Title: Legacy
Author: By Carla Jane  (jimcarla@hotmail.com)
http://www3.sympatico.ca/carla.patterson/homepage.htm
Beta: Erika 
Pairings: Boromir/Denethor, Boromir/Aragorn, Boromir/Faramir, 
Eowyn/Eomer… and on a secondary level Faramir/Lothiriel and Eomer/OFC
Rating: NC17, very NC17
Summary: An (extremely) alternate universe story that portrays the 
Stewards of Gondor as Gondor’s royalty… and Aragorn is a magical being 
that is bound to the service of Gondor’s royal house. There’s no 
Fellowship and no quest in this story. Please look at the ‘notes’ for 
more information.
Disclaimer: Tolkien, Jackson and various artists created this version 
of these characters that I am now mangling beyond recognition.


WARNING:  This story contains incest, some of which is non-consensual, 
male/male sex, male/female sex, and sexual abuse. Boromir, Eowyn and 
Eomer are all underage (by American standards) when they become sexual 
active. If you're a sensitive reader... please do not continue any 
further. 

Authors Note: Okay, we know Denethor married Finduilas and begat 2 
boys, Boromir and Faramir, now imagine that Denethor also married 
Theodwyn and had 1 boy and 1 girl, Eomer and Eowyn. Yeap… I’ve messed 
with timelines and ages as well as the lines of parenting… but what the 
hell, if I’m doing an alternate universe, I might as well do an 
ALTERNATE universe. 




In another Middle-Earth:

Her tutors had taught Eowyn that her father was the greatest Gondorian 
king of this, or any other, age. In his younger days Denethor had 
ridden through lands torn by strife and disharmony with the magic of 
the ancients at his shoulder to build the largest kingdom in all the 
lands of Middle Earth. He had reunited Gondor and Rohan, the two most 
powerful human holding, back into one unstoppable entity and spread 
it’s boundaries to create an empire. Although the union was forged by 
strange powers and strength of arms, the new country had been secured 
by doing something that no other man in this enlightened age would dare 
to do. Unheeding of the fact that he already had a wife and son, 
Denethor had taken the first lady of Rohan, the sister of a man he had 
just destroyed, as his bride.

Finduilas, Denethor’s first wife had been left in the carefully guarded 
upper reaches of Minas Tirith. Theodwyn, Eowyn’s mother and Denethor’s 
war-bride was kept, under lock, key and guard, in the Golden Hall of 
Meduseld. Neither woman ever laid eyes on the other. 

Eowyn just wished that she could say the same thing about her father’s 
children. Denethor, intent on impressing his will over his vast 
kingdom, had left both sets of children alone for years but in Eowyn’s 
eighth year everything changed. A strange coincidence destroyed the 
semi-comfortable lives of Eowyn and her brother. 

Accompanied by the wails of Theodwyn’s private staff, Eowyn and her 
older brother Eomer watched their sweet, protective mother fall ill and 
die within the span of week. Upon her death messengers were dispatched 
to Minas Tirith, where King Denethor was said to be staying as of late… 
only to return in less than two hours with news that Queen Findulias 
lay dead as well and Denethor was already riding into Edoras. It was 
almost as if a punishment had been visited on the victims of the power-
hungry king, rather than on Denethor himself.

So it was that Eowyn and Eomer were swept out of their mother’s 
presence before her hands could even grow cold. The crying children 
were forced into their finest clothes, planted on the stairs to the 
throne, and slapped into silence when they attempted to protest.

Denethor paced through the wide-swung doors into the Golden Hall while 
Eowyn was still wiping at her burning cheeks. The stern-looking, only 
vaguely familiar king paced up the stairs and practically threw himself 
onto the comfortably cushioned throne. A tall, sullen-faced, blond boy 
trailed in the dour man’s wake.

“Sit, Boromir.” Denethor flicked his fingers absently to the queen’s 
empty chair. 

Eowyn couldn’t contain her screech of rage as the strange boy took her 
mother’s throne without a wisp of hesitation. She would have flung 
herself at the interloper and torn his eyes out if Eomer hadn’t grabbed 
hold of his sister and held on tight.

The display, however, drew the king’s attention. Intense eyes examined 
the children. “These…” A finger pointed. “Would be your brother and 
sister, Boromir,” Denethor announced to his eldest child.

The young teenager seemed even less pleased than his father with Eomer 
and Eowyn. “I have no sister,” Boromir said coldly. “And my brother is 
back in the White Tower… where I wish to return.”

Denethor stared at the Prince, glaring fiercely, until Boromir looked 
away. The boy seemed to be as miserable as his half-siblings. “I came 
to deliver you a Prince to be trained and collect my wife,” Denethor 
addressed the hall in a booming voice. “Only to discover that I have 
arrived too late to see my wife. This situation makes me uncomfortable 
about leaving my firstborn behind at this time.” His expression was 
stony. “I will stay only long enough to meet with the staff and 
nobility to make certain everyone is still suitable for their positions 
and then I will be taking my children… all my children… back to Minas 
Tirith. Everyone must be prepared to present their cases for 
maintaining their stations when summoned this evening.”

Boromir sat up straight, visibly brightening at what the announcement 
meant for him. His excitement faded however thanks to a dark glare from 
his father. Boromir’s head bowed and long blond hair fell into his 
face, hiding his eyes.

Both Eowyn and her brother quaked in reaction the news that not only 
was their mother gone, but now they were about to be torn away from the 
only home that they had ever known. “NO!” Eowyn screeched out her 
denial. “We won’t go! You can’t make us!”

The childish protest brought a scornful smile to Denethor’s lips. “You 
will do whatever I wish, little one. You are my child and…” Cold eyes 
shifted to pin Boromir. “ALL my children do as I tell them to. Isn’t 
that right Boromir?”

The blond teenager answered with softly mumbled agreement and down-cast 
eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“I ASKED YOU A QUESTION!” Denethor’s roar made all three of his 
offspring, as well as the entire court, cringe. “Speak up.”

The response was loud enough that everyone in the hall could hear the 
quaver in the prince’s voice. “Yes, Father.” Boromir had retreated as 
far back into his chair as the padding on the throne would allow. 
“Anything you say, my lord.” The words were clearly enunciated this 
time.

Denethor nodded in satisfaction at the improvement in his son’s 
diction. “I will take just a little time to rest and refresh myself, 
and then I will see to any matters that require my attention. Run and 
make sure that body is removed from the royal suite before I get 
there,” he snapped at one of the nearest attendants. Denethor rose 
abruptly to his feet. “Pack up those damned children and their 
belongings. Have them ready to leave by morning. I have no stomach for 
yet another burial service. Putting one wife in the ground was trial 
enough; besides, I have wasted time enough on this trip. Tend to 
Theodwyn after we are gone.” Cold eyes shifted back to the prince on 
the other throne. “Accompany me, Boromir. The death of my wife and the 
delay of your installation at Meduseld changes much. We must reassess 
your situation.” 

A brief shiver ran through the young blond but he stood and moved in 
the direction his father indicated. His steps took him past Eowyn and 
Eomer who were both bawling and attempting to cling to one another as 
their nannies tried to remove from the king’s sight.

*

The halls of Meduseld were travelled in grim silence, but as soon as 
the heavy wooden door closed Denethor and his eldest son into the royal 
suite and away from any chance of an audience, the king exploded. “This 
is intolerable!” Denethor slammed his hand on the inside of the portal. 
“Years upon years I spent building this kingdom. Years in the company 
of filthy soldiers, bloody-minded rivals, devious politicians and that 
damned creature… away from the comforts of hearth and home to ensure 
that when the time came that I wanted to rest I would have everything I 
needed,” he raged. “And what do I get? A few paltry months with a 
tedious woman who’s beauty faded by the day. A wife who wilted under 
every touch then died. Another woman who vanishes like smoke before I 
can even reach her bed.” The bellow grew louder with every word. “Three 
children who cringe and whimper like babies at the slightest 
provocation and another who scowls at me as if I was an enemy. This is 
what I fought, bled, and killed for?”

Boromir stood in the centre of the room, arms crossed over his chest 
and silent. His nose wrinkled at the heavy smell of medicine and death 
that still lingered in the air.

“Your mother was a wonder in her youth.” Denethor’s tone softened as he 
looked at Boromir. “You have her hair… and her lips.” The king paced 
over to stop right in front of his eldest. “She was about your age when 
I married her, just turned fifteen.” Denethor still had to look down at 
his son, but that might change soon. Boromir was growing fast this 
spring. 

“I loved Finduilas from the moment I laid eyes on her. She was standing 
on the walls of her father’s fortress, looking like a vision from the 
old tales. Her hair was loose and blowing in the sea breeze and her 
dress clung to her legs. She was such a delicate, beautiful girl. I had 
my servant fetch her down to me that very night and I married her in 
the morning. Her father’s resistance crumbled just as quickly as her 
virginity had torn once he realized I had stolen away his precious 
Finduilas.” 

Dark eyes locked onto Boromir’s face. “I had thought it would be best 
to bring you here, to separate myself from the temptation you present… 
to settle for Theodwyn’s company.” Denethor’s tone was faintly 
distracted. “But why should I? Why should I deny myself anything? I 
have worked for the good of Gondor and my family all my life. It is 
time I was rewarded for all I have sacrificed. I am the king. I make 
the rules.” A strangely disturbing smile crossed his father’s face and 
Boromir’s body tensed. This new mood that had seized Denethor wasn’t 
quite the same as the times when fits of violence against his wife and 
children resulted, but Boromir found this frame of mind just as 
frightening in its own way. When Denethor touched his cheek, Boromir 
couldn’t contain the instinctive flinch that followed.

“Do not shy away from me, boy!” Denethor scolded, his fingers catching 
hold of and digging into Boromir’s chin. “You are stronger than the 
others. You are the oldest, the bravest, and the best of my children. 
You shouldn’t ever be afraid of anything, least of all, me.” His grip 
eased and Denethor’s touch drifted, fingers brushing back into long 
golden hair. Boromir was petted, like a favoured dog. “I was foolish to 
think I would be able to leave you here and ride away. You are my 
favourite, Boromir. I love you better than anyone… even better than I 
did your mother or Theodwyn. You are my most precious jewel… and my 
only comfort now. Fate has stepped in. Fate has taken your mother and 
Theodwyn to show me the way… to clarify things for me. It’s you. It’s 
always been you. I realize that now.” Denethor chuckled, his breath 
ghosting across Boromir’s cheek. “There is your brother, but Faramir is 
too young and too weak to handle the demands of being my dearest one, 
don’t you think, Boromir?” Denethor’s tone became suggestive. “Or 
should I try him when we get home?”

Gray-green eyes widened with sudden realization of what was happening, 
as well as what was being threatened. Swallowing, Boromir held himself 
from pushing Denethor away and running with only the force of his will. 
“Please father, leave Faramir be. He’s just a little boy.”

“I am weary of being alone, my darling one. I am weary of fighting 
against my desires for the sake of petty propriety. The world is what I 
say it is.” Denethor brushed his cheek gently against soft blond hair. 
“First your mother was too sick to accept my attentions… then there had 
to be a time of mourning and the long trip to Edoras. It has been 
unfairly long since I’ve kissed another’s lips, my dearest, most 
beautiful boy.”

At least twenty retorts were on the tip of Boromir’s tongue, including 
a suggestion that Denethor go find one of Theodwyn’s ladies in waiting, 
but one look at the king’s face dried up every one of them. The 
threatening glitter was there, the one that preceded acts such as 
Denethor throwing Faramir half the width of the nursery and into the 
wall. It was an expression that Boromir knew all too well.

Boromir had been kissed before. Stable-boys, kitchen-girls, and 
children of the guards had all been happy to experiment with the heir 
to the throne. He had also shared countless kisses with Faramir, but 
that was something altogether different. He had never kissed any adult 
but his mother before and Boromir suspected that wasn’t the kind of 
kiss Denethor was expecting from him.

“We will be back with Faramir in a matter of weeks,” Denethor reminded 
in a falsely mild tone. “And I will soon have a third son in the tower 
should something… unfortunate… happen to your little brother.”

Boromir’s heart skipped a beat. There was no mistaking the threat in 
the simple statement. Trembling, he rocked up onto his toes and 
obediently pressed his lips to Denethor’s. The reaction was 
instantaneous. Denethor’s arms wrapped around Boromir and pulled him 
tight. Boromir let out a yelp as the chaste kiss he’d been practicing 
with his age mates was turned into something altogether different by a 
tongue pushing into his mouth. He was unable to stop himself from 
gagging and struggling.

Denethor released his son with a gasp. “You are sweeter than I ever 
imagined.” Hungry eyes travelled from the top of Boromir’s head to his 
toes and back up again. “I have wanted this for years. There is no 
longer any reason that I should be denied.” The only break in his 
greedy gaze was when Denethor glanced over at the bed and nodded. “It 
is empty. Good. Undress for me, my darling one. Right here, where the 
light is best. Undress and climb on the bed. I want to see you, to 
finally touch you.” 

Boromir’s mouth opened, only to snap shut again when Denethor struck 
him across the face at the sign of protest. “It’s not too late to leave 
you here in Edoras, boy. It’s not too late for me to leave you behind 
and go home to Minas Tirith… to your beloved little Faramir.” All the 
strength seemed to drain out of Boromir at the threat. The sight made 
Denethor nod. “Yes, that is lovely, just perfect. Now you look like 
mother even more. Such a beautiful boy.”

Defeated, Boromir lifted trembling fingers to the fastenings on his 
tunic.

*

The trip to Minas Tirith took its toll on every member of the royal 
family with the exception of the king. As children of the finest horse-
lords in the world, Eomer and Eowyn were accustomed, even happy to, 
spend long hours in the saddle despite their youth but recent events 
and the cumbersome pace of heavily loaded wagons took all delight out 
of the ride. They were assigned a place well behind Denethor, which 
ensured that they spent all day breathing dust. Their regular mounts 
had been taken away from them, having been deemed too high-spirited for 
such young children. Eomer’s much-beloved stallion, a Prince among 
horses, was given to Boromir, while Eowyn’s finely-bred gelding now 
carried one of Denethor’s officers.

Eomer had attempted to creep over to visit his horse one evening after 
dinner, only to return to Eowyn with a bright red handprint on his 
face. It seemed that Eomer had surprised Boromir, who had been leaning 
into the animal’s other flank when Eomer had approached. Eomer 
explained the slap had come after he asked why Boromir was crying. The 
question was answered with a vicious strike and a tear-strained shriek 
that insisted that the crown-prince of Gondor NEVER, EVER cried. Eomer 
had been forced to sit on his sister after telling the story to keep 
her from storming over and kicking Boromir where she was certain it 
would cause enough pain to make him cry.

That encounter set the tone for every instance that Eowyn and Eomer 
interacted with their half-brother. Boromir was as cold as ice to both 
the children. He snapped at them when they intruded on him and ignored 
their existence the rest of the time. The entirety of the travelling 
court, followed the Prince’s example since Denethor seemed indifferent 
to the pair, wrapped up as he was in doting on his eldest son. Even the 
ladies that Denethor had appointed to mind the children treated them 
with distaste, as if the women were annoyed at being demoted to nannies 
when they had been intended as the companions to a new queen.

One evening, Eowyn, who was feeling particularly trapped by the 
increasing press of fences and farmland they were now travelling 
through, felt the urge to wander. Catching Eomer by the hand, the young 
girl drew him away from the fire and into the gloom. Wandering without 
purpose, the pair were surprised to come upon Denethor standing in the 
darkness, looking up at the night sky. Eomer walked right into the king 
because he had been watching his feet rather than his surroundings.

“And what do we have here?” Denethor caught Eomer by the back of his 
tunic and lifted the ten-year-old.

“Put him down!” Eowyn kicked at Denethor’s leg, causing the king to 
seize her as well.

“Behave yourself child.” Denethor shook Eowyn hard enough to rattle her 
teeth, and then tossed her casually aside. “YOU look uncomfortably like 
your uncle, boy.” The king squinted at Eomer in the moonlight. “The man 
was an intolerable nuisance... just like that little sister of yours.” 
Denethor pulled Eomer close to his face. “I had him torn apart by four 
of his own horses. It took a fair long time to rip him to shreds. I 
would think your sister would pop apart much more easily.” Eomer was 
tossed after Eowyn, landing hard enough to knock her over once more. “I 
would suggest that you teach her some manners, boy. I have little need 
of a daughter.”

Astonished and uncertain if the threat was real, Eomer caught his 
sister by the arm and dragged her backward. “Yes, my lord. I will, my 
lord.”

*

The wagons were still in line and half the riders were still mounted 
when a fair haired boy came tearing down into the courtyard of the 
White Tower to throw himself at Boromir. The greeting was met with the 
first laugh to come out of Boromir in weeks.

“YOU CAME BACK! I was afraid you were gone forever.” Small hands 
clutched at the fabric of Boromir’s tunic, holding on for dear life. 
“Never leave again. Never ever. It was horrid here without you.” The 
boy’s face burrowed into Boromir’s chest.

Boromir bent his head to inhale the scent rising off strawberry-blond 
curls. “I’ve told you and told you… I will always come back to you, 
Faramir, just as soon as I can,” he promised. The restless petting 
Boromir stroked over his little brother soothed them both. “I missed 
you too, desperately.” Hoisting his brother with some effort, Boromir 
hugged the boy tightly. 

The pose held only as long as it took for Denethor to dismount and pace 
over to where the sons of his first wife stood. The king cleared his 
throat and Boromir immediately set Faramir back down on the ground. 

“My lord father.” Faramir preformed a sketchy semblance of a bow toward 
the king even though his eyes continually flicked back to Boromir.

Denethor rumbled menacingly at the sign of disrespect. His hand 
twitched.

“Please Father.” Boromir’s whisper attempted to pacify the king. 

“I can afford to be indulgent today,” Denethor finally allowed. “I am 
eager for a long bath and the feel of proper mattress beneath me once 
more.” He smiled. “But I am certain there are a great number of 
problems that need my attention. I will not be retiring until quite 
late this evening, Boromir, but there are some considerations I wish to 
discuss with you right before bed. I will expect you in my chambers.”

“Yes, my lord,” Boromir responded meekly. “Thank you, my lord.”

As soon as Denethor walked away, Boromir swept his brother up into 
another crushing hug. Faramir laughed and squirmed in the tight hold, 
returning it in smaller, eager bursts of energy.

“Missed you, missed you, MISSED YOU!” Faramir practically crowed out 
the words. 

Drawn by the strange sight of grim, silent Boromir bestowing such 
obvious affection on child, Eomer and Eowyn edged a little closer. The 
movement caught Faramir’s eye and he wriggled around to get a better 
look at the strangers. 

“Who’re they, Boromir?” Faramir questioned his brother.

Boromir glanced sideways momentarily before turning back to Faramir. 
“They are that woman’s children.”

“Oh.” Word had come ahead of the travellers about Theodwyn’s death to 
prevent them from riding into a celebration, but the children had not 
been mentioned in the missive, at least not to Faramir’s knowledge. 
“Are they going to stay here now?”

“I suppose,” Boromir answered dismissively. “Never mind about them.” He 
swung Faramir around once before setting him down. “Tell me everything 
you’ve done since I’ve been gone. Every thought you’ve had, every book 
you’ve read, every moment of each day.”

Under the warmth of his adored brother’s full attention, Faramir was 
content to leave his curiosity about the new children for another time. 
“I found a wonderful hiding place in the cellars. Would you like to see 
it, Boromir?”

“Clever Faramir, yes, of course I would.” The elder ruffled his 
brother’s hair before setting off toward the entrance to the citadel.

Unclaimed, Eomer and Eowyn stood amid the bustle of the horses and 
belongings being hauled off in different directions. They waited, 
holding hands as the courtyard quickly cleared, but everyone ignored 
the slight blond children as if they weren’t even there. 

“We should leave. We should go home,” Eowyn whispered as the last of 
the stragglers began to depart.

“It wouldn’t work,” her brother countered in a flat tone. “That city we 
rode through is huge. There were loads of gates, six or seven, and 
soldiers everywhere. Besides, I don’t know if I could find our way out 
even if no one stopped us… and the Riddermark is weeks away on foot.”

The yard was practically deserted before help came. With a rather 
confused look on his face, a page who didn’t seem much older than Eomer 
wandered over to the siblings. He tossed an uncomfortable look at the 
last vanishing adult before speaking. “Who are you?”

“I am Eomer, son of Theodwyn, Queen of Meduseld, the Lady of the Mark.” 
The boast wavered a bit, but he held his chin high. “And this is my 
sister, Eowyn.”

The page-boy looked astonished. It seemed absurd that the king’s 
children had been abandoned like orphans at the foot of the tower. “All 
right, I suppose then…” He hesitated. “I suppose you’ll be in the 
nursery with Prince Faramir then. Come along and I’ll show you the 
way.”

*

The brother and sister were sitting quietly on one of the two beds in 
the large nursery when Boromir burst into the long, low roofed room and 
tossed Faramir playfully onto the other bed. Both boys were laughing 
and grinning.

“You need to get dressed for… oh.” Boromir halted in mid-sentence. He 
straightened up and stared down his nose at his half-siblings as if 
they were invading insects.

“Hello.” Faramir bounced back onto the floor and padded over to the 
newcomers. “Are you waiting for me?” Bright blue-green eyes studied the 
pair. Hardly anyone ever waited on his attention. Hardly anyone much 
bothered with Faramir at all beyond Boromir, except their teachers and 
a few of the lesser servants. This was quite a treat. “I wasn’t 
expecting company, but you’re more than welcome.”

“I doubt they are supposed to be HERE, Faramir. I’ll have someone take 
them elsewhere.” Boromir took a step towards the door.

“No, please, Boromir. Let them stay,” Faramir asked with a pleading 
smile. “It’s been ever so quiet in here since you moved out. I’d be 
grateful for the company.”

Boromir sighed. “Well… the girl will need her own room. It wouldn’t be 
proper to have her in here with boys, not at your ages.”

“Why?”

“It just wouldn’t.” Boromir’s head shook.

“I won’t leave Eomer!” Eowyn screeched as soon as she heard the 
statement. “You can’t make me.” She latched even tighter onto her 
brother’s arm.

“It’s all right,” Faramir soothed. “I’ll make sure that you aren’t far 
off. I know how you feel. I hated it when father made Boromir move into 
his own rooms.” He smiled at Eomer. “If you’re Theodwyn’s son, then 
you’re our half brother, right? How wonderful.” Faramir ploughed on 
without waiting for an answer. “You can come to lessons with Boromir 
and I from now on. We do weapons training and horses in the morning and 
then I have to go for tutoring in the afternoon. They make me do court 
stuff sometimes after dinner, but not all the time.”

Eomer’s returning smile was hesitant. “And Eowyn can come as well?”

Surprised, Faramir looked at the girl. “Not to the morning lessons, of 
course, but the afternoon ones… I suppose so, yes. I should think she 
will have to do sewing or some such girl stuff in the morning.”

Two faces pinched up at that bit of information. Eowyn’s head shook. “I 
ride. I can fight. I’ve been learning with Eomer.”

“Girls do not fight. That would be barbaric,” Boromir interjected. 
“I’ll see to having a nursemaid assigned to you at once.”

“But in the Riddermark…” Eowyn began.

“ROHAN,” Boromir corrected. “Belongs to Gondor and in Gondor women do 
not fight.”

Distracted, Faramir whirled about; reminded of a question he had meant 
to ask earlier. “I thought father was giving Rohan to you, Boromir? 
That’s what our tutors told me. Not that I’m not ever so happy you came 
home… but what happened?”

“He changed his mind. I can have it when I am older. When I’m twenty-
one, he says.”

“NO!” Eowyn interrupted again. “The Riddermark belongs to Eomer and I. 
Our mother was Queen there. OUR grandfather was king. It’s ours!”

Eyebrows rising, Boromir glared down at her. “You own nothing.” He said 
the words in a crisp, clear tone. “All you will ever have, little girl, 
is what my father gives you while he is alive or what your husband 
shares with you, whoever father decides that will be… and when King 
Denethor is gone I will be king and I will get everything… then I will 
give ROHAN to Faramir.” Tired of the conversation, Boromir turned away. 
“I will see you in the morning, Faramir.”

“What a horrible beast he his,” Eowyn complained as the door closed 
behind Boromir.

“He is not!” Faramir objected. “Boromir is clever and kind. He takes 
care of me. He’s the finest swordsman in Minas Tirith… outside of the 
Tower guard. He tells the most wonderful stories and everyone in the 
city adores him.”

“He’s grumpy, mean and selfish,” Eowyn snapped back. “If he wasn’t the 
prince no one would put up with him.”

“You don’t know anything about Boromir,” Faramir defended. “He’s just 
been frightfully upset since our mother died. He’s wonderful, really. 
You’ll see. He’s my very best friend in the whole world. He loves me 
more than anyone. He’s taken care of me since I was a baby.” Frowning 
at Eowyn, Faramir retreated to the far side of the room.

“Boromir took my brother’s horse,” she shouted after him.

“He’s the prince.”

“Eomer is a prince too… and I’m a Princess, but it doesn’t give anyone 
the right to be SO MEAN!” she raged.

“Boromir isn’t mean. He just… has more important things to do than 
anyone else, so he gets everything special. He earns it though. Boromir 
HAS to be the best at everything or father punishes him.” Faramir threw 
himself backwards onto his bed. “You’ll see. In a day or few… you’ll 
see.”

*

“What’s the matter with you today, Boromir? Stand up straight and 
defend yourself!” The arms-master was finding himself in the unusual 
position of having to shout at the crown prince of Gondor and he was 
clearly uncomfortable with the situation.

Boromir clenched his teeth and straightened up despite the fact all he 
wanted to do was curl up in a ball and rest. A sharp pain had been 
lancing through his gut on and off since father had taken him to bed 
last night. He didn’t dare complain about the strange, new ache or 
Arms-master Melador would send him to the healers and Boromir wanted 
nothing to do with explaining the act that had caused this pain.

“Come on, Boromir. You’re the best swordsman in the Tower. I know 
you’re better than him!” Faramir shouted out the encouragement from his 
place at the sidelines. “You’re supposed to soften him up for Eomer and 
I.”

A quick glance, and a grimace that might be mistaken for a smile, were 
shot in Faramir’s direction. Pushing past the nagging ache Boromir 
lunged at Melador. Faramir had a point. If Boromir didn’t tire the big 
man out first, Melador would likely knock the daylights out of the two 
younger boys when their turn came. Turning all the frustration and hurt 
of the last few months outward, Boromir set upon the arms-master as if 
he were the cause of everything bad that had happened.

“Yes. Wonderful. Much better. There’s my boy!” The man sounded 
delighted.

The phrase infuriated Boromir beyond reason. It was uncomfortably close 
to other endearments that he was quickly learning to hate. “I.” Boromir 
hacked viciously. “AM” The attack backed Melador up. “NOT” Steel 
against steel clanged loudly. “A” Boromir screamed out the last word. 
“BOY!” A wild swing slipped under the arms-master’s guard and if the 
man hadn’t thrown himself backward onto his arse the tip of Boromir’s 
blade would have sliced his gut open. As it was Boromir straddled the 
prone form and his sword hung, shaking, right at Melador’s throat. 

“Boromir.” Faramir was at his older brother’s side in the blink of an 
eye. “Boromir.” His hand lifted to rest cautiously on Boromir’s 
trembling forearm. “You can stop now.” Faramir’s other hand moved to 
cover the shaking fingers wrapped around the sword’s grip. 

A faint haze still marked Boromir’s grey-green eyes even after he 
turned them on his little brother. “I’m not…” Boromir licked his lips. 
“…feeling well. I think I need some water.”

Faramir nodded and tugged at the sword. It came free and Faramir had to 
strain to hold the heavy weapon up. 

“I didn’t… sleep well… last night.” Boromir stepped clear. A thin smile 
crossed his lips and vanished just as quickly as it had arrived. 
Boromir stroked the backs of his fingers along one of Faramir’s cheeks. 
“I’m sorry. I’m trying my best to keep you…” His mouth snapped shut. 
“I’m going up to my rooms. I need just a little rest. My stomach… it 
must be something I ate.”

“I’ll come too. I’ll read to you,” Faramir offered.

Boromir’s head shook before he found his voice. “No. Keep to your 
lessons.” A measuring glance was tossed Eomer’s way. Perhaps it wasn’t 
such a bad thing after all that Faramir had someone to keep him 
company. “Come up later. Maybe after your lunch. Stay with Eomer for 
now, little one.” Turning away, Boromir disappeared inside, leaving his 
sword in Faramir’s hands. The abandonment of his weapon, more than 
anything else, had everyone in the training yard frowning and staring 
after the departing prince.

*

Thunder rattled the shutters and lightning flashed through cracks in 
the wood showing everything in the room in stark lines. Faramir, 
sitting up in his bed, considered going to Eomer. The other boy had 
proven pleasant company since moving into Faramir’s rooms, but he was 
just another boy. The long-repeating nightmare that was still hovering 
at the edge of Faramir’s mind, and the storm-tossed night, demanded a 
more reassuring presence.

It was a long, dark path, but Faramir knew the way by heart. He took it 
at a quick run. Fragments of his dream were still clinging as they 
always did, and Faramir just didn’t have the heart to face them 
tonight. Considering the complete desolation of the stairways and 
corridors it was either very late or extremely early.

Faramir let himself into Boromir’s suite and crossed the sitting room 
without the slightest trip or trouble. Boromir’s tightly closed 
shutters were newer and better fitted than those in the nursery. Only 
the sound of the storm invaded the room, no light. Faramir found his 
way to the bed by memory rather than sight. 

Even slipping into the warmth of Boromir’s blankets was soothing. 
“Boromir.” Faramir wiggled into the wide bed, moving over until he was 
touching his brother. “Boromir, can I stay here tonight?” The question 
was a formality. Boromir never refused.

“Nightmares again, little one?” Boromir’s tone was muzzy with sleep. 
“Snuggle close.” Strong arms sought out and wrapped around the smaller, 
chilled boy. “Was it those black eyes again, Faramir? Or was it about 
Mama this time?”

“The eyes… and the wings too, or maybe it was a cloak in the wind. The 
thing with those eyes, it takes you away and you never come back. I 
scream and scream, but you don’t listen. I hate that dream. I just hate 
it.” Faramir whispered. He pressed his forehead into Boromir’s shoulder 
and small fingers clenched in the material of Boromir’s night-shirt. “I 
don’t think I want to talk about it. Not in the dark.”

“I’m not going anywhere, love.” Boromir’s fingers carded through his 
brother’s sweat-curled hair, lifting it to allow the fear to dry up 
with the moisture. “I’ve got you, my love. I’ll protect you. My sword 
is hanging just over there. Nothing can get you here, not while I’m 
guarding you.” Each word puffed reassuringly against the top of 
Faramir’s head. 

“Not a dragon?”

“I would chop it’s head off.”

“Not a ghost covered in seaweed and chains?”

“I would turn it inside out and toss it from the window.” Boromir let 
out a faint laugh. 

Faramir shivered and burrowed closer. “What about those eyes?” The 
third question, as usual, was the only one that mattered.

“Not even them, my only love. Trust me.” Boromir pressed a kiss to his 
brother’s soft hair. “Would you like a story, Faramir?”

“Not a war story tonight,” came the whispered request. “Something safe. 
Something about you and me… and mama. Something from when I was a 
baby.” Faramir sighed. “Something with lots of sunshine in it.” The 
long pause gave away that Boromir was having a little trouble with the 
request. It was likely the sunshine part, Faramir realized. Mama hadn’t 
been allowed to venture out past the inner-most circle of Minas Tirith 
after Faramir was born.

“You were very little,” Boromir finally began. “Just learning to walk.” 
He smiled against his brother’s scalp. “It was early in the morning in 
the middle of winter so we were all inside. Mama was sewing so she 
cracked open one of the shutters to let some light inside. A beam of 
light so bright it turned mama’s hair into a crown… and as warm as 
spring… fell inside. When mama sat down and settled her sewing this 
cloud of dust lifted up.” Almost unconsciously Boromir rocked Faramir. 
“Every little bit of dust lit up like fireworks. You laughed and 
clapped your hands which made it swirl around faster… then you tried to 
dance with the sparkles.” Arms tightened on both sides of the hug. “I 
had to catch you because you got dizzy and fell over. We lay on the 
floor and you kept pointing. Every now and then mama would shake her 
sewing so more bits of dust would swirl around.”

“I love you, Boromir.” Faramir mumbled absently, his body softening 
into sleep. Another sigh gusted out against Boromir’s skin.

“Later that day mama and I hung strings up from the ceiling of the 
nursery with little twists of gold thread dangling from them… right 
above your bed. You’d blow and they would move… but I kept having to 
untangle them.”

“Mmm… you always take… such good care… of me.” Anything further was 
lost as Faramir drifted off, his breath growing slow and even.

*

In a reversal of the last time a large gathering of soldiers and gear 
filled the courtyard of the White Tower, Eowyn was now watching the 
spectacle from the side-lines while everyone prepared to leave. The 
past year had added a bit to both her and Eomer’s height. Eowyn’s hair 
was longer and carefully styled, Eomer was beginning to widen at the 
shoulders and both of them were more richly attired than last year.

“Must you go all the way to the Lefnui?” Faramir was standing down in 
the yard, holding tightly to the stirrups of Boromir’s saddle. “You’ll 
be gone ages.” He stared up at his brother with a clear look of grief. 

“STOP YOUR WHINING!” Denethor bullied his own horse up to Faramir, 
forcing the boy to release the straps and step away or be trampled. “I 
can not run this kingdom if I stay in the Tower for years on end,” the 
king announced loftily. “And Boromir can not learn the land he will 
someday rule simply from dusty maps and other men’s accounts of the 
world.”

“When will you return?” Shifting foot to foot, Faramir attempted to see 
past his father.

“Likely by winter,” Denethor answered vaguely. “Perhaps later, 
depending on what we discover during the tour.” His attention drifted. 
“I want those wagons to start out now. Take the route I outlined as 
quickly as possible. I expect a site waiting for us when we arrive in 
two days.” They planned to stay at inns whenever possible, but Denethor 
had arranged for longer stays in some areas.

Taking advantage of Denethor’s distraction, Boromir caught Faramir’s 
gaze. “I will send messages whenever the situation allows, little one.”

“Just come back safely. Please, Boromir. That’s all I need.” Faramir 
called before backing out of range of stamping hooves and large bodies. 

“I always do. I always will.” Boromir’s smile was dazzling. “I’ll 
always come back for you, little brother. I promise.”

Moving had brought Faramir close enough that it was only a matter of a 
few steps for Eowyn and Eomer to stand alongside of their half-brother. 
Hesitantly, Eomer’s hand lifted and came to rest on Faramir’s shoulder, 
offering comfort. The contact caused a surprised look to cross 
Faramir’s face, but the gesture wasn’t shaken off. Boromir’s expression 
was less kind when he saw the action. He frowned darkly until Denethor 
jostled into their sight-line once again. Under the king’s scrutiny 
Boromir’s emotions frosted into a mask.

“Mind your teachers and stay out from underfoot of my ministers,” 
Denethor instructed, yet again. The king gestured impatiently for 
Boromir to ride, before urging his own mount into a quick walk.

Faramir couldn’t contain himself. He shook off Eomer’s hand and ran a 
few steps across the courtyard, chasing the riders. “BOROMIR!” Father 
would scorn him for the outburst but Faramir had give voice to the 
emotions tearing through him, just in case something were to happen 
while they were apart. “I LOVE YOU, BOROMIR!” It would be months before 
the reckoning for the womanish display and with luck Denethor would 
forget all about it.

No sound drifted back, but Faramir, who’s gaze was locked on his 
brother, saw Boromir mouth the words ‘I love you too’. That would have 
to be enough, for father chose that moment to kick out at Boromir’s 
stallion, startling the beast into a faster pace.

*

Boromir crouched down, running his fingers across the scorched inside 
surface of what had been a mighty wall only yesterday. There was no 
other sign of fire, but on every side of the town the wall was pushed 
outward and down, and blackened by soot. With their barricade 
demolished, the townspeople had been quick to offer up apologies and 
tribute to their king and his soldiers despite the fact they had 
announced their independence of Denethor’s rule from behind the wall 
when the company had arrived.

“My lord prince,” One of Denethor’s soldiers came to a halt at 
Boromir’s side. “The king sends word that you should join him in the 
village square to witness the punishment of the men who instigated the 
revolt.”

“What weapon…” Boromir stood slowly, still staring down at the toppled 
wood and brick wall. “I would know what weapon was used that caused 
this… collapse, Erestor.”

The soldier looked uncomfortable. “It is the king’s own weapon, my lord 
prince. It is the king you will have to ask if you wish that knowledge. 
No one I know has ever seen it being employed; only the results it 
produces.”

“Does our lord Denethor use this strange weapon often?” Boromir 
questioned. In light of this new tactic, it was now easier to 
understand how father had conquered so much territory in so little 
time.

“Not so much now as he did near the start of Gondor’s expansion. Not so 
often once the army swelled to the size it is now.” The middle-aged 
soldier frowned. “I expect it was used now since this is a tour rather 
than a campaign… and our numbers reflect that.”

“Where does he keep this weapon? Does one of the horses carry it? Is it 
in a wagon?”

“Please, my lord prince. Those are questions for your father. I have 
never seen the thing in action. Only your father wields it. He only 
uses at need… and generally in the dark of night. I know nothing about 
it save what the aftermath looks like and even that varies, depending 
on the difficulty facing us. It could be a magical sword or box of 
winged horrors he keeps in his pockets for all I know.”

With one last glare at the unexplainable destruction, Boromir turned on 
his heel and headed in the direction that Erestor was urging him. He 
intended to question Denethor about the secret, but the trick would be 
to pick the right time, place and mood to make the query.

*

The three royal children had constructed themselves a nest of sorts in 
the windowless library on the level of the tower that Denethor 
inhabited. They had gathered up pillows and blankets from empty rooms. 
Most flat surfaces in the room were covered with candles or lamps 
although it was seldom that all of them were lit at the same time. 
Books were stacked in piles and parchments were rolled and stacked in 
crates. As the world outside grew increasingly colder, the three of 
them spent more and more time inside their cosy sanctuary.

Eowyn was especially delighted with the situation. With Denethor gone 
she had been joining in with Faramir and Eomer as they had running 
swordfights down the long formal corridors near the throne-room. She 
had forsaken the ladies who attempted to cage her in the mornings and 
instead spent the time practicing weapons and learning the arts of men 
with Eomer and Faramir. Eowyn accompanied them on their rides out of 
Minas Tirith and all over Pelennor Fields. They ate together either in 
the nursery or here in the library most nights and were together 
constantly. Since it had grown colder Eowyn had taken to sleeping in 
the boys’ rooms as well, curled up between Eomer and Faramir, all three 
of them snuggled together in one bed for warmth.

Faramir might lean on the window-sill and pine for his older brother’s 
return every night, but Eowyn would be just as happy if Boromir and the 
king stayed away forever. This very evening was a prime example of the 
cosiness of the situation. Eowyn was stretched out between her 
brother’s legs, leaning back on his chest while Faramir’s soothing 
voice filled the library with a tale from before all the elves sailed 
west out of Middle-Earth and into legend. Eomer’s chin was resting on 
the top of Eowyn’s head. He had one arm wrapped around his sister while 
the other hand propped up the book that Faramir was reading. Faramir 
was sprawled on his stomach beside them, the side of his body pressed 
tight against Eomer’s, putting him well within reach so Eowyn could pet 
his tousled red-gold hair.

When the door crashed open every one of them jumped about a foot and 
Eowyn let out a shriek. The book went flying and they all scrambled 
guiltily away from one another. The servants hardly ever bothered them 
here, and even when they did it was with whispers and cautious 
movements so this intrusion was completely unexpected. The form that 
practically filled the small doorway was not, however, a servant. 

“BOROMIR!” Eyes lighting up as if he’d just seen the sun rise for the 
first time in a year, Faramir flew across the room and barrelled into 
his brother’s chest. The hug was returned just as enthusiastically. 
“You’re cold and wet!” Faramir mumbled without lifting his face out of 
the leather and fur garments Boromir wore.

“It’s snowing outside. I just got in. I came straight up here from the 
yard. Ossana, one of the serving girls told me you’ve been hiding here 
lately.” Boromir grinned down at his younger brother. “I rode ahead of 
father to rouse the Tower so it’s ready for him. He’s another day 
behind me.” Gloved hands stroked Faramir’s hair as if attempting to 
assure each of them that they were together once more. “You’ve grown 
again, damn you. I’m missing everything.” Faramir was pulled crushingly 
tight and petted. “I’m sorry I’ve been away so long. I missed you so 
badly… but there was trouble in Dol Amroth. It was mother’s family, so 
I didn’t want father to just execute everyone who was annoying him… 
anyway, we had to stay there a while to sort it out… so as to be sure 
no one got hurt,” he explained. “Our uncle, Lord Imrahil, sent presents 
for you, Faramir. Things from over the sea. Father has most of it with 
him but I brought you… oh…” Boromir finally seemed to take notice of 
the room and the two other people in it. 

Eomer preformed a bow that one of their instructors had been drilling 
into him. “Welcome home, Prince Boromir.”

Wrinkling her nose up at her brother’s action, Eowyn simply glared at 
Boromir, knowing that his return meant everything was about to be 
turned upside-down again.

“Mercy, Faramir. If father sees this mess he will bloody all your 
backs. This is his private library. You’re not supposed to be playing 
in here. I don’t even dare to come in here without being invited.” 
Boromir swept his gaze over the nest of fabric and light. “You had best 
fix this girl; make it look like you were never here. Now! In case he 
rides faster than I expect. Call a servant if you need to… just fix it… 
quickly!” Faramir’s arm was caught when he moved as if to help Eowyn 
with the job. “Men don’t clean,” Boromir objected in a genuinely 
confused tone of voice. “Come downstairs with me and help me with my 
saddlebags, Faramir.” After a moment’s consideration, Boromir looked to 
Eomer as well. “I suppose you had best come as well. I’ve instructions 
that need to be passed out all over the Tower. You can help.”

Eomer hesitated a moment, torn between staying with his sister and 
following the orders of the crown Prince. Boromir frowned at the 
display of indecision and withdrew, pulling Faramir along by a firm 
grip on his hand. “Either come along if you’re a boy… or stay here and 
act the part of a girl. It’s your choice.”

 “I’ll come back and help as soon as I can,” Eomer whispered before 
chasing after the other boys.

Stunned by the sudden desertion, Eowyn stared after them for several 
minutes; half expecting that at least her beloved Eomer would return to 
her side. When it didn’t happen, Eowyn seized the nearest heavy volume 
from one of the tables and threw it as hard as she could against the 
full-length mirror that hung on the far wall in a fit of temper. There 
was no way she was going to slink away, covering her tracks behind her. 
Let Denethor get angry. She didn’t care.

Expecting the satisfying smash of breaking glass, Eowyn was astonished 
by silence. Confused, she picked up another book, and after a moment’s 
consideration, Eowyn threw it at the mirror as well. Watching this 
time, she saw the volume vanish upon impact rather than shattering the 
outrageously expensive treasure.

Hands held out before her, Eowyn approached the mirror. They had been 
careful not to jar the tall piece of silvered glass before this. 
Mirrors were worth a great deal and the three of them hadn’t dared to 
trifle with the king’s indulgent bit of decoration. When her fingers 
came into contact with the cool surface there was a tingle that made 
Eowyn snatch them back again. Disgusted with her own fear, Eowyn firmed 
her resolve and reached out once more. Upon pushing, her entire hand 
disappeared into the surface of the mirror as if it were a nothing more 
than the reflective surface of a pond.

With a nervous glance over her shoulder, Eowyn held her breath, turned 
back to the mirror and stepped forward into near darkness. It took a 
moment for her eyes to adjust after the brightness of the library. The 
room Eowyn now stood in was larger than the one she’d left. The only 
illumination, however, was from a glassy globe that sat on a table in 
the centre of the room. 

Turning in a slow circle, Eowyn gazed all around the secret room seeing 
such things as she never would have expected in such a civilized place 
as Minas Tirith. Odd, twisty looking, dried out creatures hung from 
hooks on one wall. Bits of metal decorated with dully glittering jewels 
lay scattered about. The candles in here were unlit but teared with wax 
and wider around than her closed fist. Scraps of fabric were 
overflowing from a chest in the shadows, sheets and towels as well as 
bits of clothing escaped the chest including a court tunic of crimson 
with flecked gold sleeves such as Boromir was in the habit of wearing. 
Strangely, most of the material seemed soiled and crumpled.

Almost by accident Eowyn’s fingers happened to drift across the pages 
of open book on the table. The contact sent little shivers of delight 
dancing under her skin. Bending closer, she could see the printing. It 
was painfully precise and clear as if whoever had set down the words 
was investing their complete attention to the project, which was a 
pleasant change from some of the messier texts in the library. Skimming 
the page she saw a great many historically famous names such as 
‘Isildur’, ‘Gil-Galad’, and ‘Hurin’. Flipping pages Eowyn glanced at 
accounts of battles, and other tales. The word ‘demon’ appeared more 
often as she got closer to the middle of the book. 

Bending and squinting at the text, Eowyn murmured to herself. “I wish 
it wasn’t so dark in here.” Immediately the slight illumination from 
the globe brightened to fill the room like sunlight. The change backed 
her up several steps into a bookcase. Turning, Eowyn saw bindings of 
everything from the blackest leather to thin wood, to actual gold. 
These books were obviously far more valuable than the collection she 
and the boys had been perusing in the outer library.

A giggle rose up out of Eowyn’s chest and burst past her lips. Denethor 
was clearly hiding this place for a reason. She was certain Faramir had 
no clue it was here and she had her doubts that even Boromir was aware 
of the room or he would have been even more disturbed by their 
intrusion into the outer library. It wouldn’t do to linger here, not 
now, not when Denethor was due home at any moment but the next time 
Eowyn was absolutely certain the king would be away from the tower for 
the entire day, she fully intended to begin exploring the contents of 
this room more fully.

Padding back over to the copy of the mirror that hung within this room 
as well, Eowyn tested her escape with one hand. It passed easily out. 
“Umm…” Feeling silly, Eowyn spoke aloud. “Could you turn down the light 
again, please, back to where it was?”

When the globe dimmed at her request, Eowyn couldn’t contain yet 
another giggle. Delving into this secret would more than compensate the 
next time Boromir came, dragged the boys away and ignored her. 
Gathering up the fallen books that would have betrayed her discovery of 
this secret place, Eowyn retreated back out to Denethor’s library.

*

It had taken a great deal of coaxing and several promises that Boromir 
was not looking forward to fulfilling, but it was worth it. An entire 
month in Faramir’s company was stretched out before Boromir like a 
gold-paved road. Provided that they stayed on the western side of the 
Anduin and made it back to Minas Tirith on time, Boromir had permission 
to take his little brother anywhere he wanted to, within the borders of 
Gondor. It was an unprecedented freedom.

Of course, they were being shadowed by twenty-five armed guards, but 
the soldiers were keeping their distance, allowing the brothers the 
illusion of privacy and that illusion was more than substantial enough 
for Boromir right now. Sitting at a table outside a small village inn, 
Boromir grinned across at his brother. Faramir was looking at the 
innkeeper’s sister with the kind of puzzled fascination that only a 
newly turned thirteen-year-old could muster. The woman had been 
shooting flirtatious glances at Boromir ever since the two of them had 
arrived. When they checked in, she had made a point of asking Boromir 
if he was absolutely certain that he didn’t want his own room.

Temptation nipped at Boromir in response to the pretty woman’s 
determined offers but Boromir didn’t dare give in. Not only would that 
leave Faramir alone for the night in a strange place, but it could also 
spell disaster if Father ever found out. Boromir knew it made no sense, 
but every now and again it felt as if Denethor’s eyes were fixed on him 
somehow, despite the separation. Perhaps the king had a spy watching 
them. No matter, it all came down to Boromir being unwilling to risk 
this excursion with his brother to satisfy his curiosity about the way 
of things between women and men.

As if conjured by his misgivings, Boromir noticed that his admirer was 
back. She was leaning over their table, yet again. Her posture provided 
both young men with a clear view down the front of her light summer 
blouse.


“Is there anything else I can fetch for you sirs a’ fore we shut down 
for the night? Anything at all?” She gazed pointedly at Boromir and 
licked her lips.

“No, thank you.” Boromir looked politely up from her breasts to meet 
inviting blue eyes. “It’s late. We’ll be retiring in a few moments.”

“Should slip in and get the room ready for you?” she pressed. Seeming 
to consider, her head tilted toward Faramir. “If you’ve brought your 
young brother out for some life lessons, perhaps I could help out. Show 
him a bit o’ fun a’ fore you have a turn, young lord.”

Boromir hadn’t given out their ranks but their wealth and station were 
obvious by their fine horses, clothing and bearing. All too aware of 
Faramir’s wide eyes and open mouth, Boromir tried once more to politely 
decline her offers. “No. Thank you, but no. Faramir is too young for 
that sort of thing.”

Looking a bit puzzled, as if she was considering the name and 
attempting to place it, the woman withdrew.

“Come, little brother.” Boromir sat aside his empty cup and climbed 
upright. “Let’s call it a night.” He caught Faramir’s arm and tugged. 
It was cooler inside the long, low building. Their gear had been 
stashed in an airy room at the far western corner of the inn. 

Faramir continued to look over his shoulder all the way to the 
quarters. “She wanted to…” Faramir sounded amazed. “…to come to our 
room and do…” His cheeks darkened.

“Yes, she did.” Boromir closed the door and threw the bolt. “But I do 
not think it would have been wise.” The sunset’s light was enough 
illumination for the moment. “It would be inappropriate, considering 
who we are.”

Faramir’s nod of agreement was less than enthusiastic. “Have you ever, 
Boromir?” He dropped onto one of the beds. “Have you ever been with a 
woman before?”

Blowing out a long breath, Boromir walked over to the window. This 
wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have with his brother. Still, 
Boromir had never purposefully lied to Faramir and he didn’t want to 
start. “I have too many other demands on my attention.”

“You must have kissed a girl,” Faramir insisted. “I have. Two of them.” 
His tone was cautious; as if he were afraid someone would overhear the 
confession and punish him for telling.

“I have done…” Boromir paused. “…things.” A sigh gusted out. “Don’t 
rush it, Faramir. You’re still young. Don’t tangle yourself up in 
anything that doesn’t feel… honest. You have years ahead of you to fall 
in love.”

“They were just kisses,” Faramir qualified. “It’s not love. The only 
person I’ll ever love is you, Boromir.”

The statement made Boromir tense up. A protest was forced out of his 
chest. “Do not!”

Faramir flinched as if he’d been struck.

Seeing the effect those two small words had on his brother, Boromir 
tried to ease the denial. “You WILL fall in love someday, little one. 
Most everyone does. You’ll marry some sweet-faced girl and have an 
entire handful of children… so I can pick out the cleverest one to be 
king when I get tired. Then once he’s on the throne you and I can sit 
by the river and grow old together.”

Faramir looked puzzled. “Aren’t you going to get married and have your 
own sons?”

“No, I don’t think I will,” Boromir answered, gravely honest. Part of 
him suspected that Denethor would never allow such a thing and yet 
another portion wasn’t sure it would be a desirable thing even if it 
was allowed someday. Women were strange creatures. Boromir couldn’t 
think of a single one besides his mother that he had ever been 
comfortable spending time with. “I think I would much rather trust you 
with the raising of the next king. I’m not good with women and 
children. I’m…” He frowned. “I’m too much like father.”

“You were good with me.”

“Ah, but you, my love, are a special case,” Boromir insisted. The look 
Boromir turned on his brother was weighted with adoration. Faramir 
really was the most beautiful being on the face of the earth. “The very 
stars in the sky can’t help but fall for someone so endearing as you.” 
The room was darkening quickly now and yet Boromir continued to stare 
at his brother. 

Faramir had shed his outer-clothing and wore just the thin chemise he 
planned on sleeping in. A shiver ran through Boromir at the sight. For 
just the briefest moment Boromir considered what would happen if he 
crossed over and dared to lay hands on that slim, much beloved body. If 
he were careful and far gentler than Denethor, perhaps Faramir’s body 
would respond willingly. Perhaps Boromir would have the chance to feel 
his much adored, dearest love arch into his touch. To hear beautiful 
Faramir sigh and plead would be the sweetest music. To feel Faramir’s 
lips tremble and part under his own would be… unforgivable.

With one hand, Boromir squeezed his other wrist viciously bringing back 
the pain of the rope burn there, punishing himself for even considering 
such an idea. “I’m FAR too much like father,” Boromir repeated in an 
undertone, just for himself.

“Are you all right?” Faramir inquired. His head tipped to one side and 
a bit of yellow-red hair hid the sparkle that was Faramir’s eyes.

“I’m just tired… and so should you be. Get into bed.” Boromir’s throat 
was tight. He felt as if he were strangling. He needed the blanket to 
cover Faramir’s body before another bout of unwholesome fancy could 
tear into his mind. “Not another word out of you.” Turning away, 
Boromir wrenched at his wrists harder than needful as he pulled off his 
bracers to provide some grounding pain. It would be safe to undress and 
slip in between crisp sheets in just a moment or two, Boromir decided. 
The low light should hide the livid marks that Denethor’s farewell had 
left on Boromir’s skin as well as his shameful arousal. “We’ve long 
days of travel ahead of us, Faramir. We both need our sleep.”

“Boromir?” Faramir’s tone was cautious as he tested the admonishment to 
be silent.

Huffing out a sigh, Boromir kept his back to his brother. “Yes, my only 
love.” His voice sounded hoarse and awkward to his own ears.

Faramir fiddled with his blanket, shaking it out. “One of the kitchen 
servants said that you used to kiss boys instead of girls.” There was a 
pause, then a strained chuckle. “Eomer gave him a bloody nose and told 
him to keep his mind on his work and his mouth shut.”

Their half-brother might be an irritant at times, but he did have his 
finer moments. “That’s fair good advice most of the time,” Boromir 
evaded. His chest hurt. He wanted this conversation over and done with, 
but he couldn’t help but want to drown in the sweet torment of hearing 
Faramir’s voice daring to speak of such things.

“Boromir,” Faramir pushed. “Did you?”

“I kissed girls. I kissed boys,” the elder prince finally admitted. “I 
don’t kiss either anymore.” Until a few moments ago, Boromir hadn’t 
been certain he would ever feel the desire to kiss anyone.

“Why?” The ropes supporting Faramir’s mattress squeaked as he shifted 
in place on his bed. “Tell me the truth.”

The noise stiffened Boromir’s shaft even more, bringing with it a 
vision of how the mattress might protest if it had to support the 
weight of both of them as their bodies twisted together. “Because…” 
Boromir sought franticly for the right words, for safe words to use. 
Faramir now needed to be shielded from more than just father. “Because 
honouring our father, loving my brother,  and learning to properly rule 
this country are the only things I have room in my life for.” A hint of 
bitterness that he didn’t intend to give voice to tainted Boromir’s 
tone.

Faramir was silent for a time. His presence seemed to be heavy with 
thought. When he finally spoke it was in a gentle, supportive whisper. 
“Don’t ever think that you’re alone, Boromir. I will always be here to 
help you. I will always love you, no matter what happens.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that, little one? I’m the oldest.” The 
jest was weak, but the attempt was there. It hurt to hear such an 
innocent declaration, it suddenly hurt in ways Boromir had never 
imagined it could just hours ago.

“You have, hundreds of times,” Faramir reminded his brother. “In words 
and actions. I just thought you should know that the path goes in both 
directions… and that I’m walking it with you.”

“It’s dark.” The statement hung in the air, an isolated observation. 
Boromir sighed. A torturous night lay ahead. “Get some sleep, beloved. 
We’re going to be testing the horses tomorrow. I want to know how fast 
my stallion can go at need. I’ve never had the chance to push it full 
out before.”

*

“Father and Boromir are leaving AGAIN!” Faramir crossed the room he 
shared with Eomer and dropped onto the bed where both his half-siblings 
sat. It was the very same quarters that Eomer had moved into upon 
arrival at the White Tower, but calling the suite ‘a nursery’ seemed 
absurd now that both boys were fifteen.

“They’re going to Edoras this time,” Eowyn divulged in an unhappy 
grumble. 

“How do you know that?” Faramir questioned. “Boromir only just found 
out himself.”

“I know things,” the girl announced in a mysterious tone that she’d 
begun using more and more often over the last few years. Denethor had 
left building plans lying out in his secret chamber which Eowyn had 
seen. The Golden Hall, the very heart of the Riddermark, was going to 
be altered… desecrated… for the sake of Denethor’s precious pet. It 
infuriated Eowyn, but she hadn’t yet decided on a course of action. 
There was a solution within a book in Denethor’s hidden room, but the 
idea of trying to use that particular tool made Eowyn extremely 
apprehensive. The time was coming fast however. Next year her and 
Eomer’s homeland would be handed over to that usurper as a birthday 
gift if something wasn’t done.

“You should ask if you could go along, Eomer,” Faramir prompted, 
settling against the footboard of the bed. Faramir had been allowed to 
accompany his father and brother on an excursion to Pelargir just a few 
weeks ago, so it wasn’t impossible that Eomer would be allowed to do 
something similar. “It’s a long trip, but it was your home, so it’s 
understandable that you’d want to visit there. Boromir would support 
the request. I’ll even ask him for you.”

“And in that you are much mistaken,” Eowyn countered, moving even 
closer to her brother so she could run a soothing caress over Eomer’s 
white-blond hair. “Neither the king nor the crown prince ever intends 
to allow either of us near our home ever again.”

“Don’t.” Eomer murmured. Catching his sister’s wrist, he forced her to 
simply hold his hand rather than stroke him. “Eowyn is right.” Eomer 
returned his gaze to his half-brother. “Our father intends to turn 
Riddermark over to Boromir. The two of them don’t want me anywhere near 
our homeland. It would be too politically dangerous.” His thumb brushed 
absently across Eowyn’s skin.

Eowyn wiggled about so she could meet her brother’s eyes and a smile 
softened her expression. Her face tipped up but Eomer gave the 
slightest shake of his head in response and looked pointedly at 
Faramir. 

“You may think you understand, Faramir, but our situations… yours and 
mine… they’re not the same.”

Faramir huffed out a breath. “They’re not so different, except perhaps 
that our father prefers you to me. I heard him bragging about your 
skill as a rider to one of his ministers, Eomer. I’ll never be the 
warrior Boromir is… or the commander you’re going to become.”

“Not everything is about swords and horses,” Eowyn interrupted. “Nor 
will it always be about who Denethor prefers.” She favoured Faramir 
with a look of fond indulgence. “Denethor will not live forever, 
darling. When he is gone, Boromir will be king and there is nothing in 
this world so dear to Boromir’s heart as you… but more,” she held up a 
hand to stall out Faramir’s protest. “Boromir doesn’t like Eomer and I, 
Faramir. He never has.” Her lips pursed. “Myself more than Eomer even. 
Nor does it make good political sense to keep us so close the capital. 
You’ve a talent for such things. You must see that.”

“Boromir would never hurt you!” Faramir defended. “He’s a good man. His 
mind doesn’t work that way. He only thinks of what’s best for Gondor, 
not what’s best for him. Whatever honours or places you earn for 
yourselves… Boromir would never revoke them just because we have 
different mothers.” His mouth pushed out into a pout. “Besides… Boromir 
does like Eomer. He just doesn’t show his favour the same way as we 
do.”

“There is nothing Eomer wants except the Riddermark.” Eowyn’s outburst 
was impossible to contain. “And Gondor’s king has ruled that Rohan will 
always be the property of Gondor’s heir.”

“Father says that now, but who knows his mind a year from now, ten 
years from now, or thirty years from now.”

“One year from now Boromir will reach twenty-one and he intends to seat 
himself in the Golden Hall of OUR family… and it won’t be on the 
Queen’s throne that time,” Eowyn hissed. “Bad enough he dared my 
mother’s chair… I will not suffer him stealing my brother’s birth-
right.”

“Eowyn stop!” Eomer caught his sister, pulling her close and setting 
his fingers over her lips. “You have no call to shout at Faramir. He 
has ever been our dearest friend here in the Tower. Apologize.”

“I know. I am sorry, my darling.” Eowyn blushed then crept across the 
short distance that separated her from Faramir. She settled right 
before him on the bed and took his hands into her’s. “Dearest Faramir. 
I am sorry.” Leaning in, a kiss was brushed across each of his cheeks. 
“Forgive me, please.”

Faramir’s face pinked and he reached up to tuck a strand of Eowyn’s 
long tresses behind her ear. “I’m sorry too, Eowyn. I wish that I could 
promise to set thing right, but… try not to fret over events that have 
yet to occur. The future isn’t set in stone and no man… or woman… knows 
for certain what changes tomorrow might bring.”

Smiling, Eowyn rested her forehead against his then tipped her face so 
she could give Faramir another kiss. This time she pressed it to his 
lips. “Sweet, kind… wise, Faramir. I love you just as dearly as Eomer. 
I need you to know that.” 

The urge was there to back away, but Faramir’s spine was pressed to the 
wooden footboard of the bed already. Eowyn leaned in again and this 
time her tongue teased across his lips during the kiss. Her breath 
puffed, sweet and warm against his mouth, and Eowyn pulled at his 
bottom lip. 

Giving in to the urge to grab something, Faramir chose the only safe 
surface. His fingers twisted into the blanket underneath him. A squeak 
of confusion and distress escaped his throat. 

Across from them, Eomer’s breath faltered and he tensed. “Eowyn,” his 
right arm intervened, circling around his sister and drawing her back 
against his own chest. Eomer, face buried in Eowyn’s long golden hair 
right at her ear, exhaled a murmur of sound too soft for Faramir to 
overhear. “Don’t kiss him, not like that. You’re mine.” 

Smiling, Eowyn allowed herself to be hugged possessively close to her 
brother’s breast once more. “While they’re away… father and Boromir,” 
she began, “While they’re away we should have our own adventure. We 
could see how far we could climb up Mindolluin. It’s not so far that we 
couldn’t be back quick as the wind should the need arise.”

Faramir looked from Eowyn’s face to Eomer’s, and back again. It might 
be a good idea to get the pair of them away from court and all the 
surrounding eyes and ears that filled the Tower. Something strange was 
going on between them and Faramir wanted to understand. “We should. We 
shall,” he agreed. “The day after father and Boromir leave.” 

“Go to your brother, Faramir,” Eomer suggested, a little impatiently. 
“Best you take advantage of what time you have with him. Eowyn and I 
will still be waiting once he’s gone.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Faramir climbed off the bed and retreated to the 
door. “I’ll see you a dinner then?” Still frowning, Faramir let himself 
out of their bedroom.

*

There were faster ways to travel, but this time comfort was more 
important than speed to Denethor. The trip was similar to the time 
Denethor had gone to Edoras to collect a wife, and yet it was 
completely different. Yes, they travelled with wagons and a large 
company, but this time there were no women. Soldiers and craftsmen 
accompanied Denethor and his son. Nor were they travelling from the 
gloom of one burial to discover death at the other end. This time the 
king was riding into Rohan to give instructions on the rebuilding of a 
palace so it was suitable for his beloved Boromir to learn the art of 
ruling a country. Denethor was going to construct a gift worthy of his 
young lover.

Smiling, Denethor ran his hand down the line of Boromir’s bare spine. 
The walls of the tent and full darkness protected them from discovery. 
That the king and the prince shared a shelter also made things simpler 
for the men responsible for erecting and dismantling the camp each day. 
The situation was ideal for both convenience and discretion.

“Are you awake, my love?” Denethor brushed away the blanket covering 
the curve of Boromir’s bottom and traced into the slight hollow between 
the cheeks. Reclining, Denethor kissed a shoulder, then nuzzled at 
Boromir’s ear. His index finger eased deeper into the cleft and rested 
against the entrance to Boromir’s core.

A shiver betrayed the fact Boromir was awake and aware of the contact. 
“I have to ride tomorrow, my lord.” Boromir would never dare to refuse 
Denethor’s advances, but a carefully worded statement might not offend 
the king. Boromir’s breath hissed out as a fingertip pierced him.

“I can be gentle,” Denethor whispered. “A little oil will ease the 
path. Not too much though. I like the way your flesh clings to mine. I 
like how snug you are. It reminds me that I’m the only one.” His finger 
twisted, attempting to push further in without much success.

“My mouth…” Boromir counter-offered, rolling carefully to escape the 
invasive touch, and then moving so he was facing Denethor. “I can… 
please you with my mouth.” Rather than trying to argue it out, Boromir 
began pressing kisses on the king. That was safer than words in more 
than one way. Denethor’s moods were unpredictable. There were times 
when the sound of Boromir using rough language excited the king, but 
other times it infuriated Denethor that his seemingly innocent lover 
knew such profanities.

“Your face is rough,” Denethor complained, catching at his son’s chin. 
Fingers explored, testing skin. “You need to shave more often.”

“Yes, my lord. I will.” Persisting, Boromir pulled free to scatter 
open-mouthed kisses down Denethor’s throat and chest.

Snatching at lengthy hair, Denethor dragged Boromir’s face up yet 
again. “My boy is almost a man,” Denethor mused. His grip tightened 
painfully. “First I will put Meduseld in order for you, and then I will 
have to find you a wife.”

Boromir froze.

“Not this year, next year,” Denethor continued to study Boromir. “Once 
you are installed at Edoras you will have to marry. There is a girl in 
Ethring I am considering for you, and another in Linhir.”

Not knowing how to respond, Boromir continued to hold himself still and 
quiet.

“Not that I am eager to share you. It tears at my heart that another’s 
hands will feel your cherished skin… that another person will taste 
your sweet lips.” Denethor’s thumb rubbed. “But the line must continue. 
You will need a son.” Boromir was pulled into a searching kiss. “One 
more year,” Denethor murmured against his lover’s mouth. “One more year 
then I must share you. You’ll depart my company..” Their cheeks brushed 
against each other. “However will I replace you, my precious jewel?”


“Not Faramir.” Boromir’s voice was tainted by terror. “You promised me. 
You swore. Not Faramir.”

The time between Denethor caressing him and slapping Boromir across the 
face was a mere instant. “Not that I approve of your presumption…” 
Denethor seized his son and pulled Boromir back into a tender embrace 
that completely contrasted with his forceful touch. “…but I am 
considering Eowyn for my bed, not Faramir. She’s such a pretty thing.” 
Denethor pushed at Boromir’s shoulders. “Enough talking. Suckle me, my 
jewel.”

*

Standing on a ledge, Eowyn, Eomer and Faramir, looked out over the 
patchwork landscape far below them.

“We don’t have much more time,” Eomer observed. “It’s all going to 
change on Boromir’s birthday next year.” His left arm was wrapped 
possessively around Eowyn’s shoulders and his expression was solemn. 
“We’ll both be sixteen next year, Faramir. There’s so much we have sort 
out before next year. There’s still so much I wanted us to learn.”

“It’s not that serious,” Faramir argued in a gloomy tone. “Not for us. 
It’s just Boromir’s life that’s going to change.” His gaze drifted 
north-west, as if searching out Boromir and Edoras.

“I think you’re mistaken.” Eomer frowned even more severely. “Melador 
hinted to me that I need to be ready for the field by this time next 
year. He said I need to be able to properly manage a company by then.”

Faramir blinked. “He hasn’t said anything like that to me.”

“Rumour has it, father intends to send you west… and I’m for Ithilien.”

“Where did you hear that?” Faramir’s own brow furrowed and his 
attention focused back on his companions.

“Around,” Eomer evaded. He had picked up some bits by ease-dropping, 
other information from soldiers in the tower, and Eowyn had come up 
with a few important scraps of news as well, although she hadn’t 
divulged her source. “It doesn’t matter how I heard about it. What 
matters is that by this time next year the three of us will likely be 
scattered. We’re not ready, Faramir. There are so many things we should 
to do before then.” 

Eowyn shivered and clung tighter to her brother’s arm. “It frightens 
me, Faramir.” She turned wide blue eyes his way. “Being alone in the 
Tower… or worse.” She whispered out the next words. “What if he wants 
me to get married?”

“You’re only fourteen!”

“Your mother was fifteen when our father married her,” Eowyn reminded 
Faramir.

A sigh gusted out of Faramir. “It’s not like we can do anything about 
any of that.”

“Oh Faramir.” Eowyn moved, pulling Eomer with her until she could hold 
both of the boys’ arms at the same time. “We don’t mean to upset you. 
We just….” Her head shook, causing her sun-lit gold hair to flow about 
her shoulders.

Eomer turned, gusting out a deep breath. With a slow, precise move he 
closed them into a circle where they all faced each other. “We love 
you, Faramir.” Eomer’s breath against his ear made Faramir shiver. 
“That’s what we wanted to get across. We just want you to understand 
that… now… while we’re still all together.”

Eowyn tilted her head to one side to increase her contact with Faramir. 
If her tentative plans came to fruition, then Faramir’s goodwill was 
going to matter a great deal. “Dearest Faramir.” She dared a kiss to 
his cheek.

On his side, Eomer’s one hand cupped the back of Faramir’s head. His 
fingers caressed the skin at Faramir’s nape, in a strangely purposeful 
action, as if he were testing the sensation. “Changes are coming,” he 
repeated needlessly, just to break the silence. “Sometimes the enormity 
of what lays before us frightens me, but so long as we have each 
other…” A look of determination flashed across Eomer’s face. “So long 
as I have Eowyn… and you…” His lips pursed briefly and he moved to 
brush a kiss across Faramir’s cheek. “We are so much more together than 
we are alone.”

Weary beyond belief at all the troubles looming on the horizon; Faramir 
let himself sag into the comfort his half-siblings were offering. Next 
to Boromir, Eomer and Eowyn were the dearest people he had in the 
world. He wanted to tell them that everything was going to be all right 
and they didn’t need to worry, but Faramir suspected that would be a 
lie. Sighing, Faramir settled for wrapping his arms around them both 
and holding on tight.

*

Each of them had spent their share of time standing in front of 
Denethor’s desk in his office. It was odd, however, for all four of 
Denethor’s offspring to have been summoned at the same time. 

Denethor sat aside the parchment that he had been studying and looked 
up at his children with a considering frown on his face. They stood in 
a silent line, eldest to youngest, awaiting their father’s words. 
Boromir was tight to Faramir’s side, Faramir’s shoulder touched 
Eomer’s, and Eomer was holding his sister’s hand. He hadn’t expected 
all of them to draw so closely together. The united front they were 
presenting to him was slightly disturbing. “Tasks await all of you over 
the next few weeks,” he began. “At the end of Boromir’s birthday 
celebrations three of you will be departing Minas Tirith. Boromir will 
be leaving for Edoras, as everyone is aware.” Denethor looked at his 
oldest for several long moments. His expression was solemn. Dragging 
his eyes off Boromir to look at the next in line seemed a great chore. 
“Faramir, you will be taking a company to Ethring to collect a young 
lady and bring her here, to the Tower.”

Faramir started to question the order but a glare from Denethor 
strangled off the words before they formed. 

“Eomer will be leaving for South Ithilien with a different company two 
days after Boromir departs,” Denethor continued on in a dull monotone. 
“Eowyn will be staying here with me.” His gaze ran down the tight line 
and back again. “Eowyn and I will escort the young lady Faramir is 
fetching to Edoras once I have confirmed that she is a worthy bride for 
Boromir.” He smiled thinly at this only daughter. “I am sure that you 
will be delighted at the opportunity to visit your childhood home once 
more, Eowyn.”

“I want to go to Ithilien with my brother,” Eowyn protested.

“Nonsense!” Denethor dismissed the demand. “A girl does not belong in 
the field. Eomer is going out to learn wood-craft and the ways of a 
soldier, not to play nursemaid.”

“Then let me go with Faramir,” Eowyn persisted. “I will be a companion 
for this girl he is bringing back.”

“You will remain in Minas Tirith with me,” Denethor flatly refused her. 
“With all my sons gone I will require your companionship.”

Eowyn went silent. Her gaze shot to Boromir then back to their father. 
A look of absolute horror marked her pretty face. Denethor was certain 
that he’d been discreet enough with Boromir and he knew that Boromir 
had never spoken of their relationship, to his siblings least of all, 
but it appeared as if Eowyn might know somehow exactly what was going 
to be expected of her upon Boromir’s departure.

“My lord father.” 

Boromir’s tone was even more humble than was usual, which raised 
suspicions in Denethor instantly. “What is it, Boromir?”

“Once you have inspected the young lady from Ethring, could Faramir 
continue to escort her? Could Faramir bring her to me in Edoras? 
Please, my lord.”

“Am I to understand that you would rather host Faramir at Edoras than 
your father?” The question was posed in an arch tone.

“No, my lord. Never.” Boromir attempted to appease his father. He 
flinched, almost as if he was about to drop to his knees then aborted 
the movement at the last instant. “I merely thought that your lordship 
would have more important things to concern himself with. I would be 
honoured to have you in the Golden Hall. It is after all, your’s. I 
realize that my residence there is only occurring at your pleasure.”

Denethor’s hand waved. “Calm yourself, my son. Perhaps you have a 
point. I’m sending you there to test your skills. Having me show up to 
peer over your shoulder so soon does suggest a lack of confidence. I 
told you, Rohan is yours as soon as you take up residence. It will 
remain yours until that distant day that I am gone and you hand it over 
to your eldest son on his twenty-first birthday. I should let you 
become accustomed to your new responsibilities… and the bride I’m 
sending you… before I come and unsettle you with my attentions.” 
Denethor leaned back in his chair. “Very well. Faramir may escort the 
young lady to you. He may stay two weeks to see that she is settled in, 
and then I will expect him to return to the White City.” 

The king’s attention now drifted, taking in the state of his other 
three children. Faramir seemed strangely distressed, something Denethor 
didn’t expect. Considering how Faramir and Boromir were so close, the 
boy should be delighted that he was going to be allowed to join his 
brother in Rohan even if their time together was limited. Eomer was 
attempting to offer up a blank expression but Denethor could see the 
resentment that was boiling in the young man’s eyes.

Eowyn’s mood was the most difficult to pinpoint. Anger, fear, or 
sadness would make sense, but all Denethor was seeing in his daughter 
was grim resolve. It was as if Eowyn had already settled on a response 
to the situation and was charting a course inside her own head. Picking 
apart his youngest child was going to be much more complicated that he 
had assumed if this response was typical of the girl. It was going to 
prove a wonderful distraction after losing his precious Boromir.

Rising to his feet, Denethor smiled coldly at his assembled offspring. 
“You have been raised amid comfort and privilege. You have never… and 
will never… want for the necessities of life, but there is a price to 
pay for all you have. Faramir and Eomer must take up the tasks of 
travelling through the rest of our lands now that Boromir’s 
concentration will be fixed on the province of Rohan.” 

The urge to argue was clear on both Eomer’s and Faramir’s faces. In 
eerie coincidence Boromir and Eowyn simultaneously took hold of their 
full-sibling’s arm as if to restrain the outbursts. Denethor understood 
Boromir’s behaviour but now it became clear that there was more to 
Eowyn than the king had expected.

“You are all excused.” Denethor dismissed them with a frown. “I will 
speak to each of you about the details of your assignments over the 
next few days.” Watching for it, Denethor saw the formal chill in each 
of their bows. Their separation was coming none too soon, Denethor 
decided. He had held on too long, not wanting to part with Boromir. 
Once the four of them were away from each other, he would have to make 
a concerted effort to make certain that they didn’t see one another for 
longer than a day or two over the next several years. That should help 
sever the exasperatingly strong ties between them.

*

Eowyn had always considered herself a practical girl. Magic and legend 
were not subjects that she had given much consideration to until 
recently, until her discovery of Denethor’s hidden room. However, if 
their king and father was willing to use unsavoury methods to secure 
his kingdom and satisfy his own desires who was Eowyn to dismiss those 
same methods. Yesterday’s announcements meant that within a matter of 
days life was going to become intolerable. Eowyn was certain that her 
father was going to expect her to replace Boromir in the royal bed. Her 
beloved brothers were going to be torn away from her. Boromir would be 
given something that Eowyn was convinced that he should never, ever 
have. 

A complete upset was in order. Most importantly… Denethor would have to 
die. He was old enough that an unexpected illness wouldn’t be 
completely unlikely. Still, before Eowyn could consider using the 
poison she had tucked away, the line of succession would have to be 
altered. If Faramir were to achieve the throne of Gondor when Denethor 
died rather than Boromir, Eowyn was certain that the younger of the two 
brothers would give the Riddermark back to Eomer. Faramir would make 
sure she and Eomer would be given their due. The same could not be said 
if Eowyn and Eomer were forced to bend their knees to stern Boromir 
upon the old king’s death.

Of course, deciding that she needed to remove Boromir from the line of 
succession and making it happen were two entirely different things. So 
it was that Eowyn firmed up her courage and crept into the most secret 
room in all of the White Tower, a place she wasn’t supposed to know 
existed. There was a book in Denethor’s hidden study that held the 
solution to Eowyn’s problem if she dared to use the information she had 
learned over the last few years. If the careful lines of ink were to be 
believed, Eowyn was a short chant away from calling a demon that would 
grant her fondest wish, a demon that had been bound to the service of 
the royal family of Gondor since the end of the last age. 

If she was going to do this, now was the time. Denethor was out of the 
Tower for day, arranging some further bit of nonsense for Boromir’s 
birthday celebration no doubt. Eowyn might not get another chance to 
slip into this hidden room until it was too late, until after Boromir 
left to take possession of her and Eomer’s homeland. She sighed. Her 
breath stirred the air, causing dust motes to dance in the light of the 
magic globe that illuminated this small room. Summoning spirits was a 
huge risk. The book suggested that until Denethor had taken the throne 
the kings of Gondor had only used the demon in times of most dire 
peril. All the accounts, with the exception of the ones written in 
Denethor’s hand, warned that every time the monster was summoned it 
took away some vital bit of soul from the one who had called it. Still, 
considering what was at stake, this had to be done.

When she started the incantation that was written on the very first 
page of the ancient book, Eowyn’s tongue tripped over the old-fashioned 
dialect, but by the required third reading, the spell flowed like 
poetry. Called by her voice, a column of darkness formed in front of 
the young woman. That darkness slowly defined into the likeness of a 
man.

Burning eyes of complete black captured Eowyn. The gaze sliced into the 
very heart of her, baring every thought she had ever entertained. “You 
know not what you have called forth, you foolish little girl.” The 
demon’s voice was a low-toned whisper. “Even now I consider devouring 
you and leaving your bones strewn about the tower halls so the king 
will discover that you dared to summon me. Mayhaps if I do… he will 
guard the secret more closely from the rest of his children.”

Screwing her courage up, Eowyn tried to shout, although it came out 
with a squeak. “By Isildur, I command you.” The heavy book she held was 
thrust before her. “I summoned you and you must obey me, Aragorn son of 
Arathorn.” Eowyn’s tone steadied slightly as she used the creature’s 
name. If she didn’t look straight into the demon’s eyes she could 
envision him as a mere man, as if she knew any men who would wear a 
cloak that looked as if it were made of twilight shadows.

“Perhaps I could indulge you a whim.” He moved closer, a flowing action 
rather than a proper movement. The demon reached out to finger a bit of 
her long blonde hair. “I have grown too accustomed to the colours of 
the night. It is a pleasant change to see gold once again. I have 
forgotten how lovely a colour it is.” Releasing the strands he glanced 
about the dark room. “Although I am unimpressed by your choice of 
parlours, my dear. Denethor normally calls me when he out in the 
countryside. I much prefer that.”

Eowyn pushed forward with her wishes, suspecting it was a dangerous 
thing to exchange pleasantries with this creature of magic and power. 
“I have a task for you, Aragorn, slave of Gondor.”

“Of course you do.” 

He smiled at her, an expression that should have been mild if it were 
not for the sparkle of malice Eowyn felt prickling under her skin. She 
took an uncontrollable step backward. “I need you to take someone away 
in such a manner that his father, the king, will not care to give 
pursuit.”

Aragorn paused, seeming to consider. The solid black of his eyes had 
melted away, leaving them a thoughtful blue-grey. One leather encased 
finger lifted to press against pursed lips, showing that the finger-
tips of his gloves were missing and that his nails were blackened. “Do 
you wish this man dead? That would certainly dissuade anyone from 
expecting his return or pursuing him. Or would you prefer him simply 
disgraced and removed from Gondor?”

Killing him was too much. If Faramir were to ever discover that his 
sister had caused his beloved Boromir’s death his rage would be 
indescribable, besides which, Eowyn suspected that there was more 
hinging on the answer to that question than she could grasp. Glancing 
down at the heavy volume in her hands to steady herself once more, 
Eowyn recalled a line she had read near the beginning, a part of the 
instructions. “Tell me this, demon. If you take him away does he count 
as your payment? If you simply kill him… I am still obligated to pay 
you in another fashion or will his blood satisfy you? He’s part of the 
royal family, just as I am.”

“The pretty girl is also clever.” The compliment hissed out. “Another 
of the royal blood. Yes. IF I find him acceptable to my tastes I 
suppose he could stand as payment for his own abduction.” The demon 
eased closer once more, looming over Eowyn. “But my tastes are 
particular and your near-innocence seems a very ripe prize to me at 
this moment, little girl, especially after years of dealing with 
Denethor’s sour essence.”

“BACK! By Isildur. Step back demon,” Eowyn ordered. “I would have you 
look on Boromir before you ask anything of me.”

“Boromir? Denethor’s o’ so beloved. Now you have intrigued me.” 
Aragorn’s right shoulder shifted, a fluid gesture, which was enhanced 
by the sheen of his silken tunic and cloak of shadows. “As my lady 
wishes.” One hand gestured absently and an oval of light appeared to 
float in the centre of the room. 

Eowyn was delighted. She could not have hoped for better than the scene 
before them. Boromir was sparring in a brightly lit yard amid many 
other soldiers of castle guard and had been at it for quite some time 
by the looks of things. He was glistening with sweat and had discarded 
his shirt, confident that the practice yard was safely screened from 
the eyes of any proper-born women. The afternoon sunshine gilded 
Boromir’s half dressed form, turning his golden-brown hair into a 
crown. If the demon desired light to alleviate the darkness he was 
immersed in then Boromir had to be a powerful temptation at this 
moment. It was only when the vision expanded to show more of the 
picture that Eowyn felt a twinge of regret. Faramir was Boromir’s 
opponent. Both the brothers were a sight to behold. Eowyn’s regret 
increased to actual fear when a glimpse of the audience revealed that 
Eomer had recently taken his turn in the square and he was half-dressed 
and sweaty as well. 

The demon seemed uninterested in the audience however. He tightened the 
view to concentrate on the full-blood brothers, both of whom were 
absolutely captivating as they sparred. Faramir’s normal reserve had no 
place in a sword fight, even if it was just practice. Every bit of his 
lean grace was on display. Nor did Faramir look scrawny and under-fed 
as he sometimes seemed in court garb. The fighting style that the 
brothers were currently using showed off Faramir’s coltish grace as 
well as Boromir’s more mature prowl.  

The match ended moments later with Boromir forcing a move that exposed 
Faramir for a death blow but, of course, that strike never came. 
Instead, Boromir gathered his younger brother close to his chest and 
planted a kiss on the top of Faramir’s paler, strawberry-blond hair. 
Faramir beamed with pleasure at the sign of affection. Boromir grinned 
and ruffled his brother’s already messy locks. Releasing Faramir, 
Boromir paced over to a water trough and proceeded to dunk his own head 
and shoulders. The view in the portal shifted to focus on Faramir’s 
face and the unreserved worship that showed in his shining eyes.

“Very nice.” Aragorn commented, bringing the pair in the library back 
to the here and now. “Both of them are quite delicious and even by way 
of this reflection I can see that they adore one another. What a 
matched set they would make.” The magical window vanished and the demon 
turned his attention back to Eowyn. “Would you like me to take them 
both? If you wish to kill the old king and put your lovely brother on 
the throne, then sweet, innocent Faramir is a complication. He is 
Eomer’s elder by two moons I believe.” The demon displayed his 
knowledge of Eowyn’s mind carelessly. Those eyes, grown dark once more, 
bored into her. “Ah, I see. Faramir is a companion you wish to keep. 
You want to facture this empire Denethor has used me to build and 
divide the two pieces between the objects of your affection.”

“Take Boromir,” Eowyn demanded. “That grants my wish and pays you as 
well. That is the deal.”

Aragorn’s head bowed, allowing long dark brown hair to fall forward and 
hide his disturbing eyes. A curled fist touched his forehead in salute. 
“As you wish, lady of Gondor. I am, after all, enthralled by your 
family line so it seems only fitting that I whisk one of you away to my 
kingdom. The crown prince will be a welcome addition to my company.”

*

The combination of sweat and their brief rinse off had their shirts 
sticking to them, but they didn’t dare go without coverings as they 
travelled up through the White Tower. It would be scandalous for the 
king’s sons to be seen wandering about only half dressed. Faramir and 
Boromir headed for the heir’s suite. Of the two of them, it was Boromir 
who was expected to look the most presentable.

Just a few days remained until Boromir would be leaving for Rohan and 
both young men were trying to spend as much of that time together as 
was possible.

“We’ll have dinner sent up tonight.” Boromir led the way into his 
suite. “I’m not in the mood for the great hall this evening.” He strode 
straight through to the bedroom. “I’m not in the mood to share you 
tonight.”

“That’s fine with me.” Faramir lingered near the doorway while Boromir 
stripped down. The dunking they’d had in the trough had been a 
temporary measure. Warm water, soap and clean towels stood waiting.

Considering that he hadn’t taken very many hits during any of the 
practice bouts that he had fought, Boromir was marked with far more 
bruises than Faramir expected. Still, even with all the odd 
discolorations here and there on his body, Faramir found Boromir the 
very picture of beauty.

“We’ll stay in until bedtime. Don’t go to your afternoon lessons today, 
Faramir. I don’t want to lose a moment.” Boromir scraped the soapy 
washcloth over his chest and under his arms.

“Shall I stay the night?” Faramir’s voice was eager.

The question caused Boromir to pause, and to look over at his brother. 
“I have a meeting with father late tonight that I can’t miss.” 
Boromir’s excitement dimmed noticeably. “You’ll have to go back to your 
rooms then.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Faramir offered readily. “I’ll just read a book 
while you’re gone. It’s no bother.” Padding over, Faramir settled 
himself on the side of the bed. His gaze followed the movement of 
Boromir’s cleansing hands. He wiped at his own upper lip, feeling sweat 
build there despite his lack of activity. The thought of spending the 
night with Boromir was making his stomach clench up. He wanted 
desperately to be here, but Faramir wasn’t even sure of the reasons 
behind the fierce craving. It’s wasn’t like he hadn’t slept in his 
brother’s bed hundreds of times before.

Dropping the washcloth back in the basin, Boromir stared over at his 
brother. “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” he hedged. “And I’ll likely 
be bloody miserable company after father gets done with me.” The rest 
of the explanation tumbled over itself in its rush to emerge. “I mean… 
father has been in such a foul mood that he’ll likely spend the whole 
time snapping at me… conflicting orders… nonsense really, but I have to 
listen and then there’s those damned leaves he’s taken to burning in 
his hearth. That stuff gives me a raging headache.” Boromir stared at 
the floor. “Best you’re off to your own room come bedtime.”

“It’s no trouble,” Faramir persisted. His mouth was dry and it felt 
like his skin was too tight. The colour rising to Boromir’s cheeks was 
fascinating. Faramir found himself wanting to reach out and touch. It 
was strangely like the sensations that plagued him around pretty girls, 
only deeper in his gut. The feeling had clear overtones of how he had 
felt in the linen closet with Eomer and Níniel, the chamber-maid that 
Eomer had sweet-talked into relieving them both of their virginity a 
few months ago. It made no sense to Faramir that he should feel this 
way around his beloved brother, but it was undeniable and nearly 
painful. Perhaps his body was dreading their upcoming separation just 
like his mind was and this was the result. “Let me spend the night with 
you, Boromir,” Faramir whispered out.

The impassioned plea snared Boromir’s attention. Long moments passed 
while the brothers stared at one another in amazed silence.

“You don’t know what…” Boromir faltered, swallowing nervously. “You 
can’t realize how that sounds.” A clean shirt was seized and hastily 
dragged on. The fine material snagged and clung to still-damp skin. 
“Later,” Boromir finally managed. “We’ll decide later, before I leave 
to meet with father.”

“Boromir…” Faramir began, wishing he could explain himself but unsure 
of what exactly what happening between them.

“Read to me, Faramir,” His brother cut him off. Taking a deep breath, 
Boromir’s tone purposefully softened before he spoke again. “I want… I 
need… to burn the sound of your sweet tones into my mind. I need to 
take the memory of it to Edoras with me.”

A quake ripped through Faramir, making his voice shake. “New wine it 
is…” he quoted the ancient bit of prose in a husky imitation of his 
usual recitation tone, “… to hear your voice. I live for hearing it. To 
see you with each look is better than eating and drinking.” He stared 
up at Boromir. “I love you better than my own life. To linger forever 
at your side is all that I could desire.” He improvised the last two 
lines, confident that Boromir wouldn’t recognize the change. Boromir 
seldom bothered with anything resembling poetry.

“Faramir…” The name was almost a plea. “You’re not child anymore. You 
should mind your words more carefully or someone might mistake your 
intentions.

“There’s no one I love better than you, Boromir,” he persisted, rising 
to his feet and barely holding back from reaching out.

The elder sighed, his eyes strangely liquid in the diffuse light of the 
room. Arms crossed over his chest, the fists clenched. “Go get changed, 
my only love. Get some clean clothes on, then come back here. I’ll 
order us some lunch. We’ll play chess.” He retreated to an open window, 
making a show of looking out. “Off you go, poppet. Quicker gone, 
quicker back,” he used a pair of phrases that their mother had often 
employed.

The reminder of their shared childhood was like the splash of cold rain 
on Faramir’s face. “I won’t be long. I bring some books.” Stepping to 
the doorway was harder than moving underwater. “I’ll bring a nightshirt 
too.” Faramir turned and ran before Boromir could protest.

*

Wanting to choose a time and place that would allow for the largest 
possible audience, Aragorn waited until evening. At dinner he 
materialized in the shadows just inside the main entrance to the White 
Tower’s dining-hall.

Aragorn surveyed the scene laid out before him. The grand hall was at 
its most festive in honour of the upcoming celebration for Boromir’s 
twenty-first birthday. The place was full to bursting with visitors. 
King Denethor and three of his four children were already in place. 
Staff bustled all about the many long tables. Denethor’s middle son had 
just appeared in an archway and he was talking to young server. A hush 
settled over the assemblage as they awaited dinner. The situation was 
perfect.

The bit of shadow that Aragorn stood in seethed, spreading away from 
the doorway, extending fingers of twilight into the hall. The expanding 
darkness turned heads at every table. Almost everyone stilled, peering 
at the unnatural sight. Those few that weren’t confused into inaction 
reached slowly for weapons. A chill wafted out, making the crowd, who 
were dressed for a warm indoor evening, shiver and pull away.

Aragorn seemed a fragment of the darkness, broken off and given form 
when he finally stepped clear. The shadows at his back coalesced into a 
trailing cape. Aragorn approached the head table at a smooth glide, his 
soft soled boots absolutely silent on the stone floor. Torch-light 
caught and glittered against the only bit of silver decoration on his 
otherwise entirely black outfit. The white tree and stars of Gondor 
glinted on Aragorn’s chest. No one was close enough to see, but he left 
his eyes the pure black that betrayed his demon state. It would be 
enough, that even from a distance anyone who looked at Aragorn’s face 
would see something was wrong about him. 

Guards were drawing weapons now, unsure, but fearful. Chair legs 
scratched at the floor. A few of the youngest ladies in the hall were 
making a sound somewhere between a whimper and a coo of admiration. 
Heads turned as Denethor rose to his feet.

Aragorn stopped before the king. The cloak that had flowed behind him 
swirled, tightened and settled into the shape of a proper cape. Aragorn 
smiled at the furious red hue Denethor’s face had turned. 

“YOU!” The king bellowed out the word loud enough that every man, 
woman, and child in the hall flinched. Only Aragorn seemed unimpressed 
at the show of fury. “YOU have no right to be here in my halls, 
monster! Be gone with you,” Denethor dismissed him loudly, even as his 
hand rested on the hilt of his sword in silent warning. The king’s 
heirloom sword was one of the few weapons in Middle Earth that could 
harm Aragorn, given the right circumstances. This was not one of those 
circumstances, but Denethor had no way of knowing that.
 
“You are mistaken, Denethor,” Aragorn argued softly. Gasps of shock at 
the show of disrespect sounded all about the pair. “I come, as always, 
by direct invitation.” Aragorn couldn’t contain the smug smile that 
accompanied the news. “One of your offspring summoned me, as is the 
right of the royal house of Gondor.” He didn’t indicate Eowyn, but 
instead paced over until he could lean on the table directly in front 
of Boromir, purposefully giving the wrong impression.

Boromir’s shocked gaze shifted from his father to the stranger in front 
of him. His eyes widened and his breath gusted out as he looked up at 
Aragorn.

Seeing his son’s reaction to Aragorn’s overwhelming presence through a 
veil of jealousy and anger, Denethor was appalled. He roared and pulled 
his blade free to swing at the trespasser in his home. The sword passed 
through Aragorn as if through a creation of smoke, thus proving the 
demon’s claim that he was in Minas Tirith by invitation. Denethor’s 
lack of success turned the king’s face to an even darker shade of red.

“It is time, beautiful one.” Aragorn bent further forward, keeping 
Boromir’s gaze with his hypnotic, blackened eyes. The firstborn prince 
of Gondor seemed to strain upward even though he was still seated. Just 
as Boromir’s lips started to form a query about the intruder’s 
identity, Aragorn raised one hand. The gesture locked up Boromir’s 
vocal chords, silencing him. “Do not speak just now, beloved. What 
passes between us is no longer the concern of anyone here.” Another 
mere twitch of Aragorn’s fingers froze Boromir in place. A broader 
movement tossed Denethor back into his throne-like chair.

“Your son is weary of living under your command, King Denethor,” 
Aragorn chose his words carefully, skirting a fine line between truth 
and invention. “The duties you constantly demand him to perform 
strangle his spirit. He wishes to come away with me and be my lover 
instead.” Illustrating the assertion, Aragorn bent over the table, 
caught the front of Boromir’s heavily embroidered tunic. He hauled the 
prince up into a kiss.

“NO!” The denial screeched out from an unexpected source. Over near the 
rear entranceway to the hall, Faramir attempted to fight his way 
through the spellbound crowd. Just as the young man approached the 
centre of the commotion, Faramir bounced backward as his body hit the 
invisible barrier surrounding the scene.

“You lie.” Denethor’s denial was venomous, but far quieter than his 
son’s heartbroken wail. The broad-shouldered king trembled, fighting to 
arise, but he was trapped in his chair by the demon’s will. “You have 
bewitched Boromir. You lie. Every breath you take reeks of deceit. 
BOROMIR IS MINE! No one else has ever had him. No one ever will. He has 
always been mine. He will always be MINE! I demand you release him. You 
are my servant. You MUST do my bidding.”

Aragorn laughed, amused that in his anger the king had forgotten 
himself enough to reveal such secrets. “Not when it directly 
contradicts a previous instruction from another member of the royal 
family, my liege.” With inhuman strength he dragged the young man in 
question over the tabletop and into an embrace. The silence around them 
expressed the shock of the people in the dining hall. Not meeting 
resistance, the demon stole another kiss from the prince. This time the 
demon’s teeth were employed. Aragorn bit his own tongue before forcing 
Boromir’s lips to part and accept a blood-flavoured kiss. The effect of 
the demon’s blood was instantaneous. Boromir groaned low in his chest 
and clutched at Aragorn.

“NO!” Faramir’s second, more furious scream rang through the hall. The 
middle prince once again violently flung himself at the magical shield 
that held him back. “BOROMIR! No! Take your hands off my brother. 
BASTARD!”

Even as he kissed Boromir into submission, Aragorn watched the king 
from the corner of his eyes. Denethor’s fuming indignation crumbled 
into despair as he saw Boromir cling and grind his hips into Aragorn. 
Boromir was so completely captured that the prince wouldn’t even have 
bothered to breathe if Aragorn didn’t pull back briefly and require it.

Aragorn’s gloved hands threaded firmly into Boromir’s long hair. He 
cradled Boromir rather than forcing himself on the prince. Unforeseen 
images swirled about inside Boromir’s muddled consciousness, surprising 
Aragorn. It appeared that the prince found the arms he was now wrapped 
in far preferable to his only other lover. Aragorn was pleased to 
realize this seduction would not only be a pleasure to himself, but to 
Boromir as well. A quick probe from Aragorn showed the king’s mind 
shattering as he watched his insanely treasured lover swoon in 
another’s embrace.

“Come away with me, Boromir. I have a castle that is sorely in need of 
your warming light.” Aragorn’s stroking hands moved downward, mapping 
out shoulders and easing over muscle. “That is what you want, isn’t it 
my love?” The question was loudly spoken. “This is much more to your 
liking than the other bed you are normally bound to, is it not?” 
Aragorn held Boromir away so the reply would be just as clear.

Voice thick with a kind of arousal he’d never felt before in his entire 
life, Boromir begged without hesitation. “Yes. Please.” his hands 
caught at Aragorn’s clothing, attempting to drag their bodies back 
together. “Please.” The heavy black velvet bunched but didn’t tear. 
“More.” Boromir fought to kiss the other.

“Soon, beloved,” Aragorn soothed, petting. “We just need to bid 
farewell to your family.” His mouth quirked into a smile.

“Boromir!” Faramir was slamming the flats of his hands against the 
magical wall. “BOROMIR!” His voice rang through the entire feasting 
hall, a desolate, heart-broken sound.

The wail caused Boromir to blink. His beloved brother’s voice was the 
only thing that was able to penetrate the fog of lust blanketing his 
mind and Boromir begin to turn his face in Faramir’s direction. Aragorn 
quickly caught the lapse and thwarted his conquest’s distraction with 
another fleeting kiss. The new infusion of blood caused Boromir to sag 
against Aragorn’s support.

“NO! Boromir, stop!” Faramir’s body coiled and he battered himself 
against the shield.

Denethor showed no such emotion. The king merely slumped back in his 
chair and glowered at the display his eldest son was making of himself. 
Hatred and twisted jealousy were more obvious than fury on Denethor’s 
pinched features.

“Have you no blessing to bestow upon our union, my king? No sage words 
of fatherly advice to send your son on his way?” Aragorn taunted. 

“Those…” Denethor’s upper lip curled. His chin lifted in an attempt at 
dignity. “Are not the actions of any son of mine. Take your whore and 
be gone from my city, demon. The one who invited you hence is no longer 
a member of the royal line. I deny Boromir. He is no son of mine. Your 
welcome is revoked.”

“FATHER! DO NOT!” Faramir wailed, plastering himself to the barrier. 
“Boromir, wake yourself from this spell.”

Still smiling, Aragorn gathered Boromir close, shrouding the prince 
within the massive billows of his black cloak. “As the royal house of 
Gondor commands me, I obey.”

As Aragorn vanished, so did his restraining magics. Faramir toppled 
forward to sprawl on his face. Denethor rose awkwardly out of his 
chair. It almost seemed as if lightning flashed about the king’s 
furrowed brow.

No one dared to speak for a long moment. Almost everyone in the hall 
was in shock at words that had been spoken and the events that had 
taken place before them. 


One voice broke the silence. “Father.” 

Faramir’s protest got no further. Eowyn, who had up to now been a 
silent witness, threw herself across the divide to gather her half-
brother to her breast. “Hush Faramir. Do not antagonize him. Now is not 
the time. Father will strike you down,” Eowyn advised. She had a far 
better grasp of just how dangerous their father was at this moment. 

“Dinner is over.” Denethor snarled and stormed out of the banquet hall. 
Silence remained in his wake.

Eomer, who had been merely an observer up until now, slowly climbed to 
his feet. One of the senior staff-members was beckoned close. “Have the 
people collect their food from the kitchens, one table at a time, and 
eat it elsewhere,” Eomer instructed in a whisper. “I do not know what 
that thing was… but best we put the guard on alert. Pass the word that 
Prince Boromir is…” Eomer hesitated. Next to father, Boromir was the 
highest ranking officer in the armies of Gondor. “Prince Boromir is 
compromised and should be brought to the king if he is located.” 

It was a sign of the chaos spreading through the room that the man 
accepted the orders of a sixteen-year-old boy without a word of 
complaint.

Eomer’s attention shifted to where his sister clutched at Faramir, 
attempting to contain their half-brother. Waving his hand to get things 
moving, Eomer then paced over to his siblings. “We need to take this 
elsewhere,” he insisted in a low tone. Eowyn had hinted that something 
was going to happen before Boromir could be dispatched to the 
Riddermark, but this was unbelievable. He put aside his suspicions. 
This was not the time. “Come away, Faramir, let us remove ourselves to 
our room.”

“No.” Faramir shrugged roughly, attempting to free himself from Eowyn’s 
hands. “I have to find out who that was, WHAT it was, and where he took 
Boromir. I have to seek that thing out and help Boromir escape.”

“It did not look to me as if Boromir wanted to escape, dear one,” Eowyn 
countered. “He seemed rather, um, affectionate with the man.”

“It was a trick! It was a lie! Boromir would never…” Faramir freed 
himself violently and rose. “I will talk to father. I will find out 
what he knows. I WILL bring Boromir home. Just wait and see.”

*

“Father?” Faramir cautiously pushed open the door to his father’s 
office.

“Leave me be.” Denethor snapped out. It sounded as if he was on the far 
side of the room.

Faramir winced from the harsh tone but he refused to retreat, not 
considering what was at stake. Stepping just inside, Faramir pressed 
on. “Father, about Boromir?”

“I said GO AWAY!” Denethor kept his back to his son even as he shouted 
out the command. The king’s frame was rigid, but on the edge of a 
tremble. “I will not hear his name ever again.”

“You can’t mean to allow that… thing… to take Boromir from us without a 
fight.” Faramir edged into the room. “What was it, father? You spoke as 
if you recognized it.”

Denethor whirled about. A raft of parchment was swept from the small 
table near him by the swipe of one hand. “That creature may only enter 
Gondor by invitation.” Denethor’s expression was a mask of fury. “The 
invitation has to come from the king or his immediate heirs. Boromir 
must have summoned the demon. He brought it here by choice. He opened 
the very heart of this kingdom to it’s poison. HE HAS BETRAYED ME! It 
is unthinkable.”

Faramir’s head shook, not able to believe that Boromir was capable of 
going against their father’s wishes in anything. “But what is it?”

“A leech.” Denethor almost spat. “A thing of dark magic and corruption. 
A perversion. It is a weapon the kings of our land have used at need 
for the preservation and expansion of our kingdom. A creature I used 
too often it seems. It has become difficult to control over the last 
few years, but I never thought…” Stormy eyes slowly focused on Faramir, 
as if judging the young man. “You will learn of it soon enough. When 
you come of age I will tell you everything about it. The demon will be 
bound to you and your children. It comes with the throne.”

“But Boromir…” 

“Boromir is dead! He betrayed me! He turned his back on me after all I 
have done for him!” Denethor’s anger raged up once more. “So it will be 
written. Boromir has fallen into darkness and can no longer be trusted. 
My son died today… a traitor. His name will no longer be used within 
our line. I only wish he was dead. It would be a far more preferable 
way to lose him. I will wield my power once this madness passes. Once I 
have calmed down and dare to deal with that foul beast again. I will 
demand that the creature put a proper end to Boromir. I am still king. 
My word is that creature’s final law.” Denethor’s voice choked. “I love 
him. I love Boromir beyond reason… and he turned on me. It is 
intolerable that he should live, yet be beyond my grasp.” Taking a 
steadying breath, the king began again. “You are now my heir, Faramir. 
Your training must be intensified. This changes everything.”

Awareness of what the king’s ranting might mean for his brother dawned 
in Faramir’s eyes. “You going to have him killed! NO!” He screamed. 
“NO! Boromir needs our help. If you allow him to be hurt I will… I will 
put a knife in your heart myself,” The threat was panicked.

“Boromir called a demon to him. It took him. Justice was done. He is no 
longer my son or your brother. He is no longer our concern save for 
what upheavals he might cause with the demon by his foul betrayal.” 
Denethor’s tone was grim. 

“He will always be my concern,” Faramir shot back. “He is my brother 
and I will not abandon him. I can not.” Hands clenched to keep from 
striking out. “I have to go after Boromir. Tell me where it took him,” 
Faramir demanded. “I’ll bring him back. I know you want me to. I know 
you want him back as much as I do.”

The king’s entire frame trembled with emotion. “I forbid it! You have 
much to learn about the duties now required of you as the next king of 
Gondor.” Denethor ran an appraising look up and down his second child’s 
frame. “Settle your affairs. Move your belongings into the heir’s 
quarters. Do it quickly. I will need to take you out into the kingdom 
within the week.” Rage had distorted Denethor’s features. “Now get out. 
GET OUT!”

Using every bit of self-control he had, Faramir tried to contain the 
retort that wanted to burst out. Arguing with his father was a futile 
pursuit at the best of time. This would earn him nothing but perhaps a 
guard placed upon him. Even so, not all of his upset could be 
contained. “Give your throne to Eomer if you will not save it for 
Boromir. I would never take my brother’s birthright. I will find where 
this demon has taken Boromir… and if you value your life, my brother 
had best be alive and unhurt by YOUR devices when I find him.” Not 
trusting his voice any further, Faramir swung around and stalked out of 
the room. 

*

Boromir’s head was pounding when he awoke. It was a small mercy that 
the light falling in the wide window opposite the bed was merely the 
pale illumination of the moon and stars. The sun’s glare would have 
been painful to the eyes, Boromir suspected. Luxuriating in the comfort 
of finely woven sheets and a plush mattress, Boromir examined the room 
he found himself in. This place was completely unfamiliar to him. The 
stone of the walls couldn’t be seen, so Boromir was uncertain if he was 
still within the White Tower. Except for the window, every possible 
surface of the walls and ceiling were obscured by gathered swaths of 
dark fabric. Silver embroidery glittered in the moonlight in many 
complex patterns, some of which almost looked like writing. The only 
pieces of furniture in the room were a table, two chairs and the over-
sized canopied bed that Boromir laid in.

Closing his eyes, Boromir attempted to reconstruct his evening. He 
recalled being furious as he arrived for dinner in the main-hall. He 
and Faramir had been planning to eat supper together and spend the 
evening in Boromir’s rooms until a page had come from father demanding 
Boromir’s attendance. Neither of them had wanted to attend the banquet 
for something had been brewing between them, something powerful and 
dangerous as a rising storm. Father’s summons allowed for no argument, 
however. Worse yet, the page had insisted on lingering in Boromir’s 
rooms to help him dress for dinner, so the brothers hadn’t even been 
able to speak plainly. When Faramir had left to prepare himself for the 
formal affair, it was with a dark expression marring his lovely face.

His brother was slow to arrive in the dining-hall and Eowyn had been 
hovering, about to plant herself in Faramir’s empty chair at Boromir’s 
right hand. A stranger had appeared and Father had exploded with 
malice. That was the last thing Boromir could clearly recall. A few 
wisps of extreme speed, whipping wind, smoky darkness, and a burning in 
his mouth tickled at the outer edges of Boromir’s mind, but he couldn’t 
grasp anything solid. Attempting to sift through the muddied memories, 
his eyes drifted shut once again.

A faint clinking sound caused Boromir’s body to startle upright in 
panic, struggling against binding fabric. The light in the room was 
changed to a weak dawning red. He must have dozed again. More 
important, someone else was now in the room with him. Focusing, Boromir 
finally got a look at his host… or perhaps not. It was a child setting 
food out on the table. Struggling with a tray almost as large as 
himself, the curly topped boy set out a bowl, plate, pitcher and cup. 
Strangely enough, the boy was dressed in a grey-toned replica of a 
Gondorian page-boy’s uniform.

“Child.” Boromir sat up, sliding to the edge of the massive bed. “Where 
am I? What house is this?” Boromir was careful to keep his tone 
unthreatening. “Who is the master here?”

A pair of huge, amazingly blue eyes lifted to gaze at the Prince. “This 
is Barad-dur, lord, and speaking my master’s name is not a privilege I 
am allowed.”

There was something about the curly-topped boy. Mayhaps it was his 
figure or his bearing, but despite the innocent face, Boromir concluded 
that this was no child who now stood before him. “You must be mistaken, 
little one. Barad-dur is a place of demons and evil, a place far from 
my home. Are we still in Minas Tirith, or have I been taken away from 
the city?”

“I can not force you to believe what you choose not to, your lordship, 
but this IS Barad-dur.” The plates and such were arranged. “Will you 
eat, lordship? The master said that you had no supper yesterday.” The 
small man poured a goblet of wine and brought it over to offer to 
Boromir.

As soon as he saw the crimson liquid a powerful thirst seized Boromir. 
He took it without hesitation. The wine was thick and strangely 
flavoured, quite unlike any wine that Boromir had ever tasted before, 
but it wasn’t satisfying. He found himself craving a sharp tang that 
the drink in his hands couldn’t provide. “I do not recognize this 
vintage.”

“It’s from Harad,” the servant supplied without hesitation. “Though 
most of the food is from the north rather than the south since it’s 
what we’re all accustomed to.”

“Your master is from the northlands?” Boromir attempted to get more 
information. 

“All the servants are from the north.” The small man’s mouth twisted 
into something that might have become a smile if it wasn’t so grim. 
“You should eat… and drink as much as you can. When you are done just 
put the dishes in here and tug on the line. It will ring a bell 
downstairs.” A swath of fabric was pulled back to reveal a hole in the 
wall. “The shaft goes straight down to the kitchens.” 

Boromir watched as the halfling climbed into the cupboard he had 
uncovered. “This is how you ring the bell.” A cord hanging alongside 
the box inside the cupboard was tugged and a moment later the crouching 
servant began to lower out of sight. Walking over, Boromir looked into 
the hole that now remained. He could just see the top of the box 
descending into darkness. A strange mixture of heavy ropes moved inside 
the shaft.

“You really should drink more.” 

A silky voice caused Boromir to whirl in place. He had no idea where 
the man had come from, but Boromir was no longer alone. A distantly 
familiar, dark haired man now sat cross-legged on the bed. He appeared 
about fifteen years older than Boromir and seemed well seasoned, like 
someone who had seen a great deal of the world. His face was handsome 
and clearly cut, like a fine sculpture. Liquid blue-grey eyes seemed to 
look right into Boromir’s soul. The dark shadow of a recently grown 
beard and moustache gave him a look of disreputable danger. The man was 
clad almost completely in black, save for the vaguest hint of silver 
decoration on his chest that illustrated the tree and stars of Gondor 
such as the senior officers of father’s army wore.

“Who are you?” Boromir wore those same stars and tree on his uniform 
when he was in the field as part of father’s entourage. He knew most of 
Denethor’s most trusted men quite well and yet this was a stranger. 
“Where am I?”

“I believe Frodo already told you that this is Barad-dur. If you choose 
not to believe him, I doubt that my repeating it will have much 
effect.” Amusement simmered within the man’s intense eyes. “I am 
Aragorn. We met last night, but then you were more than a bit 
overwhelmed so it is understandable if your memories of our 
introduction are a bit muddled.” Long legs unfolded and he moved to the 
edge of the bed. Head tipped to one side, Aragorn studied his guest 
while a smile played at the corner of his generous mouth. “You really 
are quite the treasure. I can see why Denethor has delayed intolerably 
long about bringing my existence to your attention… and why he hid you 
from me.”

Boromir’s puzzled expression grew more severe. “How do you know my 
father?”

“Your father holds my leash, just as he held your’s,” Aragorn 
explained. “I am a tool of royal house of Gondor. I am the most prized 
weapon your father wields, Aragorn Elessar, the most recent incarnation 
of what began when Isildur inhaled the miasma of Sauron, servant of 
Morgoth.” Aragorn’s eyes blackened over and shone a moment before 
shifting back to blue.

“I was taught about Sauron and Isildur,” Boromir began cautiously. 
“Sauron was a great evil in the world. He wielded a ring of power that 
would have destroyed everything. Prince Isildur killed Sauron and then 
died in the explosion that resulted. That’s when my family’s line 
began. King Elendil was also dead so his steward took up the ring and, 
guided by an Elf lord, Hurin saw to it’s destruction.” It was an old 
story. “Hurin married one of Elendil’s grand-daughters… Isildur’s 
daughter… and accepted the throne of Gondor when he returned home since 
all of Elendil’s male heirs had perished in the war.”

“To the victor goes the task of writing the histories down,” Aragorn 
purred out. “But I suppose that your version of events will suffice.”

Boromir’s back stiffened at the suggestion of his family’s deceit.

“An amendment must be made to explain ‘who’… or rather… ‘what’ I am.” 
Aragorn rose from the bed and walked to the wall marked by the window. 
Catching a handful of the cloaking drapery, he pulled it to one side to 
reveal an arch which opened onto a balcony. “Isildur was not killed 
that day in Dagorlad. He was transformed. He was tainted by Sauron’s 
spirit and then bound to the house of Hurin by the destruction of the 
ring.” Aragorn looked toward Boromir. “Your father should have 
explained all of this to you years ago… but Denethor is a greedy, 
arrogant man who seems to think he is going to live forever.” The last 
phrase made Aragorn smile to himself.

Boromir glared, but he didn’t dispute the description of his father.

“Denethor has used me more than any of your forefathers has dared to 
employ any of my previous incarnations.” Aragorn stepped out onto the 
massive balcony.

Boromir had to follow if he wished to hear, since Aragorn began 
speaking once more. The words were lost, however, as Boromir staggered 
under the impact of the vista spread out below them. Dark crags, black 
mountains and distant fires dominated the scene. They were in a 
building higher above the ground than any that Boromir had ever 
imagined. It was more like standing on a mountain ledge.

“This really is Barad-dur.” Boromir had seen Mordor only once before, 
but this place was like no other in Middle Earth.

“Yes, it is.” Aragorn leaned on the black stone railing. “One indrawn 
breath at just the wrong moment and I am fated to feed off my own 
descendants and dwell in this dark world for all time. Fate has been a 
cruel mistress to me.” Dark brows lifted. “Still, life ever-renewing 
and the powers I possess have compensated me. Being able to fetch a 
packet of leaf from the shire in a few small steps or the ability to 
tear the walls down around a town are amusing tricks.”

Boromir blinked in realization. “You are father’s weapon. You are the 
reason my father was able to spread our boarders so far, so easily.”

“Yes. I was attempting to tell you that. I am commanded by Gondor’s 
royal family. The king or a prince or princess of Gondor may command my 
actions once they call me to them by way of an incantation,” Aragorn 
admitted freely. 

“So I can command you to return me to my home,” Boromir concluded.

“If your father had bothered to teach you the spell… and if you were 
still a prince of Gondor… yes, you could.” Aragorn noted the look of 
confusion on Boromir’s face. “Oh yes, you were rather befuddled when 
your father announced to the entire court… and to me… that he was 
disowning you. Sorry about that.”

“Disowned,” Boromir repeated in an astonished tone. He tried once again 
to recall the events from the great hall, but everything after Aragorn 
walking into the feast was a blur. “What happened? Why did father 
disown me? Is Faramir all right?”

Aragorn ignored the flurry of questions, choosing instead to stare 
straight into Boromir’s eyes. “Do you love your father, Boromir?”

Green eyes blinked. The prince swallowed loudly. “Of course. My father 
is a noble man, the finest king that Gondor has seen in long years.”

The proclamation earned a slight nod from Aragorn. Taking several steps 
closer, Aragorn spoke again. This time his breath tickled Boromir’s 
ear. “And do you enjoy it when your father uses you like a whore in the 
darkness of his chambers, boy? Do you relish the thought of licking his 
seed off his skin when it backspills out of your mouth? Do you like 
having your legs tied open so Den