Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 15: DARK DREAMS

As Denethor continued listing his reasons for needing Boromir home in such haste, his oldest son began to realize that they were mostly contrived. He did his best to keep a look of interest on his face while his thoughts drifted to the chances he may have lost. It was maddening and he had great difficulty in keeping his hand from drifting to his knife and playing with it, or maybe throwing it at his interfering father who was making no sense at all.

When the Steward finally stopped talking, Boromir quickly reviewed everything he had said in his mind while keeping the expression of concerned interest in place. “How many orc attacks have there been in Anorien since you received the warning from Saruman?” he asked.

“Four along the Entwash and six along the White Mountains,” Denethor answered, which really was not many more than usually occurred.

“Have you heard from Faramir?” he wanted to know.

“He should be here later today,” his father told him. “It seems there has been increased activity in Ithilien as well.”

“I don’t see that we can do anything until he arrives,” Boromir said, sighing with exhaustion. He’d ridden straight home after receiving his father’s summons.

“Since the preliminary work has already been done, we can put off making any more decisions for a couple of days,” Denethor told him with an understanding smile. “Why don’t you and your brother take a few days to rest when he gets here?”

It took much of Boromir’s remaining control to keep from screaming, instead he gripped the arms of his chair, preparing to rise. “You’re right, father,” he agreed, amazed that he could say it without clenching his teeth. “I’ve been gone so long I might miss dinner tonight so that I can get everything back in order.”

“Yes, of course,” Denethor answered, glad to be free of any more questions he didn’t want to answer. After his oldest son left the room, he brought fourth the letter he had received from Saruman.

‘There is strong evidence that Théoden King is in league with the forces of Mordor. He wishes his niece to marry your son so that she can help in the overthrow of Gondor. Beware the Rohirrim….’ was but one part of the disturbing message.

He also urged Denethor to use the palantir, decrying past problems with the palantir as the fault of Mithrandir. After careful thought, Denethor decided to use the shielding spell the wizard had sent, at least several times, before considering actually using the device. He did not want to endanger his sons; the ugly vision of Faramir’s scars and the horrifying dreams still haunted him.

Boromir practically dragged Faramir up the stairs to their rooms. He’d missed his brother dreadfully. Faramir laughed at Boromir’s haste, glad to once again be in his arms. Faramir’s muddy clothes littered the floor all of the way to the bedroom, most of them ruined by Boromir’s rough handling. When they reached the bed, Faramir balked for a moment giving his brother a serious look.

“There is a problem here, brother,” he said solemnly.

“What?” Boromir exclaimed in exasperation.

“You are wearing too many clothes,” Faramir grinned and reached for the catches on his brother’s robe.

Before he could undo even one of the decorative frogs, Boromir ripped the garment from his body. “I can’t wait any longer,” he growled as his pants received the same treatment. He grabbed Faramir and they both fell to the bed wrapped in each other’s arms.

They rolled until Boromir was on the bottom, his legs around Faramir’s waist, one soft slipper still on his foot. Faramir buried his cock deep in Boromir’s ass with one thrust, unable to go slow he pounded into his brother. It was fast and hard, this first joining, as it always was. Once finished, they lay beside each other while Garus and Stefle removed Faramir’s boots and the remnants of his pants, glad to have both their lords home again.

“We have a couple of days before father will send for us,” Boromir told his brother, moving to cover him with his body. “This is our time. I have missed you, my beloved brother. Let me love you as you deserve.”

With gentle care, he began a thorough examination of every inch of Faramir’s body, his hands and mouth touching everywhere. The ugly red squares from the binding spell’s removal were finally beginning to look better. Not with regular healing, but with the designs that he and Éomer had carved into them.

Boromir noticed that there were new marks on one that had been untouched when he left. “What is this?” he asked.

“I let Lothiriel try out her new knife,” Faramir laughed at the memory. “She squealed so loud at the first cut that we were almost discovered.”

“It won’t stay, she didn’t cut deep enough. I don’t think she’s really cut out for blood play,” Boromir commented, kissing the already fading lines. “I sometimes wonder if I did the right thing teaching you the sword dances. They have no doubt helped your fighting, but you seem to have no respect for pain.”

“I respect pain well enough, brother,” Faramir replied, running the fingers of his free hand through his brother’s hair. “But I will not let it control me or hold me back from what I want. Lothiriel needs to know what her limits are. She will most likely be Queen of Rohan some day. We need her to be a confident queen.”

Even though he cared a great deal for his cousin, Boromir wanted to concentrate on his brother. Turning his attentions to Faramir’s mouth, he stopped his words by kissing him deeply. This was what he wanted, the physical contact that enhanced the emotional and mental one. Sliding his arms around him to bury his hands in Faramir’s hair, Boromir concentrated on continuing the kiss. They’d been apart so long he needed this. Faramir needed this.

After several long minutes, he released his brother’s mouth and pressed soft kisses to his face. Faramir was breathless beneath his brother, helpless against the pleasurable onslaught. He arched and gasped as Boromir kissed and licked his face and neck. Shudders ran through both their bodies as they writhed together.

A feeling of heightened awareness came over Boromir as he immersed himself in making love to his brother. He released Faramir’s head and began stroking his body reveling in the response. The pleasure was so intense he couldn’t think of anything but their touching. It was as if he could feel what Faramir felt as well as his own feelings. As his cock slid into Faramir’s ass, he felt their souls entwining – closer than they had been since they’d been unconscious together after the boar hunt.

It was an endless eternity that they were joined together body and soul. It was over far too soon, though they both still felt that extra edge of awareness that connected them. They slid into a dreamlike state holding each other closely, feeling complete.

It was a still warm night, which helped to amplify Faramir’s screams. Boromir held him tightly as he struggled to escape from the latest demons to disturb his sleep. As he came fully awake, he wept in his brother’s arms. Faramir was completely disconsolate until Garus brought him a glass of wine laced with herbs to calm him. His distress was so great that Garus, Saphron and Stefle joined the brothers on their bed helping to comfort him.

It was a long time before Faramir quieted and still he would not speak of his dream. Finally, Garus went to get Faramir’s journal while Saphron and Stefle lit the lamps closest to the bed. The journal was set in easy reach along with pen and ink on a small side table.

Boromir could feel bruises forming on his ribs where his brother held him. The dreams hadn’t frightened him this badly for a very long time, but Boromir still remembered how long it could take Faramir to recover. “I’m here, my little one,” he crooned into his ear. His hands petted his brother’s hair and face while he whispered endearments and encouragement to him.

“I can’t write this,” Faramir finally said. “I don’t think I can even speak it. It gets worse every time.” He still had his face buried in Boromir’s neck.

“Take as long as you need to, little brother,” Boromir told him, making it clear that he would wait no matter how long it took.

“I don’t want to lose you, Boromir,” he said, still sniffling. “This one was worse than any of the others, but it was still arrows. “

“The orcs again?” Boromir asked, rubbing his back.

“It was more real than ever before, Boromir,” he told him. “I know that the danger is near, even though the dream is still the same.”

“Just as long as you don’t take the arrow for me like you did the first time,” Boromir told him. “I will be extra careful, my beloved one.”

“I couldn’t bear to lose you,” Faramir said, still holding his brother in a bruising grip. “I would die without you.”

Knowing that words would be no comfort, Boromir kissed his forehead and began stroking his face. Rocking Faramir gently in his arms, he began softly singing lullabies to him. They were soothing songs that their mother had sung to him and he had used them after her death to comfort his brother.

Leaning against the footboard of the bed, Boromir listened to the report from Nelda. He seldom came here, usually choosing to use intermediaries. He still had not forgiven the old woman for not telling him about his father’s abuse of his brother. He understood her reasons, for Boromir had gone from oblivious to constant vigilance when it came to his father. This was why he was here now, listening to everything Denethor and his servants had been doing in his absence.

“Is there any chance you can get at the letter from Saruman?” he asked when she had finished.

“He burned it after you left his study yesterday,” was her calm reply. “He always gets more cautious when you are home, my lord. We only know the little that Stefle was able to read from concealment. If his eyes weren’t so good, we wouldn’t know that much. Why Saruman would be poisoning your father against Rohan is beyond me.”

Boromir studied her for a moment, finally deciding that she needed to know all. “There is a plot in Rohan to overthrow the king, one of the king’s chief advisors is behind it. However, he is not the mastermind behind the plot. He is too weak and frightened to be so bold. This letter to the Steward seems to be aiding that plot, so maybe the wizard of Orthanc is behind it. He is, at the very least, involved. My father has long trusted Saruman.”

He paused, thinking back on things long past. “Did he receive a letter from Isengard shortly before we went to deal with the trolls?” he asked.

Cara turned to the great ledger that sat on the desk beside the bed. Leafing quickly through the pages, she slowed at the appropriate dates. “There were no messages from Isengard, but several were sent to the wizard. However, just before that cycle of bad dreams began the year before, there were several exchanges of letters. I can have someone research the records to see if there are any other connections or if the contents of any of the letters were discovered if you wish, my lord?”

“Give it a priority,” Boromir told her. “Both kingdoms might be at stake. Add in the visits of Mithrandir; it can’t hurt to see if there is a connection there as well.” He looked at Nelda and pulled a sealed and dated letter from his robe. “Put this one with the others,” he told her, handing it over. “I want to be sure that everything is here for him if anything should happen to me.”

“We can’t lose you now,” she answered, taking the letter from his hand and giving it to Cara. “We aren’t ready. I know that his dream signifies greater danger, but we have managed before with greater vigilance. Tonight is the new moon. We will be having a ceremony to ask for protection for our people, and especially for you and your brother. Why don’t you bring him? It might do the two of you good to attend.”

“I’ll think about it,” he told her, rising from the bed. “I intend to spend the rest of the day with my brother resting from our journeys and helping him recover from his bad dreams.” He paused at the doorway and looked at Cara, her face from this angle looking oddly familiar. He reached out and touched her cheek noticing that she subtly tried to avoid the contact. “I never knew that my father had any interest in women,” he commented.

“My mother was very determined that the line not be broken. He nearly killed her,” Cara answered.

“At least my brother and I have been more cooperative,” Boromir said with a smile. “It is a good thing that Faramir finds so many strays to add to the gene pool. You have six children, right?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said. “You and your brother have many more than that.”

“We do our duty for king and country,” he laughed, bending forward to kiss her brow. “Stefle is your oldest son?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord,” she replied.

“I’m glad your mother was so brave,” he said as he left.

Faramir lay curled around a pillow in the middle of the bed, Garus and Saphron wrapped around him. Boromir stripped and sat on the edge of the bed, watching his brother sleep and noting the tear stains that still marked his face. As he reached for him, the servants withdrew, leaving room for Boromir to crawl up over him. Gently, he rolled Faramir to his back and lay upon him, pressing soft kisses to his face.

“I am here, little brother,” he whispered. “There is no need to mourn what hasn’t happened yet. Even if death should attempt to pull me from your side it will fail, for I am bound to you for eternity, my beloved one.”

Opening his eyes and looking into Boromir’s face so close to his own, long blond hair hiding the world away, Faramir smiled and pushed away the last dregs of his nightmares. In his brother’s arms he was safe and loved and all things good. It made it possible for him to believe that nothing could ever part them.

It was easy for Faramir to give encouragement to his brother as he lay in his arms telling him what had occurred in Rohan. He stroked Boromir’s hair and listened until he had finished before asking any questions. Thinking of what strategies he could use to deal with the king and his advisor, Faramir was sure he could accomplish their goal quickly. After all, he could always just take Éowyn if necessary; there was plenty of history for such a course.

More worrying was their father’s strange actions. He was so used to Boromir dealing with Denethor that he had no idea what to say there. Fortunately, his brother didn’t ask for any advice, just a patient ear to listen and a shoulder to lean on. Faramir had both of those, and was more than willing to provide them for his beloved brother.

In his turn, he told Boromir of the strange encounter with the northern ranger, even though he knew that his brother had read his journal while he slept. He was unable to keep the hint of wistfulness out of his voice as he spoke. Not knowing what he longed for most, to actually meet the man or to travel to distant places.

They spent their day in each other’s arms, sometimes talking, sometimes making love, and feeding each other from the trays of food kept ready for them. Boromir had declared it a day of rest, wanting to be with his brother without distractions. Even so, the shadows never quite left Faramir’s eyes so Boromir decided they should join in on the ceremony they had been invited to. They’d attended a few in the past, together and separately, and it had seemed to ease their hearts from the burdens they constantly carried.

It had not been forbidden to practice the old rites, just discouraged. Since Denethor had been the one to discourage it, the rites had flourished here in the stronghold of the brothers’ servants. In older days, men and women had been separated at the new moon ritual, but now they joined together to seek protection from the evil that threatened from the east. Unlike the dark ceremonies that Sauron had once led the Númenoreans in, to their downfall, these were happy rites. There was singing and the sharing of wine and food, all led by Cara, now that Nelda was mostly bedridden.

As they sat around the fire, seeking inspiration from its flames, Boromir held his brother closely in his arms. Garus and Saphron cuddled at their feet. These were their people, and they were able to relax here as they could nowhere else. Letting his mind wander as he gazed into the flames, Boromir began to see little pictures of activity within them. He smiled as it seemed miniature warriors fought fierce battles and farmers worked their fields. A spray of sparks became a dragon fighting the Valar at the destruction of Angband.

Out of the fire rose a vision that only Boromir could see or hear. A giant dressed as for war that bore no weapons other than his own two hands. He laughed with joy as the Steward’s oldest son watched and felt an answering happiness in his own heart.

“Would you ask the Valar to fulfill your heart’s desire?” the giant whom Boromir recognized as Tulkas asked.

“How could they fulfill what I already hold?” Boromir asked, stroking his brother’s hair as he spoke. “Unless they can guarantee that we will never be parted?”

“Since you are two sides of the same coin already,” Tulkas told him, “even that is already assured you. Would you have nothing else for yourself?”

“For myself, nothing,” he answered firmly. “For my brother and my people I would have peace, that they may see their children grow without fear of the dark lord.”

“I would grant this if I could, as would all the Valar, yet the fate of men lies not in our hands. Since you take such joy in battle and though the blood is thinned, you are also partly of the firstborn, I will be with you,” the Valar told him. “But you must mind your shield and be ever ready to defend against the dark dreams. Your fate is not yet written, be on your guard against evil.” With that last warning, Tulkas faded into smoke.

Boromir laughed as the vision faded, not quite believing it was anything more than the fancy of his heart. Maybe the herbs that had been added to the fire had befuddled his mind along with the wine, which was sweet and strong. He kissed his brother’s cheek as the gathering began to break up. They sat on a bench set aside for them and each person came to receive a blessing from them before they left. The brothers had long grown used to the custom, accepting the role given to them by the will of their people.

“It is early yet, brother,” Faramir said, his eyes bright with excitement. “Let us go see if the children are still awake, maybe we can tell them a story.”

The nursery was full of children and their parents. Many of the men of the brothers’ personal guard had married into this house. They all gathered here together with their children on the high days, especially when their two lords were going to be present. All knew that Faramir couldn’t resist spending time with the children when he could, and Boromir would always join him.

It was a most successful evening. When the brothers reached their bed, they were more relaxed than they had been in months, despite the new worries facing them. They watched the three servants who were almost constantly by their side when they were home move about the room, putting everything away for the evening.

Garus had shared their room and often their bed for fifteen years, longer with just Faramir when he was younger. He only reluctantly parted from them when they went on campaign, having no ability or desire for the sword. He only left the city to accompany them on peaceful missions to other cities, or to gather herbs in the hills around Minas Tirith. Since his wife had joined him, she was ever at his side, her sure strong hands ever aiding him in his tasks or applying new tattoos to the brothers or their people.

Amongst all the brothers’ personal servants Stefle was considered to be the highest. He was closest in blood to the line of the Stewards after his mother and had been trained from birth to serve Boromir above all else. He had also shared Boromir’s room and bed for over twenty years, a matter of pride to him. Where Garus had learned healing skills to better help the brothers, especially Faramir, Stefle had studied the skills of stealth and assassination. Though he rarely struck out with his own hand against his lord’s enemies, he ordered all those who did. All of the spies, assassins and informants of the wide network set up by the two brothers reported directly to him.

Yet, whenever possible, he shared the duties of personal servant with Garus. At meals he stood behind Boromir and made sure his glass was always full and all that he might need or want lay to hand. His eyes often were lit with the light of fanaticism when he served his lord whom he adored. Even as he did his work to protect Faramir, who was the beloved of his lord and gentle Garus who couldn’t bring himself to harm another even in self-defense, he was thrilled by the knowledge that he was doing his lord’s bidding. All of which he did from the White City, never having left its confines and having no desire to do so.

“I need to go outside the city for more supplies soon,” Garus told the brothers. “I can’t seem to trust the merchants to bring in everything that I need.”

“We could make a picnic of it,” Boromir said. “It would be pleasant to visit the slopes of the White Mountains without wearing full armor.”

“What a splendid idea, brother,” Faramir added with a grin. “We can spend the whole day; maybe Stefle will join us this time.”

“Oh no,” the servant laughed, as he sat on the bed next to his lord. “I’m content to remain here and make sure everything is in order for your return. The wilds are no place for a city bred person like me.”

Boromir pulled him closer, kissing his forehead. He knew that besides Stefle’s innate dislike of leaving the city, there were other chores he had planned. “We will miss your company tomorrow, but I will let you make up for it tonight.”

Relaxing into the hands of his beloved lord, Stefle groaned in delight. He was in control of so much that it was pure relief to surrender to the control of his master. Swiftly stripping him, Boromir rolled so that Stefle lay between the two brothers, completely at their mercy. Faramir pinned him in place while Boromir teased and tortured his body with all the experience of their long years together. They knew how to make him lose all control and how much he loved it when they did.

Saphron handed Faramir a silk cord, which he used to bind Stefle’s hands to the headboard, freeing his own hands. Taking the bottle of oil held ready by Garus, he began applying it to the helpless man’s body. Boromir ran his hands across the oiled flesh, making his servant moan in pleasure. While his brother nibbled and kissed every bit of flesh on the front of Stefle’s body, except for his engorged cock, Faramir began preparing his ass for the plundering it would soon receive.

Sitting up, Boromir watched Faramir’s fingers move in and out of Stefle’s tight channel. Leaning across the bound body, he pressed a deep kiss to his brother’s mouth. “Fuck him, brother,” he said grabbing Stefle by the hips and setting him on his knees.

Moving between the man’s spread thighs, Faramir plunged deep into the waiting orifice. He thrust harder with each movement knowing that Stefle could take it, loved to take it hard and fast. Boromir kept one hand on his servant’s cock, making sure that he didn’t climax; the other hand was buried in Stefle’s hair, holding his head in place. By the time Faramir reached his orgasm, Stefle was constantly moaning, kept at the peak of desire by Boromir.

Boromir pushed Stefle’s knees forward so that he was even more exposed before driving into him. Faramir lay beside him and turned his head so that he could watch his face while controlling his cock as his brother had. With each pounding thrust that Boromir delivered Stefle cried out, completely lost to the sensation.

“Now,” Boromir cried, and Faramir stroked Stefle’s cock a few times so that he could climax with his lord.

Boromir released Stefle’s hands from the silk cord and turned to his brother. “I think Garus should join us tonight as well,” he said watching the man in question put the bowl of warmed water and cleaning cloths aside at his words. Garus was nearly the opposite of Stefle. Though he was strong and able to do any task they asked of him, he was extremely sensitive to violence. So much so that he would usually occupy himself with tasks when the brothers were being rough.

They pulled him down to the bed between them and began pressing soft kisses to his face, their hands gently roaming his body. Sensing the brothers’ mood, he had stripped earlier so there was no problem with any clothes. Faramir matched every move Boromir made, knowing that it would excite both him and Garus. They stroked and kissed him until he couldn’t lie still in the bed, his hands reaching for them both.

“You are so beautiful,” Boromir whispered in his ear. “I want to watch you with my beautiful brother.”

Faramir slowly began moving to cover Garus as he continued kissing and caressing him. As he moved to claim his servant, he remembered the first time he had taken him. It had been such a careful seduction of the shy older boy Garus had been then. Faramir had been so lonely for his brother and horny from Boromir’s refusal to allow anything sexual to happen between them. Not that either of them had been virgins, though Faramir’s experiences were by choice, unlike Garus’.

With exquisite care, he slid his cock into the waiting entrance. Garus’ face was frozen in a Grímace of pleasure as Faramir moved at the perfect speed within him.

“You are so beautiful together,” Boromir whispered to him. “The vision of you together like this has kept me warm on many lonely nights.” He kissed Garus’ cheek and then Faramir’s cheek. Then his hand slid down between their bodies and gently grasped Garus’ engorged cock. “Come for me, my lovelies,” he said as he matched Faramir’s rhythm with his strokes.

At Boromir’s urging, they both reached climax. Garus panted as he lay beneath Faramir reveling in the closeness to his beloved lord. Then Boromir pulled his brother into his arms, careful not to hurt Garus, and rolled so that he could impale him with his cock.

Gratefully accepting the aid of Saphron and Stefle, Garus rose from the bed knowing that the brothers would be occupied with each other until they fell asleep.

Denethor insisted that they take half their guard and wear light armor. So it was midmorning before they left Minas Tirith accompanied by twenty men with Saphron and Garus safely tucked into the formation behind the brothers. There were plenty of pleasant spots close to the city, but the plants that Garus was seeking grew in the higher elevations. It was nearly lunchtime before they found an acceptable spot for hunting his herbs.

The day camp was set up quickly with Garus and Saphron preparing food while the escort set up perimeters, set guards and sent scouts into the surrounding area. The meal was shared with the off-duty warriors amid much laughter and camaraderie. After they had finished eating and the scouts returned reporting no sign of any nearby danger, the group set out to find the plants Garus was looking for. They spread out a bit once the servant showed them some samples of what was wanted.

Boromir followed Faramir up the hill making remarks about how nice his ass looked from that angle. When they reached the top and came into a small clearing where they could see Garus and Saphron gathering plants into their baskets, Faramir stopped and waited for his brother to join him. After the previous day’s rest they both had energy to burn so they decided to engage in a bit of sword practice.

Their voices echoed in the glade as they chased each other through the bordering trees, laughing at each other’s antics. Soon the warm sun and quiet surroundings brought them to a halt and they leaned against a tree watching their servants finish their gathering. Garus was happy having found everything he needed and even a few flowers that Saphron used in her inks for pigmenting. They proudly showed their finds to the two brothers who examined them with indulgent smiles.

It took a few moments before they became aware of the shouting from the far side of the clearing, but they reacted quickly. Saphron handed her basket to Garus and drew her long knife as the brothers pushed them towards the safety of the closest tree. They could hear the rest of the troops coming up the hill behind them as they saw the first glimpses of their attackers.

A dozen orcs came boiling out of the woods and straight at Boromir and Faramir, who drew their swords. They were not too worried at such a small number of assailants and stepped far enough apart that they wouldn’t interfere with each other. The orcs fell easily by their hand, but more appeared at the far edge of the glade before they had killed the last one.

A cloud passed over the sun and darkened the clearing as a large uruk followed the orcs to the edge of the forest. It growled at the two men as it raised its bow and took aim. Faramir felt as if he were suddenly caught in his nightmare: the darkened sky and screaming orcs were just as he had dreamed it. Quickly he reversed his grip on his long knife and threw it left-handed to impale the uruk’s eye, just as it released the arrow. The bolt sped past him to where he knew his brother stood in defense. The distinctive sound of it meeting flesh came to his ears and, despite the oncoming danger, he had to turn to look.

Boromir watched the approaching orcs with anger. Of all the creatures in the world, he hated them the most. He hated their smell, their appearance, their uncanny ability to be where they were the most trouble. But most of all, he hated orcs for the dreams of them that plagued his brother. He turned to make sure Garus and Saphron were still safe after he killed the last one in the first wave, signaling for them to move back behind the tree. As he turned, he saw the uruk poised with its bow. The arrow sped toward him and he was helpless to do anything to stop it; he had not brought his shield as his vision had told him.

Without thought, Garus leapt from his place at Saphron’s side to intercept the arrow. He had no fighting skill but was quick on his feet and strong. There was an almost unbearable pain as the bolt passed through his arm and into his chest, but he was able to see that Faramir had felled the archer before he could loose any more arrows. The force knocked Garus into Boromir, who carefully laid him on the ground next to Saphron before turning back to the battle.

Faramir watched long enough to see Saphron begin working on Garus. Then he turned and faced the attacking orcs. The rage he felt cleared from his mind as he fell into his battle rhythm. Death came from his hands as he advanced on the orcs, his brother at his side. The rest of their guard soon made the clearing and the remaining attackers were killed without mercy. As soon as the last orc fell, the brothers turned back to their wounded servant.

Saphron had done little more than remove the arrow, knowing the futility of further action. She held her husband close in her arms, rocking him as he tried to calm her with quiet words. Faramir fell to his knees beside them, noting the blood that leaked from Garus’ nose and mouth, as well as the bubbles of air that came from his chest. Already his hands were cold as ice as Faramir took them in his own and his color had become extremely pale.

“I could not bear to see such a creature harm my Lord Boromir,” he whispered to Faramir as he wept at his side. “Do not cry for me, my lord, I could not have asked for a better life or a better end.”

Sitting on the ground beside his brother, Boromir was numb with guilt and shock as he watched the light in Garus’ eyes fade. Saphron wailed in her grief and Faramir shook with his sobs. It seemed unbelievable that their gentle companion could have met such a violent and ugly end.

After a few moments, Draymor knelt at Boromir’s side to get his attention. “There are three more of our people dead in the woods, the men are bringing them out. I’ve sent a messenger back to the city so that a full patrol can make sure there are no more in this area,” he paused, wiping away his own tears. “We have to leave here, it’s not safe.”

Nodding numbly at his words, Boromir turned back to his brother, running a comforting hand through Faramir’s hair and ignoring all else until their horses were brought for them. Saphron rode the horse that carried her husband, not wanting to be parted from him. The brothers rode on either side of her, their heads bowed in grief.

As they made their way through the city many came to watch them pass. Garus was as well known as a healer and friend to the poor as he was as the personal servant of the Steward’s sons. They stopped at the house in the fifth ring of the city, where the servants of the tower waited to take custody of his body and his wife. Most of the guards remained there, only a few following the brothers to the seventh gate.

Denethor waited on the steps for his sons. He had been somewhat undecided on how to treat their misfortune until Galmar had reminded him that Garus had been the one to successfully heal his sons after the boar-hunting incident. Vaguely he recalled the almost effete man who stood ever at Faramir’s side waiting on him. Garus’ ability as a healer had kept his sons here in the tower when injured instead of in the halls of healing. And now he was gone. He had died protecting the life of his oldest son and heir.

“He will be laid to rest in the House of the Stewards,” Denethor told his sons as they climbed the stairs. Their faces were stiff with grief and only Boromir acknowledged his words with a short nod. “I have already informed your servants so that the arrangements can be made. Tomorrow we will meet to discuss the latest developments in the war.”

Boromir nodded again, then led his brother to their rooms.

“He’s not here,” Faramir said in a lost voice as they entered their bedroom. He crawled to the center of their oversized bed and curled around the pillow someone had placed there from Garus and Saphron’s bed. It still held his smell strongly and Faramir wept into it. Boromir joined his brother, holding him tightly for an endless eternity of grieving.

They followed the procession from the house of Garus’ chosen family in the fifth ring to the House of the Stewards in the seventh ring of the city. The week of mourning had been spent in planning the defense of Gondor from this latest offensive from Mordor. There were no more tears from either brother. They both knew that unless they could find some way to stop the enemy their time was limited, and more death was inevitable. Even now, their oldest sons had joined the fight and soon they would be burying their children as well as their beloved companions.

The words of the funeral ceremony brought them little comfort as they held Saphron who wept for all three of them. The future seemed grim and full of grief. It was almost impossible for them to hold onto the small hope that their dreams and visions of the king had given them. Their resources were diminishing and the fall of Gondor seemed inescapable.

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