Faramir Fiction Archive

Warriors of Gondor (NC-17)

Written by Hel

14 May 2012 | 182144 words | Work in Progress

Part 8: WILD HEARTS

They waited at the top of the hill, watching the riders herd the horses in a graceful arc to the waiting pens. The banner the standard bearer displayed told them that the leader of the Rohan forces was the Third Marshall of the Riddermark, Éomer son of Eomund, nephew to Théoden King. It was easy to pick him out as he rode at the head of his troops with all the flair and daring of one born to the saddle. His long blond hair flowed behind him as he raced the wind to where the brothers waited.

“He is magnificent,” Faramir commented.

“Yes, he is,” Boromir answered.

“Would you like me to bring him to our bed, brother?” the younger man asked.

“If you can do it without causing a war,” Boromir laughed. “I think father would be very angry if we alienated our best ally.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Faramir answered. “I’ve heard he spreads his charms every bit as much as we do.”

“Go carefully anyway, brother,” Boromir said. “You know how misleading rumor can be.”

By this time, the young prince was near enough so they could make out his features, and he was as beautiful in face as he was a horseman. He rode his mare (for Rohirrim knew which mounts were most faithful and fierce) between the brothers’ horses until he was almost face to face with them.

“Well met, Prince Éomer,” Boromir greeted him. “My brother and I have long awaited the chance to meet you.”

“And I you, my lords,” he replied with an intense smile. “Your reputation precedes you, and I would love to hear first-hand of the slaying of trolls and giant boars, not to mention countless orcs and goblins. I’m sure there is much I can learn from two such celebrated heroes.”

“As we are sure we can learn much from you, my prince,” Faramir added. “It is not often that one so young is allowed to exercise his title, especially among warriors of such renown.”

Éomer blushed at his words, but otherwise accepted them gracefully. “My uncle, the king, gave me three weeks to conclude our business. We made excellent time getting here; I should have at least a week and a half before I have to return. I thought we might integrate our camps for that time.”

Boromir smiled at the forwardness of the seventeen-year-old before him. “We would be pleased if you would share our tent, my prince,” he said. Although Faramir had offered to seduce the third Marshall, he couldn’t resist the brash young man.

“That would be acceptable to me,” came the ready reply, letting them know that rumor had struck this nail on the head.

As the hour grew late, Draymor left the pavilion occupied by the two brothers, and now the young prince of Rohan, lacing the flap behind and indicating to the joint guard that they shouldn’t be disturbed. The Gondorians had provided ale from the south, but Éomer had brought mead from the west and its sweetness had seduced them from their usual drink. They sat on the unusually large camp bed the brothers had brought with them, Éomer in the middle.

“I heard that your tongue is at least a foot long,” Faramir said into the younger man’s ear.

Without hesitation he swiped his long (though not nearly a whole foot) tongue along Boromir’s neck, causing him to groan with pleasure and making sure that Faramir could see its length.

“I heard that you two have the biggest cocks in the whole world,” came Éomer’s challenge. They opened their pants displaying their half erect penises, which impressed the prince mightily, almost making him wish he hadn’t chosen to sleep with the Steward’s sons.

“They aren’t so terrifying as they look,” Boromir confided, definitely under the influence of the mead. “Watch this.” He leaned across Éomer and swallowed his brother’s cock whole, while his skillful hand went to work on the Prince’s pants. His eyes widening in disbelief, the prince couldn’t help running his hand through the oldest brother’s hair as he watched him.

Faramir coaxed Éomer into a deep kiss, not wanting the younger man to shy away from their actions. The intensity of the prince could be felt in his hungry kiss. They knew that he was orphaned and had been raised by his uncle; they understood the needs of those who were condemned to serve positions of power. Crying out his need, Éomer let them know that he needed what they knew. Boromir released his brother’s cock and claimed the prince’s in an ungentle display of lust. It was perfect, the younger brother nipping and kissing his way past all of the prince’s safeguards, the older guiding his manhood to unparalled pleasure. There had never been any who had swallowed him in such a complete manner, none who had kissed him in such a complete way. All he could do was lie there beneath their ministrations and hope that they wouldn’t stop before he was truly complete. Then the world exploded on him.

They slowly stripped each other, marveling at the differences and the sameness of their bodies. The brothers were heavily scarred, Faramir almost unbelievably so. Éomer’s skin was almost clean of disfigurement; he’d only just begun his career as a warrior. The younger of the brothers was leaner then the other two men, who were heavily muscled, and the prince was the same height as they were and would probably grow a bit taller. Éomer marveled at their tattoos and the neat patterns of the sword dances.

“More,” Éomer whispered as they brought him fully within their bed and their embrace.

“Oh yes, more,” Faramir echoed.

Boromir used the oil they had in plenty and prepared the oh so tight ass of the young prince. “I have plenty more for you, my lovely princeling,” he said as he slid his oversized organ into the tight hole waiting for him. His expertise was such that there was no pain, just the feeling of hot fullness.

Éomer had lost all control and just wanted to find a new release in this new pleasure. “Faster, harder,” he chanted.

Faramir renewed his assault on the prince’s mouth, while his hands explored his body. Boromir kissed and nipped Éomer’s face and shoulder, occasionally kissing his brother as well. His large hand reached around both the younger men’s cocks, causing them to slide together erotically. Éomer’s hands joined Boromir’s to more perfectly encase the pulsing organs. Setting the pace, Boromir moved slow and hard, keeping them at the edge of completion for a very long time.

Feeling himself slipping over the edge as Boromir increased his speed and varied the pressure of his strong hand, Éomer cried out into Faramir’s mouth. The white heat of his orgasm was almost too much for him as he was buffeted by the climaxes of the two brothers. As they lay entangled in each other’s arms, on the verge of sleep, the prince was very glad his uncle had sent him on this errand.

Although he was an excellent swordsman, Éomer was learning a lot from the brothers. They let him join them for their morning exercises and patiently showed him many moves. Later, Faramir sat reading while Boromir drilled with the young prince. He was very intense, and would occasionally lose patience with the older man’s ability to dominate him, letting his anger show. Then Boromir would disarm him or pin him against his larger body and chastise him for carelessness.

Finally, Faramir put his book aside and rescued Éomer from his brother’s not so gentle attentions. Some of the men had been watching the prince’s lessons, but when the younger brother joined in, a crowd began to gather. At the first lightening exchange between the brothers, Éomer wisely retired from the field.

Though he’d been steadily sparring for some time, Boromir fought as if he was fresh. Sparks flew from the contact between the blades and it was obvious that they weren’t holding back in any way. The older brother was stronger, but the younger was faster and they knew each other’s moves. In minutes, they were both breathing heavily and sweating. As their duel continued, they began cutting each other’s clothes. Buttons and bits of cloth went flying, bright splashes of red appeared as they pushed harder, cutting just enough to draw blood. Their blades, moving nearly too fast to be seen, rang in the quiet as all who watched waited with baited breath to see which brother would win this encounter. Faramir laughed as he nearly severed the belt holding Boromir’s pants.

A dangerous glint appeared in the older brother’s eye and he advanced on his opponent, intent on revenge. Faramir was still laughing, but it didn’t impair his movements. With a quick flip of his wrist, he sent his brother’s sword flying and, following up, he tripped him to the ground.

“You are getting careless and fat in your old age, brother,” he said poking Boromir’s belly with his sword.

Boromir kicked Faramir’s hand, sending his weapon over his head, and then they were rolling around in the dirt. The Rohirrim were concerned until they saw the Gondorians laughing at the brothers’ antics. Eventually Boromir managed to pin his brother beneath him, tickling his ribs until he yielded. Immediately, Faramir was released and pulled to his feet.

Carefully examining the gathered fighters, Boromir signaled two of them to come forward. Draymor handed Faramir his sword and the younger man pulled out his long knife with his other hand. Moving to Éomer’s side, Boromir signaled for the three fighters to begin.

It was soon obvious that the two Gondorian warriors were used to fighting together, but they were hard pressed to hold their own against the Steward’s youngest son. Moving with grace and precision Faramir steadily wore down his opponents, all sign of playfulness gone. Boromir pointed out different moves and techniques to Éomer as they watched, ever the conscientious teacher.

“Why does he have to pay the forfeit when he was the one who disarmed you?” Éomer asked.

“He didn’t move in for the kill or make me yield,” the older man answered. “An unarmed enemy can still be dangerous; these are the rules we fight by. He took a chance and lost.”

“So you do this frequently?”

“We have practiced our swordplay together nearly every day since he learned how to walk,” Boromir told him. “I would have my brother be the best fighter in all the world and he does it to please me.”

They watched the rest of the match with their silence only broken by Boromir’s continued instruction. Éomer was amazed and inspired by the martial abilities of the two brothers. The riders of Rohan were ferocious and able fighters, but their first love was always their horses. He’d never before met anyone who dedicated so much of their life to warfare. Of course, Gondor had been steadily at war with Mordor for many years and their survival depended on the prowess of their warriors.

Faramir eventually overcame his two opponents, but it wasn’t easy. Still, he managed to end the bout with a flourish, disarming both of them at once and forcing them to yield. The smell of food was in the air and the gathered men began drifting over to where the food tents had been set up. On this relaxed of a march, there were many camp followers and Faramir had organized them into providing a communal kitchen for all the fighters, as well as taking care of many of the menial tasks common to soldiers in the field.

When Éomer and the two brothers reached their pavilion, Faramir began serving them the food that had been delivered for them to eat. “Why do you not have servants to tend you?” Éomer asked, remembering that he had served their meal the night before as well.

“It is my duty and my pleasure to serve my brother,” Faramir answered. “At home, there is no time and we are overrun by servants, but in the field we generally only have to deal with military campaigning, so we have more time.”

“Your cousin will be king after Théoden, do you not serve him?” Boromir asked.

“It has never come up, there are too many servants and not enough time at Edoras. There are always too many meetings. Théoden King has said that Théodred can ride out with me when he reaches twelve, if he proves capable,” was the answer. “I’m quite sure he will, as he is already an excellent horseman and good with a sword and bow, even though he is only seven.”

“That gives you plenty of time to think about how you wish to proceed with him,” Faramir said. “It is not easy to be second in line to the seat of power.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” Éomer said. “I don’t want to be king.”

The brothers laughed at his words. “I wouldn’t want to be either,” Boromir said. “Just don’t let my father know.”

“I noticed that you have women warriors among your forces,” Faramir said, changing the subject. “How do they compare to the men?”

“They are as good, though they tend to fight a bit differently,” Éomer answered. “It is a tradition among my people that any woman may be a shield-maiden, as long as she is not pregnant past four months. It is common for us to have more than one husband and wife in a family to facilitate this. In our nomad days, we needed the greatest amount of warriors available at all times, and several parents help keep the children’s lives stable when there are deaths, as well as providing an established home for our fighters. We tend to keep our marriage customs to ourselves, though there have been those in the past who have taken great exception to them.”

“I think I wouldn’t mind your customs at all, my friend,” Boromir said, looking meaningfully at his brother.

“Nor would I,” Faramir spoke with a smile.

“It is common for brothers to share wives, and sisters to share husbands among our people,” Éomer laughed.

There was no comparison in horsemanship. Although there were several cities and many villages in Rohan, much of the population was still at least partly nomadic. Éomer had lived on horseback with his parents most of his early life, following the great herds. He could ride with or without saddle or bridle and could do much that the brothers had never even imagined, let alone seen being done while mounted on a horse.

“My parents told me that I was conceived on horseback,” Éomer told the brothers as they rode in the light of the full moon. The brothers had a simple saddle that was little more than a pad with stirrups, while Éomer rode bareback. Riding with each of them was one of the shield-maidens. “It is considered quite fortuitous to be conceived this way. The only really hard part is not falling off, at least until you’ve had some practice,” he said.

They were all naked, riding amongst the herd of grazing horses. There were other riders, obviously intent on the same pursuits, scattered about. Those guarding the herd were all facing away from them, giving them a sense of protected privacy.

The earlier rituals and celebration of this cycle of the moon were new to the Gondorians. Denethor tended to frown on ‘frivolous’ activities and his attitude colored those of his people. Though the smaller communities generally held to the old ways, the cities had lost much of their roots. Though there were still many fertility rites practiced in Gondor, they tended to be kept private.

The brothers had to do little more than keep their balance and provide a stable support for their more experienced partners. It was exhilarating and fun with much joyful laughter. There were several exchanges of partners, some from one person to another, some leaving to relieve the guards so that they could have their turn. It was not just for procreation, as some of the couples were both male or both female; there were even a few adventurous types who played with three to a horse.

As the evening came to a close, Éomer mounted behind Boromir and urged Faramir to mount in front of his brother, facing him. The young Prince helped steady the older brother as he lifted Faramir enough to impale him on his hard cock. Then Éomer carefully slid his own cock into Boromir’s ass. Clicking softly to the horse to increase its pace, Éomer let its movements control theirs.

For the first time, the prince was in complete control of what they were doing. He kept the horse altering its pace, keeping all three of them on the edge. It wasn’t the most comfortable way to have each other, but it was exciting and soon the brothers were urging Éomer to bring their release. If the horseman hadn’t been strong enough to hold them, they would have fallen from the gelding’s wide back.

“Too bad our father wouldn’t let us marry you instead of your sister,” Faramir said, only half kidding.

“Wait until you meet her,” was Éomer’s proud answer. “She wasn’t only conceived on horseback, but born there too. When she reaches womanhood, she will be quite a prize.”

“I will take your word for it,” Boromir told him. “You haven’t disappointed us yet.”

As their time together drew to a close, they discussed many plans and strategies for dealing with the increasing orc and goblin problems along their mutual borders. They knew that it might be years before they would meet face to face again, if they survived, so they took advantage of every moment they had together. Éomer and his men had learned many new sword techniques, while the men of Gondor developed their horsemanship to a level hitherto unknown.

“Your men are amongst the most well trained I have ever seen,” Éomer told them, as they lay resting after a wild round of sex.

“They are our permanent guard,” Boromir said. “Twenty for each of us, wherever we go, they go with us. We’ve hand picked and trained each one of them.”

“We know their families, their histories, everything about them,” Faramir added. “And we bind them to us with everything we can think of. I am confident of their absolute loyalty.”

“I have noticed the tattoo they each wear on their shoulder, but I can’t tell which men belong to who,” Éomer said.

“We stay together as much as possible,” Boromir told him. “But when we part, it depends where each is going, for the men belong to us both. We take who is best for our goal, or if there is no difference, we let them choose.”

“I have learned much from you,” the prince said. “I will speak with my uncle and my cousin, even my sister when I return home, but I don’t think I will share all of your methods with them,” he added with a grin. “In these dark times, it is good to be assured of the loyalty of one’s warriors, though treason is rare in our history.”

“I wish it were so in ours,” Faramir said with feeling. “There are many instances of Númenorean failings. Just what I’ve seen in dreams is enough to curdle the blood.”

“You suffer from nightmares?” Éomer asked.

“Visions,” Boromir answered. “Sometimes we both have them, but Faramir has seen the past as well as the future in his dreams. It is a trait long known in the men of our line.”

“It sounds like it can be just as much a curse as a blessing,” the prince commented.

“You are right about that,” Faramir said. “I’ve had warnings that have saved our lives and endless nightmares that served no perceivable purpose. We’ve learned to take the good with the bad.”

“Well, my dealings with the two of you have been more than good,” Éomer said as he rolled against Faramir, rubbing his body against him. “I would rate them, at the least, as excellent.”

“We would have to say the same of you, my fair prince,” Boromir said as he pushed up against Faramir’s other side. “If only all our allies were as sure and strong as you.”

Relaxing beneath their ministrations, Faramir let the other two have their way with him. Their hot mouths and eager hands explored and aroused him everywhere, and occasionally each other. Éomer began kissing and nipping his way down the younger brother’s body as Boromir turned him on his side and rubbed his cock against Faramir’s ass. Their movements couldn’t have been choreographed better. As Boromir’s penis slid into Faramir’s ass, Éomer swallowed Faramir’s cock; using the technique he’d learned from the brothers. Faramir pulled Éomer’s hips toward his mouth and sucked the hard penis completely within. He pushed his wet fingers slowly into the prince’s ass, as the young man did the same for Boromir.

All three were filled and encased in hot wetness, thrusting and pulling back in unison with each other. Boromir kissed and nipped his brother’s neck and shoulder, while his fingers joined in spreading Éomer’s ass impossibly wide. Without breaking the rhythm of his hips, Boromir leaned across Faramir and ran his tongue across Éomer’s cock as it slid in and out of his brother’s mouth.

The unexpected stimuli caused Éomer to moan around Faramir’s cock. The vibration caused Faramir’s ass to constrict around Boromir’s thrusting penis. Boromir divided his attentions between his brother and the prince, all the while keeping his cock steadily pumping in and out of his brother’s ass. They moved against each other with the familiarity developed over the past few days, glorying in the rough and sensuous contact. Both younger men followed Boromir’s lead, until they could hold back no more, and as had happened since their first such encounter, all three climaxed at once.

This was the last day that the Rohirrim and Gondorian forces could tarry in each other’s company. The following morning would see all of the bright pavilions and tents struck, both companies returning to their duties. The brothers had promised to perform one of the Númenorean sword dances for the prince. Draymor showed the prince how to prepare them for the military display, as he wanted to be there for the final, more private part of the dance.

The fourth dance was the most artistic; it contained sixty-three moves for each dancer, though only twenty of them drew blood. They wore little more than a loincloth, even their feet bare, one long curved knife each. Starting back to back, their heads leaning back on each other’s shoulders, they synchronized their breathing before they began the swift and graceful movements.

Éomer had never seen anything like it. He watched them, completely entranced by their dance, wishing he could join in. Their closeness of the past week drew him, making him feel the stretch of muscles, the burn of sharp steel on flesh. Never had he felt his blood surge so strongly, his body respond so thoroughly with only visual stimuli. The mixed group of Gondorian and Rohirrim warriors disappeared from his consciousness, only the two dancers registering to his lust befogged mind.

The flash of steel and spray of blood filled his senses, as the brothers circled him in their dance. He held perfectly still, instinctively knowing that they had changed their intended movements to include him. The blades of their knives whispered close past his body in unerring grace. Here and there, bits of blood and sweat splashed him, their breath filled his lungs as they brushed close, almost touching him.

The dance came to a sudden end. The brothers stood tightly against him, their eyes locked with his. Éomer didn’t even realize he’d stopped breathing until he drew a ragged breath. Only the rough cheer from the gathered warriors saved him from completely forgetting where he was.

The Steward’s sons bowed to those watching, then headed for their tent, Faramir taking the prince’s hand and bringing him with them. Once inside, they drew Éomer between them and began stripping his clothes away, losing their own with little effort.

Running a finger through the blood and sweat on his brother’s chest, Faramir brought it to Éomer’s lips, letting him taste it. “My brother’s blood is sweet and addictive,” he whispered in his ear, and then ran his tongue down the Prince’s neck.

“Not as sweet as my brother’s,” Boromir said, copying his brother’s movements. “Would you join us in this my prince? Would you bind yourself with two warriors?”

“Yes,” Éomer growled, each arm encircling a well-muscled waist.

The cold bite of steel moved across his chest, making him gasp. Faramir ran his fingers across the cut as Boromir dropped the knife. “Let us mix your blood with ours,” the younger brother said as he gathered the red offering from each chest. Though the cuts from the brothers’ dance barely bled, there were twenty each, along with the fresh blood from Éomer. The smell of it was heavy in the air.

“We are bound by our blood, by our bodies and our hearts,” Faramir said, his hand combining the blood from his and his brother’s wounds. “We have invited you to join with us and you have agreed.” His hand rested over Éomer’s heart letting his slow, flowing blood mix with theirs.

“I give you my sword and the battle lore of Númenor, as much as I can and as often as I can,” Boromir said, claiming Éomer’s lips.

“I give you my visions, both past and future, and the learning of the ancients,” Faramir told him, pressing his own hot lips to the prince’s.

“I give you my wild heart and the freedom of the Riddermark, that you will never be entrapped in the hard cold stone of your cities, or the demands of duty,” Éomer told them, winding his hands in their hair and kissing them both at once.

Faramir used their blood and sweat to lubricate Éomer’s cock, then turned and offered himself to the prince. Licking his bloody back, he slowly filled Faramir’s tight heat. Pausing when he was fully within, he felt Boromir’s engorged cock at his own entrance. Éomer wrapped his hands around Faramir’s penis, and they began a smooth rhythm. Their joining was better than it had ever been; they felt connected in spirit as well as body.

They bathed afterward, washing the blood, sweat and semen from each other in the metal tub that had been brought with the Gondorians. Although barely one of them could fit in it at a time, they enjoyed a thorough cleaning at each other’s hands. They dressed each other afterward, exchanging small items with each other, before rejoining the rest of the encampment for a parting feast.

Just what turned the cheerful gathering into a wild party, none of the three were ever able to agree on later. Boromir thought that the toast from Draymor on his quickly approaching thirtieth birthday and the highly improper suggestions as to what to gift the Steward’s heir had been the start. Faramir was convinced that the very appealing offer of the Rohirrim shield maiden to his brother as she lay naked on the main table, having pushed the food aside, was more likely the cause. While Éomer blushingly admitted that his willingness to demonstrate the proper method of fellatio, especially on very large cocks like Faramir’s, could have led to the complete loss of decorum among the gathering.

No matter what the cause, the morning found many in the camp short on sleep. The Steward’s sons and the prince hadn’t slept at all, and were far from alone in this. There were many sad partings, even the Gondorian camp followers involved in long goodbyes. As a joining of like spirits, the ten-day encampment had been a success, but the Rohirrim were duly warned that not all their brothers and sisters to the east were so amenable to their lifestyle. It was well known that Boromir and Faramir had to behave with great circumspection in the cities of Gondor, while their relationship would have been considered commonplace in Rohan. After all, there was often loss of life, not to mention frequent sterility by accident in the Riddermark; life with horses wasn’t always kind.

“I will see you in my dreams,” Faramir told Éomer. “Until I hold you in my arms again.” They kissed sweetly, even as the gathered forces of both watched.

“I will send our old swordmaster to work with you and train your cousin and sister,” Boromir said, his kiss hard and possessive. He remembered how he had watched Éomer and Faramir make love to each other and had not felt even a twinge of jealousy for the first time, only burning desire for them both. “I would be grieved to lose you or any you hold dear.”

“I am proud that you have both chosen the mounts I suggested for you,” the young prince told them, his voice husky with emotion. “I will support your suit of my sister with my uncle, and speak in your favor to her ear. I am proud to be bonded with you, even in such an informal manner. I hope that when you face the shadow, thoughts of me can bring you comfort, for I will rejoice in thoughts of you.” He clasped them both, his mount steady between theirs. “Until we meet again my brothers.” Then he backed his horse away without word or movement of his hand.

Stopping a few feet in front of them, he looked at them with all the intensity they’d become accustomed to, his deep emotions obvious on his face. Then, with a savage yell he whirled his mount, calling his eored to him and sped away. Sitting at the crest of the hill, the two brothers, the products of many years of Númenorean training and heredity, watched the Rohirrim ride into the west, taking their wild hearts with them.

When the riders disappeared from sight, they turned eastward with a sigh of resignation. There, in the distance, Barad-dur spewed smoke into the sky and they faced the incessant war. But, somehow, the war cry of their blood brother kept them from despair as they rode home to duty and endless warfare and death. A small part of their hearts rode west under bright sun in freedom.

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