Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 2: DISCOVERIES

“Have you talked with your father about your dreams?” Mithrandir asked Faramir as he scaled the giant bookcases to get the volume that the wizard needed. “He has dreams too, although he has never sought advice from any wizard I know of, except possibly Saruman.”

The boy’s snort of disgust brought the Istari’s head up to see Faramir drop down the shelves with frightening speed, an oversized book under one arm. “I do not talk to him unless I have to,” he said, landing easily and handing the book over to the wizard. “I’m sure his temper would not be improved by learning that I, and not Boromir, am the main recipient of the dreams the men of our line are known for. He’d probably feel that I was somehow to blame.”

There was such bitterness in the boy’s voice that the wizard put a comforting hand to his back. He was startled when Faramir jumped away from him, hissing in pain. “Are you all right?” the Istari asked.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry yourself,” he answered.

“Are we not friends, Faramir?” the old man asked in his most kindly voice. “Won’t you trust me with one more secret, as I have trusted you?”

“You promise not to interfere or tell Boromir?” he questioned.

“If that is your wish,” was the prompt answer.

He was almost relieved to let an adult in on the secret he had hidden from everyone except his most trusted servants, who knew all his secrets anyway. Making sure that Garus was still making himself busy in the doorway, to signal any untoward approaches, he loosened his tunic to show Mithrandir his back.

The wizard was shocked; he couldn’t remember seeing worse marks. They crisscrossed his back and he could see that they went down below the waistline of his pants. “They must be very painful,” he forced out, remembering his promise. “I think I have a salve that will help them heal quicker and take away the pain.”

“That doesn’t really bother me, just as long as they heal before Boromir comes home,” Faramir said, shrugging his shirt the rest of the way off so that his scars showed.

His eyes widening in surprise, Mithrandir noted the carefully patterned marks of the Númenorean sword dances. “You dance with your brother?”

“Father doesn’t know that he trained me too,” Faramir told him, remembering past slips.

“I won’t say a word,” the wizard answered. “But just the same, I will make sure you get a supply of that salve I told you about.” He paused, shaking his head in disapproval. “You really should tell your brother. Boromir is the only one who can reason with him.”

Faramir’s determined expression convinced the wizard to drop it for now.

Boromir watched the party guests with disinterest. That the party was in his honor for his eighteenth birthday meant little to him, though he had been able to get his father to give him a birthday wish earlier that day. His father’s displeasure at what Boromir wanted almost made Denethor refuse, but he would have had to break his own word. So Boromir had received a promise of a little more freedom for him and his brother, whom he had yet to tell.

The person he cared about most was nowhere to be seen. Faramir had been strangely distant in the week he’d been home. They still dreamed together when they were apart, and Faramir still came to his bed when his lovers had left, but there was something wrong. Something Faramir was keeping from him, and he was going to find out tonight what it was. With all the skill of one born to court life, he escaped the room.

Locking the door to his bedroom behind him, he went through the hidden door to his brother’s room. Faramir sat in his bed reading, his back against the headboard.

“You left the party early,” Boromir said, as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“So have you,” was the impish reply. But Faramir’s smile seemed a bit forced.

Boromir reached over and pulled his brother into his arms. “What makes you so sad and distant?” he asked. “I miss you so much when I’m gone, but when I’m here, you are closed away from me. Tell me brother, what is wrong?”

Faramir curled into his brother’s arms and fought to hold back his tears. There was so much that he yearned to share with his brother, but dared not. “My dreams of late have been rather dark,” he finally forced out. “I was able to talk to Mithrandir about them and he said as I get more used to them, I will be able to control them better. It will be all right, Boromir, I can handle this. But I don’t want to bother you with my small problems.”

Boromir kissed his brow, smiling at the soft sigh. “You are everything to me, my brother,” he said into his hair. “I can’t bear it when you are unhappy. I have news that might cheer you up.”

“You always cheer me, brother,” Faramir said. “Tell me your news.”

“Father has agreed to let me have final say over whom we wed,” he announced triumphantly.

Faramir looked at him in surprise, then lost control of the tears he’d been holding back. “That is such welcome news, brother,” he said between sobs.

Taking his chin in his hand, Boromir turned Faramir’s head so he could see his eyes. “What is this about? Has he said something to you?” he asked. Faramir tried to look away, but Boromir was insistent. “Tell me.”

“Father told me that he planned to send me to Rohan. The king’s sister has borne a daughter. He said I would serve better as a tie to bind our two peoples together.”

“If ever I decide you should marry a princess of Rohan, or anywhere else, she shall come here. I am parted from you too much as it is,” Boromir kissed his brow as he spoke. “You are my life, dear brother.”

Faramir was glad that Boromir didn’t pry any more, he felt bad enough concealing things from him and didn’t want to have to lie to him. They cuddled together beneath the blankets, talking of small matters until they drifted asleep.

Boromir woke in the darkness disorientated. His thoughts were hard to gather, partially from the hot wet mouth that was enclosing his cock. As his hands encountered soft hair, he realized who it was.

“Faramir, no,” he gasped, even while his dick told him otherwise. “We mustn’t.”

Faramir just gripped his hips harder and pushed down so that Boromir’s cock slid into his throat. It was too much for him, making him come long and hard. Faramir swallowed all his brother had to give before climbing up and giving him a deep kiss.

“I’ve been dying to do that for so long, Boromir,” he said in his ear. “Please don’t hate me for giving in.”

“I could never hate you, my brother,” he told him. “But you are too young for such things.”

“If I can do it, then I am old enough,” he quoted Boromir. “This,” he said wrapping a hand around his brother’s cock, “ is a much gentler weapon than those I have used since I could walk. And this,” he thrust his own erection against his side, “proves that I can. All that is left is whether you want me,” he told him.

“Faramir, I want you, but you are too young and my brother,” Boromir said, but was unable to resist his sweet kisses.

Faramir bit him hard on his collarbone. “I am not too young,” he said, as he licked the blood from the bite. “I don’t care that we are brothers, it only makes me love you more.”

Boromir rolled them over so he was on top. He lost himself in a long, deep kiss. “You are too much for me,” he said as he ground his hips into his brother’s, rubbing their hard cocks together. “I want you so much.” He couldn’t stop himself, having secretly dreamed of this for years.

Their hands roamed each other’s bodies, their mouths locked together. Both wanted more, much more, but Boromir couldn’t bring himself to allow it. Still, the movement and closeness was enough to bring them both to climax.

Curling together, they shared a sweet kiss. “Go to sleep, little brother,” Boromir told him, kissing his forehead.

The sound of the door closing softly, as if in stealth, brought Boromir awake suddenly. He sat up, his hand automatically reaching for his sword. Faramir also woke, but he recognized the intruder from the sounds of her hurried steps.

Cautiously relocking the door, she hurried to the bed. “Your father is asking for you, my lords,” she told them in a subdued voice. “His servant, Galmar, is about in the hallways, spying. Garus distracted him so I could sneak in here to warn you.”

Blushing at being caught in his brother’s bed, Boromir set his sword back against the wall. Thinking quickly, Faramir put an arm around his brother and kissed his cheek. “Take Maran to your room, brother,” he told him. “You even have time for a quick romp while I dress. The noise will distract Galmar,” he added at Boromir’s bemused look. He gave him a push and began climbing out of bed. “Hurry,” he whispered.

Maran was already headed towards the secret door. Boromir looked at his brother, then down at himself, the dried cum and love marks obvious on both of them.

Faramir handed him his sword and leaned into him to whisper in his ear. “Don’t worry brother, Maran will put everything right when we have gone down to breakfast. She can be trusted,” he took Boromir’s limp cock in his hand, stroking it to hardness and giving him a most unbrotherly kiss. “Now go do your part and make her scream with pleasure.”

Still not completely awake, Boromir made his way to his own room to follow his brother’s instructions. He enjoyed sex with Maran. The memories of the previous night, along with what his brother had just done, made him harden even more. Maran was already naked on the bed waiting for him.

A short time later, Faramir checked his appearance in the mirror, and then left his room, locking the door behind him. Hearing the loud noises coming from his brother’s room, he stopped to rap on the door sharply. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Galmar, his father’s personal servant and snoop, peering from behind a partially closed door. “Boromir, we are late,” he called.

The sounds continued for a few moments more, followed by loud cries of completion. Soon Boromir opened the door, wearing nothing but a smile. “Help me dress, brother, I completely forgot the time,” he said, pulling Faramir within the room.

The younger brother picked out clothes from the wardrobe while the older one gave himself a quick wash at the basin in the corner. Boromir’s dressing was aided by his brother, and occasionally hindered by his groping. Laughing and swatting playfully at Faramir’s hands, he noticed Maran watching them. She gave him a wink and an approving smile. Wondering at his brother’s ally, he finished the last of his dressing.

The morning had gone well, despite their tardiness to breakfast. Denethor had just signed a new, more favorable trade agreement, and was pleased enough to give Faramir some of the credit. He even released the brothers to spend the rest of the day as they pleased.

As they entered their private garden, Boromir noticed the familiar trunk and two of the young men Faramir had trained as their personal servants waiting for them. “What is this, brother?” he asked, as the servants opened the trunk and began arranging its contents on the ground.

“For your birthday, I thought you might like to do a sword dance with me,” Faramir answered, his voice going husky. “One we can finish to its proper conclusion.”

At Boromir’s nod of approval, the servants, Garus and Stefle, began removing the clothes from the two brothers. They applied oil to their skin before dressing them each in a tight, confining garment that was barely more than a loincloth. When they finished, they placed matching swords side by side in the small clearing and went to guard their privacy.

The brothers began stretching, their bodies close together, mirroring each other’s moves. They took their time, letting the mood build before they went to take up their swords. Standing back to back, they leaned into each other for a moment before beginning the dance.

There were five dances and this day by unspoken agreement they did the third, which was Boromir’s favorite. Developed centuries before by great fighting champions of Númenor, the dances were training exercises for advanced swordsmen. They required absolute control of one’s weapon and body, as there was bloodletting involved. This dance contained twenty-six complicated passes for each participant, half of which required the marking of their opponent/partner. Each mark was at a vital spot, which could kill or cripple if done incorrectly.

They danced together with great skill and grace, having practiced constantly for nearly eight years and having done the full version of each dance with live steel several times, except for the conclusion which was not an exercise in battle, but in gentler arts meant to bind two warriors closer than brothers. As each stroke met and cut soft and previously scarred flesh, or passed it by like a breath, they drew closer to each other. Their movements were slower than usual, each wanting to make it last longer, but any onlooker would think they moved with blindingly fast speed. This was one of their chief joys, moving together in the ancient patterns. It was one of the few things they did without restraint, without conscious thought. Bright steel licked out, leaving behind thin red lines that barely bled.

In this dance they matched each other in moves, Boromir leading his brother. As they closed together for the final moves, his hand slipped just the barest amount causing a slightly uneven line. Faramir was unfazed by the mistake and placed his final cut perfectly over the ones he had made in previous dances. They let their swords fall to the ground from their outstretched hands, the razor-sharp blades sticking firmly in the ground.

Moving together now, they reached for each other with hands and mouths greedy for contact long denied. Boromir cried out as Faramir licked the blood and sweat from his chest, guilt making him want to stop but unable to resist his brother’s advances. Some part of him had always wanted this, but he did not feel comfortable with it. His mental image of his brother was of a child, not this aggressive creature who would not be refused. Grabbing his brother’s head and kissing his mouth, Faramir rubbed his body against him. There was no retreat for Boromir.

The ties to their pants were easily overcome by seeking hands. Faramir pushed his brother to the ground, straddling his waist. Pressing hungry kisses to his chest, he moved back until his ass was pressed against Boromir’s cock. Sitting up, he raised himself, preparing to slide down the pulsing erection, but Boromir grabbed his hips and rolled them both over.

“No, Faramir,” he told him, pinning his body to the ground. “I cannot go that far, not yet.”

“Please, beloved,” Faramir begged. “I am more than ready. I burn to feel you in me.”

“I am not ready, Faramir,” Boromir told him, burying his face in his neck, “please, do not ask this of me, not yet.” His whole body shook and Faramir relented.

“I love you, Boromir,” he told him, pulling his head up so that he could look in his eyes. “Forgive me for pushing you. We will do whatever you allow.” Then he kissed him until they were both gasping for breath. “Do not stop, Boromir,” he whispered. “I need to feel you against me.”

They both shuddered as Boromir began rubbing his body against Faramir, the passion of the dance already changed to a stronger passion. He couldn’t stop, not even if he had really wanted to. Faramir grabbed his hips and pulled him closer, crying out in pleasure. Again, they both found their release in each other’s arms.

As he lay with his brother cradled in his arms, Boromir began to wonder about the servants who had served them this day. Never before had he really thought about them except at need, but this day they had been prominent in their aid. “How do you know that we can trust Maran or these others with our secrets?” he asked Faramir.

“Do you remember Nelda?” his brother responded.

“Of course,” was his quick reply. “She cared for mother and sometimes us when we were little.”

“When she retired,” Faramir started, not even hinting at the forced retirement. “I still saw her regularly when she came to visit her family who still worked here. They are of the oldest retainers of the House of Hurin, and loyal to our family from before the Stewardship. She has advised me on choosing the most discreet and loyal servants to serve our personal needs. Most, such as Maran, are of her own family. A few, such as Garus, I found on my own, but let her pass judgment on them before I brought them here.”

“I have noticed Garus,” Boromir said. “He seems very devoted to you.”

“He and his siblings were orphaned,” Faramir told him. “I brought him here to serve us and placed the others with Nelda. She takes very good care of them and he can see them often. He is grateful, I suppose.”

“I think there is more than gratitude in his eyes,” Boromir said laughter in his voice.

Faramir put a hand to his brother’s cheek and looked in his eyes. “You are gone so much and I truly hate sleeping alone,” he responded. “You have spoiled me, brother.”

“So Garus and Maran share your bed when I am gone,” Boromir kissed him as he spoke. “I had worried about you being alone in the night. I’m not sure that I’m not jealous. They get to hold you more than I.”

“You are always first in my heart, brother,” Faramir whispered. “I only exist as a shadow when you are gone. I am only truly alive in your arms.”

Faramir followed his father into his study. It had been such an innocent comment, that Boromir would soon be returning for his birthday. Why it should anger his father so was beyond him, but then, his father angered so easily lately, especially with him.

“So, you think yourself so important that your brother should abandon the defense of Gondor for you?” Denethor took up the thin cane from beside his desk. “Strip,” he ordered his son. “It is past time you learned your place.”

Reviewing the moves in the sword dances in his head, Faramir did as he was bid. He knew it was useless for him to argue. He bent over the desk as he was ordered, and endeavored not to make a sound.

This was new. Before, he had had the protection of his clothes; now the thin wood sank deeply into his flesh and he could feel the blood flow. Still, he put all his strength into not showing any emotion or making any noise. As the pain increased he concentrated on the exact moves of fifth dance, which was the most complicated and drew the most blood. This helped him to keep his control until his body finally had enough and he passed out.

When Boromir arrived for his brother’s birthday two days later, he was surprised that he wasn’t at the Great Gate to meet him. There was a messenger from his father, though, and he was constrained to spend several hours giving reports before he could get away.

It was after dark when a third search of his brother’s room revealed his brother to him. “Faramir!” he called, when he saw him laying face down on his bed. “Why have you been hiding from me?” He placed his hand on his brother’s back when he spoke and was surprised by the painful hiss and flinch. Lighting more candles and lamps, he brought them closer to the bed. Helping Faramir up, he began removing his clothes and then the bloody bandages covering him. There were no words for the shock he felt at the appalling wounds, their nature obvious.

Boromir wept as he treated his injured brother, blaming himself for letting this happen. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I should have done something, seen this coming.”

“No, it’s not your fault, I’m the only one to blame. Please, Boromir, don’t cry, I can’t bear it when you cry. I will be all right, it’s not much worse than some of the other times.” Faramir stopped speaking as his brother froze.

“What other times?” he asked, his voice low and deadly.

“Don’t do anything, Boromir, really it’s my fault.” He threw himself into his brother’s arms as he started to rise. Wrapping his arms around him, he held him tightly. “He is our father, don’t do anything we both will regret. Please, brother, I beg you.”

Boromir put his hands to Faramir’s back and they were immediately covered in blood. “You’ve started bleeding again, lay back down,” he urged him.

“Only if you promise not to do anything, please, Boromir.”

“I will not strike our father, but I will talk to him tomorrow. This will never happen again.” He lowered Faramir to the bed. “ I should take you to the healers.”

“No, I don’t want anyone else to touch me,” Faramir begged. “I look worse than I am. If you help, I will be fine in a few days.”

“Will you be good enough to ride?”

“Ride where, Boromir?”

“I’m taking you with me. You are old enough, and good enough with a sword.”

“Really?” he asked joyously.

“Yes, really, I will be able to keep you safe.”

Faramir’s face darkened slightly at the thought that he had to be protected from his father. “I love you, Boromir. I will follow you anywhere.” He leaned forward and gave him a very unbrotherly kiss.

Boromir briefly returned the kiss, and then eased him back to the bed. “You are in no condition to be getting either of us worked up,” he said with a smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Boromir barely slept that night. Worry for his brother and anger at his father made him restless. Faramir occasionally cried out in his sleep, so he would stroke his cheek and whisper words of comfort.

As dawn brightened the room, he dressed carefully. He bore no weapons, not even the dagger he had worn almost every day of his life.

He had always been an obedient son, except when it came to Faramir. Since he’d first held him in his arms he’d felt responsible for his welfare. His father’s attitude toward his brother was unreasonable, and puzzled him. And now he had to confront him, again.

The door to the breakfast room revealed that his father was alone. “Faramir is late again,” Denethor said grimly. “Have him sent for.”

“No,” Boromir answered. “He will not be attending any meals until he is well enough to sit without making his injuries bleed.” He stood before his father.

“You would defy me?” Denethor asked.

“He is my responsibility, he has always been mine. When he is well enough to ride, I will take him with me,” he answered.

“You are out of line. I will not tolerate it.” Denethor began to rise from his chair.

Boromir took a step back and spoke firmly. “He will leave here with me as my armsman when I return to my company, or as my fellow outcast. In this thing, father, I will not be moved.”

Denethor felt a surge of pride as his son made his declaration, but it didn’t abate his anger. “You have coddled him like a girl, the simplest orders seem to be beyond him. Go ahead and speak to the armsmaster; he can tell you of his constant tardiness and absences. If you have to take him into battle, he could get you killed trying to protect him. Is that what you wish?”

Boromir’s face reddened in anger. He knew that his father was trying to provoke him, trying to poison him against Faramir. “There is nothing you can say that will change my mind. I have faith in him and I know he won’t fail me.” He looked at Denethor with steel determination. “Nothing will come between us. He will always come first, even before myself.”

The words were like a slap in his father’s face. He’d never been able to deny Boromir anything, and now he was being relegated to a lesser place than the son he despised. Denethor’s thoughts went back to another time when he had taken second place in his own father’s opinion. The years he had been forced to follow the advice of Thorongil. He turned away from his eldest son. There was nothing to contest. Then, as now, he had lost.

“I will expect you both to behave in a manner befitting the sons of the Steward,” he told him in defeat. “I’m sure there is somewhere else you want to be, I will excuse you from today’s meals. Your brother shall henceforth be your concern, as long as proprieties are met.”

Boromir felt a great lifting of his heart. He didn’t hesitate, but hurried to the kitchens to arrange for the day’s meals for his brother and himself. Servants followed him back to his room with a huge breakfast, which he shared with Faramir. It was near bliss to be alone together. After he applied more salve to the welts and bruises, they had a leisurely meal. He even fed his brother with his own hand as he lay on his stomach. Faramir was exhausted by the news and the meal. Boromir kissed him and went about the day, summoning Garus to watch over Faramir.

First, he visited the armsmaster to ascertain his brother’s fitness for battle. Here there was no surprise.

“Your brother is a most excellent swordsman, and his talent with the bow can only be equaled by the elves, if them,” the man gushed. “Of course, his recent accidents have cut into his training time rather drastically.” He did not add that it was a mystery that one so graceful in arms could be so clumsy in private. Boromir spent several hours in practice and training, before returning to the White Tower.

At lunchtime, he applied more salve to Faramir’s back before he shared a very pleasant meal with him. Faramir couldn’t sit, so Boromir took great pleasure in sitting beside his bed and feeding him by hand, as he had at breakfast.

They spent the afternoon in hushed conversation, Faramir occasionally drifting in and out of sleep. Boromir sat on a low stool so that he could easily kiss or caress him. This was not how he had planned to spend his visit, but this time of privacy was welcome. If only his brother weren’t injured.

They had dinner, Boromir again feeding his brother. There was a marked improvement to the cane cuts when he applied more medicine; even the bruises were fading fast.

“You are doing better than I had hoped, “he told him.

“It’s because you are here,” Faramir responded. “I always heal better with you near.”

Boromir lay down next to him, their faces close together. “I want to be with you, more than anything,” he kissed his brother’s forehead instead of the lips that drew him. “Sleep now, my beloved, so you can get well.”

Faramir smiled at him and closed his eyes. In moments, he was sleeping soundly. It was something Boromir had always been able to do, put his brother to sleep. He knew that as long as he stayed near, he wouldn’t wake.

Boromir got up from the bed and began going through Faramir’s wardrobe. He wanted to make sure he had plenty of the right kind of clothes for traveling. Then he found other things to occupy his time, stopping frequently to check on his brother. He would kiss his brow to hear his soft sigh.

A quiet knock brought him quickly to the door. It was their father. Boromir stepped back far enough so that Denethor could see into the room but not enter it. Faramir lay naked and turned slightly so that all of the marks on his back were clearly visible. Denethor winced as he saw his handiwork for the first time since the beating. He had never before seen the results of his actions against his youngest son and, for the first time, felt shame at what he had done.

Blushing, he stepped back from the door and turned his face away. “There is some trouble in Ethring.” At Boromir’s stubborn look, he raised a comforting hand. “I will take care of it. You stay here and run things, there are plenty of people to help you.” Pausing, he looked into his oldest son’s eyes, “Continue taking care of your brother. I will leave at first light, and will be gone at least two weeks.” With that, he turned and walked swiftly away.

Closing the door, he saw that his brother was awake. “So we get some more time for me to heal. What brought that on?”

“He saw,” Boromir told him. “I made sure he saw what he has done.”

Within days, Faramir was well enough to sit for short periods of time without undue discomfort. He had meals in the dinning hall with his brother, and began going for short walks. As soon as he was able, Boromir had him join any meetings and help him in administrative duties. Many of the counselors were surprised that he actively sought his young brother’s advice, and frequently followed it. At first, it appeared to be an act of indulgence, such as they had heard Denethor accuse Boromir of. Soon, though, they realized that Faramir was wise beyond his age, and made decisions much the same as his father would.

By the end of the first week, Faramir was back at weapons practice. Boromir watched him, sometimes stopping him to make sure he hadn’t opened any of his wounds.

Two weeks later, Faramir lay face down on his brother’s bed while Boromir applied salve to his almost healed back. Their day was over, barring emergencies, and there was plenty of time before they need worry about sleep. Boromir started at his shoulders and worked his way down, taking his time, with many side trips and detours. The cane marks had faded to scars, and for the first time he noticed older scars.

“Promise me you won’t keep things from me any more,” he said into Faramir’s ear. His hands slid between his brother’s thighs, bringing a moan of pleasure. “I want you to always tell me everything. I want to know all your secrets.”

Pulling Faramir over onto his side, he began rubbing his chest. He lay beside him and kissed him deeply. Faramir ran one hand through his brother’s hair; the other, he brushed through the beard he had started wearing. Boromir moved his hands around to Faramir’s back and pulled him close. The contact of their naked flesh made them both groan.

“Promise me, Faramir, and I will give you what you have been begging me for.” He thrust his hips against his brother’s, causing their hard cocks to rub against each other. One finger slid into Faramir’s ass as Boromir licked and sucked his neck.

“Please, Boromir,” Faramir cried out, grabbing his brother’s hips. “I’ll tell you everything, daily, hourly, minute by minute if you wish. Don’t make me wait any longer.” He was peppering his face with kisses as he spoke. “I’ll even keep a journal, if that is your wish.”

“Yes,” Boromir said thickly. “A journal, where you will tell me everything, every detail, promise me.” He rolled so that Faramir was on his back and he was between his legs. Pushing Faramir’s knees up to his chest, he poised his cock at his brother’s ass. “Promise me.”

“I promise, Boromir,” he said breathlessly.

Boromir thrust forward just enough to put the head of his hard cock into Faramir’s tight ass. “Every day,” he said through clenched teeth. “Promise me.”

“Yes,” he cried out. “I promise, every day. Please, Boromir, please, I can’t wait.”

Boromir began sinking his cock onto him slowly. The long awaited contact was almost too much; he had to stop once he was all the way in. Faramir groaned loudly and Boromir grabbed his cock, squeezing it tightly, just in time to keep him from coming. They looked at each other, breathing heavily. Boromir realized they would not last very long no matter what they tried. His cock twitched inside Faramir, whose cock twitched in his hand with the same beat. He pulled almost all the way out and thrust back once, moving his hand in time, and they both climaxed.

Boromir lay down on his brother, supporting much of his own weight on his arms. Faramir’s hungry lips claimed his, his hands pulling him closer, his legs wrapping themselves around him.

Suddenly they were both hard again, and moving. Boromir strove to make it last, while Faramir was wildly bucking, caressing, biting, and kissing. Grabbing his brother’s hips and rising to his knees, Boromir took control of their movements. He made slow, deep thrusts into his body, angling his hips just so. Faramir cried out his pleasure with each penetration, his brother mastering his body.

Both became lost in the sensations, in each other. Their eyes locked together, their breathing synchronized. Boromir’s hips thrust into his brother’s tight passage, his hands pulling him closer. Faramir’s legs wrapped around his brother’s waist, pulling him closer, his hands stroking his own cock in the same rhythm. It went on endlessly, forever.

Finally, their pace quickened, the thrusts harder and they both came with loud cries. Boromir collapsed next to his brother, pulling him into his arms. They lay together holding each other.

“That was even better than I dreamed,” Faramir said, when he had caught his breath.

“Better than it’s ever been for me,” Boromir added. “You are always the best, my love. Next time, you will do the same to me,” Boromir told him.

“I love you, Boromir,” Faramir told him as he kissed his face. “You are so good to me.”

A short time later, Faramir was thrusting deep into his brother. They whispered words of love and caressed each other. Their earlier activities had taken the urgency out of their copulating. It lasted longer this time, both of them well sated when they finished.

Denethor returned after nearly three weeks. The brothers had all their preparations made for their own departure. There were last minute changes made as a result of their father’s journey, but soon all was ready.

Reviewing the decisions that had been made in his absence, Denethor saw no need to reverse any of them. Although his mouth tightened grimly when his counselors told him how much of a role his youngest son had played, as soon as he had recovered from his mysterious illness.

The relationship between him and his sons was strained, and he could see they were closer than ever to each other. Denethor’s feelings of isolation and habit had him still making caustic remarks to Faramir, and favoring Boromir. He tried more often to temper his comments, but his antagonistic feelings were still there.

He let them ride out, just the two of them, with the horses and supplies. Even though the countryside wasn’t completely safe, his sons were warriors. Boromir, at nineteen, was almost legendary with his sword. Faramir, at fourteen, was lethal with both sword and bow. They were unlikely to encounter a foe they couldn’t defeat or outsmart.

Wandering through their rooms after they had gone, he chased off the servants who were just starting to clean them. He took note of the differences in how they kept their rooms. Faramir’s room was very neat, even the bed was made, while Boromir’s looked like a storm had hit it.

He sat on the edge of Boromir’s bed and looked around the room. He missed his sons, though he couldn’t quell his resentment of the youngest. The pile of clothes beside the bed seemed overlarge, until he recognized the tunic Faramir had been wearing the night before. Rising he picked through the pile seeing that it contained both sons’ clothes from the night before, including undergarments. Turning back to the bed, he pulled the bedding back and saw multiple stains upon the sheets. He’d seen them retire to their own rooms the night before. Looking at the wall that separated the two rooms, he saw an odd shadow, a stray breeze moving a hanging. Crossing over to the wall, he found the hidden door behind its tapestry.

He was appalled and enraged. If, at that moment, Faramir had stood before him, he would have killed him. It was surely the sweetness of his younger brother that had led Boromir astray.

Leaving the room, he tried to calm his thoughts. Things might not be as bad as they looked. Boys experimented when they were young, and this was, most likely, just a passing phase. The access door had probably been installed long ago; there were many secrets in a tower this large and old.

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