Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 19: PROPHECY

Hel created an illustration for this chapter.

Boromir sat at his father’s right hand at the head table. The guests had long been circulating and Faramir had joined them, even dancing with many of the women present. It was not just servants who watched his every move and fought for position to be near him. Denethor frowned in displeasure as he watched men and women alike seek his youngest son’s favor.

“There is a cult that has sprung up around your brother,” he said in a low, angry tone to Boromir. “It is not seemly that so many flock to him.”

“They stay away from the high table until you give them permission to approach, father,” his son told him. “They wouldn’t dream of intruding on us.”

“You do not worry that some day it could cause trouble for you, these fanatical followers he has?” Denethor asked cynically.

“Who do you think started this cult, father?” Boromir asked rhetorically, preparing to rise to his feet. “You are only partially right on whom they worship anyway. Faramir is only their high priest; he is not their god.” He left his father to join the crowd, knowing that his remarks and actions would lead Denethor to further misassumptions.

There was no way he could deny that he was hiding in the hills of Lossarnach. They’d been friends for too long and knew each other too well for that to work. It was good to sit beside the fire and warm himself. The company was good as well and just as warming, he’d barely spoken to another person in months. He was sick of trudging through endless bogs and unfriendly terrain, but the urgent need to find the creature Gollum had been seriously impressed upon him by his friend Gandalf. After a good night’s rest and relaxation with his old friend, he would be able to restart his search with new vigor in the morning.

“So what do think of the scions of our Steward, Thorongil?” Forlong asked.

“Strider, now,” he hissed beneath his breath, continuing at the other man’s nod. “I am very impressed,” the Ranger answered. “I would have thought he would have raised them a bit differently.”

“It’s not like he took much of a hand in their raising,” Forlong laughed. “Other than assigning tutors and nightly grillings, they pretty much raised themselves, with a little help.”

“It sounds like you have taken a great interest in them,” Strider commented.

“I have to admit that I have,” the large man answered. “They have intrigued me since the first time I met them, so I did a little investigating. Have you talked to them yet?”

“I’ve only seen them from a distance,” Strider told him, hanging his head in disappointment. “I think they have enough conflicts as it is without adding myself to the mix.”

“You are right about the conflicts,” Forlong sighed. “There have been ripples of unrest for some time now, probably the work of the ‘Dark One’. Rumors of disagreement between the Steward and his sons, most of it false from what I can tell.” He paused as if considering treason, which in a way he was, for the Steward had never left any doubt as to how he felt about the man before him. “Do you know how old Faramir was when he first rode into battle?”

“I’ve followed what has been happening in Gondor as much as possible,” Strider replied. “I know enough that it would be injudicious of me to comment considering Denethor’s opinion of me. Yes, I know of both their military accomplishments.”

“Have your sources told you why?”

“I know that he was looked on with disfavor by his father,” the Ranger answered, trying to be circumspect.

“He almost killed him,” Forlong said bitterly. “It was nearly a year afterward that I saw him and those marks could have killed an adult. I had to go to Minas Tirith to find out how such a skilled warrior could be treated so.” He paused to organize his thoughts. “The Steward barely acknowledged the boy’s presence. It was as if he were Boromir’s son and not his own.”

“What do you mean?” Thorongil asked unable to stop himself.

“When I went to the city, I found out that Boromir had convinced his father to turn his brother over to him. Everything, even marriage rights.” Forlong leaned closer, even though they were isolated. “I still have connections in the White Tower. They say that Boromir threatened to leave Gondor and take his brother with him. All that I’ve seen convinces me it is true.”

“That is hard to believe,” the Ranger said, shocked that Denethor’s oldest son would stand up to him so. The man he remembered tended to stomp down any opposition.

“It is easy once you meet Boromir,” Forlong smiled. “The Steward dotes on him and he seems to know exactly how to keep his father in line. Much has changed in Gondor since he reached his majority.” Then the smile faded and he looked away. “He may have gone too far, Strider. They’ve started a cult.”

“What sort of cult?” the Ranger asked, feeling a strange fear crawl up his spine. Gandalf had told him of their visions about him.

“They say that Gondor will be saved, no matter how bad things get. In fact, that is part of it,” Forlong told him. “Things will get much worse before they get better according to them. There are even rumors that the White City will burn.”

“It sounds like they are preparing for the worst,” Strider said.

“That’s what I thought at first, until I saw the tattoos,” Forlong added. “They both have the king’s seal tattooed on their shoulder, as do many of their followers. Boromir insists that they will hold Gondor for the king whether he comes next year or in a thousand years, but the feeling is that he will come soon.”

“What does Denethor say to all of this?” Strider asked.

“He hates it, but since everything is underground there is little he can do about it. Boromir always supports his father publicly, and his ability as a military leader is amazing. With his brother, they are unbelievable. They do the sword dances together, you know.” Forlong paused in thought. “If I didn’t know you so well, I wouldn’t be telling you any of this. Boromir has also resurrected the rights of Mancipium.”

“Are you sure?”

“Have you seen the two armsmen who always ride at Faramir’s back?” Forlong asked.

“Númenorean decent, dark hair, very alert?” Strider queried.

“That’s them,” the big man agreed. “Boromir picked them out and they performed the whole right with his brother. They are both assassins, one of them a skilled torturer as well.”

“Why would he choose assassins?” the ranger wanted to know.

“He ever guards his brother, there have been several assassination attempts on Faramir in recent years.” Further words were cut off as a messenger came from the darkness.

“The Lords Boromir and Faramir approach the camp, my Lord,” he told them. “They ask for shelter for the night.”

“By all means, bring them,” Forlong laughed. “They are always welcome at my fire.” Then he sent orders to the men at the neighboring fire to prepare food and drink for their guests.

“I shouldn’t meet with them,” Strider told him urgently. “It will cause too many complications.”

“Go to your bed, my friend,” Forlong said, indicating the small tent a few paces away. “You need to leave early in the morning anyway and they are tireless.”

With a nod of thanks to his host, the Ranger retired to his pallet, leaving the tiniest of gaps open in the tent flap. He was extremely curious about the Steward’s sons and hoped that they would sit where he could see them. Though he hadn’t seen Boromir since he was a small child, he recognized the man who came to the fire and embraced Forlong before sitting beside him, facing almost directly into the tent. Faramir sat to his brother’s left and his two servants knelt behind him, their face brands clear to see. Once they had finished seeing to the brothers’ comfort, one turned to look away from the fire so that he would be able to see into the darkness.

“It has been too long, my young princes,” Forlong greeted them as his men brought trenchers of food and placed them before the brothers. “Share some wine and food and tell me of your adventures.”

“We’re not so grand as princes,” Boromir laughed, drinking from the offered wineskin. “Or so young any more.”

“You look it, my friends,” the older man laughed. “Must be all that Númenorean and elvish blood.”

‘They do look young’ Strider thought to himself. Two golden princes among men, who couldn’t help but attract all who saw them. After a lifetime spent among elves, he was very cognizant of their human beauty, made just a little exotic by the almost indiscernible touch of elvish blood.

“Don’t let father hear you, Forlong,” Faramir joined in, moving closer to his brother to offer him a bite of meat that Boromir took, licking his fingers as he did. “He chooses to believe that our light hair is just an anomaly, he never acknowledged mother’s elvish ancestors.”

“Where are you two headed, if you don’t mind me asking?” Forlong changed the subject.

“There have been too many reports of orc attacks south of the White Mountains,” Boromir told him as his hand reached down to find a tidbit to feed Faramir.

“You’re a bit far to north aren’t you?” the older man grinned at him.

“There is a more than adequate captain leading the expedition,” Boromir grinned conspiratorially. “My brother and I are going to make a quick trip to Rohan; there are some things you can’t delegate.”

“Are you going to bring your princess home?” Forlong asked.

Both brothers’ faces turned grim for a moment before Boromir spoke again. “She is needed too much in Edoras. Théoden King has been ill and she seems to be the only one who can comfort him.” He threw a stick into the fire as Faramir edged even closer and leaned his head on his brother’s shoulder, pushing the nearly empty food dishes out of the way. “We will bring her home as soon as we can.”

“I’m glad that the rumors of the rift between Gondor and Rohan aren’t true,” Forlong said before taking another drink.

The two brothers looked at each other and Strider felt a pang of fear at their expressions. “Father has been listening to the false tales spread by the enemy. He is convinced that they are in league with the Dark Lord. It’s been difficult to keep him from declaring our treaties void.” Boromir rubbed his brother’s back before giving in to the urge to pull him closer and wrap his arms around him.

“So, he doesn’t know where you two are going,” the big man guessed.

“He will know, probably before we even get there,” Faramir said sadly, one hand reaching up to stroke his brother’s cheek. “He watches.”

“What do you mean?” Forlong asked, his face going pale. Strider almost groaned aloud in his concealment, fearing that he knew what they spoke of.

“Who is in that tent?” Faramir asked suddenly, indicating the small tent where the Ranger lay. Both of his servants tensed at his question, one looking at the now suspicious shelter, the other at Forlong.

“He is an old friend of mine,” Forlong said without hesitation. “A Ranger out of the north who can be trusted. He has to leave before dawn tomorrow.”

“I won’t share father’s paranoia against our friends, brother,” Boromir said, kissing his brother’s forehead. “If Forlong vouches for him, I am satisfied.” He looked back to the older man and continued. “We have reason to believe that Denethor is using the seeing stone.”

“So, he could be watching us now,” Forlong stated glumly.

“He’s not,” Boromir told him with a smug grin. “We would know. Faramir and I can tell when he does.”

Forlong gasped at his words and it was all that Strider could do to remain silent. “Are you sure?” the big man asked.

“Yes, and he knows that we can, it helps to keep him from spying on us too much,” Boromir told him. “He can’t hear what is being said but he can read lips as well as written material. I would hate it if some of our confidences were revealed to him.”

“I will remember,” Forlong assured them.

“It may work to our advantage in the long run,” Boromir said, making Forlong’s eyebrow rise in surprise. “We are steadily losing ground against the enemy. Ithilien is lost, only our Rangers can move at all there. I’m hoping that next spring we can start a new offensive there that will set them back some, but we don’t have the manpower any more to take it and hold it. All I can do is keep up with the delaying actions. Without reinforcements from outside Gondor, we will lose Osgiliath within three years. After that, it could be only a matter of months, maybe days, before Minas Tirith falls.”

“Three years?” Forlong questioned in shock. “Why so soon?”

“We are losing too many people. The ratio of deaths gets higher each year, even though the numbers look better. Ten years ago, one hundred men lost in a year would be almost inconsequential, now it is devastating. The warriors lost in battle are bad enough but there have been ever growing reports of orc raids on villages to capture people, especially children,” Boromir told him.

“What would they want with ordinary people?” Forlong wanted to know.

“They go to the fire of the great altar at Barad-dur,” Faramir spoke up, his face pale. “I’ve seen them in my dreams. That is why we have been encouraging the revival of the older rites. None of us are great sorcerers like the Dark Lord, but every little bit of light that fights against the dark is of value.” He paused, giving the older man a serious look. “You have bided by our agreements and been a great leader, as well as spiritual father, to your people. Even in Minas Tirith, the faithful often speak of you as an example to be followed. We owe a great deal to your devotion.” He held forth a hand toward Forlong as he finished.

“It is the inspiration of you and your brother that guides me, my Lord,” Forlong said, taking Faramir’s hand and kissing it, making Strider realize that his old friend had a close personal knowledge of the brothers’ cult. “Are you sure we can’t send for help?” he asked, tears in his eyes.

“From whom?” Boromir asked. “Rohan is nearly as besieged as we are and the king is very ill. My sources tell me that even the elven realms are seriously troubled with increased orc and goblin raids. No one has the forces to spare so we have to do what we can.”

“You sound like you have a plan,” Forlong said.

“Not much of one, but we will not give up hope,” Boromir confirmed the last word, making Strider jump as if pinched. “That is why I have been localizing the military more. If the White City falls, the enemy will gain nothing but rubble. We have already established a two-stage evacuation plan. When we lose the bridge at Osgiliath, all of the women and children will be sent from the city and the Pelennor. We will fall back across the Pelennor as slowly as possible, hopefully we will be able to hold the west bank at Osgiliath long enough for all non-combatants to get clear. The city will be defended ring by ring and if anyone survives, they will escape across Mount Mindolluin. The increased activity at Minas Morgul leads me to believe that they have some nasty surprises waiting for us, but I intend to prepare as much as possible. Each surviving military unit will fall back to its home territory. Even if every fighter that comes to protect the city dies, it will take years for them to take the rest of Gondor. Each territory has been set up much like your own, with caches of supplies and hiding places. The enemy will not defeat us easily.”

“That doesn’t sound like much, my Lord,” Forlong said doubtfully.

“It is all that I can tell you now,” Boromir spoke with a smile. “I don’t believe it will come to that, even if we can’t yet see how we will be saved. Gondor will not fall.” The strength of conviction filled his words.

It made even Strider, who had spent his entire adult life filled with self-doubt, think that maybe there would be an answer. Maybe his current errand would bring one more key to the puzzle that controlled their future. If he was successful.

“It grows late; a man of my age needs his sleep. Make yourselves comfortable at the fire and use the red guest tent when you are ready. Sleep well, my Lords,” Forlong rose from his place before bowing before the two brothers. “Do I have your blessings?”

“Of course, my friend, our blessings to you and all your people,” Boromir told him, then Forlong departed to his own tent. “Let me see to your shoulder, brother,” he said to Faramir.

The younger brother quickly removed his shirt and turned his back to Boromir. Strider saw the strange array of scars on the young man’s chest and arms and was surprised by the large bandage that covered much of his right shoulder. Faramir hadn’t moved as if he were injured and, as the layers of bloody cloths were removed, it became clear that it was bad. The arrow wound looked several days old. He also noticed the gentle interaction between the two brothers. Even though they were renowned warriors, they showed great tenderness in their attentions to each other.

“Saphron is going to have to do some repair work on your seal when this heals over,” Boromir said as he cleaned the wound. “Let me see the other side.”

The sight of Faramir’s back made the Ranger’s breath catch in his throat. He knew of the seal and the scars, but not of the transformations that Boromir had made. After two years of work, the combination of scars and tattoo shading made the city of Minas Tirith come alive on Faramir’s back. Strider was glad that he couldn’t tell which marks came from the beatings he’d heard about. Looking at the seal, even with the round wound defacing it, brought a strange rush of feeling to his entire body. When he noticed both brothers stiffening, as if in surprise, he quickly looked away.

“What was that?” Boromir whispered, just barely loud enough for Strider to hear.

“I don’t know,” Faramir answered just as quietly, “but I liked it.” Risking another look, carefully avoiding looking directly at the seal, the Ranger saw the two brothers locked in a deep kiss, making him instantly hard.

“Let me finish dressing your wound so we can go to our tent,” Boromir said, breaking away from his brother.

It was only a few more minutes before they were heading toward the tent next to Strider’s, throwing off their clothes as they went. He could hear them as if they were right beside him, which they almost were as close as the tents had been set up. The sound of flesh sliding against flesh, accompanied by stifled gasps of pleasure, was nearly making him crazy. He dared not make any movement or sounds of his own, as he could sense one of Faramir’s bondsmen standing at the point where the fronts of the two tents almost met. Somehow, he knew that the man was paying close attention to him.

The sounds in the next tent stopped briefly as Faramir’s voice called out, “Belgar, stop it. Go check on the horses or something.”

There was a soft sigh from the man before he moved off, out of hearing range. Strider almost groaned in relief as he finally allowed himself to move. Firmly grasping his own erection, he vaguely wondered when he had undone his pants as he bit down on a knuckle of his other hand to keep from crying out. The sounds that they were making were more than enough to arouse anyone. He had a strange sensation, as if he could feel what they felt, making every inch of his body burn with desire.

The odd feeling that they weren’t alone persisted as they moved together in each other’s arms. It was marvelous, as if fire danced over their skin, not burning but invigorating it. Faramir sank down on his brother’s engorged cock, taking it deep within his body. He heard voices and a bright light seemed to fill him from the inside out as he moved in the familiar rhythm, as if one of his stronger visions were about to overtake him. With the concerted effort of long practice, he pushed back the invading rush of images and concentrated on the physical contact with Boromir.

They were no longer alone in their movements and they both felt as if they were falling down the long tunnel of time. Grabbing each other tightly, they thrust together, bringing the reality of their contact more into focus. Boromir reached up and pulled Faramir tightly against him, claiming his mouth with his own. The first ripples of their orgasm began surging through them and they felt that splendid union they’d only felt a few other times, as if their very souls had become one.

It was the calm in the eye of the storm, as they lay entwined with each other. Both knew that there would be visions later, strong and uncontrollable. And probably very bad. It happened every time Faramir fought against them, the price he paid for striving for his freedom from them.

“Sleep, my beloved one,” Boromir whispered into Faramir’s ear and, snuggling just a bit closer to his brother, he did.

In all of his years he’d never felt anything like that. He lay panting on his pallet, wondering what had just happened. He’d only been on the periphery of what they’d done and it had completely undone him. Vaguely, he wondered what it would be like to be at the center, encompassed in the power of what he’d felt.

“Sleep, my beloved one,” he heard Boromir whisper and, without his own volition, he felt his own eyes closing and consciousness drifting away as if the words had been whispered to him.

It was the long version of the dream. He’d only dreamt it once before and even then, there had been much less to it. This time, he felt his brother’s presence in his mind as he distantly felt his physical presence in his arms. They dreamed together the one dream that inspired both fear and hope in their hearts. Such a terrible, beautiful dream.

It always started the same, with the darkness spreading from the east the stench from Orodruin filling the air. They could hear the screams and see the blood of those sacrificed on the great altar that stood before Barad-dur. Sauron used both his own minions and innocents captured from his enemies to feed the dark fires that increased his power. As they traveled west, the black clouds billowed into hordes of orcs that left rivers of blood in their wake. The cities and villages burned, the cries of the people echoing through the darkness.

The whole world seemed filled with the endless horror of the Dark Lord’s power.

From the west, where the light still lingered, came a voice that called, but the words were drowned out by the raging of the evil storm that enveloped the land. A lone rider rode towards the light, his golden hair shining in the darkness. Time passed in a confused collage of violence and hope, too many images, only a few clear. One part was the dream of orcs, arrows, pain and death; Boromir bleeding on the ground. This was the dream that often tore agonized screams from Faramir’s throat, even as he struggled to wake.

Then the pain disappeared and he stood before them, glowing as if lit from within. They could only make out his eyes and the star on his brow. Their king had come to save them and they were enfolded in his warmth.

He came awake suddenly, reaching for his sword. The air in the tent seemed thick and strange as the fog of sleep and something more cleared from his mind. He’d never had visions. Barely able to accept the heritage of his blood, he’d never really believed in destiny. But now he’d had a vision. Or shared one, if he interpreted the weeping and calming words in the adjoining tent correctly.

There was no doubt in his mind that he had to leave now, no matter how far away dawn was.

He pulled back a flap of the tent so that he could use the light of the remnant of fire to see as he quickly gathered his equipment. With the ease of long practice, he fastened everything where it belonged and crawled quietly out of the tent, making his way to the eastern edge of the camp. Fortunately, the sky was beginning to gray past the red glow of Orodruin, so he wouldn’t have to travel long in the dark.

“I know who you are,” a voice came out of the dark behind him.

Turning quickly, he looked at the tall, dark-haired man who observed him with cold gray eyes. The blood of the House of Húrin was strong in this man and Strider wondered why he had felt the need to stop him.

“You have me at a disadvantage then,” he replied unwilling to give away any information after his strange night.

“I am Belgar, manciple to the Lord Faramir,” the tall man told him with a hint of burning pride in his voice.

“I have heard of you,” Strider told him. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I was just wondering why you were avoiding my master and his brother, Lord Thorongil,” Belgar said quietly in a voice that wouldn’t carry.

“There is enough conflict in Gondor without knowledge of my presence causing more,” Strider answered honestly. “My business is not with the Steward or his sons, though I hope that what I do may be of aid eventually.”

Nodding at his words, Belgar started to speak again, only to break off and draw the sword he wore at his side. His eyes widening in surprise, Strider froze for a moment before he saw that he was looking past him. Turning as Belgar shouted to alert the camp, Strider drew his own sword against the orcs that were coming out of the underbrush to attack the camp.

There was no time for niceties as the evil creatures were pouring toward them. It was dark and soon the ground was slippery with blood, but the combined forces of Forlong’s men and the brothers’ personal guard were quick to respond to the threat. Even though he faced screaming monsters before him, at his back were strong warriors seasoned to this kind of warfare.

It was nearly sunrise when they were finally able to stem the tide of attackers and, from the sounds, this had not been the only attack point. Belgar had remained at Strider’s side during the fighting, though he’d longed to return to Faramir. In such a battle, it was not practical to abandon the fight when he couldn’t be sure of where his master would be. Strider was favorably impressed with the man’s fighting skill and glad that he had been able to be with at least this much of the brothers’ retinue.

“I must find my lord,” Belgar said to him, bowing as he was backing away.

“Of course,” Strider told him, acknowledging his duty. He watched the man leave on his search before turning away from the camp to rejoin his own quest. Forlong’s men would hunt down any remaining orcs so he didn’t feel the need to worry about that aspect, but as he passed out of sight of the others, he stopped briefly.

It was important that his presence not be revealed to Denethor, especially if he were using the seeing stones. He wished there were some way he could ask the Steward’s sons to not seek after his identity or whereabouts. But it was too late for that. He sighed to himself as he again headed west toward the Anduin where he would turn north in his search for the creature Gollum, who may or may not hold information vital to the salvation of Middle Earth.

Watching and listening at Forlong’s side to the status reports, Boromir wondered if this latest attack was aimed directly at him and his brother. He’d yet to learn the secrets of Galmar’s information net and would soon have to take action if things continued the way they’d been. It was only a matter of time before his brother or he were killed, or even both, and that would leave Gondor vulnerable to the enemy.

A strange feeling came over him as Belgar approached causing him to dig his fingers into his brother’s shoulder. “My Lord,” the man said as he went to his knees before Faramir.

“We missed you, Belgar,” Faramir said, half in amusement and half in curiosity to his bondsman.

“I was talking with Lord Forlong’s guest,” he answered. “He…”

“Enough,” Boromir said quietly, but firmly. “There are some things that do not need to be spoken of.” His words surprised the three other men as well as himself, but he knew they had to be said.

Faramir’s lips parted as if he would question his brother, but at Boromir’s forbidding look, he nodded in acceptance. It didn’t matter what Belgar had to say, no one would ever know what it was unless Boromir specifically rescinded his order. Bowing his head to the ground and kissing his master’s feet before rising to assess the situation, Belgar waited for new orders. He would push his early morning conversation to the back of his mind, almost forgetting it unless he was told otherwise.

Serving his Lord Faramir was his life and even though he would go against Boromir’s orders if Faramir told him to, he knew that would never happen. They were all caught up in the bonds of loyalty and visions of the future. It was inconceivable that any of them would challenge the order of precedence they’d created. In this hierarchy, as long as the white throne sat empty, Boromir, Captain of Gondor was the final word, high priest to the deity that would some day be their king.

Until the prophecy that gave them hope was fulfilled, the Steward’s heir would reign.

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