Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 13: THE FESTIVAL

The whole city of Minas Tirith and the immediate vicinity had been turned into a giant festival ground for the three-day celebration. The rush of activity surrounding the festival added to the general air of excitement throughout the city. Faramir was enjoying himself immensely, even though he had to spend much of his time without his brother. They were parceling out their time among different events so that no section of the populace would feel ignored. Denethor held court in the White Tower, bestowing gifts and rewards on those deserving. Princess Lothiriel and Prince Éomer spent as much time as they could with the brothers and each other but they, too, adhered to duty by attending as many events as possible.

The brothers’ busy schedules had been carefully planned so that they could attend as many events as possible during the festival. This presented something of a challenge, but it was one they were happy and well-equipped to accept. Minas Tirith was a fortress city that had been planned for defense. There was no way to go directly from the city’s entrance at the Gateway to the inner sanctum of the seventh circle where the White Tower of Ecthelion stood, unless you knew the secrets of the inner passageways. Even then, the passages were narrow and dank, usually only used by those on the business of the kingdom. The brothers knew all of the tunnels, and could appear anywhere in the city they wanted to be in relatively short periods of time.

There were rooms off the passages, small alcoves designed to hold off any attackers that might have gotten within the city, as well as larger storage rooms that held weapons and other supplies. In one of the alcoves, Faramir braced himself against the wall as Boromir drove his cock into his ass. They had been early to their next appointed appearance, now they were going to be late. It had started with just a little kiss, but the excitement of the festival already had their blood pumping. As Boromir grabbed and squeezed Faramir’s cock, they both came. It was a great release after having spent so much time apart fulfilling their festival duties.

During the celebration, they used the tunnels to fill in when they were going to be late to their appointments, letting selected guards guide Éomer and Lothiriel to their own destinations when one of them couldn’t. It had been a point of contention with Denethor, but Boromir had convinced him that it was in their best interests. The Steward stayed close to the tower, and had no need or desire to use the tunnels. As a result, the brothers had made sure that only their own men were stationed within the passages.

Only the evening feast allowed the four to be together, and that was under the watchful eye of the Steward. There was dancing afterward, but again they rarely spent time with each other, too busy fulfilling the obligations of their rank. It was only after the first day’s closing ceremonies that they were able to sneak Lothiriel into their suite so that they could spend a little time together. All four sprawled on the bed naked, Boromir reading Faramir’s journal, which he had already written despite the length of the entry. Lothiriel was lying across his back, reading over his shoulder and tickling him when he didn’t translate the code on the side of the page quickly enough. Éomer laughed at their antics, admiring the beauty of the two, running his hand along her back. Faramir handed a bottle of oil to Éomer, indicating the soft backside of Lothiriel, which was beneath his hand.

The first touch of Éomer’s well-oiled hand brought a gasp of surprise from the princess. Éomer’s other hand in the center of her back kept her from moving much, but she could turn her head enough to see his face. “What are you doing?” she asked, even though she knew.

“I’m preparing you,” he answered with a smirk. “I’m going to satisfy your curiosity about how well I ride.”

Her pert answer was cut off when Éomer buried a finger in her ass, taking her breath away. She had never been allowed to go this far before. Opening her eyes, she looked at Faramir who watched with aroused interest. Although he was four years younger than her, Éomer was very experienced in what he was doing to her body and in very little time she was panting in excitement. When she began thrusting backwards with her hips as three of Éomer’s fingers worked in her, he withdrew his hand and repositioned her legs so that she was kneeling over Boromir. Her hands clutched at Boromir’s arms as Éomer grabbed her hips. Again turning her head to watch, she saw Faramir guiding Éomer’s cock into her ass.

He made her feel unbelievably full and so very good. There had been some fear in her before, but he had been so careful that there had been no pain at all. Of course, the training she had received at the hands of her many ‘tutors’ had helped her to be able to relax at the intrusion. When he finally began moving, pulling almost all of the way out, then sliding slowly back in, she couldn’t keep silent. Her cries were muffled as she buried her face in Boromir’s back and began digging her nails into his arms. As her response heightened, the pace increased and soon Lothiriel was crying out her climax, which lasted longer than any she’d had to date.

As Éomer and Faramir lifted her to the side, Boromir rolled over and kissed her. “Was he all we told you, cousin?” he asked.

“More,” was her reply.

Éomer had stayed between her legs as they turned her onto her back and Faramir lay next to her, opposite Boromir. Lying across her, Éomer kissed her lips. “I will be very happy to have you as my own,” he whispered in her ear. “I will just have to make sure that Théodred makes the right choices.”

They cuddled with her for a few more minutes before Garus cleared his throat expectantly. With resigned dismay, she rose from the bed and allowed the servants to clean and dress her. “I will be much happier when I am married and don’t have to rush off in the middle of the night like some unwanted mistress,” she said caustically.

“As soon as we can get all of the arrangements made, my Princess,” Boromir told her. “If only we could get the fighting to slow down a little.”

“Hah!” she said defiantly. “Send the enemy to me. I will blind them with my beauty, dazzle them with my wit, and disarm them with my charm. Then you can kill them all while I hold them in thrall.”

They all laughed at her quip. “If the enemy knew what a treasure we had in you, my cousin,” Faramir responded, “they would make every effort to tear down the walls of Minas Tirith itself to claim you. But do not despair; I have made arrangements for you to spend tomorrow night with a friend of ours who is a well-known and respectable dowager. She has many entertainments planned just for you. Unfortunately, we can’t be there. It would draw our father’s suspicion. But fear not; Éomer will accompany you part of the night.”

“Have I met this woman?” she wanted to know.

“Yes, the elderly countess Hargrave. She lives in a building that adjoins an old friend of ours,” Faramir answered.

“You are going to send me to your mistress?” she asked in shocked excitement.

“You will like Lani,” Boromir told her. “She trained the two handmaidens we assigned you last year, and also the groom.”

“It will be most enjoyable for both of you,” Faramir reassured.

This second day of the festival didn’t have the frantic flavor of the first. Boromir and Faramir were able to relax into their roles as paragons of nobility. They used the tunnels to blow off steam when necessary and showed their best faces to the multitudes awaiting them. The small honor guard from Rohan, along with their leader, Prince Éomer, won the hearts of the populace with their displays of horsemanship. The fact that he was willing to give advice on livestock, especially horses, and treated all with respect added to the positive effect.

Lothiriel had been endearing herself to the citizens of Minas Tirith since her arrival in the city almost two years past. Now she was able to spread her considerable charm to even more of the Gondorian populace. Faramir had introduced her to the heads of the all-too- common orphanages that become necessities in the city and she had continued his policy of hands on supervision when he was gone. She spent most of the second day with the various children of the city. Much to her surprise, she often ran into Boromir and Éomer as well as Faramir as they visited with the children. She had also managed to ensnare many of the ladies of the court to accompany her and was able to learn a great deal more about them as she watched them interact with the needy. Her report would have much new information about the court of the White Tower when she turned it over to her cousins. For even though she resided in the same building, they still insisted on full and frequent reports from her.

The brothers loved their city, and their city loved them. Wherever they went, cheers rose up in the crowds and they were often hard pressed to be able to speak to all who wished to greet them. The few occasions when they were both together brought almost frenetic responses from the multitudes. It was a wonderful, exciting day that ended in a tedious formal dinner with their father in the great hall.

Faramir missed Lothiriel and Éomer desperately at dinner the second night of the festival. The previous evening he had been able to sit next to Boromir, but with both Éomer and Lothiriel attending a dinner elsewhere that evening, he had to sit next to his father. In the early part of the meal, all went well. By the end of the dinner, it became obvious to Faramir that his father was very drunk. He didn’t slur his words or speak loudly as most others would, but his behavior was extremely out of character.

“You know that you and your brother have already replaced me as Steward in this city,” he whispered into Faramir’s ear.

Faramir pretended not to hear the comment.

Grabbing his son’s arm with unnecessary force, he continued. “It is true,” he said. “Look at them, all either of you would have to do is speak a single command and they would fall over themselves to obey. I have spent my whole life trying to gain that kind of power and you swoop in and take it all away.” He paused, his red-rimmed eyes burning into his youngest son. “Look at you, not even thirty and what do you have? Everything.” He answered himself.

Faramir wanted to leave, to escape the tirade of his drunken father. He looked for Boromir who had moved away from his seat to speak with a few others of the aristocracy.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Denethor said, noticing his son’s seeking gaze. “Do not call out to your brother. That is one of the problems. He always comes to your aid, is always at your side. You should be following my orders, not giving orders to him to give to me.”

At Faramir’s ready denial, he scoffed.

“Don’t think that I don’t know what goes on with you two. I know that he wouldn’t think up half of the things you put him up to. Your machinations will do you no good though,” the Steward told him. “I know your weakness, I’ve seen it and even tested it. I can control you.”

“I have always been your obedient son,” Faramir said.

“Yes,” Denethor almost hissed. “You will do anything I order, I know this. Anything.”

“Yes, my lord,” Faramir agreed as fear raced down his spine. The only way he had ever been able to disobey his father was if Boromir directly ordered him to.

“I’m thinking of giving you some orders now,” Denethor said, his voice becoming louder.

“Are you ready to retire for the evening, father?” Boromir’s voice suddenly came to both of them. He had noticed his father’s grip on his brother’s arm and came as quickly as he could to forestall any public incidents. As he heard Denethor’s words to Faramir, his heart almost stopped. Then he realized that his father was drunk, more drunk than he had ever seen him. Denethor had a lust for power, and drunkenness made one lose power over one’s self. And now it had removed a great deal of power from the Steward permanently, for Boromir would make sure his father never had power over his brother again. Not while he was alive to stop it.

“Come Faramir,” he said. “Let us help father to bed the day has been long and he is weary.” With his strong hands he brought his father to his feet, careful to make it look like the Steward wished for his help. Faramir rose and went to his father’s other side as he had been ordered.

Denethor was very drunk; he lost his train of thought as Boromir spoke to him. “Thank you, Boromir,” he said, his voice starting to slur as the blood surged through him. He would have fallen if his sons weren’t supporting him. They began the long climb to the Steward’s bedchamber, Denethor at times rambling senselessly. As they reached the door, Boromir picked his father up and bade Faramir return to the great hall to reassure any who had observed them that all was well.

The wizard was the first to greet him as he entered. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

“My father was a little over-tired, Boromir is seeing him to bed,” Faramir answered. He smiled as he spoke, but his eyes told Mithrandir that he would answer no more questions.

“I need to speak with you as soon as possible,” the wizard told him.

“Can it wait until after tomorrow?” he asked, thinking of the closing of the festival.

“I think so,” Mithrandir answered with a worried look. “It would probably be best if your brother weren’t there.”

“I tell him everything,” Faramir told him.

“What I have to say would be best coming from you, not me,” the wizard assured him. “I don’t want you to keep secrets from your brother, but he is sometimes hasty when angered.”

“I will come to you in the archives, sometime the day after tomorrow, probably early in the day,” Faramir said, feeling sure that it had something to do with his father.

As they lay together in their bed enfolded in each other’s arms, they talked quietly of their evening. “I will have to speak with father about what he said to you,” Boromir told him, after Faramir had related all of Denethor’s words to him. He hadn’t written about it in his journal, it was one of those things he wouldn’t commit to paper. “But I will wait until after you hear what the wizard has to say. It no doubt has something to do with what he saw in the great hall.” He kissed Faramir’s forehead. “But you, my love, I will have you safe from father’s interference. Do not follow any orders from him that would hurt you or humiliate you.” At Faramir’s worried look, he added more. “Don’t over-think this, brother, you know what I mean. Surely you may come to harm in battle, but that is our duty, and the act of standing still is not harmful in itself, but if you stand still while he beats you, then it is. Don’t equivocate, I want you to follow the spirit of my orders.”

“Yes, brother,” Faramir answered.

“Let me love you now,” Boromir said before claiming his mouth in a deep kiss. “You are mine, and I will not see anyone abuse you.” He made love to his brother, slowly and sweetly. The fear he had seen in Faramir’s eyes earlier still haunted him. They both cried when they had finished, the release of tension was so great.

When Éomer finally returned from his evening, he smiled at the two brothers sleeping so closely in each other’s arms. He was especially glad this evening of the servants’ willingness to undress him so that, in his fatigue, he only had to slip into the bed. As he pressed close to Faramir’s back, he noted the tear tracks on the brothers’ faces and wrapped his arms around them as best he could.

The final day of the festival was more fast paced then the previous two. Lothiriel felt energized from her activities of the previous evening. Denethor was hiding his hangover while he tried not to think about what he might have done in his drunkenness. He could remember nothing after the dessert. The brothers were a bit tense and Éomer watched them closely, hoping that he could do something to help them.

In the late afternoon, most of the populace gathered at the eric that had been marked out in the fields below the Gateway. In the stands that had been erected for the nobility, Denethor was noticeably absent. Éomer and Lothiriel held the seats of honor, with Mithrandir seated at Éomer’s side. When all had gathered, Boromir and Faramir came through the crowd wearing long capes that covered their clothing.

After long debate, they had decided to perform the third of the Númenorean sword dances. It wasn’t the most artistic, fastest, or bloodiest, but in this dance they started together and ended together. It fitted their mood and the feeling they wanted to convey to the crowd best. Lani had designed their costumes, which were identical and more than a little risque. A gasp of excitement went through the audience as the brothers dropped their capes and entered the eric with their swords in their in their hands. At its center, they stood back to back until their breathing had synchronized. Boromir moved first, his blade cutting the air, Faramir following him perfectly. They moved through the steps with unerring grace, lighter and faster on their feet then any there had ever seen.

Mithrandir sat forward in his chair, he had seen the best through the ages and none could better these two. Few would even come close to matching them. Observing the unadulterated joy on their faces, he was very glad that Denethor had chosen to stay away. It was not something he needed to see in the state of mind he’d been in of late. They were so beautiful, and their beauty enthralled the crowd.

Her nails digging into Éomer’s hand, Lothiriel watched as entranced as everyone else. She had seen them practice, but never before witnessed an actual dance of theirs. It was far beyond anything she had expected. It was also one of the most erotic things she had ever seen and she became almost unbearably aroused.

Éomer’s mind wandered between the spectacle before him and the memory of the dance they had performed for him and his eored. Then he had been brought to the center of their dance, and the heat of it enflamed him now. He couldn’t imagine two more beautiful or graceful creatures.

It seemed to last an eternity, the flash of steel across soft flesh. Blood dripped slowly from their cuts as they moved across the smoothed sand surface. They were oblivious to the crowd, and Éomer was too far away to enter their thoughts as they danced. Then it ended almost suddenly, Faramir’s back pressed against his brother’s chest, both their heads thrown back and swords held high. It was a physical show of unity that brought a great cheer from the audience, the two brothers almost identical as they stood together in the eric. They bowed to all those present before having their cloaks wrapped around them and being led away by their personal guard.

The evening’s obligations ended early for them. The rest of the city had plenty to keep them occupied and Denethor had granted them a short break of their own by letting them choose their own entertainment for the evening, within reason. They sat around a great fire at the Rohirrim encampment a little way outside the city. Most of the brothers’ personal guard were there along with other guests. There was dancing and music.

The horsemen sang some of their songs and the Gondorians sang some of theirs. It was strongly reminiscent of some of the evenings when the brothers had first met Éomer almost four years ago, only more subdued. Faramir knew nearly all of the songs of the Rohirrim and sang a couple of elvish songs for them, his fair voice well suited for the lilting language.

“I’m surprised that uncle let you study the elvish tongues, cousin,” Lothiriel commented.

“I learned them in my dreams,” he told her. “I have learned most of the languages of Middle Earth and its history through my dreams. Mithrandir says that I am the first in many generations to dream so well.” He shrugged, and then looked at his brother. “It is because of my brother that I can do this, he feeds my dreams.”

“It is only because you fulfill all my dreams,” Boromir said, kissing his brother’s brow.

“Father hates it when he hears me sing or speak in other languages, especially Sindarin,” Faramir said.

“Father hates a lot of things,” Boromir responded bitterly.

“Did I miss something?” Lothiriel asked.

“We missed you at dinner last night,” Boromir told her. “You know how tiring father can be when he doesn’t have enough to keep him occupied. I have everything well in hand.”

She knew that he wasn’t telling her everything, but then he rarely did. Despite Faramir being in charge of most of their resources, Boromir made all of the final decisions.

They decided to spend the night in the large tent set up for the prince at his encampment, sending Lothiriel back to the citadel with the other ladies of the court that had attended and an armed escort. Éomer crawled in between the two brothers, turning onto his back and pulling them close to him. “Tell me what saddens you both so,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses to their faces. “Even if I cannot solve your troubles, I can share your worries. I love you both to distraction.”

“It is our father,” Boromir whispered. “He has made certain threats to Faramir.”

“How could he?” Éomer asked angrily, though still in a whisper.

“He is jealous of our bond with each other,” Faramir told him. “He has said he is thinking of ordering me to do something that would take control of our lives away.”

“You would not obey him would you?” Éomer wanted to know.

“I obey him always, unless Boromir countermands his orders,” was the calm reply.

“You must not,” Éomer said, kissing him. “I won’t allow it.”

Both brothers laughed at his words. “I love you, Éomer,” Boromir told him. “He needs to learn a little defiance. He is far too compliant. Try it and see, he will do everything you tell him to do.”

“Will you do everything I tell you to do?” Éomer asked Faramir, his body going heavy with lust.

“Oh yes,” Faramir answered, nibbling on Éomer’s ear.

Éomer closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Good,” he said, opening his eyes and giving Faramir a hard look. “Then don’t ever let your father do anything to hurt you, no matter what happens. It would be a betrayal to both your brother and I, for we love you and when you are hurt, we are hurt.”

Faramir buried his face in Éomer’s neck. “I will try,” he whispered.

“I expect you to do more than try,” Éomer told him, kissing his face.

The Great Archives were deep in the basement of the White Tower. It contained miles of corridors holding records, artwork, histories, myths and other written material. Some had come from ancient Númenor, some from the elves, dwarves and other people of Middle Earth. It was rumored that if it had been written, it could be found here, if one looked long enough. Gandalf had a feeling the rumor was right.

He shuffled through another stack of papers, his mind only half on what he was doing. With a sigh, he gave up his task and sat wearily on the small stool at the side of the room. The festival had achieved its purpose better than expected. As he had wandered through the crowds last night, hope and encouragement had lit every face. His only worry for the moment was how to tell Faramir what he thought the brothers needed to know without destroying the working relationship they had with their father.

Overhearing the last thing Denethor had said to Faramir in his drunkenness had convinced Gandalf that they needed to know what the Steward was suspected of. He truly believed that Faramir could possibly be in grave danger from his father. If the House of Húrin could not be kept intact and the Steward and his sons in power, then Gondor, swiftly followed by Rohan, would be overrun by Mordor. It would be the doom of Middle Earth.

Despite his many faults, Denethor was an excellent Steward, he had an uncanny ability to rule. Since his sons had become adults the situation had improved in many ways, even though they were vastly outnumbered by the enemy. Boromir was a military genius and inspired the warriors of Gondor to keep fighting against a seemingly insurmountable foe. Faramir was a brilliant political strategist and the dreams that gave him so much knowledge of the past, present and future gave him insights that even the wizard hadn’t expected. If the dynamic between these three men failed, the dark lord would overtake all.

Standing and taking out his pipe, he wondered if the ventilation in the small room was good enough for just a small bowl. Looking around the small room, he gave a sigh of resignation. Denethor would probably ban him from the Archives if he found out. Then he heard familiar footsteps approaching.

Faramir had a worried look on his face, he wished that he could avoid this meeting al- together. There were things he just didn’t want to know, and unfortunately he knew far too many of them. He stopped just inside the door, poised as if he would run. It was obvious that Mithrandir wasn’t sure how to start but he waited, letting the wizard take the lead.

“There were some things that happened a long time ago, before your father married, that you need to know about,” the wizard said after several false starts. “When your father was about your age, maybe a little older, certain young men were found traveling in caravans coming from Gondor. The first couple of them seemed to be just common prostitutes who had been very badly treated and then given a large sum of money and told to leave Gondor on pain of death. None of them knew for sure who had abused them, though a couple voiced their suspicions.”

“Shortly after the first serious confrontation between your father and Thorongil, all of the young men bore a strong resemblance to the captain. There was never more than one or two a year, and no one could ever track down who had done this for sure. I never brought it to Ecthelion’s attention since none of the men were ever found here in Gondor. Maybe that was a mistake on my part, I just didn’t want to bring forth doubt and suspicion in an already tense situation.” He paused, looking at Faramir who still stood in the doorway, his head leaning against the frame and fingers digging into the wall.

“The last one was discovered just before your father’s marriage and, since there was no more evidence, I didn’t pursue the matter any further. Then about ten years ago, shortly after the boar injured you and your brother, another young man showed up in Rohan. Like the others, he had been severely beaten with a cane, and had suffered other abuse. This young man looked much like you.” Mithrandir stopped, watching Faramir sweating and bracing himself in the doorway.

“Do you know why your father gave you the little study, the one that used to be Thorongil’s?” the wizard asked.

“Yes,” Faramir told him. “He saw us in the garden. I don’t think he had been in that room for decades before that. If he hadn’t wanted the book on fighting the Haradrim written by Thorongil, he probably would have never entered that room again. I should have realized he would go to get that book.” The young man paused, wiping tears from his face. “It just had been so long,” he finished quietly.

“I heard what he said to you the other night,” Mithrandir told him. “It might be that he is starting to become unstable.”

“Maybe we have pushed him too far,” Faramir said, nodding his head. “It is too late to back down now. Boromir will have to know about this; he intends to speak with father today. You will have to tell him, I just can’t.” He looked sadly at the wizard. “I just can’t do it.”

“Are you sure he will listen to me?” the wizard asked.

“He trusts you, but I think he’s a bit jealous of the time I spend with you,” Faramir smiled just a little. “I know how to handle him, and he knows how to handle father.”

Following Faramir, the wizard watched him signal the guards at the door to move to positions at either end of the hall. Boromir looked up as they entered and sat back in his chair. Crossing the room, Faramir let Mithrandir close the door. He removed the papers in front of his brother and sat on the desk, placing his feet on either side of his brother’s legs in the chair. Leaning down to rest his head on Boromir’s shoulder, he wrapped his arms around him.

With a sharp feeling of fear, Boromir kissed his brother’s cheek and looked at the wizard. “Tell me,” he ordered.

Mithrandir told him everything he had told Faramir and filled in the details when Boromir asked. It didn’t take long for the whole tale to unfold, Boromir often tightening his grip on his brother.

“I know it was not easy for you to tell me this,” Boromir said, his voice clear. “I already knew much of it, though I have tried to protect my brother from finding out. Maybe I shouldn’t have,” he added as Faramir jerked sharply in his arms. “I started looking into father’s past when I found out about him beating Faramir when I was gone. I made arrangements that it would not happen again. I thought I had everything under control, but I found out differently when we returned from the boar hunt.”

“Things have been much better since then, until recently with all of the losses. It has been making him feel his own loss of power. I assume you have been doing what you can for damage control outside of Gondor?” Boromir asked the wizard. At his nod, he continued, “Father doesn’t know what he said the other night. He is worried that he might have endangered himself and his position as Steward. It is when he is feeling insecure that he engages in sadistic behavior. We still need him as Steward; he is too able an administrator to set aside. Yet.”

“It sounds like you have given this a lot of thought,” Mithrandir said.

I spend my time working on the defense of Gondor,” Boromir told him. “But the most important thing to me is my brother, nothing else even comes close. If father loses control of himself, he will go after Faramir. There is no doubt in my mind about this. But if he feels that he is still in control of his own fate, and the final authority in Gondor, he will be all right. Faramir and I will visit with him this afternoon and reassure him that he did nothing to alert us to his present turmoil. Then I will talk privately with him.”

“Are you sure it will work?” Mithrandir asked.

“I’m sure,” he answered readily. “He wants to believe, that will make it easier. For now my brother and I have some planning to do,” he added, looking at the wizard pointedly.

“Later then,” the wizard said before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

Faramir sat back on the desk and looked his brother in the eye. Part of him almost felt betrayed by the secrets he had been keeping from him, another part was grateful. Without a word, Boromir removed the loose tunic he was wearing, throwing it to the floor.

“I think something elaborate would be a good idea, brother,” Boromir said indicating his brother’s knife. He barely winced as Faramir made the first cut just above the thick scar from the boar hunt. “Yes, just like that,” he whispered, feeling the blood run down his chest. It was such a release from his pent-up emotions.

The day was mild for early fall in Minas Tirith, a cool breeze wafting through the room. Yet, Denethor sweated as he waited for his sons. He still couldn’t recall what had happened the night he had gotten drunk. Boromir had put him to bed, Galmar knew that much, but he had been absent from the great hall after the meal had ended. How did I manage to get drunk? he asked himself for the millionth time. Everything had been carefully marked beforehand.

Finally his sons arrived, obviously fresh from bathing, Boromir looking a little pale. Faramir carried two wine bottles, obviously from the other night. “I have discovered what happened with your wine, father,” Boromir told him, signaling Faramir to place the bottles on his desk. “The marks we used to signify the watered wine are very similar to some bottles grandfather had set aside. It would have been impossible to tell the difference under candlelight.”

Denethor took the bottles gratefully, seeing that they were indeed almost identical. “I remember now,” he said with a smile. “This was an especially potent vintage he liked to sip in the evening. I was only ever treated to it once that I can recall; it didn’t taste dangerous at the time.”

“Thankfully, you were so tired from all of the activities of the day, you just asked us to help you to your room. I know how much you hate public displays,” Boromir reassured him. “Now I already have some responses to our latest troop movements. We can go over that in preparation for the meeting with Prince Éomer tomorrow.”

The meeting went rather well. Faramir, as their spymaster, had all of the reports ready and a final all-encompassing report that neatly outlined all of the pertinent facts. It would be fairly easy to make a plan of action with the prince, military advisors, and captains of Gondor. Things were looking up due to the high morale of the people and the expert intelligence of the two brothers.

Faramir excused himself to meet with another of his sources and left his brother and father to themselves. Even though he had become more comfortable with his youngest son, and even liked him to an extent, Denethor was still jealous of the time he spent with Boromir. For the most part he didn’t really feel any kinship with Faramir, though they were so much alike in many ways. He often felt he would have been more satisfied with just his oldest as son.

“I’m so glad you are here to make all of these decisions, father,” Boromir said after his brother had left. “I don’t know how we would manage without your guidance.”

“You would cope,” Denethor answered with a smile, looking into the honest and admiring eyes of his oldest son. “Especially since you have your brother to help you. I could have used such a good aide when I became Steward.”

“Yes, he is good,” Boromir agreed. “But, it still is not the same. We both feel that you are the best Steward Gondor has ever had, and that is with all of Faramir’s knowledge of our history.”

Denethor blushed at the compliment, glad that his insecurities from the last few days were being put to rest. Boromir had always been such an open person, even when he was defying his father. His military brilliance was only exceeded by his inability to hide his real emotions. It was comforting to have one son who was so easily read.

The breeze had become a wind high up in the tower of Ecthelion where Boromir stood gazing to the north from his bedroom balcony. Only Stefle waited at his side, the others about their duties. With a hard, cold look he turned to one of his closest informants and handed him the letter he had sealed and dated. “This is the latest, and I thank you for the excellent work you did in the wine cellar. I don’t think anyone could have planned that better. I like it when father reveals himself, and it had been too long since he had. Make sure the rest of that vintage is secured for future use, I have told Faramir of it in this letter.”

“As you wish, my lord,” the servant said, glowing with the praise.

“We can’t trust him if anything happens to me, he has made that clear,” Boromir continued. “Above everything, Faramir must be protected.”

“I agree, my lord,” Stefle replied, his heartfelt loyalty almost palpable in his words.

“Of course you do,” Boromir smiled at his valet. “I only wish the King would return now, this day, and take all of these burdens from me. Only he can save our people, only he can save us.” He looked again to the north. “You have a backup planned, just in case? You know how wily father can be.”

“I do, my lord,” was the calm answer. “Several, just in case we are discovered. The Lord Faramir will survive your death, even if the Steward must fall to make it happen.”

“Then I will die happy, even better if I can save my people. Make sure that the others know everything. When I go to Rohan in the spring I want my brother safe. Use the same people as last time, if possible. You all did a good job, it was only my father’s meddling with that blasted rock that caused any problems,” Boromir ordered before leaving the balcony to go to the evening meal.

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