Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 32: UNEXPECTED

“Would these rooms suit our Princess better, my Lady?” Gríma asked as he pushed open the double doors that led to the largest suite in the hold of Meduseld.

As she stepped forward into the chamber, Saphron was well pleased. She’d heard of the private chambers of Elfhild, Queen of the Riddermark, long dead wife of Théoden, and they were as beautiful as rumor said. It was most fortunate that the King was in no condition to nay-say his niece on her future occupation of these rooms; she’d had enough trouble talking Éowyn into making this move. “These may just be acceptable, my Lord,” she told the fawning advisor, moving toward the center door at the back of the large room which she guessed led to the sleeping chamber. “Show me all of it.” When the guards moved as if to follow, she stopped and turned, a look of disdain upon her face.

Gríma, ever anxious to please this most gracious of women, shooed them back to the doorway. “I’m quite capable of showing the Lady Saphron around on my own,” he told them impatiently. “Wait here until we are finished.” With that, he pushed the doors so that they came together with a resounding clang.

Saphron was careful to examine everything. She wanted the future transfer of Éowyn to Minas Tirith to be as smooth as possible. If the Princess wasn’t acclimated to the large rooms and constant presence of servants, she would be at an extreme disadvantage. While these quarters weren’t nearly as impressive as the ancient and oversized ones in the White Tower, they were a good starting point. All she would need now was the appropriate staff to help Éowyn adjust to being the center of attention.

When they returned to the center of the main room, Saphron turned in a circle taking the whole of it in once again. Without thought, she reached out and caught Gríma’s wrist in her hand, meaning to call his attention to a minor detail. She had been so long a sheltered and loved member of the House of Huron that she’d forgotten that there were times she must use caution herself. The surge of power that ran up her arm almost numbed it with its strength.

More than that though, it revealed a secret that she was sure the King’s chief advisor didn’t want revealed to anyone. After the briefest of pauses, she continued in her dissertation of the suite’s suitability as if nothing had happened at all. Later, when she was safely away from Saruman’s minion, she would deliberate on her new knowledge.

Looking down the length of the room, Denethor frowned at the sight of his younger son moving amidst the gathered crowd. After months of slowly fading from his brother’s absence, he was suddenly as bright and cheerful as he’d been in earlier years before the press of war had brought grim lines of worry to his face. There had been no messengers, that Denethor knew of, who could have brought word of Boromir’s whereabouts or health, yet it was as if Faramir had spoken with him. Denethor had seen it often enough through the years, though he’d always ignored it before.

At his elbow, ever ready with advice that helped him see through the deceptions and intrigues of the court, Mordel had been quick to point out the sudden change in Faramir’s demeanor. Denethor recalled the discussions he’d had with his sons about their dreams, many of which they shared, or so they said, and began to seriously wonder if they shared them even at a distance. It would explain much of what he had witnessed over the years; much of what he’d seen of late. As these thoughts passed through his mind, Denethor began to feel more than a little angry. He had always tried to be a good father as well as Steward to the realm of Gondor, and he couldn’t understand why he would be excluded from the bond his sons shared.

More, he was feeling cut out, as if his sons had judged him and found him wanting.

“You seem much revived of late,” Denethor couldn’t help mentioning as Faramir approached. “Is there some news you would share with your father?”

There was barely a pause or change of expression, but it was enough to add to the Steward’s insecurities. “We have held out better than planned, father,” Faramir said with a broad smile. “And I feel confident that soon Boromir will return to us with the wherewithal to overcome our enemies completely.”

“Perhaps there is some new reason for this confidence, my son,” Denethor said, his eyes taking on a cold edge as he leaned closer to his youngest. “It was not that long ago that you were almost inconsolable about your separation.”

“I’ve had dreams, father,” Faramir confided leaning closer as well, smiling shyly at the now frowning Steward. “They are not as clear as I would wish for, thus I have not shared them with you even though I know you long for Boromir’s return as much as I do. I’ve seen little more than flashes and shadows, but they have heartened me because I could feel his presence. He will return to us, father, and when he does we will be better off than we can imagine.”

It struck Denethor in that moment that Faramir was not just a leader of the cult that his sons had started in Gondor, but a true believer. A chill went down his spine at the thought of what might happen if some unexpected disaster befell them. He had never been one to put any trust in faith and could only see Faramir’s clear devoutness as fanaticism. A danger, not only to Gondor, but also to him personally.

After all, who would Faramir turn to for retribution other than the father who had long stood as a source of opposition? Denethor would have to make sure that he was prepared in case the worst happened.

It was unexpected that Boromir would be awaiting his arrival at the stables in the middle of the night with a small retinue of elves to take charge of his baggage and mount. All that was needed was a small gesture to have what he required taken in hand by the man himself. Estel could only smile tiredly as he was accompanied to his suite where a fire burned in the fireplace and a warm meal was being offered up by the two youngest hobbits who joined him, somehow almost energizing him with their excited chatter of all that had transpired since he’d left.

“We will be able to hold our own against any orc now, Aragorn!” Pip said through a mouthful of stew. He paused briefly to wash his food down with a small tankard of ale. “Boromir has shown us how to use our size to best advantage. We will be unstoppable.”

“Don’t be too brash, Pippin,” Boromir cautioned. “Those of the dark lands have many orcs and goblins to spare, while we only have one Pip and one Merry.”

Estel couldn’t halt his laughter at the brazen young hobbit, though it was tempered by the memory of the completely untrained little ones defending Frodo with more courage than skill from the Nazgûl attack. “Fortunately for us, you are well skilled in stealth as well, my friends,” he said. “It will most likely do us in much better stead on our errand.”

They finished their meal as four friends reuniting after a long parting. It was pleasant and relaxing, not at all what Estel had thought he’d return to, at least not on his first night. The last scraps were devoured by the hobbits before they swiftly gathered the dishes and bowed themselves out of the room. Estel started to his feet, intent on reporting to his foster father.

“Lord Elrond sends his respects, my liege,” Boromir told him as he took his arm and guided him toward the bathing room. “He said he would wait for your report first thing in the morning.”

“I really should speak with him tonight,” Estel said as he weakly resisted the gentle urging of the younger man.

“Is there really anything you could tell him tonight that would make that much difference on the morrow, my liege?” Boromir insisted. “He told me earlier that you should wait until you had refreshed yourself with some rest before drawing him from his warm bed.”

A mild blush colored Estel’s cheeks that he hadn’t considered his foster father’s comfort. Relenting, he allowed himself to be skillfully stripped and submerged into the small pool that was the centerpiece of his bath. He’d never experienced anything like the care-filled ministrations of the man who was quickly becoming indispensable to him. There wasn’t an inch of skin or a single hair that went untended by his self-appointed hand servant.

“I have missed you, Estel,” was whispered into his ear as Boromir joined him in the water. He was expertly maneuvered so that he half-reclined on top of the younger man, one hand wrapped around his cock stroking lightly, while the other gently massaged his balls. “Being parted from you makes my very soul ache,” soft lips imparted as they caught delicately at an ear.

He’d never felt quite like this before, his body cradled within the larger man’s hold while he was brought inexorably to the heights of arousal. “Boromir,” he gasped as he arched uncontrollably. There was nothing he could compare with the feel of being guided, encouraged, so very surely led over the edge of completion by the warrior beneath him.

“You bring me completion, my Liege,” Boromir called out hoarsely as he found his own release in his sworn lord’s.

So surprising, Aragorn thought as he was gently dried and led to his bed. Here in his childhood home where he had grown to manhood, he was beginning to learn what his destiny was all about in the hands of the son of the only man who’d ever regarded him with open hatred.

The bedroom alone was three times the size she was used to and there had been no cessation in the traffic of servants and guards in any of the rooms since she had begun her occupation of them. Éowyn was overtired from trying to adjust to sleeping in the middle of the chaos her private life had become. There had not been a moment untended by Saphron or one of the six other keepers (as she now thought of them) who’d been appointed the task of watching over her every moment. Sighing with exhaustion and more than a little exasperation, she turned to the balcony that abutted the bedroom. As she leaned wearily against the stone balustrade she felt the soft touch of her chief handmaiden brush across her arm.

“I have one more surprise for you, my treasure,” she whispered in a tone that the young Princess had come to both love and hate. “Come look.”

Obedient to the older woman’s urging, she followed the short distance to where the rail met the exterior wall of the building. Watching carefully she saw the simple hand movements which caused a section to slide easily to the side so that they could pass down the outer wall of the keep. The path was narrow and hidden within a fold of the curtain wall that separated the inner stronghold from the city proper. The fierce wind laden with freezing moisture deterred neither woman as they descended.

At the base of the building was a small courtyard which she had never seen before, even in all her childhood explorations. At the far side of the sheltered space stood a familiar and well-loved figure. With a cry she leaped across the distance to wrap her arms around her beloved cousin.

“I have missed you so, Théodred,” she said as she pressed kisses to his face. “It has been so hard to be parted from you.”

“I have missed you too, Éowyn,” he said laughing and weeping with emotion. “If only we’d known of this place sooner.”

“But now that we do, I can see you both more often,” Éowyn added as she reveled in being with Théodred after so long apart.

“Oh dear cousin,” The young Prince whispered as he hugged her tighter. “The orc and goblin attacks have worsened with the coming winter, especially in the Westfold. Our only salvation has been the grain and hay shipments from Gondor. We’ve even filled the storage vaults at Helm’s Deep and already many of the Eoreds and their families shelter there. It is only because I’m coming from there to meet with Hirgon who is currently charged with the western forces of Gondor.”

She gave a sharp gasp and broke away from him. “What are you saying, Théodred?” she asked sharply. “Are all our efforts for naught that we will all be driven behind stone walls where our proud steeds will starve and our people fade away? Will we become prisoners in our own lands?”

“No, no, my precious one,” he comforted as he brought her back within his embrace. “Winter is the peak time for the forces of the dark ones. We will shelter through the winter, but be assured before the frost is well gone in the spring we will be back to crush them.” His voice was so sure and his face filled with such confidence that she had no option but to believe him.

“And my brother?” she asked, not quite able to hide the disappointment she felt.

“Ah, yes, dear Éomer,” Théodred all but laughed. “He has begged me to let him and his Eored patrol the northern borders. I will be returning to the west and watch over the Gap of Rohan, lest Boromir return that way.” He paused and looked up at the darkening sky, “though I can’t see a Southerner like your betrothed traveling in this weather.”

“He crossed the White Mountains in winter last year if you remember, silly,” she said poking him in the ribs. “You know as well as I that he is not like common men.”

“No, neither of them are, and more lucky you to have two such men,” he replied, smiling wickedly at her blush.

“But I don’t have either yet,” she all but pouted. “Sometimes I feel as if I’ll stay buried in this great heap of stone until I’m ancient and wasted away.”

“I swear to you, cousin,” Théodred said, his demeanor turning serious, “this war will be settled before Beltane’s fires. You will finally be freed from Edoras and Meduseld.”

“Freed no matter the outcome,” Éowyn added, equally serious. “I will not live under the rule of the dark lords and I will take all of their minions I can with me.” There was an edge of anger and hatred to her words that chilled Théodred as he listened, even though he felt the same.

“When you see me next, dear one,” he added, “it will be in victory or after I have passed beyond the reach of our enemies in this world.”

“So soon,” she cried out, clutching desperately at his arm, though she knew he couldn’t stay.

“Take heart, Éowyn,” he said with a smile. “I have been trained by the best, as have you. It will take more than a few orcs or goblins to bring me down.”

“May the grace of our ancestors protect you, cousin,” she responded, not even trying to hide her tears. “Take care until we meet again.”

The house that stood just outside of the seventh gate was large enough to hold several families, even those of higher rank. Denethor followed his son’s heir to the drawing room, looking about in curiosity. It had been years since he’d visited this house. Indeed, it had been a long time since he had deigned to enter any of the houses of those he considered his inferiors. He’d felt it only proper that they seek him out in the White Tower.

“I am honored by your presence, my Lord Steward,” Borril said as he ushered Denethor into the large, well appointed room where Calinir waited. “May I offer you some tea?” he asked, even as he poured from the waiting pot.

Denethor could tell by the smell that is was his favorite and felt satisfaction that the young man had remembered. “Thank you, my boy,” he said with a smile. “Please be seated,” he added, signaling them both. “We are all family here with no need to stand on formality.”

“As you wish,” Borril replied, bowing his head in respect.

“I am worried about your uncle,” Denethor began without preamble. “He seems to be rather unstable of late.”

The two younger men exchanged an unreadable look before Borril answered for the both of them. “We know that he misses our sire and that his ‘dreams’ seem to distract him, my Lord.”

“Yes,” the Steward agreed solemnly, while he practically crowed in happiness at their acquiescence. “I fear he may not be able to respond properly in an emergency if he continues as he has been.”

“We have noted his behavior and made…” Borril paused momentarily before beginning again. “We’ve made preparations should it all become too much for him.” He smiled conspiratorially.

“I knew I could count on you,” Denethor said with a wide smile. “It is good to see that your father’s competence runs in you both.” He bent to take a sip of his tea and didn’t notice the grimace of distaste that barely passed Calinir’s face. “I think we should discuss possible future plans.”

Looking down the length of table to where his long-time friend Elrond sat, flanked by his chief advisor, Erestor, and his Seneschal Glorfindel, Gandalf was both alarmed and comforted by the company gathered there. To the wizard’s right sat Frodo who was finally looking almost completely recovered from his Nazgûl wound, even though it would never truly heal. Sam had refused to sit and stood behind his master’s chair ready to aid in any way he could. Next were Merry and Pippin, for once acting with uncharacteristic sobriety. Gimli and his father, Gloin, were beside the two younger hobbits. The two dwarves seemed to have warmed considerably to Legolas since they’d first encountered each other at the council weeks ago. Across from them was the mischievous youngest son of Thranduil, who had also adopted a more serious mien than the Itsar was used to seeing on his youthful face. Arwen and Aragorn completed the complement back to Gandalf’s left. Behind them stood Boromir, also refusing to sit and most likely the influence behind Sam’s behavior.

In fact, the wizard was quite sure that the Gondorian’s presence strongly influenced most of their company. He’d known most of those present their whole lives and over the past weeks he’d watched them blossom under the tutelage of the High Captain of Gondor. The hobbits were profoundly effected, each seeming to come into a greater sense of self-worth through the daily arms training Boromir gave them tirelessly. He even worked with Frodo, and all concerned were relieved the ring was now in a silken pouch to help contain its dark energy. The little people all stood a bit taller, more secure in their own abilities with the weapons they bore as well as those that nature had provided.

Most surprising had been the blossoming relationship between the Steward’s son and his future king. Despite the reassurances of both brothers, Gandalf had never quite believed that Boromir would accept Aragorn as heir to the throne of Gondor. It had gone even further than that, he knew as one evening he chanced to hear Arwen in counsel with her betrothed’s professed servant on the design of a banner that their mutual lord should carry into battle. He’d glanced into the room to see Elrond’s daughter faithfully copying the tattoo that graced Boromir’s shoulder, while Boromir gave her details on what the differences should be. Only once before had he seen the famous symbol that was said to be on the heirs of all the great houses of the Southern kingdom. It shocked him. Somehow, with no outside direction, the sons of the Steward had changed the very integrity of their homeland. In the process, they had brought forth a solid foundation for the return of the king their father hated beyond all else.

As a large detailed map of the lands they may have to travel through was spread across the table, Frodo, Merry, Pippin and the rest leaned forward to see what few others had seen in centuries while Sam, following the example set by Boromir, used the distraction to refill glasses and plates. As potential routes were discussed the Gondorian pointed out hazards and benefits he had discovered in his own journey north. Only a slight tightening of his lips showed his displeasure as the possibility of shelter at Lórien was mentioned. All present knew, through one source or another, the lack of welcome the man had received as he was pursued by orcs on the southern borders of that wood. It only gave further proof that the one that Gandalf had feared would be the weakest link in the group could quite possibly be the strongest glue to hold them all together and make their quest successful.

The storm was barely heard within the great keep at Dol Amroth as all within celebrated the birth of the new prince. Lothiriel cooed at the impossibly small bundle in her arms. Fortunately it hadn’t been too hard to convince her father to remarry after her mother’s death and find a suitable wife for him. It wasn’t that she didn’t love and miss her mother, but Gondor needed an heir to its strongest principality. A manchild born of the seed of the current ruling Prince. With all the uncertainty and chaos of the war, they needed a living, breathing symbol of the continuity of the kingdom.

She had long ago decided that she really would rather spend the rest of her life facing a sea of grass rather then ocean waves. Éomer had more than drawn her eye and, even if she would end up married to his cousin, she knew that the two men shared more than just a bloodline. She was sure that what she did to strengthen Dol Amroth, strengthened Gondor and eventually strengthened Rohan. It was her destiny and all of her decisions were tempered with this knowledge.

But this was unexpected. The small warm infant had totally captivated her, much like his mother, who was two years her junior, but completely devoted to her husband and now, her child. Faramir had cautioned her early on that allowing such close bonds had rewards and pitfalls. There was nothing that could compete with the fierce warmth that filled her in the presence of her beloved family, but the loss of even the least of them was almost too much to bear, even in thought.

Dahlia, her stepmother, entered the nursery and sat next to Lothiriel where she held her young brother. “He is a lusty young one,” she whispered in her soft voice as the child was passed off to his wet-nurse. “If only I were strong enough to keep up with him on my own.” Her soft brown eyes were filled with doubt and sadness as she watched her firstborn.

“You brought him safely into this word, my Princess,” Lothiriel reassured her. “Even my father, as demanding as he is, could ask for no more than that. Look at what a fine young princeling he is and be proud that you brought him forth for all of us.” She reached out and brushed a stray lock off the other woman’s brow before pulling her into a snug embrace. “Once you have recovered from his birth you will feel much stronger and the sadness will leave you. Remember the women we have tended with the healers? You have seen for yourself how hard it can be to make the transition from bride to mother, especially in these trying times. I know that you are as strong as you are fair, my precious one. I will be here for you through the storms of winter and in the spring you shall be renewed with the rest of Dol Amroth.”

There was a stifled sob against her breast as Dahlia succumbed to the comfort of her step-daughter. “I so feared that you would hate me replacing your mother,” was the tearful outburst that followed.

“You have no need for that fear, my darling,” Lothiriel whispered, pressing a kiss to her crown. “My mother lives in a different place in my father’s heart and mine then you. There is always room for more love. If nothing else, my cousins have taught me that. Take comfort in the oath we both share, that which makes us part of the foundation of Gondor’s future. When I leave to my own marriage bed, you will be ready to lead the people, the new heir of Dol Amroth most of all in the new ways we have established.”

“I will try my best,” Dahlia stuttered submissively.

“No,” Lothiriel said becoming stern for the first time, raising the younger woman’s tear-stained face. “You will succeed, for there is no other choice for such as us. To doubt and falter will bring ruin to more than just our own small lives. We are of the royal houses and all our people follow where we lead. Tomorrow, we will have a ceremony thanking our ancestors for the delivery of our new princeling, which you will officiate as I have taught you. Before the altar of our faith you will begin the first steps towards our future.”

Though it was late and the day had been long, Dahlia gathered the dregs of her tattered will and nodded acknowledgement into the arms of her companion.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/warriors-of-gondor. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!