Lord Denethor,” Mithrandir said putting a hand on his arm.” I’ve been looking for you.”

“I don’t have time for you now,” the Steward raged, shrugging away from him and rushing down the hall.

The wizard stared after him for a moment, and then turned to the door he had just seen him exit. His eyebrow rose as he recognized the door to Thorongil’s study. Looking to see that the hall was clear, he entered the room. Nothing appeared to be disturbed in the thick dust of the room except by the window.

As he approached it, he heard the sound of laughter. Peeking through the slightly parted curtains, he saw the three men in the garden. He was somewhat amused by their actions and the fact that Denethor had spied them. Then he noticed the blood. It was everywhere and they seemed to revel in it.

The blood brought back terrible memories. Memories of broken young men discarded by their abuser. Most of them had been many years ago, before the marriage of Denethor and Finduilas, dark-haired young men that had born a strong resemblance to Thorongil. But there was another time about ten years back; he had been called upon to help a young man with blond hair that looked much like the youngest son of the Steward. It worried him, what he saw below him, but there was little he could do about it.

A sudden feeling of awareness brought his attention back to the garden. Faramir was openly regarding the window where he stood. Slowly, Mithrandir backed away, wondering if the Steward’s youngest son could truly see him. An elf would have been able to, and Faramir had elvish blood on his mother’s side. Maybe there was much more to this young man than even he suspected.

Faramir moved away from his lovers, eyes fixed on the only window that overlooked their garden. He could feel the presence he had sensed moving away. A second person, for there was not the same feeling of dread that had passed over him just before the faint sound of the distant door slamming. It had clouded his mind as his brother and Éomer brought him to climax. Chills went down his spine as he surmised who that first observer was. The second didn’t seem important.

“Boromir,” he said as he turned. “You need to ask father for the little study.” Thinking swiftly, he pondered an acceptable use for the room. “Tell him you would like a private library, so that we can keep the books and records important to our work in order. But ask him when you are alone, he will be less likely to refuse you then.”

“You’re sure that someone was in there after all these years?” Boromir asked.

“Absolutely positive,” he told him.

“Is it something we have to worry about?” Éomer asked.

“Not now,” Faramir stated. “But it is best if we keep it from happening again.” He looked at his companions, who were still somewhat aroused. Going to his knees between them he put a hand to each face. “I have left you two unfinished with my alarm. Do you want to continue here or return to our room?”

Boromir grabbed his brother and lowered him to the ground. “I am not worried about voyeurs, no matter who they are. I want you now.” He rubbed the head of his cock against the tight ring of his brother’s ass until it hardened completely. Thrusting into him, Boromir set a quick pace. Éomer watched the two brothers, fisting his own cock. They were so beautiful together, he could spend his whole day just watching them.

Even if Denethor’s stiff manner wouldn’t have betrayed his earlier presence in the room overlooking their garden, the book on the corner of his desk did. Faramir had been considering getting it himself, even though his father had forbidden him to enter the room. It was a small part of the reason that he wanted Boromir to ask for it. Taking his seat beside his brother, he kept his expression neutral as he waited for his father to speak.

“This is a book written long ago that has information on the Haradrim,” the Steward said, gesturing toward the book. “It should be of help in planning our offensive and defensive measures. You can wait to start reading it until after the festival if you wish. I’m sure that there is too much on your minds now to let you absorb it all.”

“Thank you, father,” Boromir said with a smile, indicating that Faramir should take up the book. “We will make sure that we start it as soon as possible.”

Denethor paused, looking at his desk as if deep in thought. “I’ve decided that you should have a study closer to the great hall,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “You can have the small study that has been unused for so many years.”

“Thank you, father,” Boromir repeated. “We can use the space.”

“As you know, the festival is to take place over three days,” Denethor continued. “My secretary has compiled itineraries for each of us including the prince and princess.” He nodded condescendingly towards Éomer and Lothiriel as he passed the papers with their schedules out. “If there are any alterations necessary I need to know by the end of the day. We have done our best to accommodate all of your requests. Of course, the fireworks each night, culminating in the largest display on the last night, will end each day’s activities. I know that I don’t need to caution any of you on your conduct,” he added, looking at each of them with a stern expression. “The servants have been informed which wines and ales are suitable for plentiful consumption. We don’t need any of us incapacitated by drink.”

“Thank you, father,” Boromir said yet again, even though all of them had renounced drunkenness long ago as it interfered with other things they found more pleasurable.

Denethor studied them dispassionately. He had some knowledge of their arrangements, but not much. He knew that sometime during the day they would all gather together and decide what they would do. His sons were too old for him to control, and their network of spies and lovers covered the entire kingdom and beyond. All of the years he had striven for power, driving many away from him, seemed like such a shallow dream when he looked at them and two of their chief compatriots. They held the real power, the hearts of the people. He knew that it was only at their indulgence that he was even still the Steward. His position was held on the knife’s edge of their approval.

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