Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 6: RESURRECTION

Prince Imrahil stopped suddenly in his headlong flight, the sight before him almost more than he could bear. The hounds had been gathered by the houndsmen, and the huntsmen had pulled the boars from the mangled bodies of the two men. At first he didn’t recognize them, the blood and gore disguising their features, but the servant working quickly and surely at cleaning and examining their wounds was easily recognizable. He felt stunned that both sons of the Steward had been so horribly injured in his care.

He moved to stand behind the man as he directed the healers and retainers in what he needed done. Wondering at the servant’s medical knowledge, he waited patiently, not wanting to distract him from his grisly task. One of the healers made to disentangle the brothers’ arms where the elder had obviously grabbed the younger and pulled them closer. “Leave it,” the man commanded sternly, stopping for a moment to make sure he was obeyed. Working with speed he began stitching together the muscles in Boromir’s chest, though Imrahil doubted that it would hold, probably laming his left arm. Then he took a flask from his pocket and poured a small portion of its contents directly on his work, whispering what sounded like an incantation under his breath. He left the skin over the muscle unstitched, pressing clean cloths offered by the attending healers over it, he moved on to work on the younger brother.

The huntmaster caught his attention, so he stepped away so as not to distract those working on the brothers. “Are there any other injuries?” he asked hopefully.

“None, your highness,” he answered grimly. “These two were alone when those monsters struck. I’ve never seen any so big in my life, it is a miracle they are alive at all.”

“They are the sons of the Steward, they are not like ordinary men,” the Prince replied.

They were now being carried away on stretchers and their servant came to stand before the Prince, waiting to be acknowledged. “Will they live?” Imrahil asked.

“Definitely, your highness,” was the quick answer. “But I will need to tend their injuries carefully if there is to be no lasting damage. I need them placed in the same room, even the same bed, if that’s possible.”

“Won’t they disturb each other if they get feverish?”

“They heal better when they are together, my lord,” he replied. “It’s always been that way and they need every advantage they can get now.”

The Prince nodded, having gained much respect for the man’s knowledge while watching him work. “I’ll send word ahead. What is your name?”

“I am Garus, your highness,” he answered, bowing his head in respect. “May I go with them now?”

“Of course,” Imrahil told him, admiring his devotion.

They dreamed. As so often happened whether together or apart, their dream was shared, but this was different than before. There was no sense of their bodies, no connection to the waking world, just the dream. This was bliss, so close together, closer than flesh allowed. Even the idea of them ever having been separate seemed beyond comprehension. This was where they belonged, their souls intertwined.

As the brothers were moved to the bed, Garus fussed over them, sparing no detail. Imrahil watched as Varnai, his chief healer examined their injuries. He was more than satisfied and complimented the other man on his work.

Smiling in gratitude, Garus continued with assuring the comfort and safety of his charges. When other hands reached to disrobe the brothers he stopped them, only allowing the removal of their weapons and boots. “This is my task,” he insisted in a quiet, but firm voice, and began clearing the room.

When only Imrahil and Varnai remained in the room, he began removing the rest of their clothing. Faramir was the least injured so he started on him first. Varnai helped turn him to remove his pants and the Prince gasped at the terrible scars crossing Faramir’s flesh from his shoulders to his knees.

“What caused that?” he asked without thinking.

Garus paused and looked him in the eye. “A cane,” he answered without inflection.

Remembering the cane Denethor had always kept in the corner of his study and the dark rumors of how he’d treated some of those under his control in the past, Imrahil shuddered. When they turned Faramir to his back again, he saw the almost healed tattoo and wondered why he had put it there. Then he realized that it wasn’t his own coat of arms, but his brother’s.

Boromir was harder to move, his injuries more serious. Imrahil helped them this time, noting that Boromir had his brother’s coat of arms tattooed on his body as well. By the time they were finished, Faramir had moved close to his brother. While they watched, Boromir reached out and pulled his brother up against him. Garus smiled down at them and checked to make sure that he hadn’t damaged his stitches.

“Where were you trained?” Varnai asked Garus.

“My lord Faramir trained me,” he answered as if it should be obvious.

“No, I mean in the ways of healing,” the other man tried again.

“I learned what I could from the house of healing in Minas Tirith so that I could help my lord when he refused to allow any other to tend his wounds. The wizard Mithrandir also taught me some of his ancient lore, as well as my lords Boromir and Faramir as they have much knowledge of battlefield injuries.” He shrugged before continuing, “Mostly I have learned from doing; they are brave warriors.” He covered them with a sheet. “They will sleep for several days, a healing sleep. You may tell the Steward that they both will recover.”

Imrahil sighed, thinking of Denethor. This was a most unpleasant task.

Prince Imrahil came as often as he could to check on the sons of the Steward. He grew to know and like Garus, whose constant attention and devotion to the brothers warmed his heart.

One day he came very early and caught Garus only partially dressed and was shocked that he was as dreadfully scarred as Faramir. “I see that you engage in battle too,” he commented, trying to make light of his discovery.

“Oh no,” Garus replied, ever honest. “I could never bring myself to harm anyone.”

“The Steward?” he asked, not wanting to believe.

“My father,” he answered, looking to where Faramir lay wrapped in his brother’s arms. “My lord Faramir rescued us from him.”

Imrahil knew that Garus had five younger siblings and that Faramir had arranged for their care. “He bought you from him?” he asked. It was rare, but not unknown.

“No, your highness,” was his answer, and he looked to the floor, his jaw hardening as it did when he would say no more.

His mind raced. Garus had been with them for over seven years and he’d mentioned that he was orphaned, his mother dying giving birth, no explanation for his father. So Faramir had been only eleven when he’d had taken custody of Garus and his siblings. Their father was dead, but Garus had said he’d rescued them from the man. He stopped there. He didn’t want to know any more than he already did, and would prefer to know less.

“How soon before they awake?” he asked changing the subject.

“I will try to wake lord Faramir today and let him decide when to wake lord Boromir,” he answered.

“Do you anticipate any problems?”

Garus shrugged and looked to the sleeping men. “They dream together, it may be very hard to call him from those dreams.”

The restorative drink was bitter and Faramir struggled, even in his dreams, to resist drinking it. Garus could have used some help but the only lure he could think of to bring his beloved lord out of dreams was their most closely held secret. It was never spoken of, never written, he only knew it because he usually slept with the two brothers when they weren’t on campaign and knew all their secrets. Cleaning up what had spilled, he rechecked the lock on the door and returned to the bed.

“My Lord Faramir, you must waken, the king needs you,” he whispered into his ear, knowing that duty was the only thing that could call him from his dreams. Faramir tossed his head and called out in denial as he heard his voice.

“Faramir, Estel needs you, you must waken,” he called softly. Suddenly he began twisting and turning. “No,” he cried out as if in pain, Boromir becoming restless as well.

Tears came to Garus’ eyes; he almost wished he could let him sleep forever. “It is time for you to wake and do your duty,” he said in a firmer but quiet voice. “You must take care of Boromir and prepare for the king. Come, Faramir, leave your dreams.”

Sitting up suddenly and grabbing Garus by the shoulders, Faramir finally awoke. He was breathing heavily and obviously confused. “What has happened, Garus?”

“There was a hunt, my lord,” he whispered. “You were both hurt.”

“I remember,” he said, as his eyes cleared. “Boromir?” He asked even as he turned to examine his brother.

“He was badly hurt, but I used some of the things I learned from the wizard. It looks as if he will be whole when he has healed.”

“Let me see,” he commanded already pulling at the bandages. Garus carefully helped him uncover the wounds, and then peeled back the skin over the torn muscle, which hadn’t been stitched closed yet so that they could monitor the healing of the pectoral muscle. The stitches that had been placed in the muscle had help it reknit, something that couldn’t have happened without some form of magic.

“Yes,” Faramir agreed. “Sew him closed and we will let him rest one more day. How long has it been?”

“Five days, my lord,” he answered.

“Father is probably beside himself,” he said. “You can send for Prince Imrahil when you finish.”

A few moments later there was a knock at the door. Faramir signaled for Garus to continue his work and struggled to unsteady feet to go unlock the door. It was the Prince and Varnai, so he gratefully let them assist him back to the bed.

“It is good to see you awake, Lord Faramir,” Imrahil said. “We were worried about you and your brother.”

“We will both recover, your highness,” he told him. “I will write a letter to the Steward and have Boromir sign it when I wake him tomorrow morning. He is a terrible patient and one more night of rest should let his stitches heal sufficiently so that he will not tear them.”

“I will have my secretary bring you copies of my letters,” he told him, and Faramir nodded gratefully at the offer. It would never do to send Denethor conflicting reports.

Denethor was beside himself with rage. Imrahil ‘hoped’ that Boromir would make a full recovery. He would raze Dol Amroth with his bare hands if he didn’t. ‘How could the fool let this happen?’ he asked himself for the millionth time. Wanting desperately to run to his son’s side, he knew that he couldn’t leave his duty behind. Chained to the burdens of his office, he almost regretted the cost of his power.

For the first time in many years, he decided to give in to his darker urges. To find relief he hadn’t sought since his marriage to the weak and mewling Finduilas. ‘At least she’d given him one son he could be proud of,’ he thought as he went to his study door. Galmar, his long time servant, waited without, as always.

All it took was a certain look, and with a nod of his head Galmar went to seek what his master desired. Even though it had been over two decades, there was no doubt that he would succeed. There were always those in every city, no matter how well governed, that were desperate and would never be missed.

“Wake, my beloved one,” Faramir whispered into Boromir’s ear, too low for any of the others in the room to hear, although Garus probably knew what he said. Boromir opened his eyes and immediately gripped the back of Faramir’s head and pressed a kiss to his brow. He folded his brother in his arms with a slight Grímace of pain. “I was so afraid for you,” he whispered roughly. “You were so still when I drove your knife through the beast’s eye.”

Imrahil’s eyes widened at his words; they’d assumed that Faramir had killed the second boar because of the severity of Boromir’s injuries. The heir of the Steward was a lot tougher than he’d thought, tougher than anyone he’d ever known. Still, he was glad that they had steered him towards finding a husband for his daughter elsewhere. There would have been trouble if she had been asked to share anything, let alone her husband.

“We are glad to see you making such a swift recovery, Lord Boromir,” Imrahil said. “I will be glad to inform your father.”

Boromir released his brother and made to sit up, stopped swiftly by a strong hand on his chest. “Do not make Garus’ efforts in vain, brother,” Faramir told him. “I would rather you heal completely.”

Studying his brother’s face for a moment, he remembered seeing his own ribs beneath torn muscle, the uselessness of his shield arm. “How bad is it?” he asked.

“If you are careful for just a few more days, it should be as good as new,” Faramir answered. “Garus was right behind us and was able to tend to it immediately.”

He looked to the servant who blushed at his usual post in the corner, out of the way. “He proves his worth again, brother,” Boromir said, making him turn even redder. “I will try my best to not destroy his work.” Garus shivered at his words, knowing that they meant so much more than anyone other than the three of them knew. It was his pleasure to serve them as well as his duty, but they knew everything about him and would reward him in ways no other could.

“I’m hungry,” Boromir told them. “My stomach is telling me I’ve been asleep too long.”

There was a general rush of people, some back to their own duties, Faramir and Garus to arrange pillows behind Boromir so that he could eat in comfort. The tension was gone, as it had become clear that all would soon be well again.

The young man had been thoroughly cleaned up. His blonde hair was trimmed neatly to just below shoulder length and his scraggly beard made presentable. After receiving new clothes, much finer than anything he’d ever worn before and a huge meal with plenty of wine, he was ushered up a long set of stairs to a room. He didn’t really know where he was, having allowed himself to be blindfolded to keep the secrecy of his temporary employer. He’d done it before, several times. Sometimes it was bad, sometimes good, but he’d never felt he had any other options for survival.

Once in the room, his new clothes were placed in a small chest with a few other objects that he was assured would soon be his. The center of the room was occupied by a large bed with no head or foot board, but with thick posts at each corner set with imbedded rings, some trailing chains. He felt the first signs of terror when a metal collar was fitted to his neck and fastened to the wall by a short chain. There was just enough room on the chain for him to kneel on the floor as he was instructed, then told to wait. He almost whimpered as the door closed behind the dour man who’d led him here and he was shut away into darkness.

As he had promised, Boromir lay still beneath the soft touch of Garus. He was always thrilled by the worshipful devotion of the man who straddled him. For his part, Garus regarded the older brother much as others would regard a god. Faramir had saved him and his fellow siblings from a horrible life, but Boromir had saved Faramir. He brought peace and safety into a life that had always been uncertain. And soul searing pleasure.

Slowly moving up and down on the almost painfully large erection in his ass, his hands ran lightly over the unbandaged portions of the body beneath him. Faramir pressed close behind him, his own erection sliding against his back as his hands fondled him with consummate skill. Groaning at the hot mouth that knew every secret of his body and was now concentrating on his neck and face, Garus surrendered all control to the two he loved most.

Using his right hand, the one concession they’d allowed, Boromir slowly stroked Garus’ cock. His eyes half closed with lust, he watched the two above him, their movements feeding his mounting desire. Garus was so tender and gentle that his full participation made them restrain themselves from their usual rough sport, which was a good thing for Boromir’s injuries.

Looking into his brother’s eyes, Faramir took hold of Garus’ hips and control of his movements. He began moving him just enough harder and faster to make him grunt with each down stroke. As he felt Garus’ approaching orgasm, he bit softly at his neck and thrust his own cock even harder against his back.

Garus didn’t make a sound when he climaxed, as usual he gritted his teeth and panted quietly, but he never called out or even groaned loudly. Boromir loved to watch Garus cum, his face Grímacing and all of his muscles contracting beautifully. His semen shooting hard as his ass clenched tight, it was amazing to watch, especially when it was his own cock buried to the hilt in him. It made him cum too.

Faramir guided Garus to the bed beside Boromir. Then he ran his hand through the semen on his brother’s stomach and chest, using it to lubricate his own cock. Sitting back on Boromir’s thighs, he began to stroke himself. It wasn’t often that he pleasured himself and even rarer that anyone watched. Garus put his head on Boromir’s shoulder and cuddled into him, as they enjoyed Faramir’s display. Their faces so close together and so intent that he couldn’t last long beneath their loving gaze.

“Come for me, beloved, “ Boromir urged. Faramir couldn’t resist obeying him, his semen spraying across both of them as they watched.

He lay next to Garus, but the servant pushed him gently away and rose from the bed. “That can wait, Garus,” Faramir told him, grasping his hand.

“I know, my lord,” he answered pressing a kiss to his fingers and continuing with his errand. The two brothers looked at each other and smiled, knowing that Garus’ sense of duty was unrelenting. He returned to the bed with a basin of water and cleaning cloths. He began with Boromir, even letting Faramir help, just a little, then cleaned the younger brother before rising from the bed and cleaning himself. When he had finished, he went to sleep at the foot of the bed, like he usually did, to avoid the rough horseplay the brothers often engaged in, but Faramir pulled him up to lie between them.

“We want to give you a gift, Garus,” Boromir told him. “What can we give you that will please you?”

“I have everything I want, my lord,” he replied.

“That is not good enough,” Faramir said. “Name something.”

Garus lay with his head on Boromir’s chest and Faramir’s arms around him. He thought about what he could possibly want. Looking at the tattoo on the hollow of Boromir’s hip, he made up his mind. “I would like a tattoo, one that shows that I belong to both of you,” he answered.

The lamp he carried was the only illumination as he entered the room. Hanging it on a hook, he went about lighting the candles and other lamps, giving no sign that he saw the young man in the corner. A slight tremor shook his hand as he noticed how closely he resembled the current object of his repressed lust. Except for the fear; the other would have betrayed no emotion at all. However, he waited in proper position with his hands behind his back. He had been well fed and plied with plenty of drink and he hadn’t soiled himself, even though it had been hours that he’d had to wait. It was good that he had some self-control, he would need it.

Finally, Denethor unhooked the chain from the wall and led the young man to the tiny chamber where he could relieve himself, and reattached the chain to the waiting hook inside, again closing him into darkness. There were still many preparations to be made. When he was finished, he returned to get the man in the darkened room.

Leading him to the desk that dominated one corner of the room, the one that used to be in his study, he had him bend over it and hooked the chain to the hook concealed just over the drawer. His hands started shaking again as he picked up the narrow cane, also formerly from his study. Pacing himself, he began bringing the cane down on the exposed flesh just hard enough to make beautiful red welts. It brought back such pleasant memories, only now he could take his time and truly enjoy the experience.

He placed his robe on the waiting hook and approached the panting young man. He hadn’t been able to retain control as his intended victim would have, but that only excited Denethor more as he imagined the other losing his control. Without preparation, the thrust into the tight hole, exposed for his use. The scream of pain and contracting muscles incited him to push harder and faster. Yes, this was what he wanted.

Over the next three days, they each wrote detailed accounts of the hunting incident for their father, each taking full blame for allowing themselves to become separated from the others. They did not reveal the seriousness of Boromir’s injuries, but told just enough to confirm Imrahil’s earlier reports and allay any of Denethor’s suspicions. With the letters out of the way, they collaborated on a design for Garus’ tattoo.

The brothers leaned back against the headboard of the bed, looking through a book of Gondorian heraldry they’d borrowed from the Dol Amroth library. Among the coats of arms were the detailed drawings and descriptions of the great seals of the noble houses. The most beautiful of all, to their eyes, was the seal of the king, which was commonly affixed to the king’s personal property.

“I really like this one,” Boromir said, admiring the design. “I want this one, after all I am property of the king,” he finished laughing.

“Father would not be impressed,” Faramir told him with a mischievous smile. “I want one too.” So they decided on a simple arrangement of their initials in decorative elvish runes for Garus and the king’s seal for each of them.

When Varnai and Garus judged Boromir fit to be released from bed rest, the brothers and their servant made their way to the marketplace where they’d been told there were many tattoo artists. They carefully observed the work being done and finally settled on an especially talented artist. Unlike most of the others, this one was a woman, her face showing the signs of a grim life, the dark skin and almond eyes of Haradrim heritage making her an exotic beauty. She spoke little as her hand moved skillfully between flesh and ink. Garus watched with rapt interest as each design took shape. All three men left with their chosen symbol on their right shoulder blade.

The darkness was terrifying. It was usually hours that he had to wait and there was no comfort at the end. The abuse he’d received at other hands paled into significance to what now filled his every waking hour. The beatings had been expected, as well as the rough oral and anal penetrations, but the constant fear and cruelty added a whole new level. One he had not expected.

The man was vicious in his appetites. As he watched in horror, the blood from the open wounds on his chest was used to lubricate the evil man’s cock. It sickened him and frightened him beyond anything he’d ever been through before.

In the week that followed, they sent a letter to their father informing him that they planned to leave the next week, giving them plenty of time to get back into shape. Each day they spent longer hours practicing and worked harder, pushing themselves. In the afternoon, when it became very hot, they would accept visitors in one of the many drawing rooms of the castle. They were popular and many requests were made for their company and services. So many that Faramir started a running joke with his brother about Belfalas soon having more of their offspring than Minas Tirith. Prince Imrahil was at first worried about them charming his daughter into indiscretion, but they always behaved with the utmost honor. He even found himself looking at them with more than just a friendly eye.

Faramir sat on his brother’s legs as he carefully removed the stitches from his chest. He would cut the thread with his knife and gently tease it from his flesh. At the same time, he rocked forward just a little, rubbing his hardening cock against his brother’s through their pants. He would lean forward and kiss the spot the stitch had come from, then kiss his brother’s eager lips. With each removal their blood became more heated, their kisses more passionate.

They were near halfway done and panting with lust, Faramir delaying his work for a moment to claim his brother’s nipple, when they heard a knock at the door. Both brothers groaned at the interruption as Garus found out who had come to disturb them so late at night. “The Prince,” he told them.

Faramir decided to retain his position as it hid their now raging erections with the addition of Boromir’s shirt in the appropriate spot. The bowl, filled with the remnants of the stitches was the only thing that saved Imrahil from full-fledged embarrassment as he saw the brothers on the bed. They were both flushed and heavy lidded with desire, their lips swollen and both showing obvious hickeys and love bites that hadn’t been there when he’d seen them practicing, bare chested, earlier. His hand shook, just a little, as he held out the letter he’d just received.

“An urgent message just arrived from the Steward,” he said, trying to hide his own slight arousal at the image they presented. “I thought I’d better bring it right away.”

“Thank you,” Boromir told him as Faramir took the letter and expertly cut it at the seal and handed it to his brother.

Boromir groaned and handed the letter to Faramir before turning to the Prince. “He has sent a special courier ship to bring us home. I’m afraid we must leave your wonderful hospitality as early as possible in the morning; duty calls.”

Rising from the bed, Denethor looked at pathetic wreck he’d left behind. Nearly two weeks of his attentions had made a great change in the young man Galmar had brought him. He no longer wept or screamed at his attentions, almost as he knew the one he desired would have behaved. But he was afraid he had broken the spirit of this toy, not reached new levels of tolerance.

It was a sad thing, but only to be expected. There were only so many indomitable young men in the world.

Galmar passed him on the stairway. He knew his servant would take advantage of the broken young man he left behind before inserting him in the next outgoing caravan. They had done this frequently at one time, but the pressures of family life had curtailed it. He would not risk his power and the respect of his sons, especially Boromir, for the pleasures of the flesh. He had only two days to cover his tracks before they returned, and he knew that Faramir sensed far more then he revealed. It was better to take the time to do this right. Saruman had once told him that men needed to vent their lusts occasionally, and that thought pushed the faint wisps of guilt from his mind.

The return trip was much faster and the ship’s crew much grimmer than the ones they’d come with. The captain was scandalized when the brothers added the tattoo artist, who called herself Saphron, and all her personal possessions to their own baggage. They had investigated her thoroughly when Garus had expressed an interest in her, finding out that she was an orphan, raised in the local orphanage from infancy. The offer of money and the guarantee of future work assured her willingness to relocate to Minas Tirith. The rest would be up to Garus.

The taciturn nature of the crew incited the mischievousness of the brothers. They didn’t directly interfere with the running of the ship, but they often practiced their swordsmanship in the rigging and on the rails. The Captain soon realized that they had no intention of obeying his orders to desist, claiming that if they were overtaken by pirates or an enemy ship they needed to be ready. Some of the sailors had begun to warm to them just a little by the time the small ship docked south of Osgiliath.

The population of Minas Tirith lined every street to welcome the brothers home. They were well loved and respected by the people of the city. At Boromir’s insistence they wore simple vests so that everyone could assure themselves that they were sound. The beasts’ heads on the cart behind them verified the tales that had been spread. It was a splendid display, filling those who watched with confidence in the two young men who had killed such terrible monsters unaided.

Denethor greeted his sons stiffly, his eyes widening slightly at the size of their trophies. Then he turned and led the way to his study, knowing they would follow. As they seated themselves, the Steward’s mouth tightened even more as he saw the new pink scars of their misadventure. His face turned to stone at the fresh bites and love marks they’d made no effort to conceal.

“Now that your little vacation is over,” he began, “we can get back to defending the realm. If you two can spare the time?”

The brothers groaned inwardly, knowing that there would be much suffering on their part for what they’d done. It would be a very long time before he allowed them any more time away from their duties. And he hadn’t even seen the tattoos yet.

It was quite late when they were finally able to go see what had been done in their new rooms. The suite had five separate rooms, all opening into the main sitting room. There were two adjoining bedrooms with a door and a private bath between. Each bedroom had its own connected study.

They lay in each other’s arms on the huge bed, which stood in the middle of the room. Wondering at the sadness he sensed coming from his brother, Faramir kissed his chin and ran his fingers through his hair.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“We were born in this bed,” Boromir said softly. “Probably conceived here too. I was sitting here on the edge when Mother put you in my arms for the first time. You were only minutes old, and I loved you at first sight.” He kissed Faramir’s forehead and continued when he sighed. “I kissed you just like that and you sighed. Laying here brings it back so clearly. It makes me wonder what she would think of us, if she would approve of our love.”

“I know she would, brother,” Faramir said with conviction. “Nelda told me that Mother would approve, and she had known her since birth. She said she would be proud of us both, we are everything she’d dreamed we’d be.”

Boromir wept at his words, overcome with emotion. He had adored his beautiful Mother, and she had always been kind and understanding. Her arms had always welcomed him and made him feel loved. The only remaining guilt to his love for his brother was the worry over her approval. “You’re sure?” he asked through his tears.

“I asked her before I touched you that night,” Faramir answered. “I knew that you would never be truly happy if you went against her wishes. I loved you enough to never make that move.”

“You are so much like her,” Boromir told him, kissing him again. “So gentle and loving, I wish you could have known her better.”

“Tell me about her, brother,” Faramir asked, and they lay there as Boromir shared his memories. Then the younger brother shared the stories Nelda had told him of Finduilas growing up. They could almost feel her presence there with them.

As they ran out of words, Faramir began to make love to his brother. It was slow and sweet, unlike any other time they had been together. They used their bodies to express the deep love in their hearts and the gratitude for having someone so close. They shared the joy of surviving whole in a world that became more dangerous every day.

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!