Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 16: BONDAGE

The report was long and very thorough and had taken nearly six months to complete. Mithrandir had little to do with certain problems that plagued Gondor and Rohan, except to provide solutions. Saruman, however, was a completely different story. There were links that ran back to before Boromir’s network had been set up. Not surprisingly, Galmar had strong ties to the wizard of Orthanc.

“I want him watched night and day,” Boromir told Cara, his head aching from the stress and the endless stink of Orodruin, which had been wafting over the city for days. “Everyone he even looks at should be noted for investigation.” He paused to think about his next orders. “I don’t want to alert him to our increased vigilance, but I want new precautions established. If anything should happen to me, I want Galmar dead before Faramir knows what we have been doing. He is dangerous to my brother and I don’t want to take any chances that he will move against him.”

“We will do as you have ordered, my lord,” she told him, relieved at his decision.

“We need to let Éomer know and also Éowyn’s watchdog Brinel in Edoras. Having her become the Princess’s maid was a very good idea, I’m glad you thought of it.”

“I was simply using the example of you and Lord Faramir with Princess Lothiriel, my lord,” she responded, blushing.

“It is definitely working out for the best,” Boromir praised before changing the subject. “My brother needs a new personal servant. Those who serve him now are efficient and he likes them well enough, but he needs more. A complete change from Garus is needed, he would not accept a substitute. I had considered a female companion, but I want someone who can go on campaign with him. Maybe two servants; he is not recovering well and I’m worried about him.”

“We all are, my lord,” Cara said, her eyes filling with tears. “I had considered Garus’s youngest brother, who is one of our agents in Dol Amroth, but the resemblance physically is too close. Besides, he has not been trained as a body servant and is really too old for the change. There are several promising young men that we have been looking into, but I have been hesitant to suggest a change.”

“I told her to speak up,” Nelda croaked from the bed, the first time she had been really conscious that day. “It is no good if there are secrets between you, not now.”

“She is right,” Boromir confirmed. “Especially now when our enemies seem to be closing in on us. Make arrangements with Stefle for me to see them all, he knows my schedule better than I do. I would like to make a decision before my brother returns from Ithilien.” He rose to leave, then paused to look at the old woman on the bed.

“You have served our House well, Grandmother,” he told her, using the honorific for the first time. “It is time now for you to rest. You have my leave to join with the other elders of the House so that all your grandchildren can bid you farewell before you depart this world.”

“Thank you, my Prince,” Nelda replied, tears of gratitude in her eyes. “It has been my pleasure to serve.”

Faramir sat alone in his chamber. All the dead had been buried in carefully concealed graves and the injured brought here to Henneth Annûn. Now there was just the silence, the empty ache of loss and the endless nightmare that his life had become.

He knew that even if Boromir had accompanied him the results would have been the same, but that didn’t matter. What could have been done differently was for later thoughts. Now, he could only think of the men he had lost in their failed ambush; he’d already made sure that all of the survivors were being properly cared for. Many times, he had held his brother as he cried and mourned his losses. This was the first time he was in charge and had lost so many.

And Boromir wasn’t here to comfort him. And no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t cry. He felt severed from all his bonds of love and loyalty.

He sat, turning his knife over and over in his hand, thinking maybe he should write how he felt in his journal. Boromir would expect to read about this, but he couldn’t get himself to get up from where he’d collapsed on the floor to go to the table where his journal waited. He looked at the knife in his hands, a gift from his father, the only person in his life that had ever been critical of him. He wore it always, a reminder that there was some affection there, even if it wasn’t as much as he would like.

He took off the leather armor that covered his upper body, and pulled off his shirt. Holding the blade in his left hand, he examined the scars on his right arm, for it was here that he always started. Glancing up first to make sure the door was locked, he brought the blade across his forearm, carefully avoiding the scars that had been put there by his brother and Éomer. He released a ragged breath at the sharp pain, it was pure relief. With a sure rhythm he moved up his arm leaving random cuts, small and easily concealable. Pulling his hair out of the way, he marked his shoulder, the back of his neck. Switching hands, he did the other shoulder and arm before starting on his chest. Here he cut a little deeper, a little longer.

If he were home, Boromir would wield the knife. He thought of Boromir. His brother was so good with the blade, his hands leading as his mouth kissed and licked the blood away. It made him feel free, cleansed of his guilt and failure, purified by blood and pain from all the faults that others refused to see. Especially his beloved brother, who had never spoken a harsh word to him. He would forgive the worst mistakes with comforting words and soft caresses.

Removing his pants, Faramir drew long lines down each heavily muscled and scarred thigh, watching his cock spring to full erection. His thoughts were still of Boromir, who would be taking his cock into his mouth at this point, catching it with his teeth. Carefully, he scraped the knife up the underside of his penis, the blade turned just enough to not cut. Then he ran a soothing hand down the tortured organ, lubricated with the blood from his chest. He repeated the same procedure on the top and sides of his cock until he found his release.

Boromir arrived the next day, having come as quickly as he could after word of the battle had reached him. Sitting at the table in their room, he began reading the journal. As he read of the disastrous battle, his face twisted in anguish for his brother and for the ever- growing number of dead. His hands began shaking as he read further. Long ago, he’d told Faramir to put down every detail. At times like this he regretted his words, even though they kept him informed. Faramir’s darker impulses could be dangerous, especially since Garus’s death.

Finally he put the book down and turned to his brother, who stood facing the wall. “Let me see,” he ordered him, trying to keep his voice impassive.

Without turning, Faramir began stripping, dropping his clothes in an untidy heap. There were few new marks on his back, though his shoulders and arms were liberally covered with healing thin lines. When Faramir didn’t turn around, Boromir steeled himself, knowing the rest was going to be very bad. “Show me,” he repeated, and couldn’t hold back an involuntary gasp.

The front of Faramir’s body was covered with cuts. Many of them were much deeper than was safe. Three long gashes across his stomach were bloody with signs of being reopened.

Faramir brought a basin of water, a rag and salve to the table. The only attention he had given the cuts had been detrimental. Usually Boromir cleaned him up and treated the wounds for him. Boromir understood his brother’s self-mutilation. In some ways, it was similar to the pleasure/pain of the sword dance. But this was frightening and dangerous, especially when he was alone. At those times Faramir always went too far, cut too deep.

Starting with his right arm, Boromir carefully cleaned and then kissed each wound. Some of them should have been stitched, but he knew from past experience that Faramir would only pick them out. His brother was compulsive about this, no matter how much he tried to resist, he eventually gave in.

“We will be returning to Minas Tirith tomorrow,” Boromir told him.

The two young men were of the oldest of the servants’ families. They had been trained as assassins and spies from their earliest years and had recently been intensively trained in the healing arts. Faramir recognized them as agents and wondered what they were doing here in the bedroom he shared with his brother.

“You remember Belgar and Nelis?” Boromir asked. At Faramir’s nod, he continued. “They are your new body servants.”

Faramir started to object, he’d been refusing new servants for months now, but the look on his brother’s face stopped him. “Yes, of course, brother,” he said, feeling numb.

With quiet efficiency, they moved forward and began undressing Faramir, revealing the new cuts he had inflicted on himself. While their faces remained impassive at the sight of their charge’s injuries, Stefle couldn’t help a startled gasp. Before they led Faramir to the waiting tub, Nelis swiftly stitched closed the long gashes that crossed his stomach.

They helped him into the warm water and assisted Boromir in washing his brother. Whenever one of Faramir’s hands would stray below the water towards his new stitches they would pull it back up and put something in it to occupy him. They were efficiently quick, making this a very short bath. Faramir’s stomach tightened in knots knowing what was to come.

They led him to a waiting chair instead of the bed as he expected. Since the brothers had become sexually active, all of their bonds with those closest to them had been sealed with sex. A cushion was placed beneath his feet and both men knelt on the hard stone floor before him. Looking at the items on the table beside him, Faramir suddenly realized the kind of bonding he was expected to make.

“I don’t want to do this, Boromir,” he said with a note of panic in his voice.

Standing behind his little brother with both hands on his shoulders holding him in place, Boromir remained resolute. “You will do it,” he ordered. It tore at his heart, but this was the best way they could find to stop Faramir’s decline. At his nod, the two servants began their oath of service.

Belgar removed his knife from its sheath and handed it hilt first to Faramir. “With this blade I pledge my service and my life to you.”

With shaking hands, Faramir took the knife. It was not a typical servant’s blade, but one designed to be used in a variety of ways, though still simple and small. “By this blade I accept your pledge,” he responded, making a quick cut across the inside of Belgar’s forearm and allowing the blood to run into the goblet of wine held by Nelis. “Keep this tool in trust and use it only in my service,” he said, returning it to Belgar.

The same procedure was repeated with Nelis, who had a Kris knife with the black blade and hilt popular with assassins. As he was handed the goblet of wine and blood, he thought of the two men. Nelis was eight years younger than him and Belgar four years younger. When they were children he had read them stories and played games with them, as he still did with all of the children of the House. He remembered when they had first taken their oaths as agents and all their accomplishments since. They were among the best in their trade, despite their youth.

“By your blood I bind you to me,” Faramir said before drinking the entire contents of the goblet. Setting the goblet on the table, he turned to the small brazier there and took one of the small irons waiting there with its miniaturized version of his seal on the hot end. Belgar leaned forward expectantly, turning his head so that the left side of his face was in easy reach. Pushing the man’s hair out of the way, Faramir pressed the red hot metal into the space between his eye and hairline.

“I give you my mark that all who see you know that you belong to me,” he intoned. Even though the smell of burning flesh sickened him, Faramir didn’t hesitate in his actions. Nelis received the same treatment just as eagerly as Belgar, for they would be the first in several centuries to be bonded in such a way.

Faramir’s hands went to where his brother held his shoulders as he watched Belgar turn so that he was on his knees while Nelis gently removed the cushion from beneath his feet. Boromir pushed him forward to finish the ritual. Kneeling on the cushion, which was now between Belgar’s legs, Faramir prepared to complete the next step.

“I claim you as my own, Belgar of the House of Hurin,” he said as he slowly pushed his cock into the man’s ass. It was not allowed to prepare ahead of time, but Faramir had long known how to do this without causing undo pain. A few thrusts were all that were needed to bring Faramir to climax, despite his unwillingness to perform the ritual. He was now near the end and his mind and body were responding to the rite as they were supposed to. Again, the same process was repeated with Nelis.

Returning to sit in the chair, Faramir looked at the two men on their knees before him. “Everything that you are is now mine, all that you were is now changed. You are severed from the House of Húrin and to be known as Belgar of Faramir and Nelis of Faramir respectively. All that you do is as if it were done by my hand, and my will.”

When he finished, they each leaned forward and placed their foreheads on one of his feet. “I am yours alone, master,” they said in unison, making a shiver run through his body. Then they quietly rose to their feet and dressed before attending to Faramir’s clothes that were where they had left them.

Boromir led his brother to their bed. Even this had changed since Garus’s death. Though they still wanted each other just as much, Faramir had a tendency to weep after lovemaking. At the first sign of his brother’s sadness, Boromir became rough, much rougher than he usually was. His eyes widening in surprise, Faramir grasped his arms.

“Only think of me, my brother,” Boromir growled in his ear before biting his neck hard. “You have spent too much time thinking of the past.” He drove into Faramir so hard and fast that all he could do was gasp and hold tight. Watching his brother orgasm while he squeezed his cock rhythmically with one hand, Boromir held his hips still with the other, his own cock buried completely within his ass.

When Faramir’s grip relaxed on his arms, Boromir sat back on his heels, pulling his hips tight against his groin. Placing his hand over the coat of arms tattoos on Faramir’s lower belly, he brought his brother’s hand to rest over his own tattoos. “Don’t ignore your vows any longer, my beloved one,” he said. “You are bound to Éomer and me, never forget that.”

Boromir leaned forward and claimed his lips with a deep kiss before he started moving again, his still hard cock within the tight sheath of his brother’s body. Arching beneath him, Faramir cried out at the pleasure of their contact. His mind was cleared of everything but answering the demands of his brother. For the first time in months, they were again achieving that bond that was more than the joining of flesh.

Beneath their hands, the tattoos heated and they both felt the extension of themselves that reached out toward Éomer. It was faint, barely more than a whisper of feeling, but Faramir felt it race through his body like fire. Their simple bond made five years earlier was becoming stronger. Faramir’s gift, with the aid of Boromir’s guidance, was defeating time and distance to bring them together.

“It is clear that he wasn’t injured in the battle,” Galmar told Denethor in his private study. “However we know that sometime afterward he received many cuts that have caused a lot of blood loss.”

“So, they are probably self inflicted,” Denethor said.

“We believe so, your grace,” Galmar added. “Our informant was only able to get sketchy information. None but the most loyal of their servants have been allowed anywhere near Lord Faramir. Lord Boromir has replaced his body servant as well.” He paused as if searching for words.

“Spit it out,” the Steward ordered testily.

“There are two of them, your grace,” he said quickly. “Both of them are trained assassins and one of them is a skilled torturer, I have reported to you on them before. Belgar and Nelis are their names. I can’t think of why he would make that choice.”

“Obviously Boromir picked them, he always was overprotective of his brother,” Denethor answered bitterly, remembering that these assassins were among the best. “Who better to keep him safe?”

“There is more, your grace,” Galmar continued. “They have both forsworn their early bonds and taken the ‘Oath of Mancipium’ with him.”

“Do you know if they performed the full rite?” Denethor asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“Yes, they did, your grace,” Galmar told him.

Silence fell across the room in a wave as Faramir strode the length of the Great Hall to take his place at his father’s left side. Belgar followed close behind him, eyes alert to every movement in the room. His own eyes briefly scanning those present, Faramir turned to his father to ask forgiveness for being late.

Denethor acknowledged him with a nod, still unnerved himself by his son’s companion. The impassive gray gaze sent chills down his spine the few times he’d caught it. Even Galmar edged away from the assassin turned body servant, ‘body slave,’ the steward thought as he glimpsed the raw brand on the young man’s face. It nearly made him lose his appetite to be so close to him, especially when he caught the look of fanatical devotion bestowed on his youngest son. But as harsh as Denethor was on his sons, he was much harsher on himself. He would eat and hold his food down if it killed him.

“Do you wish to announce our decisions now, father?” Boromir asked as they finished their meal.

“Of course,” Denethor answered before clearing his throat and calling for attention. “There will be a new levy of young men for the armies next month,” he told the gathered nobles, pausing to let them grumble momentarily among themselves. “However, we will be releasing many of the men who have been serving to go home. Hopefully, by the end of summer we can get a rotation schedule worked out so that we can field the necessary forces and still have plenty of men to bring in the crops and tend to other work.”

Scanning the line of waiting faces he continued. “You will each be receiving lists of the levies you are expected to fulfill and the men you can expect to return home soon. Any questions may be directed to me or my sons, once you have been given your orders.”

The room erupted into moderate chaos as he took his seat. There would be many questions and arguments, but his nobles would send the troops that were needed. The advance of the enemy was felt everywhere. At his signal, his sons rose from their positions and began circulating among the dinner guests.

The novelty of Faramir’s servant was overshadowed by the Steward’s announcement. Watching them perform their duty in calming the anxieties and objections of the aristocracy, Denethor noticed for the first time the number of fair-haired young folk amongst them. Twenty different families of the highest nobility were represented and there were two young men and three young women who bore striking resemblances to his sons. Moving through the crowd with his usual joviality, Boromir stopped briefly with each of the young people Denethor had noted and also with two other darker-haired youths. He exchanged a few words with each of them, followed by a quick kiss to their brows.

He’d never before seriously thought about his sons’ numerous progeny except as an annoying excuse Boromir used to avoid marriage. Now he realized that over one third of the houses present had children of his sons by their ‘first night’ liaisons. The number could also be higher as any children under the age of twelve or so were not generally brought to these occasions. He was stunned.

Long ago he had become aware of the staggering numbers of Boromir’s offspring among the prostitutes of Gondor, rather appalled at his eldest son’s pursuit of whores. Faramir was just as busy among the ranks of their servants. Briefly, he indulged himself with a vision of every citizen of Minas Tirith as a descendant of his sons. Though the numbers weren’t nearly that high, he realized that it would probably take the death of nearly every person in the city to steal their loyalty from his sons. Even as he watched, another quartet of parents introduced Boromir to a young promised couple, presumably for first night negotiations. Denethor caught the look that passed between the brothers as they caught each other’s eyes. He witnessed the surprise on the young groom’s face as he was presumably invited to join in the deflowering of his young bride and asked to welcome both brothers to their marriage bed. It had become a standard procedure for them.

Before his eyes, in the children of their bodies, was the evidence of the binding of the people of Gondor to them personally. Denethor vaguely recalled a scrap of lore about a prophecy saying the liberation of Gondor would come when all of its children were one family. He wondered with wry amusement if his sons believed that legend and were setting about making it true.

“I could order you to leave me alone,” Faramir said, irritated at having his elbow lightly caught when he unconsciously reached for the stitches on his stomach.

Nelis sat back on his heels and pulled his knife from its sheath. “If you wish, master,” he said as he held the deadly blade over his own heart.

“That’s not what I meant,” Faramir told him.

“It is the only way I will leave you alone,” Nelis said with a smile, resheathing his weapon.

“Sacrificed for me,” Faramir said sadly, covering his eyes with one hand as he remembered another pair of gray eyes closing forever.

“There could be no greater joy,” Nelis told him, pulling his hand away. He was on his knees between Faramir’s thighs, his eyes lit with the fire of his devotion. “We all have learned from you and your brother that there is nothing more important than our service to Gondor. You and Boromir are the princes of our House, and you represent the hope of our people. Belgar and I are regarded with great envy for we were chosen from among many to take oath with you. If either of us should die in your service there will be just as many waiting to take our place. Would you not feel pleased to die in ‘HIS’ service?” Nelis finished in a whisper.

“Of course,” Faramir answered, his own voice a whisper as he pressed his fingers to Nelis’s mouth to stop any more words on a subject that was never to be spoken of. He looked around the study, even though he knew they were alone and trusted guards stood on the other side of the closed door. But the intent behind the words was beginning to sink in. After all these months, he was finally beginning to understand the smile that had lit Garus’s face even as he’d died a painful death.

An Eored could travel much faster than heavy cavalry, not to mention fully armed foot soldiers. When Boromir came out of the Firien Wood and into the Fenmarch, Éomer was already encamped. He left the greater portion of his army setting up on the eastern edge of the woods, preparing for the long sweep eastward across Anorien to clear the territory of the wandering bands of orcs that had been plaguing it. Boromir was accompanied only by his personal guard, which had doubled in size since Garus’s death. A lot of things had changed since then.

The signs of recent battle alarmed him, especially since Éomer was nowhere to be seen. When Boromir arrived at his tent, he found the young Third Marshall sitting back in a large chair letting a healer work on a long gash in his chest. In the nearly six years that they had known each other, Éomer had managed to remain pretty much unmarked, but this wound would leave a large scar. On the ground beside him was his leather armor with a horrific rent through the chest piece.

“We were ambushed by orcs this morning,” Éomer said with a Grímace of pain as the healer finished his last stitch. “It appears that even orcs could guess that we were going to meet here. It would have been much worse if we hadn’t expected it.”

“At least we now know that the enemy is linking the two of us together,” Boromir said, going to his knees beside Éomer’s chair. “Did you have very many losses?” he asked before kissing the wound.

“Just injuries, we didn’t want to look too prepared,” Éomer told him running his hands through Boromir’s hair. “Is Faramir truly better?” he asked with urgency, as the healer left them alone in the tent sealing the door flap.

“Have you been able to hear him in your dreams?” Boromir questioned, as Éomer’s hands joined his in undoing the buckles that held his steel plate armor in place.

“Yes, and sometimes you as well,” was the happy answer, joined with a brief grunt of pain as one of his fingers was pinched in the articulated shoulder pieces of the armor. “It is just that he was so sad and so ill, I never realized he was so close to Garus. Even his pain leaked through; I would have gone mad if you hadn’t sent word of what had happened.”

“It won’t happen again,” Boromir told him, wriggling out of the body armor. “I made different arrangements for his servants. He is no longer bound to them, but they are bound to him.”

“How does that work?” Éomer asked a bit confused, unlacing the protective gambeson and looking for signs of galling on Boromir’s skin as Faramir had taught him to.

“They renounce all ties to everything but him,” Boromir explained shrugging the gambeson off and turning to sit between Éomer’s feet to unlace their boots. “And he accepts them as extensions of himself, not as individuals.” He paused, not sure how to clarify it.

“Sounds like a form of slavery,” Éomer put in, kicking his boots off while Boromir did the same.

“It is,” Boromir confirmed, stopping in his undressing to rise to his knees and kiss Éomer lightly on the lips. “Only it is voluntary, at least before the oath is taken. It can only be released by Faramir. And they have a lot more power than even some of the nobility. Everything they do is looked upon as if Faramir himself were doing it. There was no lack of applicants.”

“I take it you were able to find a suitable candidate,” he gasped out as Boromir nibbled at his ear.

“Two,” Boromir said with a grin, sitting on his heels. “You remember Belgar?”

Éomer laughed out loud at the name. “I never knew an orc could scream like that, or a man. Or death kept so long at bay with so much blood loss and pain. But why would he pick an assassin and one skilled at torture?”

“I chose him and another as well,” Boromir told him. “Who better to help Faramir keep his need to punish himself under control? I couldn’t bear the alternative.”

“What was that?” Éomer wanted to know.

“I would have to punish him myself,” Boromir said sadly, resting his head on Éomer’s thigh for a moment. “That is something I could never do, not even when he was little.”

“My poor Boromir,” Éomer whispered as he ran comforting hands over his shoulders and pulled him up for another kiss. “You do coddle us all, such a softy for being such a big strong warrior and hero.”

“I’m just a man,” Boromir said as he pushed Éomer’s gambeson off his shoulders. He let an awed gasp as he saw the tattoo that covered his whole left shoulder. “That is exquisite,” he told him, examining the beautiful design. It was an interlace pattern typical of the Rohirrim, surrounding prancing horses.

“Just a little something I couldn’t resist,” Éomer grinned as Boromir ran gentle fingers over it. “My uncle says you are a bad influence, our people should be trying to become more civilized, not return to the old ways.” At Boromir’s concerned expression he added, “I told him that it is what civilized people are doing now, especially since Gondor is the most civilized place around. I’ve heard that even some of the elves have tattoos.”

Boromir stopped his words with a kiss. “Let us talk later,” he said urgently. “I have been away from you too long to wait any longer.” His hands opened Éomer’s pants as he spoke. The younger man stood, allowing Boromir to remove the last of his clothing, and moved toward the bed.

Discarding the rest of his own clothes, Boromir watched Éomer as he walked to the bed and lay down upon it. He noticed that there were many bruises starting to make their appearance as he approached the reclining horselord. He ran a finger next to the inflamed line of the new injury. “I would gladly kill any who would mark you so, my prince,” Boromir whispered before claiming the younger man’s lips. “Let me comfort you.”

Unused to such gentleness, Éomer took a hissing breath as Boromir began pressing soft kisses and caresses to his body. He grabbed Boromir’s hair with his right hand, urging him to less caution. With a laugh, the older man slipped his hold and pushed Éomer’s hands to above his head. Straddling the prince’s body, he kissed his brow.

“Let me show you this, my wild one,” he whispered in his ear. “There are pleasures I would have you know.” Urging Éomer to keep his hands in place, Boromir returned to his task. Shivering at the soft touches, the younger man couldn’t help arching his back, which caused a sharp flash of pain through his stitches. “Gently,” Boromir admonished, using his hands and mouth to calm the impatient prince.

It was sweet torture to lie still beneath Boromir’s ministrations. His mouth and hands laid gentle claim to every square inch of flesh, making the horselord cry out in pleasure. Yet he was soothing as well, slowing when Éomer became too restive. When Boromir took his leaking cock into his mouth and began a slow steady rhythm, Éomer surrendered to him.

His climax didn’t stop Boromir from continuing. He kept licking and sucking at Éomer’s balls and cock until he grew hard again before moving his attention to his taut ass. Bracing his feet on the other warrior’s well-muscled shoulders, the prince again gave himself up to the delicious pleasure.

Finally Boromir rose to his knees, carefully dislodging Éomer’s feet and bringing his hips into position. His slow entry into the younger man’s ass was met with moans of ecstasy. Keeping his movements slow and smooth, he brought them both to climax together.

Still somewhat angry at being forced to stay in Minas Tirith for another round of negotiations over levies, Faramir had let his attention wander from the subject of the meeting he was attending. Denethor had used the excuse of his youngest son’s recent illness to keep him there, even though he supposedly didn’t know the nature of it. There were other reasons his father didn’t want him near Rohan. Faramir knew it as clearly as if the Steward had made it a formal announcement in court. The thought of Éomer and his brother together again without him was almost painful. He felt like he was being punished for some unknown crime.

Then came the tendril of communication from his brother. He felt a sharp rush of arousal and knew that Boromir was with Éomer. The arguing men at the table disappeared and all he could do was smell and feel the contact between the two. He knew that his hands were gripping the edge of the table but other than that, the room he was in was gone to his senses.

The sharp intake of breath drew Denethor’s attention away from the councilors and to his son. He could tell that Faramir was having a vision of some sort from his own experiences with them. Rising to his feet, he broke up the discussion and declared the meeting postponed. Ushering the councilors out of the room, he became aware of the strong scent of his son’s arousal. Turning back at the door to look, he saw Faramir throw his head back in obvious ecstasy. Both of his servants were at his side, Belgar watching the Steward and the others leaving the room. Deciding that discretion was the best course of action, Denethor left with the others, closing the door behind him.

“I have some gifts for you,” Éomer told Boromir as he lay beside him catching his breath. Then he grunted loudly in pain as he failed in the attempt to sit straight up with his injury.

“Turn on your side and push yourself up with your arms,” Boromir advised as he watched him struggle.

“I’m not used to this,” Éomer snarled, glaring at the wound running down his body as if it were an enemy.

“It will heal quicker if you don’t stress it,” Boromir told him, far more experienced with such things. “Show me your gifts.”

“You can see this one here,” He said pointing to a leather bag on a nearby table. “The others are outside, we can look at them later.”

Boromir opened the bag, which stank of blood and orc, looking inside. There were several sealed letters within. Pulling them out, he noticed that they all bore the seal of Saruman.

“We intercepted one of their couriers,” Éomer told him. “I can’t make out what language they’re written in, but I’m sure Faramir can.”

Unable to recognize the writing on any of them, Boromir realized that he would have to take them to his brother. It looked like he would no longer be able to shield him from the intrigues of Gondor and Rohan.

Faramir became aware of where he was suddenly. Looking around the room, he realized that he was alone with Belgar and Nelis. “What happened?” he asked, remembering the meeting that had been in progress.

“Your father postponed the meeting,” Nelis answered as he used a napkin from the table to wipe clean the last of Faramir’s cum from his clothes. He’d managed to get his pants open in time when he realized what was happening, but wasn’t quick enough to catch all of Faramir’s orgasm.

“How much did he see?” Faramir inquired.

“Not much, but enough,” Nelis replied, refastening his master’s pants. “He knows it wasn’t just another vision, but he left with the others.”

The feeling from the all too brief contact was still with him so Faramir rested his head on the table for a few minutes to let his mind clear. He hoped his father would keep to the policy he had established in the past and not ask any questions about what had happened. He had no idea what he could tell him if he did ask. He was sure this was not something he wanted to share with him.

The large horses looked at Boromir with almost human intelligence. He was stunned and touched by the gift Éomer had brought for him and his brother. The two mares were from the herd that Éomer had inherited from his parents and their bloodline could be traced back for centuries. They were of the best of the Mearas stock.

“I’ve even trained them for use with your heavy plate armor,” Éomer told him proudly. “They will carry you into battle as no other horse could.”

“You do us great honor with your gift, my wild prince,” Boromir said, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’ll think of you as they trample our enemies beneath their hooves.”

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