Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 25: HOPE

Éomer’s dream refused to let him go. Sometime in the night the two shieldmaidens who’d joined him had left, telling him they had to get some sleep. Rolling up in his blankets, he forwent thinking of companionship and sank into the dream. It was so vivid he could even smell the women and men as Boromir wore them down into trembling piles of sated exhaustion. It was such a lovely dream, especially after the weeks of subtle tension.

“Come, Éomer,” Théodred said entering the tent. “There are horses to gather and your eored is already off to their herds.”

“Come here first, cousin,” Éomer said huskily, looking up at him with lust glazed eyes. “The horses will still be there when we are done.” Throwing off his cover, he turned and stretched on the furs exposing his body to the younger man.

Théodred’s mouth went dry as he walked to where his cousin was shamelessly running a finger up his engorged cock, catching a drop of precum from its tip. “I take it Boromir is no longer pining alone in the wilds,” he commented before grabbing the offered hand and licking the salty liquid from the fingertip. He was able to shed his clothes quickly as he’d dressed for riding, not fighting. “A fast ride on a good stallion would be an agreeable way to start the day.”

Straddling Éomer, he slowly lowered himself onto the waiting erection. It had been a while since they’d done this, so he took his time in adjusting to his cousin’s generous cock. “I can see you going into battle like this, cousin,” Théodred said as he finally was firmly seated against Éomer’s groin. “So full of lust, your breathing uneven, all your muscles tense with your desire.” He rose so that just the tip of Éomer’s cock was still within him. “You would impale the enemy with your stout spear.” On the word spear, he dropped down quickly, causing the man beneath him to arch in pleasure.

“Yes, my liege,” Éomer hissed.

“You would wield your mighty sword with the skill of a great warrior,” Théodred whispered as he wrapped his cousin’s hand around his own raging cock. “You would pleasure yourself in the blood of our enemies.” He moved his body swiftly, ascending and descending on every other word.

In only moments, Éomer was lost in surrender to his strong, young cousin. Théodred was not long in finding his own release as Éomer firmly stroked him. After a few minutes of resting his head on Éomer’s chest to catch his breath, Théodred sat up and looked into his sated cousin’s eyes.

“Come, Éomer,” he told him. “It is time to ride with the herds. Time to feel the power of a good steed beneath us, the wind in our hair. It is time for us to range the open steppe.”

There was no hesitation as they both dressed and went to their mounts, ready to ride as they’d been bred to do. It was good to ride free beneath the autumn sun and feel the hope that was so hard to come by rise in their hearts.

“There is no need for you to join the Steward for dinner tonight, Uncle,” Borril said once they’d finished discussing the day’s meetings. He sat close against Faramir’s side, leaning his head on his uncle’s shoulder, Calinir mirroring him on the other side. “Or at all tomorrow either. I already told him that this was a particularly strong vision and that I expected you to take longer to recover than usual.”

“It is only an indulgence, nephew,” Faramir smiled as he brushed Calin’s hair from his face. The young man sat on the floor between his feet resting his head on his sire’s thigh as he had done since childhood. “I should not have given in today or yesterday. There is still much to be done.”

“Listen to him, Uncle,” Calinir’s voice joined his brother’s. “Everyone could see the strain that has been growing upon you. If you overextend yourself now, who will be there to take care of us when you are needed?”

“Besides,” Borril added with a wide grin, “if you’ve run out of bedmates already I can find plenty of more-than-willing people from my own household. It can’t be easy, this contact with our sire as he ravishes an entire town. Maybe he should have taken a companion with him; I bet he never thought of this aspect of traveling alone.”

“Neither did I, Borril,” Faramir said with his own grin. “We’ve been apart but never alone before.”

“Think of it as indulging him, my sire,” Calin said, watching the ever-present guilt disappear momentarily from his Faramir’s face. “He knows you are with him, he can feel it. After so much time alone, doesn’t our beloved Lord Boromir deserve a little indulgence?”

Throwing his head back in defeat, Faramir sighed deeply. His two nephews smiled down at their cousin who always seemed to know just the right words.

“I’m glad to see that you have finally recovered,” Denethor said as Faramir took his seat at the breakfast table. “Our forces along the Anduin and in Ithilien have need of your inspection, I would wager. It is easy for men to become lax when left without supervision.’

“I can set out after the midday meal,” Faramir confirmed, even though he had full confidence in his field commanders. It would be good to be outside the city and out from under the Steward’s heavy scrutiny. He’d never told his father of the bond with his brother, or of the dreams they shared. There was a bit of guilt in not sharing with him that Boromir was well and in the company of others, but he knew that Denethor’s jealousy would make sharing that news dangerous. So he kept his silence.

“So, you are confident that you will be able to fulfill your brother’s duties?” Denethor asked, testing his youngest son’s resolve.

“Of course, my Lord Steward,” Faramir answered with no trace of wavering. “We thoroughly discussed what needed to be done, I am quite sure of my duty. I am acting as his agent as he instructed me.”

“Tomorrow should be soon enough for your tour,” the Steward said with a nod. “That will give Borril time to bring you up to date with everything you have missed.”

“As you wish, my Lord Steward,” Faramir acknowledged with a hidden smile. Things couldn’t be going better.

There seemed to be a lessening of tension around the table as the lords present listened to his words. Even though they all had plenty of confidence in Faramir, they still needed more because of the Steward’s lack of support. Borril smiled broadly, as did Calinir, at Denethor’s words, though Calin kept his same stoic countenance. Those who wished to ferment discord amongst the ruling houses of Gondor drew sustenance from their seeming discord. It would not be many more months before moves would be made to claim the power in Minas Tirith.

There were other places in the White Tower that were just as secure, but Borril had grown used to meeting here. Everything they needed was in the desk; the room and its contents were not only magically protected, but also constantly occupied by three or more of the most loyal members of the ‘House’. Also, he was honest enough to admit to himself, he’d developed the same voyeuristic urge as his Ada to watch his uncle and sire as they had seemingly endless rounds of sex. That they would remember the conversations around them while so occupied was an added bonus.

Occasionally he had seen a thing or two that he’d later used with his own wife, but other than that, there was nothing really arousing to him about their activities. He knew that if he’d ever felt the urge he could have joined them, for they would deny him nothing, the same for all his siblings and cousins. But being here was more of a comfort than a thing of desire. It let him know that he was loved and trusted in the heart of the family, which was more important to him than anything else.

Calinir and Calin were a little less circumspect. Often, they would stop what they were doing to watch with unveiled interest what was happening. He knew that they’d ventured into the oversized bed a time or two, but had only seen them brush sweaty locks of hair from lust filled faces or press soft kisses to their sire or uncle’s face. They had three wives at home, shared like their mothers shared and even another husband to make it an even six in the adults in their family. Here, they had only each other and the few they allowed to join them from time to time, such as Borril, whom they had always welcomed.

Today, Calinir was dressed as Calin and vise versa, an exercise they did a couple of times a month to stay in practice. They were identical physically, even their eye color and hair shade, but their dress and manner in public made them so distinctive from each other that few realized how close the resemblance was. No one had spotted the deception yet, but they kept their distance from the Steward, knowing that he often saw more than he revealed.

The three of them had never known anyone who could think of Faramir without noting his beauty. Even the Steward’s eye could be caught filled with lust as he watched his youngest son on the practice field or when the sun turned his auburn hair to that glowing color. Naked, he was beyond compare; the designs carved and colored into his flesh highlighted his lean form as he drove his large cock relentlessly into the body below him.

This morning, it was Stefle who had been unable to hide his growing melancholy at his Lord Boromir’s long absence. His hands were clenched into the sheets and he was no longer able to cry out in pain or pleasure after the long hours that Faramir had spent fucking him into the bed. They waited patiently, knowing that the rising sun would soon see him riding out of Minas Tirith. All of the plans had been made and the details worked out for the next several months, only a few signatures were needed. But neither Borril nor Calin, in this case actually Calinir, would be present as Faramir left the White City. Today’s version of Calinir would escort the Steward’s youngest son to Great Gate, causing speculation on the loyalties of the three young men.

Riding alongside the caravan leader, Boromir was fascinated at their method of transportation. Teams of donkeys pulled laden barges up the wide river. It was something he would never had thought of and it amazed him how much the little creatures could pull while the steersmen kept the barges on course with long poles that they used to push the craft away from obstacles. He wondered if the method would work in Gondor, after the war was over, of course.

The riverbank had been cleared of brush and trees for the barges and it was fairly easy going. He had plenty of time to observe the countryside and the customs of the inhabitants. The towns were spaced close enough that each night was spent within protective stockades or next to them. The few parties of orcs and goblins were easily overcome.

As they came closer to Mirkwood, he began to see elves. At first, it was hunting parties that would parallel the caravan for a while. Then, as the river entered the forest, there would be smaller groups and sometimes individuals who would approach the caravan master to discuss possible trades. They were thin and tall and almost blindingly beautiful, but something about their carriage made Boromir think of children when he saw them. Their voices were fair and they always acknowledged Boromir’s presence with a slight bow, which he returned, though none of them addressed him directly.

“They used to ride alongside us and join us in our camps at night,” the caravan master said as the latest group rode away, having warned them of a band of orcs in the area. “But since the fighting has broken out, they have been less friendly. King Thranduil doesn’t much care for men or any of the other races; rumor says he even avoids many of the other elves. But his sons are a different story, there are often competitions between them that spill out of the forest and into the cities of men and dwarves. I’ll be very surprised if we don’t find a couple of them wagering in Esgaroth when we get there. They seem to know who you are though, or at least your rank.”

“I’ve been told that I have a reputation, even in these parts,” Boromir laughed, his eyes constantly watching the surrounding forest, which was thick in this area.

“Yes, there have been many who have wished to tell me tales they have heard of you and your brother as we have been traveling,” the older man told him. “Hopefully, you won’t have to put your martial skills to the test. So far, it has been very quiet on our journey.”

It was only moments later that Boromir peered into the overhanging forest ahead and slowed his horse, which was fidgeting nervously. “I think we may have unwelcome company ahead,” he told his companion. “Orcs, by the smell of them.”

At the Caravan Master’s signal, several of the guards came forward to ride with Boromir to check out the suspicious section of the trail. With his shield in place and his sword drawn, the Steward’s son led them into the thickening trees. It took only moments to discover that an ambush had indeed been established. Boromir led the others to charge, as he felt sure they could easily overcome their adversaries.

These northern orcs were smaller then the Uruks he was used to dealing with and not nearly as good at setting traps. Still smarting from having to run from the group south of Lórien, he was merciless in his attack. He’d always hated orcs of any variety and took great pleasure in killing them, as did his borrowed mount. Even in the dense brush at the side of the road, they managed to find and kill their prey.

After a few minutes, he heard the sound of arrows and saw that elves were in the trees overhead raining death on their common foes. It was only after all the orcs were dead that Boromir realized that only ten of the guards from the caravan had followed him this deep into the forest. As the elves dropped from the trees to gather their arrows, their leader approached Boromir.

“It seems that you live up to at least half of your reputation, Lord Boromir,” came the beautiful, melodious voice. “I am Ororin, third son of Thranduil the King. If my father wasn’t waiting for my report, I’d tarry to find out if the other half was as accurate.”

“I am glad to meet you, Ororin,” Boromir replied with a polite nod of his head and a wink. “And would be glad to prove my reputation when there is time. For now, I seek Imladris, which I’ve been told lies on the other side of your forest.”

“If I could spare even one of my company to guide you, I would, my Lord,” Ororin told him. “With the awakening of Dol Guldur, the forest has become infested with the monsters of the dark ones and it is unsafe, even for our people. If you join the caravan into the forest from Esgaroth, I will try to arrange for you to travel with the next courier to Imladris. That is the best I can do for now.” Looking over Boromir’s shoulder, he saw the rest of the caravan guards approaching. “If you could make sure that this offal is taken care of properly, we will be off?” he asked, anxious to be on his way.

“I’ll make sure that none of these are left to pollute the forest,” Boromir assured him, though he was disappointed.

Nothing he’d ever seen before could have prepared him for the sight of the Long Lake. The sea was larger and wilder, but this was a work of men. The small lake before they reached it was larger than anything he was used to in Gondor, and at first he thought it was their destination. Then he saw the dam rising above it at the other end and knew that he was in for something special. It took them a whole day to unload the barges and load the pack animals to haul their cargo up the portage to their goal.

As they topped the hill and he saw the lake, he was astonished that it disappeared in the distance. The huge stone wall that held the water back had been there for centuries. Planned by a man and built with the cooperation of men and dwarves. It was not a large construction compared to Minas Tirith and some of the other Gondorian marvels, but it was still impressive.

They reached Esgaroth just before sunset. Boromir took his leave from the caravan master as soon as he was sure there were no caravans leaving to the west the next day and his mount and baggage were safe for the night. He was intercepted by an agent of the Master of the Town and escorted to the main hall. Brushing at his clothes as he walked to remove some of the trail dust, he wished he’d been given time to clean up before having to present himself. It was more a city than a town, with business booming despite the growing orc and goblin problem.

His footsteps echoing on the broad wooden walkways stretching over the water, Boromir strode toward his destination. There were faces peering at him from the surrounding houses and openly staring from the sides of the path. Esgaroth was equally as impressive as the lake itself, having spread to the far side, though there were fewer platforms near the middle where the water was deepest. The main hall was located there and was actually a floating building attached to large pylons, which held it in place.

Despite the layer of trail dust he knew was still with him, Boromir felt confident that his appearance was suitably impressive as those within the hall turned startled eyes upon him. No doubt the story of the ambush along the river had preceded him, adding to the already over-exaggerated (to his mind) reputation that had spread here in the north. But he was more than willing to use that reputation if it helped him to accomplish his goal, the quicker the better.

The Town Master rose to greet him, giving him the deference he would to one of Thranduil’s sons, and Boromir accepted it as his due. In his life, he had only bowed to his father and then, only in high ceremony, and he would bow to no other except his king. He felt a pang at the thought of his king and his head turned to the west of its own volition, as if he would be able to see something. There had been a growing anxiety in his heart for the last few days that was definitely coming from the west. Turning back to his host, he smiled an apology, which was quickly accepted, and joined him at the head table.

The other people along the river didn’t keep track of time in the same way that Boromir was used to, but here in Esgaroth they used the old Númenorean calendar. To his surprise, he learned it was the 10th of October, making his journey now ninety-six days. Suddenly he felt almost desperate to reach Imladris and solve the riddle his brother and he had heard in their dreams. It pushed him to inquire of the Town Master if any were to be heading into the west. By the end of the meal, he’d managed to convince the man to send him with a single escort into Mirkwood to ask aid of its king, as the men of Esgaroth had close ties with the wood elves.

As the food was finished, the main section of the hall was cleared for dancing and musicians began setting up for an evening of celebration. It wasn’t often that such a distinguished person came from so far away. He joined in the merry-making even though his heart wasn’t into it. It would have been rude to refuse. As his eyes roved the hall he recognized the three musicians Faramir and he had rescued years ago in Anorien. Moments later, he was joined by the twins Felida and Feleda, now showing a few signs of age, though still beautiful.

Later he found himself in their bed with their two husbands who were also twins, a most happy circumstance as far as he was concerned. Since he’d been given no clear idea of how far his journey would be yet, he decided to make the most of this night. Lying on his back with Felida impaled on his hard cock and her husband buried balls deep in her ass, he reveled in the feel of them. Feleda and her husband lay one on each side of him, their hands and mouths touching him everywhere. It wasn’t as good as when he was with Faramir, but some part of him could still tell that the two women had been with his brother before. It eased his heart somewhat and he could almost hear the voice of his beloved little brother.

In his bed in Henneth Annûn, Faramir felt his brother’s contact with the twins. It made him smile as he thought of the nights they had spent with them nine years previously. The young ranger who straddled his hips and rode his hard cock held only part of his attention as he let the bond with his brother feed his lust. It was so good to be able to share this in their limited contact, making Faramir hope that Boromir would always have companions with him until he returned home.

It had been made clear to Éowyn before they’d even started that it was a dangerous endeavor to test the blood of a wizard’s minion. Still, it took only a moment and the slightest of mistakes to demonstrate what could happen. The knife lay on the dressing table waiting to be cleaned of its sample of blood. As Brinel stepped closer to the table, her knee gave out again and without volition her hand went to catch her balance, her fingers coming in contact with the blade.

At her choked cry, Éowyn turned from a cupboard where she was gathering supplies to see what had happened. She saw Brinel’s hand held out before her slowly blackening and withering, small wisps of smoke rising above it as if it were burning in invisible flames. The older woman had her other hand nearly all the way in her own mouth to stifle the screams she couldn’t quite hold back. From the lore she had learned, Éowyn knew instantly what had happened and grabbed an axe from its place on the wall, rushing toward her beloved companion, hoping she wasn’t too late.

Knowing that she was immune to whatever potions Gríma might ingest, she grabbed the shriveling limb and pulled it outward so the she could have a clear strike at it. As she straightened the dying arm, it came away in her hand and she watched Brinel slowly sink to the floor, the withering blackness rising up her neck to her beautiful face. Dropping the axe and the disintegrating appendage, Éowyn stepped back and could only bite her lips in horror as her friend, teacher and confidant turned into a pile of dust before her eyes.

Beside Éowyn, Rina took several shallow breaths, followed by a deep one as her automatic systems took over and she prepared to scream. Again acting on her careful training, the princess turned and slapped the young maid hard enough to knock her to the bed. “Be quiet, you fool,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “We cannot let this be discovered.”

Tears streaking her face, Rina nodded in agreement, the blow helping to bring her to her senses.

“Build up the fire, I will dispose of everything there,” Éowyn said, battling her own tears, knowing that too much would be revealed if Gríma discovered Brinel’s fate. With half choked sobs, she gathered the ashy remains in the now almost empty clothing. ‘It is too soon, I still need you,’ her heart cried out to her now dead mentor.

“It never hurt you, my Lady,” Rina whispered through her tears.

“He has to make sure I am immune to his poisons if he is to claim me,” Éowyn said bitterly. “But my maids are not immune, so bethink you, a moment’s inattention can loose all. You are all I have left, Rina, do not fail me.” As the maid wept at her feet, swearing her undying allegiance, the princess worked her own minor magic to hide what had happened from any eyes that may be prying. She regretted not being able to speak with Gandalf when he’d come to see her uncle; she might have been able to learn more.

But Gríma had been able to keep her from exchanging more than a few innocuous words before the wizard had been rushed from the hall. Éowyn knew that her allies within the city of Edoras and Meduseld itself were beginning to become dangerously thin. To hold the Riddermark, they needed the Eorlingas afield, so she was becoming isolated amongst her enemies. She hoped that she would be strong enough to hold against the rising tide.

It was just after the evening meal when Gríma felt the wave of unease that told him some magic associated with the endless spells his master had cursed him with was occurring. Since he was attending the king, he couldn’t rush to his scrying bowl to see what it was. He could only hope that the White Wizard would know and that he would be willing to share his knowledge with his servant. Often, Saruman would scoff at him and berate him for his weaknesses, only telling him what he thought was absolutely necessary. It had been part of his training that he be kept fully aware of just how insignificant and worthless he was.

Wiping the drool from the king’s chin, he decided it was just as well that he didn’t know everything. He wasn’t even sure that the wizard himself even knew half of what was going on. If he had found out about Gríma’s weakening in the presence of both Boromir and Éowyn, he would have punished his servant in any of a thousand horrible ways. When no retribution had come from Isengard, Gríma had begun to believe that maybe the all-seeing eyes of the palantiri weren’t as infallible as he’d been told. Maybe somewhere in the future he would be able to make a break from the evil wizard that held him as thrall. As unlikely as that was, in a small corner of his heart he held to the smallest bit of hope.

Only time would tell.

The smell of the endless fires and unwashed orcs no longer registered in Saruman’s mind as he watched the busy production going on below him. He smelled only victory as a steady stream of uruk-hai moved about the business of preparing for war. Despite the escape of Gandalf, there would be no escape for the race of men. Already the Ringwraiths were on the move, scouring Middle Earth for the one ring, and soon his own hosts would join in the hunt.

A small tendril of unease touched him, some disturbance in the magics he had cast over Rohan. It was too small, or too shielded for him to be able to tell what it was. There were so many spells he had set in motion there. He would see if he could catch it on the palantir later, if not it was too insignificant for his notice. After all, he was destined for greater things and nothing in that primitive land could seriously challenge him. Soon, his uruk-hai would destroy the horsemen’s forces and his agent in Edoras would take over the throne. It gave him a thrill of pleasure to think of the beautiful, haughty princess forced to marry Gríma, who was nothing more than his creature, owned body, heart and soul.

In the end, it would be Saruman who would triumph. He had been working toward his goals for a very long time and knew all the players well. When Boromir returned, his orcs would succeed in making sure the Steward’s son never made it back to Minas Tirith alive. Then it would be a simple matter to take the power in Gondor from the doddering and greedy Denethor. Faramir was too weak to resist him, and already Borril and Calin were showing signs of being as corruptible as their grandfather.

It was clear to him that there was no way he could fail. The weak men of Rohan and Gondor could cling to their vain hopes. But in the end, it would do them no good.

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