Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 20: POLITICAL NECESSITY

Fall, year 3017 of the Third Age.

She hated that she had to be here, fulfilling her duty as a princess of Rohan. Sitting beside her uncle at the high table, Éowyn held the smile on her face like a mask. She wanted to scream and rage at the fates that had imprisoned her in the beauty that was Meduseld when all she really wanted to do was ride with the herds of the Riddermark.

It wasn’t that Éomer or Théodred couldn’t take her place, but they had to be at the forefront of the eoreds of their people. They were the military leaders of Rohan now that Théoden had faded so. Also, she could do more with a simple look because of her gender and resemblance to her mother, which helped soothe her uncle in his frequent descents into maudlin reminiscence.

Deepening her smile, she turned to the king and encouraged him to take a drink of his wine. She’d added herbs to it herself in the hopes that they would help him overcome whatever poison Gríma was using to drain his life and reason away. There was little hope in this. Though she couldn’t see him fading on a daily basis, at the end of each week as she reviewed her notes she could tell. It was slow but, at this rate, the king had less than two years before his mind would be completely gone. If only she could just get rid of the ‘worm’, but he was too firmly ensconced to be easily dislodged.

“Where is my son?” Théoden asked as he finished his wine. “Why isn’t he here to comfort me?”

“He rides with his eored, my king,” she answered, refilling his goblet and offering him a tasty morsel from his plate. “I read his last letter to you this morning, he is a fine leader, uncle.”

The king nodded, his eyes clearing for a moment as he remembered the splendid detail Théodred had used to tell of his exploits. His own youth had been spent riding with Eomund who had later married his sister Theodwyn. Orcs had been fewer then and long years had passed following the herds and keeping the festivals. It had been a life of unequaled freedom.

“Let us have a feast this eve, sister-daughter,” he announced jovially. “Let us celebrate being alive and the horselords of Rohan.”

Her smile was almost real as she heard her uncle’s words, even though she knew that she would have to be extra vigilant during the feast. Those were the times when the ‘worm’ could be the most dangerous. Of course, it also gave her opportunities to sink her own claws in where they would do the most good.

They’d ridden along the top of the White Mountains on old trails that had long been forgotten by the rest of the world. There had been a couple of small bands of orcs that had easily been overcome, barely impeding their progress. It was a hard, fast ride, the Mearas the two brothers rode curtailing their own natural speed so that the armed escort could keep up.

The signs of fall were heavy in the air this high in the hills. Soon winter would be upon them and they would be concentrating on the planned spring push into Ithilien. Both brothers knew that the stakes had risen much higher in the last two years and that this might be their last chance to meet with Éomer before the next offensive. Coming down out of the mountains west of the Firien Wood into the territory north of Ered Nimrais, but south of the Great Western Road, they were far enough away from the Entwash that they felt it was almost safe.

As expected, the Eorlingas were there before them, their bright pennants flapping in the breeze. At the top of the main pavilion were the banners of Théodred, Second Marshall of the Riddermark and Éomer, Third Marshall of the Riddermark. Boromir hadn’t seen Théoden King’s son for over a year and Faramir had never before met him, due to the political maneuverings of the current rulers of Gondor and Rohan.

Dropping down out of the foothills, they saw the two princes riding toward them at the head of their eoreds. Urging their mounts to greater speed, they began pulling away from their escorts as Théodred and Éomer did the same, since all four rode Mearas mares, which were reserved for royalty. Rather than coming to a stop when they joined each other, they turned to encircle the camp riding at full speed in a light-hearted display of exuberance. Finally, they came to the grazing ground and each relinquished their horse to the waiting Rohirrim.

“I have missed you sorely,” Éomer said to Faramir as he pulled him into his embrace. “It has been much too long, nearly five years.”

“I have missed you as well,” Faramir told him as he surrendered himself to Éomer’s arms. “Let us not waste any of our time together.”

“We must leave at dawn tomorrow,” Boromir said as the four strode swiftly to the princes’ tent. “There isn’t much in the way of intelligence that I can share with you, but we can coordinate our battle strategies as much as possible for the coming year. Our people have noticed a pattern to the orc incursions into both our lands and I think we can arrange a few surprises for them.”

“I would enjoy that very much,” Théodred said as he kept pace with the older men. “What you have shared with us so far has helped immensely, despite my father’s reticence.”

The centerpiece of the large tent was a large table covered with maps. They were soon joined by their chief officers as they examined the maps and exchanged information on the latest enemy actions. There were leaders of many of the smaller eoreds and villages, all men who were intent on protecting their herds and homes. It was late into the night before they had finished with their planning and they were all exhausted from the long session. Boromir was mostly pleased with the meeting but the tendency of the lower chieftains to turn to Éomer and ignore Théodred bothered him. They were all in too tenuous a position politically for the king’s heir to be slighted in any way.

As the last of the officers left the tent, Théodred helped Boromir roll the last of the maps up as Éomer and Faramir reacquainted themselves with the insides of each other’s mouths. The younger prince’s eyes widened in disbelief as neither man seemed to have the need to come up for air, and then he stepped closer to Boromir as he noticed Belgar and Nelis moving about the tent. He remembered his cousin telling him that they were assassins before they were body servants to Faramir and they looked very dangerous with their branded faces.

“Don’t mind them, your highness,” Boromir told him quietly. “They only seek to serve. My brother and your cousin, on the other hand, are selfish and useless this close to bedtime,” he added, giving them a dark look.

“Éomer has missed you both, my Lord Boromir,” Théodred said with a smile. “But Éowyn has always said he is rather useless when it comes to certain things.”

“As my brother can be,” Boromir said a wicked smile coming to his lips. “I think we should remind them of their duty.” Stalking over to where the two now lay in each other’s arms on the oversized camp bed, he brought Théodred with him. Sitting on the bed beside his brother, Boromir put a hand to his shoulder. Even though he was easily strong enough to force Faramir to do anything he wanted, it took only the slightest touch to gain his complete attention and compliance.

“Yes, brother,” Faramir whispered through kiss-swollen lips as he rolled to his back. Instead of answering, Boromir placed a finger to his lips to silence him and the younger brother lay back against the bed, waiting.

“When the time comes for the change, who will be king in Rohan?” Boromir asked, looking Théodred in the eyes. “Who will take up the reins of rulership in the Riddermark?”

As the young man started to look down at his cousin, Boromir quickly reached over and caught his chin in his hand. “A king does not ask permission to rule his people, Théodred,” he told him. “He must take what is his and show no hesitation or his enemies will think him weak. He must make his claim firmly or his allies and his vassals will grow insecure and doubtful.” Moving his hand from Théodred’s chin to his shoulder, Boromir gave him the slightest of encouraging shoves. “Claim what is yours by right of blood, my prince. The Eorlingas need you to step past the bonds of childhood, to let your teachers become your advisors, to take your place as Second Marshall of the Riddermark and make all but the king bow down before you.”

Théodred’s heart was pounding in his chest so hard that it hurt as he finally lowered his gaze to Éomer. This man who was closer to him than even his own father lay below him, relaxed and trusting in a pose so like Faramir’s it made him shudder. He knew as his hand slid into the hair of the one who had been his teacher from earliest childhood that all of his training had been leading up to this one moment. As he claimed the lips of his beloved cousin, he remembered what he’d been told of bonding with those whom he was to rule. All the whispered confidences Éomer had shared with him of asserting his power finally made sense.

It was strange to have his wild cousin so tame and willing beneath his hands as he slowly removed his clothing. This was the man who had taught him almost everything, been there for most of the firsts in his life. He guided Éomer to his knees knowing that it was what was needed for their purpose. This was more than just a fun tumble like he’d grown used to since he had taken his place as leader of his eored. It was intense and strange to him, this rite of claiming. It was for Théodred’s benefit, as Éomer had always known his place in the hierarchy of Eorlingas society.

His body knew what to do as he slowly entered his waiting cousin. It became clear to him that he was the one who had to show their people who was heir to the king. Each thrust brought him closer to understanding the commitment he was expected to make to his people and his king. There were no words of ritual involved but as Théodred reached his climax, he knew that he could fulfill his duty as Crown Prince of Rohan.

It took him a few moments to realize the Éomer would not move until he released him. Moving back slightly, he gave a slight push to his cousin’s hip which was all that was needed to have him roll over to his previous position. Théodred lay in Éomer’s arms not sure he really wanted this change in their relationship. It was his big strong cousin who had always made him feel safe and protected.

It had almost caused him to panic when he hadn’t been able to locate his sons with the palantir. Thankfully, it had only been one night and then the strange solid blankness had gone away. Unfortunately, it had given them time to get too far into the mountains to recall them. Either they had learned how to create a new shield to defeat the palantir or some other phenomenon had interfered. The latter was quite possible. The hills by Lossarnach held many shrines that called on old power.

Also the cult that had sprung up around his sons was very strong in that area. Galmar had brought him proof that even Forlong, who’d long kept himself out of Gondorian politics, was a part of the new cult. One of its leaders even. Anything was possible once their minions became involved.

As he watched them sleeping in the large tent belonging to Prince Théodred of Rohan, he cursed their independence. They lay entwined with the prince and his cousin Éomer, obviously having recently been lustfully engaged with them. Boromir stirred beneath his gaze and Denethor was able to read the word ‘no’ as it left his lips as if he were ordering his father to stop. A chill ran up his spine as his heir opened his eyes and seemingly looked straight at him.

The palantir fogged, then cleared showing Saruman as he sat in his tower at Orthanc. “Your sons’ defiance is dangerous, Lord Denethor,” came the honeyed tones of the white wizard. “They are far away from their duty as they dally with the scions of Rohan. Théoden seeks to place his own blood on the throne in the white city. Rumors speak of how close the princess is with her brother and cousin. It would be an easy thing to send her already with child to place some bastard of the Riddermark in the line of the Steward.”

Denethor hissed in reproach at his words, shaking his head in denial.

“You’ve seen them yourself,” the wizard pushed and suddenly the seeing stone fogged again to clear, showing Boromir on his knees before Éomer as Denethor had seen them the previous time they had been together. “Rohan would have Gondor on its knees; your sons would be nothing more than figureheads to the barbarians of the west.”

“What would you have me do?” the Steward raged caught up in the wizard’s taunt. “I cannot risk open war with my own sons. We are in enough danger as it is.”

“If you could separate them, you would see a great difference in how they behave,” Saruman told him. Again, the palantir fogged and cleared, this time it showed Faramir as he lay beneath his brother. He was spread open and beautiful, giving in to whatever Boromir wanted. “Look at him, my lord,” the wizard prodded. “Even you could not resist the lure of one so ready to please, one so pleasing to behold.”

Feeling himself harden at the sight, Denethor longed to turn away but found himself captured by the alluring vision.

“As long as he can extend his hedonistic influence over your heir, there will be no chance for reason to prevail. He spreads his legs quicker than any whore to bring his brother down to the level of his weakness. You knew he would do this, back when they were children, but he circumvented you even then. You remember the door he’d had installed between their rooms solely to allow him to seduce his brother? This has been a long time coming, my lord Steward,” the wizard crooned, stoking the rage that he was inciting. “The elvish blood is strong in your youngest son and you know how they are.”

The Steward’s face became angry at his words, thoughts of the past clouding his reason.

“Yes, I see you remember,” Saruman said. “There is even a strong resemblance between the two. I hate to think that the blood of the ‘wild elf of Mirkwood’ might run in his veins. It caused you nothing but trouble the last time one of his offspring had free reign in Minas Tirith. Heartache as well. You must take control of them now before it is too late, my lord Steward. Separate the two so that Boromir will no longer be corrupted by elvish influence.”

There had been nothing to show that Faramir had ever had anything to do with any elves, but the wizard knew about Denethor’s prejudices and how to play on them.

“When they return from their little jaunt I will do what is necessary,” the Steward stated firmly. He would no longer submit to their disobedience.

Saruman smiled in satisfaction as Denethor faded from his sight. He would push the Steward every chance he got. Even though Boromir could change his father’s mind with very little effort, sooner or later Denethor would break, and that could be used to his own benefit. He would not stop until both Gondor and Rohan were completely under his power.

Standing toe-to-toe, Éowyn and Gríma exchanged quiet, hostile words. “You will see that I can convince your uncle to go along with my plan,” Wormtongue hissed at the enraged princess.

“Then plan this,” Éowyn said as she buried the blade of her slender bodice dagger to the hilt in his shoulder, the shoulder other than the one she’d stabbed a week ago.

Stifling his own outcry, Gríma couldn’t help but move back suddenly as the princess ripped the top of her gown in such a way that it appeared as if he were at fault. It was the sixth or seventh time she’d caught him with the same ploy and he was beginning to bitterly regret that it was her instead of Éomer stuck here in Edoras. Of course, there was something a bit tantalizing, even arousing about the look in Éowyn’s eye and the way she moved when she impaled him with her pointy toys. He was much older than he looked, thanks to his wizard patron, and far more jaded than any as primitive as the Rohirrim could even conceive. He’d long ago learned to make his own pleasures if necessary.

“I won’t sit idly by and be one of your pawns, ‘worm’,” she told him with a hiss of her own. “I intend to fight you every step of the way, you will truly know what it is to face a shield maiden of the Riddermark before I’m through.” She twisted the knife as she pulled it out, causing even more pain but leaving only a small wound that was easily hidden in the folds of his clothing. “I don’t think that either of us is ready for a public confrontation, but I will be watching you,” Éowyn told him as she left the great hall.

Applying pressure to his shoulder for a moment to stop the bleeding, Gríma continued into the room. They were at an impasse for the moment but he was sure that soon things would change. The King would be very angry when he found out that Éomer and Théodred were meeting with the Steward’s sons against his orders. If he played his cards right, he would be able to assign some of the blame to Éowyn as well and then the balance of power would shift to his favor. Eventually, he was sure he would be able to return the favor of pleasurable pain to the proud princess.

“I hope you will be very circumspect about what you tell others about my efforts here, Stefle,” Mithrandir said as they walked toward the main gate. “Some things are better kept private. I don’t think the Steward would be pleased to know of my research.”

“I do not report to the Steward, my Lord,” the younger man answered. “It is not my place to inform him of what you do.”

“And what do you think your Lord Boromir will make of it all?” the wizard questioned.

“He is more concerned with keeping Gondor safe from the enemy than ancient history, my Lord,” Stefle answered. “Of course, if you have anything that might illuminate our future, maybe some forgotten way to fight against the enemy? The war does not go well.”

“I wish there was something I could do to help, my friend,” the old one answered sadly. “Maybe, if Iluvitar is willing, what I know now will aid us all, but there is nothing I can share with your lord to change things now.” He paused for a moment as they passed the entrance to the old marketplace. “Do you realize that we are being followed?”

“Other than by my people, you mean?” Stefle responded.

“Of course, I’m quite sure that your people have noted them as well,” Mithrandir said as they neared the gate. “But I think you should take special note of the merchant in the third ring.”

Only someone who knew him very well would have noticed a reaction from the younger man. “I know whom you speak of,” Stefle said quietly. “It was not someone I would have thought of.” He felt a pang of pain through his body. “Thank you for sharing with me, my Lord,”

“These are trying times,” the wizard said in a kindly voice as he put a comforting hand to his shoulder. “I will watch for Boromir and Faramir as I go, it would be a good idea for us to share information. Unfortunately, the urgency of my business will not allow me to tarry and I will most likely miss them.”

“I can ask no more of you, my Lord,” Stefle told him, his head bowed with grief at what he now suspected.

Brinel supervised the princess closely as she ran tests on the blood sample to see if the same traces of herb and antitoxin were in it as the last times. It would rouse too much suspicion if they took samples of the king and Gríma always took charge of the dishes he served to the king. So they took samples from the ‘worm’ himself. It was a most excellent ruse the princess had thought up, using the man’s own lust and the common knowledge of Éowyn’s fiery temper to cover her real aim.

“I think this is something new,” Éowyn said motioning for Brinel to look closer. They didn’t have the elaborate facilities of Minas Tirith, but the two women had managed to make a more than serviceable facility using one of Éowyn’s many dressing tables. Since she used very little cosmetics, there was plenty of room for the necessary supplies.

There was a brownish change to the sample, which made Brinel smile with delight. “Yes, you are right, your highness,” she told the younger woman. “This is something we can definitely do something about. I’m glad you started making him taste the king’s food and drink before serving him. It makes all of this so much easier.”

“I just worry that he might begin to suspect,” Éowyn said as she made notes in the diary she used to record the king’s condition. “The ‘worm’ is not quite as stupid as we could wish or his master would never have chosen him. At least I will not underestimate him if I can avoid it.”

Brinel smiled at the princess’s words. She was very pleased to be assigned to such a beautiful and intelligent woman. “You are such a prize for my lords,” she whispered in Éowyn’s ear as she wrapped her arms around the younger woman. “They will be truly blessed when you can finally go to them.”

Leaning back into the older woman’s embrace, Éowyn gave a throaty laugh as the older woman pressed kisses to her neck and her hands went to sensitive places. She was very glad that her future husbands had sent this woman to her. Besides being an excellent teacher, in everything, she gave her hope that there would be a future, as well as support through this time of darkness.

“If you didn’t think you were doing anything wrong going to Rohan then why didn’t you tell me about it before you left?” Denethor asked, almost yelling at Boromir.

“I didn’t want to argue with you, father,” Boromir said in a conciliatory voice, glad that he had insisted Faramir leave him to face their father alone. “Even if your suspicions are true, it is in the best interests of Gondor that we keep good relations with our neighbors. Théodred and Éomer don’t rule there yet, but they do command the eoreds and that is ever more important to our survival. Trust me, father, I only do this for our good.” As he spoke, he sat on the edge of the large desk and took his father’s hand in his.

Looking into the hazel eyes, the Steward completely lost his train of thought. No one loved him as much as his oldest son. No one supported him and followed his lead so well. It never crossed his mind that this might be some trick, some hidden power Boromir had, this ability to bring his father to his way of thinking.

“I am your loyal servant, father,” he told him in a low mesmerizing voice. “Let us discuss our newest strategy against Mordor.”

The dulcet voice made him forget the hypnotizing words of Saruman, the inciting visions he’d been shown. He could only hear his oldest son’s words, as if each time he fell captive to one of their trances, he became more susceptible to the next. In his own way, the Steward was becoming as weak and infirm as Théoden, continually swayed between the driving personalities of the white wizard and his oldest son.

The list was long, too long. The name at the top of the list was very surprising and Faramir looked up at Cara and Stefle as he read it. There was no need to ask if they were sure and the expressions on their faces made his heart ache for them both. Of course, many of his people would be saddened by the names on the list.

“Once we knew that my oldest son was involved, it became easy to trace the rest of the conspirators, my Lord,” Cara said sadly. “I should have suspected him long ago, he was so virulently against Stefle’s training, especially at such an early age. He always thought I should have married his father. I have only myself to blame.”

“I know that you did your best, Cara,” Faramir told her. “We can only go on from here. We need to decide which of these people need to be eliminated and which we can use to our advantage.” With grim determination they began discussing what their next moves would be.

They stood facing each other in the small passage, so close they almost touched. The sounds of Galmar and his companion coming up the stairway were clear to their ears. Their location revealed by soft voices discussing treason and worse as they neared the hidden door that led to their hiding place.

As they started up the next flight of stairs, Nelis opened the silent door and glided forth with practiced ease. Following behind him, Boromir was immediately aware of the slight scuffing sound he made and Galmar’s stiffening back as he heard it. Nelis had his target well in hand and subdued on the floor, but the Steward’s body servant turned with startling speed his belt knife reaching for his attacker. More used to combat than stealth, Boromir took the blow to his shoulder without flinching, his large hands reaching for his intended target.

Still he managed to use enough care to grab Galmar in just the right places to give him a good grip without leaving any marks to be found later. A quick flex of muscled arms and a thick crunching sound let them know that Saruman’s spy would trouble them no more. Laying the body on the landing, Boromir withdrew the knife from his shoulder so as not to allow any blood to drip onto the floor. He wiped it clean on the tunic of the young man Nelis held and secured it in Galmar’s sheath. Then he tossed the body down the lower flight of stairs, watching to make sure it landed looking as if Galmar had slipped on the long stairway.

Two waiting servants came out of the secret passage and took Nelis’s charge to the prearranged place while the assassin looked to Boromir’s wound. It was deep but narrow and since it was Galmar’s eating knife, they were sure it hadn’t been poisoned. The Steward’s heir was lucky so far. Nelis applied some powder from one of his pouches to stop the bleeding and they both carefully checked the landing again to make sure no evidence of what had passed was left.

At the opposite end of the passage, in a small anteroom, Boromir redonned his formal robe, glad that he had not worn it to his earlier clandestine meeting. Stretching his shoulder to make sure he had free movement, he went to rejoin his father and brother in the great hall. The press of people wandering about was so great that his absence was barely noted and since he returned from the same door used to access the privies, it was not at all suspicious.

Holding his mother’s arm, Stefle followed the funeral procession out of the city. Since his oldest brother, Leran, had never taken oath with the family, he could not be laid to rest in the small room reserved for them in the House of the Stewards. In front of them walked his brother’s widow on the arm of his second eldest brother, Deran, who had taken oath with the family and had agreed to take his brother’s place. Deran also escorted Leral, Leran’s oldest son, who was barely seven, and would one day inherit his father’s merchant interests.

Cara and Stefle had no doubts that Leral would make a fine merchant and loyal family member. Deran had lost all of his own children and his wife to an orc attack on the village where they had lived. As a result, his loyalty to the family and the sons of the Steward was even stronger. He knew that they were Gondor’s key to winning the war and would do anything he could to aid them.

It was a shame that Leran had died so suddenly from apparent heart failure. He wasn’t old for one of Númenorean blood, but he was well known for overindulging in wine and food. Of course, very few would ever know that he also had close ties with the enemies of Gondor. Even fewer would know or even suspect that his death was not brought on by his tendency to excess, but by the knowledge of his treason.

Almost able to reconcile her oldest child’s actions, Cara kept her pace solemn and resolute. It was in the best interest of the family as well as their lords, Boromir and Faramir, that no one ever know of Leran’s perfidy. Only her heart and her conscience would bear the scars of his treason.

It had caused more than a ripple in the status quo in Minas Tirith. As Faramir lay against his brother’s chest, he contemplated the deaths of the last week. There was nothing that could be called suspicious about any of them. Yet, they accumulated into a rather startling panorama of Gondorian society. People from every rank and occupation were suddenly dead and though there was frequently family, and usually those loyal to the two brothers, ready to step into their place, it seemed just a little too pat.

“Are you sure father doesn’t suspect anything?” he asked Boromir for the twentieth time.

“I’m positive, beloved one,” Boromir answered, taking his brother’s chin into his firm grasp. “But you know as well as I do that as soon as we are afield and Saruman has free at him again that everything will change. We’ve covered our tracks as well as possible and all we can do now is use our winter confinement to lock him into our way of thinking.”

“It just unsettles me,” Faramir admitted. “I keep feeling as if we are missing something important.”

“Until you find something concrete, I don’t want to hear anything more,” Boromir finally told him. “The longer we discuss this, the more chance there is of it being spread. We’ve both said more than enough for now.” His mouth moved to his brother’s neck as he finished. “Soon we will begin our final offensive in Ithilien. Once we have left the city there will be no time to enjoy your sweet body. So let us forget all of these political problems until we are forced to think of them through necessity.”

Melting into his brother’s kisses and caresses, Faramir could only agree. As Boromir’s hands gripped his hips and raised him into the perfect position for penetration, he could only moan in ecstasy. Sinking down on that mammoth cock was an experience only equaled by the large calloused hands that enclosed his own erection. There was nothing he could think of that could make him feel this wonderful.

Their combined movements once again transported them to a place outside of their usual realm to one where all possibilities existed. Here they could visualize the rescue and restoration of Gondor, though they both knew that without some kind serious intervention the White City, at least, would burn.

“Yes, brother,” Faramir moaned as Boromir thrust into him. “You make it feel so good.”

It wasn’t long before they curled up into each other’s arms, lost in the oblivion of such close contact. “I love you more than anyone or anything in any world,” Boromir whispered into his ear. “Let me guard you into sleep, my beloved one.”

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