TITLE: Warriors of Gondor 

AUTHOR: HEL ( helthehorrible@yahoo.com )

RATING: R

PAIRING: Boromir/Faramir, mainly

WARNINGS: incest(barely, more later), slash, het,
violence, let me know if I missed something

ARCHIVE: Sure, let me know where.

DISCLAIMER: Inspired by Tolkien's lotr series, I own
nothing, and if I did I'd probably give it away.

SUMMARY: The two brothers growing up in war torn
Gondor. 

NOTES: I plan to write more following their lives
until after the ring is destroyed. 

SPOILERS: None

Part 19: PROPHECY

Boromir sat at his father’s right hand at the head table. The guests had long been
circulating and Faramir had joined them, even dancing with many of the women present. It
was not just servants who watched his every move and fought for position to be near him.
Denethor frowned in displeasure as he watched men and women alike seek his youngest son’s
favor.

“There is a cult that has sprung up around your brother,” he said in a low, angry tone to
Boromir. “It is not seemly that so many flock to him.”

“They stay away from the high table until you give them permission to approach, father,”
his son told him. “They wouldn’t dream of intruding on us.”

“You do not worry that some day it could cause trouble for you, these fanatical followers
he has?” Denethor asked cynically.

“Who do you think started this cult, father?” Boromir asked rhetorically, preparing to
rise to his feet. “You are only partially right on whom they worship anyway. Faramir is
only their high priest; he is not their god.” He left his father to join the crowd,
knowing that his remarks and actions would lead Denethor to further misassumptions.


There was no way he could deny that he was hiding in the hills of Lossarnach. They’d been
friends for too long and knew each other too well for that to work. It was good to sit
beside the fire and warm himself. The company was good as well and just as warming, he’d
barely spoken to another person in months. He was sick of trudging through endless bogs
and unfriendly terrain, but the urgent need to find the creature Gollum had been
seriously impressed upon him by his friend Gandalf. After a good night’s rest and
relaxation with his old friend, he would be able to restart his search with new vigor in
the morning.

“So what do think of the scions of our Steward, Thorongil?” Forlong asked.

“Strider, now,” he hissed beneath his breath, continuing at the other man’s nod. “I am
very impressed,” the Ranger answered. “I would have thought he would have raised them a
bit differently.”

“It’s not like he took much of a hand in their raising,” Forlong laughed. “Other than
assigning tutors and nightly grillings, they pretty much raised themselves, with a little
help.”

“It sounds like you have taken a great interest in them,” Strider commented.

“I have to admit that I have,” the large man answered. “They have intrigued me since the
first time I met them, so I did a little investigating. Have you talked to them yet?”

“I’ve only seen them from a distance,” Strider told him, hanging his head in
disappointment. “I think they have enough conflicts as it is without adding myself to the
mix.”

“You are right about the conflicts,” Forlong sighed. “There have been ripples of unrest
for some time now, probably the work of the ‘Dark One’. Rumors of disagreement between
the Steward and his sons, most of it false from what I can tell.” He paused as if
considering treason, which in a way he was, for the Steward had never left any doubt as
to how he felt about the man before him. “Do you know how old Faramir was when he first
rode into battle?”

“I’ve followed what has been happening in Gondor as much as possible,” Strider replied.
“I know enough that it would be injudicious of me to comment considering Denethor’s
opinion of me. Yes, I know of both their military accomplishments.”

“Have your sources told you why?”

“I know that he was looked on with disfavor by his father,” the Ranger answered, trying
to be circumspect.

“He almost killed him,” Forlong said bitterly. “It was nearly a year afterward that I saw
him and those marks could have killed an adult. I had to go to Minas Tirith to find out
how such a skilled warrior could be treated so.” He paused to organize his thoughts. “The
Steward barely acknowledged the boy’s presence. It was as if he were Boromir’s son and
not his own.”

“What do you mean?” Thorongil asked unable to stop himself.

“When I went to the city, I found out that Boromir had convinced his father to turn his
brother over to him. Everything, even marriage rights.” Forlong leaned closer, even
though they were isolated. “I still have connections in the White Tower. They say that
Boromir threatened to leave Gondor and take his brother with him. All that I’ve seen
convinces me it is true.”

“That is hard to believe,” the Ranger said, shocked that Denethor’s oldest son would
stand up to him so. The man he remembered tended to stomp down any opposition.

“It is easy once you meet Boromir,” Forlong smiled. “The Steward dotes on him and he
seems to know exactly how to keep his father in line. Much has changed in Gondor since he
reached his majority.” Then the smile faded and he looked away. “He may have gone too
far, Strider. They’ve started a cult.”

“What sort of cult?” the Ranger asked, feeling a strange fear crawl up his spine. Gandalf
had told him of their visions about him.

“They say that Gondor will be saved, no matter how bad things get. In fact, that is part
of it,” Forlong told him. “Things will get much worse before they get better according to
them. There are even rumors that the White City will burn.”

“It sounds like they are preparing for the worst,” Strider said.

“That’s what I thought at first, until I saw the tattoos,” Forlong added. “They both have
the king’s seal tattooed on their shoulder, as do many of their followers. Boromir
insists that they will hold Gondor for the king whether he comes next year or in a
thousand years, but the feeling is that he will come soon.”

“What does Denethor say to all of this?” Strider asked.

“He hates it, but since everything is underground there is little he can do about it.
Boromir always supports his father publicly, and his ability as a military leader is
amazing. With his brother, they are unbelievable. They do the sword dances together, you
know.” Forlong paused in thought. “If I didn’t know you so well, I wouldn’t be telling
you any of this. Boromir has also resurrected the rights of Mancipium.”

“Are you sure?”

“Have you seen the two armsmen who always ride at Faramir’s back?” Forlong asked.

“Numenorean decent, dark hair, very alert?” Strider queried.

“That’s them,” the big man agreed. “Boromir picked them out and they performed the whole
right with his brother. They are both assassins, one of them a skilled torturer as well.”

“Why would he choose assassins?” the ranger wanted to know.

“He ever guards his brother, there have been several assassination attempts on Faramir in
recent years.” Further words were cut off as a messenger came from the darkness.

“The Lords Boromir and Faramir approach the camp, my Lord,” he told them. “They ask for
shelter for the night.”

“By all means, bring them,” Forlong laughed. “They are always welcome at my fire.” Then
he sent orders to the men at the neighboring fire to prepare food and drink for their
guests.

“I shouldn’t meet with them,” Strider told him urgently. “It will cause too many
complications.”

“Go to your bed, my friend,” Forlong said, indicating the small tent a few paces away.
“You need to leave early in the morning anyway and they are tireless.”

With a nod of thanks to his host, the Ranger retired to his pallet, leaving the tiniest
of gaps open in the tent flap. He was extremely curious about the Steward’s sons and
hoped that they would sit where he could see them. Though he hadn’t seen Boromir since he
was a small child, he recognized the man who came to the fire and embraced Forlong before
sitting beside him, facing almost directly into the tent. Faramir sat to his brother’s
left and his two servants knelt behind him, their face brands clear to see. Once they had
finished seeing to the brothers’ comfort, one turned to look away from the fire so that
he would be able to see into the darkness.

“It has been too long, my young princes,” Forlong greeted them as his men brought
trenchers of food and placed them before the brothers. “Share some wine and food and tell
me of your adventures.”

“We’re not so grand as princes,” Boromir laughed, drinking from the offered wineskin. “Or
so young any more.”

“You look it, my friends,” the older man laughed. “Must be all that Numenorean and elvish
blood.”

‘They do look young’ Strider thought to himself. Two golden princes among men, who
couldn’t help but attract all who saw them. After a lifetime spent among elves, he was
very cognizant of their human beauty, made just a little exotic by the almost
indiscernible touch of elvish blood.

“Don’t let father hear you, Forlong,” Faramir joined in, moving closer to his brother to
offer him a bite of meat that Boromir took, licking his fingers as he did. “He chooses to
believe that our light hair is just an anomaly, he never acknowledged mother’s elvish
ancestors.”

"Where are you two headed, if you don't mind me asking?" Forlong changed the subject.

"There have been too many reports of orc attacks south of the White Mountains," Boromir
told him as his hand reached down to find a tidbit to feed Faramir.

"You're a bit far to north aren't you?" the older man grinned at him.

"There is a more than adequate captain leading the expedition," Boromir grinned
conspiratorially. "My brother and I are going to make a quick trip to Rohan; there are
some things you can't delegate."

"Are you going to bring your princess home?" Forlong asked.

Both brothers' faces turned grim for a moment before Boromir spoke again. "She is needed
too much in Edoras. Theoden King has been ill and she seems to be the only one who can
comfort him." He threw a stick into the fire as Faramir edged even closer and leaned his
head on his brother’s shoulder, pushing the nearly empty food dishes out of the way. "We
will bring her home as soon as we can."

"I'm glad that the rumors of the rift between Gondor and Rohan aren't true,” Forlong said
before taking another drink.

The two brothers looked at each other and Strider felt a pang of fear at their
expressions. "Father has been listening to the false tales spread by the enemy. He is
convinced that they are in league with the Dark Lord. It's been difficult to keep him
from declaring our treaties void." Boromir rubbed his brother’s back before giving in to
the urge to pull him closer and wrap his arms around him.

"So, he doesn't know where you two are going," the big man guessed.

"He will know, probably before we even get there," Faramir said sadly, one hand reaching
up to stroke his brother’s cheek. "He watches."

"What do you mean?" Forlong asked, his face going pale. Strider almost groaned aloud in
his concealment, fearing that he knew what they spoke of.

"Who is in that tent?" Faramir asked suddenly, indicating the small tent where the Ranger
lay. Both of his servants tensed at his question, one looking at the now suspicious
shelter, the other at Forlong.

"He is an old friend of mine," Forlong said without hesitation. "A Ranger out of the
north who can be trusted. He has to leave before dawn tomorrow."

"I won't share father's paranoia against our friends, brother," Boromir said, kissing his
brother’s forehead. "If Forlong vouches for him, I am satisfied.” He looked back to the
older man and continued. “We have reason to believe that Denethor is using the seeing
stone.”

“So, he could be watching us now,” Forlong stated glumly.

“He’s not,” Boromir told him with a smug grin. “We would know. Faramir and I can tell
when he does.”

Forlong gasped at his words and it was all that Strider could do to remain silent. “Are
you sure?” the big man asked.

“Yes, and he knows that we can, it helps to keep him from spying on us too much,” Boromir
told him. “He can’t hear what is being said but he can read lips as well as written
material. I would hate it if some of our confidences were revealed to him.”

“I will remember,” Forlong assured them.

“It may work to our advantage in the long run,” Boromir said, making Forlong’s eyebrow
rise in surprise. “We are steadily losing ground against the enemy. Ithilien is lost,
only our Rangers can move at all there. I’m hoping that next spring we can start a new
offensive there that will set them back some, but we don’t have the manpower any more to
take it and hold it. All I can do is keep up with the delaying actions. Without
reinforcements from outside Gondor, we will lose Osgiliath within three years. After
that, it could be only a matter of months, maybe days, before Minas Tirith falls.”

“Three years?” Forlong questioned in shock. “Why so soon?”

“We are losing too many people. The ratio of deaths gets higher each year, even though
the numbers look better. Ten years ago, one hundred men lost in a year would be almost
inconsequential, now it is devastating. The warriors lost in battle are bad enough but
there have been ever growing reports of orc raids on villages to capture people,
especially children,” Boromir told him.

“What would they want with ordinary people?” Forlong wanted to know.

“They go to the fire of the great altar at Barad-dur,” Faramir spoke up, his face pale.
“I’ve seen them in my dreams. That is why we have been encouraging the revival of the
older rites. None of us are great sorcerers like the Dark Lord, but every little bit of
light that fights against the dark is of value.” He paused, giving the older man a
serious look. “You have bided by our agreements and been a great leader, as well as
spiritual father, to your people. Even in Minas Tirith, the faithful often speak of you
as an example to be followed. We owe a great deal to your devotion.” He held forth a hand
toward Forlong as he finished.

“It is the inspiration of you and your brother that guides me, my Lord,” Forlong said,
taking Faramir’s hand and kissing it, making Strider realize that his old friend had a
close personal knowledge of the brothers’ cult. “Are you sure we can’t send for help?” he
asked, tears in his eyes.

“From whom?” Boromir asked. “Rohan is nearly as besieged as we are and the king is very
ill. My sources tell me that even the elven realms are seriously troubled with increased
orc and goblin raids. No one has the forces to spare so we have to do what we can.”

“You sound like you have a plan,” Forlong said.

“Not much of one, but we will not give up hope,” Boromir confirmed the last word, making
Strider jump as if pinched. “That is why I have been localizing the military more. If the
White City falls, the enemy will gain nothing but rubble. We have already established a
two-stage evacuation plan. When we lose the bridge at Osgiliath, all of the women and
children will be sent from the city and the Pelennor. We will fall back across the
Pelennor as slowly as possible, hopefully we will be able to hold the west bank at
Osgiliath long enough for all non-combatants to get clear. The city will be defended ring
by ring and if anyone survives, they will escape across Mount Mindolluin. The increased
activity at Minas Morgul leads me to believe that they have some nasty surprises waiting
for us, but I intend to prepare as much as possible. Each surviving military unit will
fall back to its home territory. Even if every fighter that comes to protect the city
dies, it will take years for them to take the rest of Gondor. Each territory has been set
up much like your own, with caches of supplies and hiding places. The enemy will not
defeat us easily.”

“That doesn’t sound like much, my Lord,” Forlong said doubtfully.

“It is all that I can tell you now,” Boromir spoke with a smile. “I don’t believe it will
come to that, even if we can’t yet see how we will be saved. Gondor will not fall.” The
strength of conviction filled his words.

It made even Strider, who had spent his entire adult life filled with self-doubt, think
that maybe there would be an answer. Maybe his current errand would bring one more key to
the puzzle that controlled their future. If he was successful.

“It grows late; a man of my age needs his sleep. Make yourselves comfortable at the fire
and use the red guest tent when you are ready. Sleep well, my Lords,” Forlong rose from
his place before bowing before the two brothers. “Do I have your blessings?”

“Of course, my friend, our blessings to you and all your people,” Boromir told him, then
Forlong departed to his own tent. “Let me see to your shoulder, brother,” he said to
Faramir.

The younger brother quickly removed his shirt and turned his back to Boromir. Strider saw
the strange array of scars on the young man’s chest and arms and was surprised by the
large bandage that covered much of his right shoulder. Faramir hadn’t moved as if he were
injured and, as the layers of bloody cloths were removed, it became clear that it was
bad. The arrow wound looked several days old. He also noticed the gentle interaction
between the two brothers. Even though they were renowned warriors, they showed great
tenderness in their attentions to each other.

“Saphron is going to have to do some repair work on your seal when this heals over,”
Boromir said as he cleaned the wound. “Let me see the other side.”

The sight of Faramir’s back made the Ranger’s breath catch in his throat. He knew of the
seal and the scars, but not of the transformations that Boromir had made. After two years
of work, the combination of scars and tattoo shading made the city of Minas Tirith come
alive on Faramir’s back. Strider was glad that he couldn’t tell which marks came from the
beatings he’d heard about. Looking at the seal, even with the round wound defacing it,
brought a strange rush of feeling to his entire body. When he noticed both brothers
stiffening, as if in surprise, he quickly looked away.

“What was that?” Boromir whispered, just barely loud enough for Strider to hear.

“I don’t know,” Faramir answered just as quietly, “but I liked it.” Risking another look,
carefully avoiding looking directly at the seal, the Ranger saw the two brothers locked
in a deep kiss, making him instantly hard.

“Let me finish dressing your wound so we can go to our tent,” Boromir said, breaking away
from his brother.

It was only a few more minutes before they were heading toward the tent next to
Strider’s, throwing off their clothes as they went. He could hear them as if they were
right beside him, which they almost were as close as the tents had been set up. The sound
of flesh sliding against flesh, accompanied by stifled gasps of pleasure, was nearly
making him crazy. He dared not make any movement or sounds of his own, as he could sense
one of Faramir’s bondsmen standing at the point where the fronts of the two tents almost
met. Somehow, he knew that the man was paying close attention to him.

The sounds in the next tent stopped briefly as Faramir’s voice called out, “Belgar, stop
it. Go check on the horses or something.”

There was a soft sigh from the man before he moved off, out of hearing range. Strider
almost groaned in relief as he finally allowed himself to move. Firmly grasping his own
erection, he vaguely wondered when he had undone his pants as he bit down on a knuckle of
his other hand to keep from crying out. The sounds that they were making were more than
enough to arouse anyone. He had a strange sensation, as if he could feel what they felt,
making every inch of his body burn with desire.


The odd feeling that they weren’t alone persisted as they moved together in each other’s
arms. It was marvelous, as if fire danced over their skin, not burning but invigorating
it. Faramir sank down on his brother’s engorged cock, taking it deep within his body. He
heard voices and a bright light seemed to fill him from the inside out as he moved in the
familiar rhythm, as if one of his stronger visions were about to overtake him. With the
concerted effort of long practice, he pushed back the invading rush of images and
concentrated on the physical contact with Boromir.

They were no longer alone in their movements and they both felt as if they were falling
down the long tunnel of time. Grabbing each other tightly, they thrust together, bringing
the reality of their contact more into focus. Boromir reached up and pulled Faramir
tightly against him, claiming his mouth with his own. The first ripples of their orgasm
began surging through them and they felt that splendid union they’d only felt a few other
times, as if their very souls had become one.

It was the calm in the eye of the storm, as they lay entwined with each other. Both knew
that there would be visions later, strong and uncontrollable. And probably very bad. It
happened every time Faramir fought against them, the price he paid for striving for his
freedom from them.

“Sleep, my beloved one,” Boromir whispered into Faramir’s ear and, snuggling just a bit
closer to his brother, he did.


In all of his years he’d never felt anything like that. He lay panting on his pallet,
wondering what had just happened. He’d only been on the periphery of what they’d done and
it had completely undone him. Vaguely, he wondered what it would be like to be at the
center, encompassed in the power of what he’d felt.

“Sleep, my beloved one,” he heard Boromir whisper and, without his own volition, he felt
his own eyes closing and consciousness drifting away as if the words had been whispered
to him.


It was the long version of the dream. He’d only dreamt it once before and even then,
there had been much less to it. This time, he felt his brother’s presence in his mind as
he distantly felt his physical presence in his arms. They dreamed together the one dream
that inspired both fear and hope in their hearts. Such a terrible, beautiful dream.

It always started the same, with the darkness spreading from the east the stench from
Orodruin filling the air. They could hear the screams and see the blood of those
sacrificed on the great altar that stood before Barad-dur. Sauron used both his own
minions and innocents captured from his enemies to feed the dark fires that increased his
power. As they traveled west, the black clouds billowed into hordes of orcs that left
rivers of blood in their wake. The cities and villages burned, the cries of the people
echoing through the darkness.

The whole world seemed filled with the endless horror of the Dark Lord’s power.

From the west, where the light still lingered, came a voice that called, but the words
were drowned out by the raging of the evil storm that enveloped the land. A lone rider
rode towards the light, his golden hair shining in the darkness. Time passed in a
confused collage of violence and hope, too many images, only a few clear. One part was
the dream of orcs, arrows, pain and death; Boromir bleeding on the ground. This was the
dream that often tore agonized screams from Faramir’s throat, even as he struggled to
wake.

Then the pain disappeared and he stood before them, glowing as if lit from within. They
could only make out his eyes and the star on his brow. Their king had come to save them
and they were enfolded in his warmth.


He came awake suddenly, reaching for his sword. The air in the tent seemed thick and
strange as the fog of sleep and something more cleared from his mind. He’d never had
visions. Barely able to accept the heritage of his blood, he’d never really believed in
destiny. But now he’d had a vision. Or shared one, if he interpreted the weeping and
calming words in the adjoining tent correctly.

There was no doubt in his mind that he had to leave now, no matter how far away dawn was.

He pulled back a flap of the tent so that he could use the light of the remnant of fire
to see as he quickly gathered his equipment. With the ease of long practice, he fastened
everything where it belonged and crawled quietly out of the tent, making his way to the
eastern edge of the camp. Fortunately, the sky was beginning to gray past the red glow of
Orodruin, so he wouldn’t have to travel long in the dark.

“I know who you are,” a voice came out of the dark behind him.

Turning quickly, he looked at the tall, dark-haired man who observed him with cold gray
eyes. The blood of the House of Hurin was strong in this man and Strider wondered why he
had felt the need to stop him.

“You have me at a disadvantage then,” he replied unwilling to give away any information
after his strange night.

“I am Belgar, manciple to the Lord Faramir,” the tall man told him with a hint of burning
pride in his voice.

“I have heard of you,” Strider told him. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I was just wondering why you were avoiding my master and his brother, Lord Thorongil,”
Belgar said quietly in a voice that wouldn’t carry.

“There is enough conflict in Gondor without knowledge of my presence causing more,”
Strider answered honestly. “My business is not with the Steward or his sons, though I
hope that what I do may be of aid eventually.”

Nodding at his words, Belgar started to speak again, only to break off and draw the sword
he wore at his side. His eyes widening in surprise, Strider froze for a moment before he
saw that he was looking past him. Turning as Belgar shouted to alert the camp, Strider
drew his own sword against the orcs that were coming out of the underbrush to attack the
camp.

There was no time for niceties as the evil creatures were pouring toward them. It was
dark and soon the ground was slippery with blood, but the combined forces of Forlong’s
men and the brothers’ personal guard were quick to respond to the threat. Even though he
faced screaming monsters before him, at his back were strong warriors seasoned to this
kind of warfare.

It was nearly sunrise when they were finally able to stem the tide of attackers and, from
the sounds, this had not been the only attack point. Belgar had remained at Strider’s
side during the fighting, though he’d longed to return to Faramir. In such a battle, it
was not practical to abandon the fight when he couldn’t be sure of where his master would
be. Strider was favorably impressed with the man’s fighting skill and glad that he had
been able to be with at least this much of the brothers’ retinue.

“I must find my lord,” Belgar said to him, bowing as he was backing away.

“Of course,” Strider told him, acknowledging his duty. He watched the man leave on his
search before turning away from the camp to rejoin his own quest. Forlong’s men would
hunt down any remaining orcs so he didn’t feel the need to worry about that aspect, but
as he passed out of sight of the others, he stopped briefly.

It was important that his presence not be revealed to Denethor, especially if he were
using the seeing stones. He wished there were some way he could ask the Steward’s sons to
not seek after his identity or whereabouts. But it was too late for that. He sighed to
himself as he again headed west toward the Anduin where he would turn north in his search
for the creature Gollum, who may or may not hold information vital to the salvation of
Middle Earth.


Watching and listening at Forlong’s side to the status reports, Boromir wondered if this
latest attack was aimed directly at him and his brother. He’d yet to learn the secrets of
Galmar’s information net and would soon have to take action if things continued the way
they’d been. It was only a matter of time before his brother or he were killed, or even
both, and that would leave Gondor vulnerable to the enemy.

A strange feeling came over him as Belgar approached causing him to dig his fingers into
his brother’s shoulder. “My Lord,” the man said as he went to his knees before Faramir.

“We missed you, Belgar,” Faramir said, half in amusement and half in curiosity to his
bondsman.

“I was talking with Lord Forlong’s guest,” he answered. “He…”

“Enough,” Boromir said quietly, but firmly. “There are some things that do not need to be
spoken of.” His words surprised the three other men as well as himself, but he knew they
had to be said.

Faramir’s lips parted as if he would question his brother, but at Boromir’s forbidding
look, he nodded in acceptance. It didn’t matter what Belgar had to say, no one would ever
know what it was unless Boromir specifically rescinded his order. Bowing his head to the
ground and kissing his master’s feet before rising to assess the situation, Belgar waited
for new orders. He would push his early morning conversation to the back of his mind,
almost forgetting it unless he was told otherwise.

Serving his Lord Faramir was his life and even though he would go against Boromir’s
orders if Faramir told him to, he knew that would never happen. They were all caught up
in the bonds of loyalty and visions of the future. It was inconceivable that any of them
would challenge the order of precedence they’d created. In this hierarchy, as long as the
white throne sat empty, Boromir, Captain of Gondor was the final word, high priest to the
deity that would some day be their king.

Until the prophecy that gave them hope was fulfilled, the Steward’s heir would reign. 



Part 20: POLITICAL NECESSITY

Fall, year 3017 of the Third Age.

She hated that she had to be here, fulfilling her duty as a princess of Rohan. Sitting
beside her uncle at the high table, Eowyn held the smile on her face like a mask. She
wanted to scream and rage at the fates that had imprisoned her in the beauty that was
Meduseld when all she really wanted to do was ride with the herds of the Riddermark.

It wasn’t that Eomer or Theodred couldn’t take her place, but they had to be at the
forefront of the eoreds of their people. They were the military leaders of Rohan now that
Theoden had faded so. Also, she could do more with a simple look because of her gender
and resemblance to her mother, which helped soothe her uncle in his frequent descents
into maudlin reminiscence.

Deepening her smile, she turned to the king and encouraged him to take a drink of his
wine. She’d added herbs to it herself in the hopes that they would help him overcome
whatever poison Grima was using to drain his life and reason away. There was little hope
in this. Though she couldn’t see him fading on a daily basis, at the end of each week as
she reviewed her notes she could tell. It was slow but, at this rate, the king had less
than two years before his mind would be completely gone. If only she could just get rid
of the ‘worm’, but he was too firmly ensconced to be easily dislodged.

“Where is my son?” Theoden asked as he finished his wine. “Why isn’t he here to comfort
me?”

“He rides with his eored, my king,” she answered, refilling his goblet and offering him a
tasty morsel from his plate. “I read his last letter to you this morning, he is a fine
leader, uncle.”

The king nodded, his eyes clearing for a moment as he remembered the splendid detail
Theodred had used to tell of his exploits. His own youth had been spent riding with
Eomund who had later married his sister Theodwyn. Orcs had been fewer then and long years
had passed following the herds and keeping the festivals. It had been a life of unequaled
freedom.

“Let us have a feast this eve, sister-daughter,” he announced jovially. “Let us celebrate
being alive and the horselords of Rohan.”

Her smile was almost real as she heard her uncle’s words, even though she knew that she
would have to be extra vigilant during the feast. Those were the times when the ‘worm’
could be the most dangerous. Of course, it also gave her opportunities to sink her own
claws in where they would do the most good.


They’d ridden along the top of the White Mountains on old trails that had long been
forgotten by the rest of the world. There had been a couple of small bands of orcs that
had easily been overcome, barely impeding their progress. It was a hard, fast ride, the
Mearas the two brothers rode curtailing their own natural speed so that the armed escort
could keep up.

The signs of fall were heavy in the air this high in the hills. Soon winter would be upon
them and they would be concentrating on the planned spring push into Ithilien. Both
brothers knew that the stakes had risen much higher in the last two years and that this
might be their last chance to meet with Eomer before the next offensive. Coming down out
of the mountains west of the Firien Wood into the territory north of Ered Nimrais, but
south of the Great Western Road, they were far enough away from the Entwash that they
felt it was almost safe.

As expected, the Eorlingas were there before them, their bright pennants flapping in the
breeze. At the top of the main pavilion were the banners of Theodred, Second Marshall of
the Riddermark and Eomer, Third Marshall of the Riddermark. Boromir hadn’t seen Theoden
King’s son for over a year and Faramir had never before met him, due to the political
maneuverings of the current rulers of Gondor and Rohan.

Dropping down out of the foothills, they saw the two princes riding toward them at the
head of their eoreds. Urging their mounts to greater speed, they began pulling away from
their escorts as Theodred and Eomer did the same, since all four rode Mearas mares, which
were reserved for royalty. Rather than coming to a stop when they joined each other, they
turned to encircle the camp riding at full speed in a light-hearted display of
exuberance. Finally, they came to the grazing ground and each relinquished their horse to
the waiting Rohirrim.

“I have missed you sorely,” Eomer said to Faramir as he pulled him into his embrace. “It
has been much too long, nearly five years.”

“I have missed you as well,” Faramir told him as he surrendered himself to Eomer’s arms.
“Let us not waste any of our time together.”

“We must leave at dawn tomorrow,” Boromir said as the four strode swiftly to the
princes’ tent. “There isn’t much in the way of intelligence that I can share with you,
but we can coordinate our battle strategies as much as possible for the coming year. Our
people have noticed a pattern to the orc incursions into both our lands and I think we
can arrange a few surprises for them.”

“I would enjoy that very much,” Theodred said as he kept pace with the older men. “What
you have shared with us so far has helped immensely, despite my father’s reticence.”

The centerpiece of the large tent was a large table covered with maps. They were soon
joined by their chief officers as they examined the maps and exchanged information on the
latest enemy actions. There were leaders of many of the smaller eoreds and villages, all
men who were intent on protecting their herds and homes. It was late into the night
before they had finished with their planning and they were all exhausted from the long
session. Boromir was mostly pleased with the meeting but the tendency of the lower
chieftains to turn to Eomer and ignore Theodred bothered him. They were all in too
tenuous a position politically for the king’s heir to be slighted in any way.

As the last of the officers left the tent, Theodred helped Boromir roll the last of the
maps up as Eomer and Faramir reacquainted themselves with the insides of each other’s
mouths. The younger prince’s eyes widened in disbelief as neither man seemed to have the
need to come up for air, and then he stepped closer to Boromir as he noticed Belgar and
Nelis moving about the tent. He remembered his cousin telling him that they were
assassins before they were body servants to Faramir and they looked very dangerous with
their branded faces.

“Don’t mind them, your highness,” Boromir told him quietly. “They only seek to serve. My
brother and your cousin, on the other hand, are selfish and useless this close to
bedtime,” he added, giving them a dark look.

“Eomer has missed you both, my Lord Boromir,” Theodred said with a smile. “But Eowyn has
always said he is rather useless when it comes to certain things.”

“As my brother can be,” Boromir said a wicked smile coming to his lips. “I think we
should remind them of their duty.” Stalking over to where the two now lay in each other’s
arms on the oversized camp bed, he brought Theodred with him. Sitting on the bed beside
his brother, Boromir put a hand to his shoulder. Even though he was easily strong enough
to force Faramir to do anything he wanted, it took only the slightest touch to gain his
complete attention and compliance.

“Yes, brother,” Faramir whispered through kiss-swollen lips as he rolled to his back.
Instead of answering, Boromir placed a finger to his lips to silence him and the younger
brother lay back against the bed, waiting.

“When the time comes for the change, who will be king in Rohan?” Boromir asked, looking
Theodred in the eyes. “Who will take up the reins of rulership in the Riddermark?”

As the young man started to look down at his cousin, Boromir quickly reached over and
caught his chin in his hand. “A king does not ask permission to rule his people,
Theodred,” he told him. “He must take what is his and show no hesitation or his enemies
will think him weak. He must make his claim firmly or his allies and his vassals will
grow insecure and doubtful.” Moving his hand from Theodred’s chin to his shoulder,
Boromir gave him the slightest of encouraging shoves. “Claim what is yours by right of
blood, my prince. The Eorlingas need you to step past the bonds of childhood, to let your
teachers become your advisors, to take your place as Second Marshall of the Riddermark
and make all but the king bow down before you.”

Theodred’s heart was pounding in his chest so hard that it hurt as he finally lowered his
gaze to Eomer. This man who was closer to him than even his own father lay below him,
relaxed and trusting in a pose so like Faramir’s it made him shudder. He knew as his hand
slid into the hair of the one who had been his teacher from earliest childhood that all
of his training had been leading up to this one moment. As he claimed the lips of his
beloved cousin, he remembered what he’d been told of bonding with those whom he was to
rule. All the whispered confidences Eomer had shared with him of asserting his power
finally made sense.

It was strange to have his wild cousin so tame and willing beneath his hands as he slowly
removed his clothing. This was the man who had taught him almost everything, been there
for most of the firsts in his life. He guided Eomer to his knees knowing that it was what
was needed for their purpose. This was more than just a fun tumble like he’d grown used
to since he had taken his place as leader of his eored. It was intense and strange to
him, this rite of claiming. It was for Theodred’s benefit, as Eomer had always known his
place in the hierarchy of Eorlingas society.

His body knew what to do as he slowly entered his waiting cousin. It became clear to him
that he was the one who had to show their people who was heir to the king. Each thrust
brought him closer to understanding the commitment he was expected to make to his people
and his king. There were no words of ritual involved but as Theodred reached his climax,
he knew that he could fulfill his duty as Crown Prince of Rohan.

It took him a few moments to realize the Eomer would not move until he released him.
Moving back slightly, he gave a slight push to his cousin’s hip which was all that was
needed to have him roll over to his previous position. Theodred lay in Eomer’s arms not
sure he really wanted this change in their relationship. It was his big strong cousin who
had always made him feel safe and protected.


It had almost caused him to panic when he hadn’t been able to locate his sons with the
palantir. Thankfully, it had only been one night and then the strange solid blankness had
gone away. Unfortunately, it had given them time to get too far into the mountains to
recall them. Either they had learned how to create a new shield to defeat the palantir or
some other phenomenon had interfered. The latter was quite possible. The hills by
Lossarnach held many shrines that called on old power.

Also the cult that had sprung up around his sons was very strong in that area. Galmar had
brought him proof that even Forlong, who’d long kept himself out of Gondorian politics,
was a part of the new cult. One of its leaders even. Anything was possible once their
minions became involved.

As he watched them sleeping in the large tent belonging to Prince Theodred of Rohan, he
cursed their independence. They lay entwined with the prince and his cousin Eomer,
obviously having recently been lustfully engaged with them. Boromir stirred beneath his
gaze and Denethor was able to read the word ‘no’ as it left his lips as if he were
ordering his father to stop. A chill ran up his spine as his heir opened his eyes and
seemingly looked straight at him.

The palantir fogged, then cleared showing Saruman as he sat in his tower at Orthanc.
“Your sons’ defiance is dangerous, Lord Denethor,” came the honeyed tones of the white
wizard. “They are far away from their duty as they dally with the scions of Rohan.
Theoden seeks to place his own blood on the throne in the white city. Rumors speak of how
close the princess is with her brother and cousin. It would be an easy thing to send her
already with child to place some bastard of the Riddermark in the line of the Steward.”

Denethor hissed in reproach at his words, shaking his head in denial.

“You’ve seen them yourself,” the wizard pushed and suddenly the seeing stone fogged again
to clear, showing Boromir on his knees before Eomer as Denethor had seen them the
previous time they had been together. “Rohan would have Gondor on its knees; your sons
would be nothing more than figureheads to the barbarians of the west.”

“What would you have me do?” the Steward raged caught up in the wizard’s taunt. “I cannot
risk open war with my own sons. We are in enough danger as it is.”

“If you could separate them, you would see a great difference in how they behave,”
Saruman told him. Again, the palantir fogged and cleared, this time it showed Faramir as
he lay beneath his brother. He was spread open and beautiful, giving in to whatever
Boromir wanted. “Look at him, my lord,” the wizard prodded. “Even you could not resist
the lure of one so ready to please, one so pleasing to behold.”

Feeling himself harden at the sight, Denethor longed to turn away but found himself
captured by the alluring vision.

“As long as he can extend his hedonistic influence over your heir, there will be no
chance for reason to prevail. He spreads his legs quicker than any whore to bring his
brother down to the level of his weakness. You knew he would do this, back when they were
children, but he circumvented you even then. You remember the door he’d had installed
between their rooms solely to allow him to seduce his brother? This has been a long time
coming, my lord Steward,” the wizard crooned, stoking the rage that he was inciting. “The
elvish blood is strong in your youngest son and you know how they are.”

The Steward’s face became angry at his words, thoughts of the past clouding his reason.

“Yes, I see you remember,” Saruman said. “There is even a strong resemblance between the
two. I hate to think that the blood of the ‘wild elf of Mirkwood’ might run in his veins.
It caused you nothing but trouble the last time one of his offspring had free reign in
Minas Tirith. Heartache as well. You must take control of them now before it is too late,
my lord Steward. Separate the two so that Boromir will no longer be corrupted by elvish
influence.”

There had been nothing to show that Faramir had ever had anything to do with any elves,
but the wizard knew about Denethor’s prejudices and how to play on them.

“When they return from their little jaunt I will do what is necessary,” the Steward
stated firmly. He would no longer submit to their disobedience.

Saruman smiled in satisfaction as Denethor faded from his sight. He would push the
Steward every chance he got. Even though Boromir could change his father’s mind with very
little effort, sooner or later Denethor would break, and that could be used to his own
benefit. He would not stop until both Gondor and Rohan were completely under his power.


Standing toe-to-toe, Eowyn and Grima exchanged quiet, hostile words. “You will see that I
can convince your uncle to go along with my plan,” Wormtongue hissed at the enraged
princess.

“Then plan this,” Eowyn said as she buried the blade of her slender bodice dagger to the
hilt in his shoulder, the shoulder other than the one she’d stabbed a week ago.

Stifling his own outcry, Grima couldn’t help but move back suddenly as the princess
ripped the top of her gown in such a way that it appeared as if he were at fault. It was
the sixth or seventh time she’d caught him with the same ploy and he was beginning to
bitterly regret that it was her instead of Eomer stuck here in Edoras. Of course, there
was something a bit tantalizing, even arousing about the look in Eowyn’s eye and the way
she moved when she impaled him with her pointy toys. He was much older than he looked,
thanks to his wizard patron, and far more jaded than any as primitive as the Rohirrim
could even conceive. He’d long ago learned to make his own pleasures if necessary.

“I won’t sit idly by and be one of your pawns, ‘worm’,” she told him with a hiss of her
own. “I intend to fight you every step of the way, you will truly know what it is to face
a shield maiden of the Riddermark before I’m through.” She twisted the knife as she
pulled it out, causing even more pain but leaving only a small wound that was easily
hidden in the folds of his clothing. “I don’t think that either of us is ready for a
public confrontation, but I will be watching you,” Eowyn told him as she left the great
hall.

Applying pressure to his shoulder for a moment to stop the bleeding, Grima continued into
the room. They were at an impasse for the moment but he was sure that soon things would
change. The King would be very angry when he found out that Eomer and Theodred were
meeting with the Steward’s sons against his orders. If he played his cards right, he
would be able to assign some of the blame to Eowyn as well and then the balance of power
would shift to his favor. Eventually, he was sure he would be able to return the favor of
pleasurable pain to the proud princess.


“I hope you will be very circumspect about what you tell others about my efforts here,
Stefle,” Mithrandir said as they walked toward the main gate. “Some things are better
kept private. I don’t think the Steward would be pleased to know of my research.”

“I do not report to the Steward, my Lord,” the younger man answered. “It is not my place
to inform him of what you do.”

“And what do you think your Lord Boromir will make of it all?” the wizard questioned.

“He is more concerned with keeping Gondor safe from the enemy than ancient history, my
Lord,” Stefle answered. “Of course, if you have anything that might illuminate our
future, maybe some forgotten way to fight against the enemy? The war does not go well.”

“I wish there was something I could do to help, my friend,” the old one answered sadly.
“Maybe, if Iluvitar is willing, what I know now will aid us all, but there is nothing I
can share with your lord to change things now.” He paused for a moment as they passed the
entrance to the old marketplace. “Do you realize that we are being followed?”

“Other than by my people, you mean?” Stefle responded.

“Of course, I’m quite sure that your people have noted them as well,” Mithrandir said as
they neared the gate. “But I think you should take special note of the merchant in the
third ring.”

Only someone who knew him very well would have noticed a reaction from the younger man.
“I know whom you speak of,” Stefle said quietly. “It was not someone I would have thought
of.” He felt a pang of pain through his body. “Thank you for sharing with me, my Lord,”

“These are trying times,” the wizard said in a kindly voice as he put a comforting hand
to his shoulder. “I will watch for Boromir and Faramir as I go, it would be a good idea
for us to share information. Unfortunately, the urgency of my business will not allow me
to tarry and I will most likely miss them.”

“I can ask no more of you, my Lord,” Stefle told him, his head bowed with grief at what
he now suspected.


Brinel supervised the princess closely as she ran tests on the blood sample to see if the
same traces of herb and antitoxin were in it as the last times. It would rouse too much
suspicion if they took samples of the king and Grima always took charge of the dishes he
served to the king. So they took samples from the ‘worm’ himself. It was a most excellent
ruse the princess had thought up, using the man’s own lust and the common knowledge of
Eowyn’s fiery temper to cover her real aim.

“I think this is something new,” Eowyn said motioning for Brinel to look closer. They
didn’t have the elaborate facilities of Minas Tirith, but the two women had managed to
make a more than serviceable facility using one of Eowyn’s many dressing tables. Since
she used very little cosmetics, there was plenty of room for

There was a brownish change to the sample, which made Brinel smile with delight. “Yes,
you are right, your highness,” she told the younger woman. “This is something we can
definitely do something about. I’m glad you started making him taste the king’s food and
drink before serving him. It makes all of this so much easier.”

“I just worry that he might begin to suspect,” Eowyn said as she made notes in the diary
she used to record the king’s condition. “The ‘worm’ is not quite as stupid as we could
wish or his master would never have chosen him. At least I will not underestimate him if
I can avoid it.”

Brinel smiled at the princess’s words. She was very pleased to be assigned to such a
beautiful and intelligent woman. “You are such a prize for my lords,” she whispered in
Eowyn’s ear as she wrapped her arms around the younger woman. “They will be truly blessed
when you can finally go to them.”

Leaning back into the older woman’s embrace, Eowyn gave a throaty laugh as the older
woman pressed kisses to her neck and her hands went to sensitive places. She was very
glad that her future husbands had sent this woman to her. Besides being an excellent
teacher, in everything, she gave her hope that there would be a future, as well as
support through this time of darkness.


“If you didn’t think you were doing anything wrong going to Rohan then why didn’t you
tell me about it before you left?” Denethor asked, almost yelling at Boromir.

“I didn’t want to argue with you, father,” Boromir said in a conciliatory voice, glad
that he had insisted Faramir leave him to face their father alone. “Even if your
suspicions are true, it is in the best interests of Gondor that we keep good relations
with our neighbors. Theodred and Eomer don’t rule there yet, but they do command the
eoreds and that is ever more important to our survival. Trust me, father, I only do this
for our good.” As he spoke, he sat on the edge of the large desk and took his father’s
hand in his.

Looking into the hazel eyes, the Steward completely lost his train of thought. No one
loved him as much as his oldest son. No one supported him and followed his lead so well.
It never crossed his mind that this might be some trick, some hidden power Boromir had,
this ability to bring his father to his way of thinking.

“I am your loyal servant, father,” he told him in a low mesmerizing voice. “Let us
discuss our newest strategy against Mordor.”

The dulcet voice made him forget the hypnotizing words of Saruman, the inciting visions
he’d been shown. He could only hear his oldest son’s words, as if each time he fell
captive to one of their trances, he became more susceptible to the next. In his own way,
the Steward was becoming as weak and infirm as Theoden, continually swayed between the
driving personalities of the white wizard and his oldest son.


The list was long, too long. The name at the top of the list was very surprising and
Faramir looked up at Cara and Stefle as he read it. There was no need to ask if they were
sure and the expressions on their faces made his heart ache for them both. Of course,
many of his people would be saddened by the names on the list.

“Once we knew that my oldest son was involved, it became easy to trace the rest of the
conspirators, my Lord,” Cara said sadly. “I should have suspected him long ago, he was so
virulently against Stefle’s training, especially at such an early age. He always thought
I should have married his father. I have only myself to blame.”

“I know that you did your best, Cara,” Faramir told her. “We can only go on from here. We
need to decide which of these people need to be eliminated and which we can use to our
advantage.” With grim determination they began discussing what their next moves would be.


They stood facing each other in the small passage, so close they almost touched. The
sounds of Galmar and his companion coming up the stairway were clear to their ears. Their
location revealed by soft voices discussing treason and worse as they neared the hidden
door that led to their hiding place.

As they started up the next flight of stairs, Nelis opened the silent door and glided
forth with practiced ease. Following behind him, Boromir was immediately aware of the
slight scuffing sound he made and Galmar’s stiffening back as he heard it. Nelis had his
target well in hand and subdued on the floor, but the Steward’s body servant turned with
startling speed his belt knife reaching for his attacker. More used to combat than
stealth, Boromir took the blow to his shoulder without flinching, his large hands
reaching for his intended target.

Still he managed to use enough care to grab Galmar in just the right places to give him a
good grip without leaving any marks to be found later. A quick flex of muscled arms and a
thick crunching sound let them know that Saruman’s spy would trouble them no more. Laying
the body on the landing, Boromir withdrew the knife from his shoulder so as not to allow
any blood to drip onto the floor. He wiped it clean on the tunic of the young man Nelis
held and secured it in Galmar’s sheath. Then he tossed the body down the lower flight of
stairs, watching to make sure it landed looking as if Galmar had slipped on the long
stairway.

Two waiting servants came out of the secret passage and took Nelis’s charge to the
prearranged place while the assassin looked to Boromir’s wound. It was deep but narrow
and since it was Galmar’s eating knife, they were sure it hadn’t been poisoned. The
Steward’s heir was lucky so far. Nelis applied some powder from one of his pouches to
stop the bleeding and they both carefully checked the landing again to make sure no
evidence of what had passed was left.

At the opposite end of the passage, in a small anteroom, Boromir redonned his formal
robe, glad that he had not worn it to his earlier clandestine meeting. Stretching his
shoulder to make sure he had free movement, he went to rejoin his father and brother in
the great hall. The press of people wandering about was so great that his absence was
barely noted and since he returned from the same door used to access the privies, it was
not at all suspicious.


Holding his mother’s arm, Stefle followed the funeral procession out of the city. Since
his oldest brother, Leran, had never taken oath with the family, he could not be laid to
rest in the small room reserved for them in the House of the Stewards. In front of them
walked his brother’s widow on the arm of his second eldest brother, Deran, who had taken
oath with the family and had agreed to take his brother’s place. Deran also escorted
Leral, Leran’s oldest son, who was barely seven, and would one day inherit his father’s
merchant interests.

Cara and Stefle had no doubts that Leral would make a fine merchant and loyal family
member. Deran had lost all of his own children and his wife to an orc attack on the
village where they had lived. As a result, his loyalty to the family and the sons of the
Steward was even stronger. He knew that they were Gondor’s key to winning the war and
would do anything he could to aid them.

It was a shame that Leran had died so suddenly from apparent heart failure. He wasn’t old
for one of Numenorean blood, but he was well known for overindulging in wine and food. Of
course, very few would ever know that he also had close ties with the enemies of Gondor.
Even fewer would know or even suspect that his death was not brought on by his tendency
to excess, but by the knowledge of his treason.

Almost able to reconcile her oldest child’s actions, Cara kept her pace solemn and
resolute. It was in the best interest of the family as well as their lords, Boromir and
Faramir, that no one ever know of Leran’s perfidy. Only her heart and her conscience
would bear the scars of his treason.


It had caused more than a ripple in the status quo in Minas Tirith. As Faramir lay
against his brother’s chest, he contemplated the deaths of the last week. There was
nothing that could be called suspicious about any of them. Yet, they accumulated into a
rather startling panorama of Gondorian society. People from every rank and occupation
were suddenly dead and though there was frequently family, and usually those loyal to the
two brothers, ready to step into their place, it seemed just a little too pat.

“Are you sure father doesn’t suspect anything?” he asked Boromir for the twentieth time.

“I’m positive, beloved one,” Boromir answered, taking his brother’s chin into his firm
grasp. “But you know as well as I do that as soon as we are afield and Saruman has free
at him again that everything will change. We’ve covered our tracks as well as possible
and all we can do now is use our winter confinement to lock him into our way of
thinking.”

“It just unsettles me,” Faramir admitted. “I keep feeling as if we are missing something
important.”

“Until you find something concrete, I don’t want to hear anything more,” Boromir finally
told him. “The longer we discuss this, the more chance there is of it being spread. We’ve
both said more than enough for now.” His mouth moved to his brother’s neck as he
finished. “Soon we will begin our final offensive in Ithilien. Once we have left the city
there will be no time to enjoy your sweet body. So let us forget all of these political
problems until we are forced to think of them through necessity.”

Melting into his brother’s kisses and caresses, Faramir could only agree. As Boromir’s
hands gripped his hips and raised him into the perfect position for penetration, he could
only moan in ecstasy. Sinking down on that mammoth cock was an experience only equaled by
the large calloused hands that enclosed his own erection. There was nothing he could
think of that could make him feel this wonderful.

Their combined movements once again transported them to a place outside of their usual
realm to one where all possibilities existed. Here they could visualize the rescue and
restoration of Gondor, though they both knew that without some kind serious intervention
the White City, at least, would burn.

“Yes, brother,” Faramir moaned as Boromir thrust into him. “You make it feel so good.”

It wasn’t long before they curled up into each other’s arms, lost in the oblivion of such
close contact. “I love you more than anyone or anything in any world,” Boromir whispered
into his ear. “Let me guard you into sleep, my beloved one.”


Part 21: THE BRIDGE

June 19, 3018 of the Third Age

The campaign into Ithilien had been far more successful than anyone had expected. They’d
been able to push the enemy back to the crossroads where, in the near distance, they
could see Minas Morgul. Things had gone badly since then, however. It was not that they’d
been losing men, but the Steward had suddenly become unreasonable. Instead of allowing
them to withdraw their forces back across the river as originally planned, he insisted
they hold the ground they’d won.

Boromir was nearly beside himself with rage. Their offensive had taken much longer than
expected and all of his men were facing exhaustion. He’d hoped to be able to have a
midsummer celebration in Minas Tirith after retiring with most of his armies intact. As
it was, it would take some serious political maneuvering to cover his disobedience of the
ridiculous orders from the Steward. All but a carefully picked screening force had been
sent to key positions along the river on the pretense of chasing enemy forces.

In the morning he would personally go to Minas Tirith to convince his father of reason,
leaving his brother to bring their men back across the river. It would have to be
carefully coordinated for them to get out of this without serious losses. Without Galmar
to aid him, Denethor had become even more erratic and unreliable. Boromir almost
regretted the loss of Saruman’s minion, and feared that soon he would have to remove his
father from his position as Steward.

“Come, brother,” Faramir told him. “We have to rise early and you haven’t had nearly
enough sleep lately.”

“I’m quite sure that you have been sleeping even less than I, beloved one,” Boromir said
as he allowed Faramir to help remove his armor. “If we don’t make it out of this trap
alive I’ll haunt him forever. It’s so nice to watch father snatch defeat out of the jaws
of victory,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You have to admit though, brother, that there is something just a bit exciting about
being so close to the enemy’s stronghold,” Faramir said as he pushed the last of
Boromir’s clothing from him, leaving it in an untidy heap for Nelis and Belgar to take
care of. “Since you are planning on abandoning me tomorrow, I intend to feel all of you
tonight.”

Neither of them had been fully naked for some weeks now, feeling the need to be ready at
all times to go into battle. There had been several occasions where their caution had
paid off, but tonight they wanted to be in full contact with each other.

There was just a large pallet on the ground instead of their usual camp bed. This close
to Minas Morgul, it didn’t make sense to get too comfortable. Boromir grunted as he
landed on his back with Faramir on top of him. His brother was nearly out of control as
he locked their lips together in a savage kiss.

“Easy, little brother,” Boromir whispered to him as he rolled them over so that he pinned
Faramir to the ground. “You are always in such a hurry.”

“I want to feel you inside me before orcs start pouring out of yonder tower,” he said,
kissing and nipping at Boromir’s neck. “Our luck has been far too good for me to leave
anything to chance.”

With Faramir’s legs wrapped tightly around him, Boromir couldn’t help but fulfill his
request. The danger of their situation predominated everything and he had no desire to
leave this task unfinished. Their movements together were urgent, almost desperate. All
too soon, they reached their climax and spent a few precious moments holding each other
close.

Grudgingly, Faramir released Boromir as he sat up. “You’re so messy, little brother,”
Boromir said running his hand through the semen on Faramir’s chest. “It’s a good thing
Nelis and Belgar are here to clean up after you.” He couldn’t resist tasting his fingers
before running his hand through the sticky mess again and putting his fingers to his
brother’s lips. “As soon as all the campfires are lit and it is dark enough to hide your
movements, I want you to withdraw to Osgiliath tomorrow. I will have father’s approval by
then, you might even receive the orders before then. Don’t hesitate to retreat if the
orcs start coming out of Minas Morgul. It is more important to have an intact army than
to hold any of this land.”

“I will do as you say, brother,” Faramir answered as his servants helped them to clean up
before dressing again. “We will have to do something to keep this from happening in the
future. At the rate this is going, father will need a keeper soon.”

“If we could get him to stop using that stupid stone, he might be able to think again.
Not that that will happen any time soon.” Boromir shook his head in disgust at what they
faced in dealing with their father. He knew that Saruman was using the palantir to poison
Denethor’s mind, just as he was using Wormtongue to poison Theoden in Rohan. And there
was little they could do about it, short of deposing the two men.


The dream was vivid, almost as if he were awake. Great clouds of black smoke rolled
across the Pelennor and up the ramparts of the Rammas Echor. The stench of burning flesh
and worse thickened the air, making it almost impossible to breathe. The screams of
terror and hopelessness filled his ears. He stood alone watching the darkness swallow his
world.

As the darkness seemed to envelope everything, he saw a flare of bright light came out of
the west accompanied by the familiar voice.

“Seek for the Sword that was broken: In Imladris it dwells; There shall be counsels taken
Stronger than Morgul-spells. There shall be shown a token That Doom is near at hand, For
Isildur’s Bane shall waken, And the Halfling forth shall stand.”

It was the first time the words were clear to him and he wept as he watched Boromir
riding away into the light.

He woke in his brother’s arms, feeling the strong calloused hands caressing him. Words of
comfort were whispered in his ear as he became aware of the tears coursing his cheeks. It
seemed impossible to stop the sobs wracking his body, for he knew that the time of
waiting had passed.

“Come, little brother,” Boromir called softly, pressing kisses to his eyes and brow.
“Wake from your dreams.”

“It is time, Boromir,” he cried out, unable to stop himself. “I don’t want you to go.” He
buried his face into his brother’s shoulder, weeping as if his heart were broken.

“Hush now, Faramir, my beloved one,” Boromir soothed. “It will be all right, I will make
sure of it.”

Finally, he was able to calm himself and sit up next to his patient brother. “There will
be no more sleep for me this night, brother,” Faramir croaked as he gestured for Belgar
and Nelis to light the lamps. “I heard the words this time,” he whispered, leaning into
Boromir’s arms. “I think it is a riddle of some sort.” He repeated what he had heard
carefully, making sure that he got every word right.

“At least it’s metered well enough to be remembered easily,” Boromir remarked, brushing
stray hairs from his brother’s face. “As for when I have to leave, I think that is yet to
be seen.”

Rising to his feet, Faramir walked over to the tent entrance and pulled back a flap to
look out into the night. It was still an hour before dawn so he knew that the light
spilling across the sky wasn’t from the sun. It was the red glow from Mount Doom that lit
up the sky over the Mountains of Shadow, giving the sultry summer night a sinister
feeling. As Boromir came up beside him, they both looked to Minas Morgul where it was
seemingly encased in a black cloud. All its windows were dark, even though they knew that
it was fully inhabited by the forces of Mordor.

Standing there, leaning on each other for comfort, they saw the great gate at the base of
the tower open and orcs begin spilling down the long road. “Awake the camp!” Boromir
cried out before turning back into the tent to don his armor. It took only moments for
the tent to be filled with commanders and couriers ready to act immediately on their
Captain- General’s orders.

They had planned for this eventuality ever since they’d come within sight of the
crossroads. There were wagons full of caltrops waiting to be strewn along their back
trail. Within minutes, the majority of the remaining infantry would be double-timing back
to Osgiliath, only specialists would be detouring along side trails to set previously
prepared traps and pitfalls. The cavalry was mounting up, awaiting the orders that would
be dictated by the sharp-eyed scouts who were watching the enemy forces exiting the dark
tower.

Faramir stood at the forward edge of the camp, estimating the number and type of troops
advancing on their position. Their current and possible maximum speed was also part of
his observations. After a few minutes, he consulted with some of the other watchers and
then went to join his brother. Couriers had already been sent to order the Gondorian
forces to the western bank of the Anduin and to have the engineers begin the destruction
of the last bridge at Osgiliath. Still, there was a sizable group within the tent.

They were grim-faced men, the best of their commanders, in charge of the best of their
forces. As Faramir entered, they looked up from the maps on the table before them,
waiting expectantly for his input. Despite the lack of confidence the Steward still
showed in his youngest son, these men knew his worth.

“They have mixed forces of goblins and orcs controlled by uruks,” Faramir said as he
entered. “At their present pace they will overrun this position in about an hour. I’ve
never seen them move so fast. It’s as if their master is at their heels. There are also
Easterlings and Haradrim moving in full companies. So far they have no cavalry, but I
expect they will send mumakil with this advance some time around dawn. The animals don’t
see well in the dark, so that will be the optimum time to field them.”

“I’m sure you’re right, brother,” Boromir said after listening patiently to his report.
“They are doing just what we thought they would. We will go with our first plan. I’ll
withdraw to the bridge with the main cavalry where we will reinforce the defenses until
the bridge is ready to be dropped and all of our people are across. Faramir will be in
charge of the screening forces. All of you know what to do, I expect we will be on the
eastern bank by midday.”

As soon as the meeting broke up, the maps and table were taken out of the tent to be
packed onto the waiting drays. Everything but the tent itself was already gone and that,
too, would be dropped and loaded as soon as it was empty. All of the officers and aides
went swiftly to their prearranged duties while the two brothers spent a last few moments
together.

“Don’t be late to the bridge, little brother,” Boromir said in a voice husked by stress,
his forehead pressed to Faramir’s. “I’ll worry every minute we are apart.”

“I’ll give you all of the time I can, brother,” Faramir told him, firmly gripping his
shoulders. “We have been preparing for this for a long time, I know what to do.”

“Don’t take any unnecessary chances, my beloved one,” Boromir claimed his lips for a
desperate kiss after he spoke. “Come to me as soon as you are able,” he said in a low
voice, breaking away to join his waiting contingent before his heart failed and he
couldn’t leave his brother’s side.

Leaving the tent and joining with the Ithilien rangers who would make up the bulk of his
screening force, Faramir didn’t even notice the tent falling to the ground. Belgar and
Nelis were at his heels, prepared to follow their master wherever he went, even into
death. They all knew that it would be a long hard day as they were pushed back the
twenty-mile stretch between the crossroads and Osgiliath.


Unknown to most there was a narrow tunnel, which went from the root of the great bastion
that overlooked the Great Gate to near the stables within the seventh wall. It was well
guarded with armed men and secret pitfalls so that the city’s enemies would not be able
to use it, but a courier with urgent news for the White Tower could cut the usual time to
reach the city’s ruler by more than seventy percent. Still, the servants of the Steward’s
sons had established a method of passing information that halved that time. As soon as
the courier was within sight of the gate, there were those who waited and, seeing the
color of the clothing and tack of the rider, sent their own message to the Tower of
Ecthelion.

The old man would have been long retired in previous years, but with the constant drain
on manpower from the war he continued to serve the ‘family’. As he carried the tray of
goblets to the main table in the great hall, he stumbled on the slightly uneven
flagstones of the ancient floor. A ring on one of his flailing hands caught against
Denethor’s robes and, unbeknownst to him, barely cut the flesh of his upper arm.

Jumping to his feet, the enraged Steward slapped the clumsy servant, knocking him to the
floor. He was so busy brushing uselessly at the liquid spilled on his clothing that he
didn’t notice the almost imperceptible smile on the old man’s face. Striding angrily from
the hall, Denethor went to change his robes. By the time he reached his rooms, he began
feeling overly tired and since he hadn’t been sleeping well after Boromir’s departure to
Ithilien, he decided it was simple fatigue.

They were making such good progress now and it looked to him that they had gained
territory that had been lost for many years. He was able to disregard Boromir’s pessimism
and keep his hold on land that rightfully belonged to Gondor. It couldn’t hurt anything
if, for once, he took the day off to catch up on his sleep. It was well known that he
missed his oldest son dreadfully and that he had been less than hopeful about this
campaign.

So it was that when the courier reached the great hall, the Steward was not available to
receive his message. The courtiers in attendance knew that he trusted his heir implicitly
and only sent a message confirming Boromir’s decisions. The new messenger that was to
bring the confirmation to the Captain-General was also one of the elite members of the
‘family’ who had other news that would let the ruler, in all but name, know that his
plans were safe for the rest of the day.


By mid-day, Faramir realized that they were not going to slow the advancing troops very
much more than they already had and there was some sort of trouble with the bridge.
Despite the effectiveness of their efforts in killing and incapacitating the enemy
forces, they still pressed forward as if driven. It was the most bloody and gruesome
slaughter he’d ever seen. Already he was more than halfway to the bridge and could hear
the sounds of the engineers working at its supports.

As he reached a cache of arrows, he felt a strange sickening in his stomach and it seemed
as if the air grew darker, even though there were no clouds in the sky. Standing on the
branch of the tree where the cache had been hidden, he looked down his back trail to see
what was coming. He could barely make out the tower of Minas Morgul and, at its base,
what appeared to be a dark cloud was moving slowly in his direction. There was no way to
tell what it was from this distance, but its exit from the tower had incited the
attacking forces to new levels of frenzy. It was clear that he and his men were in
serious danger of being overrun.

Signaling his men to fall back, he began making his way to the ground so that he could
find one of the couriers waiting to take messages to his brother. There were many horrors
that the dark lord had at his command that could cause similar effects to what he was
seeing, but he was fairly sure of what they would soon be facing. If he proved to be
correct in his surmise, their only hope was to destroy the bridge before the enemy
reached it. And they could only hope that the Anduin would be deep and wide enough to
keep them safe for a while.


It took nearly four hours for Faramir’s rangers to be pushed back to the outskirts of the
city of Osgiliath. The Gondorian engineers had been using the rubble from the ruins to
make several rings of defensive fortifications since they’d retaken the eastern bank in
early spring. When they first arrived, they fell back almost to the bridge to rest while
heavily armed and well prepared foot troops took on the advancing horde.

“I thought you would have the bridge down by now, brother,” Faramir said as Boromir
embraced him.

“It seems that some fool thought it needed reinforcing and now we are having trouble
removing the braces,” Boromir said angrily, carefully examining his brother for injuries.
“How many did you lose?” he asked.

“More than three hundred and fifty, including Nelis,” Faramir told him dry-eyed, as he
knew casualties would start to rise drastically as the day went on. If they couldn’t get
the bridge down, it would get very bad for anyone in the eastern portion of the city. “I
have a very bad feeling about what is following behind them,” Faramir added, sitting at a
table and forcing himself to eat a bit before he headed back into the fray. “How much
longer before they finish at the bridge?”

“At least two more hours, little brother,” Boromir said as he cleaned and dressed
Faramir’s wounds. “The last of the added braces should be off soon and then it should go
by the numbers. Some of the farmers from the Pelennor are helping while their families
are evacuating. The Pelennor should be empty of non-combatants before sundown. As many as
possible are heading directly west into Lossarnach and western Anorien. Since there is no
palisade to defend it, I’ve ordered the town at Amon Din evacuated as well. I expect
father will be here around sunset, it seems he fell into a deep sleep before the courier
got there and no one dared wake him.”

They grew quiet for a few moments while Boromir finished his ministrations. Neither
brother wanted to talk about why their father had felt the sudden urge to take a nap,
though both were grateful that they hadn’t had to deal with him. He would be angry and
suspicious when he woke, but the seriousness of their situation would keep that on a back
burner until they had time to deal with him.

“Let’s go see how our men are doing, brother,” Boromir said as he finished up on
Faramir’s injuries. They knew they would both have many more before their day was over.

At the outer wall, they were surprised by the crazed behavior of their attackers. Already
the mounds of dead bodies were halfway up the walls in several places where orcs and
goblins sought to climb over their dead companions to reach the defenders. The ravening
horde of monsters and men was unheeding of the massive loss of life, surging and pressing
at the wall as if it was all that mattered.

In the distance they could see the slow approach of the black cloud, which caused a knot
of dread to form in their stomachs. Here at the wall, where they were holding their
position, the feelings of disorientation and fear were more noticeable.

“What comes, brother?” Boromir asked as he pushed the terror of the creature to the back
of his mind. “How can we fight this monster?”

“It travels slow even though I sense great power from it, so I’m sure the sunlight gives
it grief,” Faramir answered, trying to see through the distance. “I think it might be one
of the Nazguls come to lead the dark lord’s forces. Maybe even the Witch King himself
since he commands such a great force. The only thing we have that can stop him is the
river, and only if the bridge is destroyed.”

“You go help the engineers, little brother,” Boromir said, nodding his head as if
listening to an inner voice. “I will hold each wall as long as I can. I have my shield
and by the grace of Tulkas, we may still win the day.”

“As you order, brother,” Faramir answered with a salute. “They will not cross the bridge
if I’m still alive.”


Besides the unauthorized reinforcements to the long wooden bridge, there were also booby
traps that severed fingers and sometimes claimed the lives of the engineers working to
bring it down. Faramir had spent the last four hours waist deep in the water as he used
his own skills and encouragement to aid in their desperate efforts. The commander in
charge of protecting the bridge was somewhere in eastern Osgiliath fighting the advancing
enemy. If that man survived the battle, Faramir would make sure that he faced charges of
incompetence, if not treason.

Finally the great timbers that supported the main span were creaking with strain and
starting to give a little to the strong current of the Anduin. Behind him, Faramir heard
his brother sound the great horn of Gondor, calling all available to aid him as he tried
to hold the last barricade before the bridge. Climbing back out of the water, Faramir
drew his sword and knife as he ran to fight at his brother’s side.

Boromir was highlighted by the flames of the burning oil they had poured into the gap
between the last two walls. The orc and uruk forces were still attacking the wall and its
defenders even though they frequently burst into flames for their efforts. The Nazgul
that had been slowly progressing down the road had finally reached the first of the
barricades. It was a dark figure cloaked in black and riding a strange black horse with
red eyes and, by now, both brothers knew it was one of the dark lord’s most dangerous
minions.

The sun was setting and the fell creature was finally able to move a little more swiftly
in the evening twilight. Still, the obstacles of the walls, even though they’d been
already overrun, and the piled corpses slowed it considerably in its advance. The frenzy
its approach inspired in its own forces and the fear it caused in the defenders was
heightened by its nearness. However, as Boromir sounded the horn again it seemed to have
the opposite effect on all present.

As Faramir reached his brother’s side, he heard the sound of the bridge finally giving
way to the efforts of the engineers. The main span collapsed into the river, drawing a
cry of rage from the Nazgul as it spurred its mount to greater speed. There was no longer
any reason to defend this space, so Faramir grabbed his brother by his heavy sword belt
and began dragging him backwards towards the river. At first Boromir struggled, then
looking around to reassess the situation, he again raised the horn to his lips and
sounded the retreat.

They plunged into the river together, Faramir using his knife to cut the straps holding
Boromir’s plate armor in place. By the time they had dropped all of the extra weight and
reached the surface of the river they were a distance downstream from the bridge. They
set out quickly towards the western shore, doing their best to avoid the wreckage and
bodies floating in the water.


When he had woken, it had taken several minutes for him to become fully aware of what was
going on. Though he was well over eighty years old, he was of full High Numenorean blood
and could easily expect to live at least twice as many years. There was nothing wrong
with his hearing and every word that was being whispered outside his bedroom door was as
clear as if yelled into his ear. The enemy had reached Osgiliath and was threatening the
west bank of the river.

Rising swiftly, he called for his latest body servant to come help him don his armor. He
kept his anger back to be released on the enemy. If they weren’t enough to slake his ire,
then his sons would serve for allowing themselves to be pushed back by the dark lord’s
minions. There was also the question of what had caused his sudden desire to sleep the
day away.

As he strode through the halls, the latest reports were related to him by out-of-breath
counselors. All of the military advisors were at the river. Mounting his horse, he
spurred it to a run, causing people to scatter all the way to the Great Gate. The sun was
setting behind him as he rode hard toward the ruined city, wanting to beat the darkness
so that he could see with his own eyes what was happening.

His progress was slowed at the city by the hastily erected barricades that had to be
pushed out of his way. He had just reached the final barricade when the deafening sound
of the collapsing bridge reached his ears and he saw it falling gracelessly into the
water. Across the span of river he watched as, in the final rays of the setting sun, his
youngest son dragged his fully armored heir toward the mess of swirling wreckage and dead
bodies that was now the Anduin.

The outrage nearly overpowered him until the shrill heart-stopping scream echoed across
the river. At the last minute, he kept himself from fully looking into the eyes of the
abomination on the other bank. Suddenly he knew who and what his sons had been fighting
with such desperation to stop. It took all of his iron self-control to turn back to the
men watching in horror at what they had barely avoided so far.

Snapping quick orders for the defense of the river bank, praying that the expanse of
swiftly running water would be enough to halt the Witch King, he made his way back
through the city. Heading for the fords downstream, he added another prayer that his sons
had survived their plunge into the Anduin. As the first of the rafts ignited and floated
downstream towards his destination, Denethor vowed silently to himself to never listen to
the White Wizard again. He fully realized that, if it weren’t for his son’s actions and
planning, they could very well have lost far more than a bridge this day.

It still wasn’t sure that they could hold the west bank.


There were welcoming hands to help them climb the steep-sided bank as they reached it.
Boromir was barely finished coughing and spitting up the river water he’d swallowed
before bellowing orders to those present. Faramir followed silently behind him, gazing up
and down their defenses, carefully avoiding taking in the number of dead that floated in
the water. There would be time to count their losses once they’d stopped the enemy’s
advance.

They were still north of the ford so they headed south, both brothers issuing orders to
the captains who’d gathered at the sound of Boromir’s voice. Though they had been sure
that the bridge would fall eventually, neither of them had foreseen this scenario. They
were well prepared, though, and already the fords were lit up with the first of the small
barges that were burning merrily near the center of the river. Arming themselves with
weapons confiscated from those nearby, they headed to where the continuing battle was
thickest.

Boromir’s hands clenched almost convulsively at the borrowed sword and shield he held as
he yelled out orders to the troops both in the water and at the river’s edge. Everything
in his blood demanded that he wade out into the almost shallow ford and engage the enemy
himself, but duty held him to his position of directing the battle. The sound of cavalry
reached his ears and he cursed quietly at who would be foolish enough to bring horses
into this situation. He realized that it was the Steward, accompanied by his personal
guard, just as the night was pierced by another scream from the black clad leader of the
dark lord’s forces.

The river was wide and shallow here and very much threatened by the attacking army.
Though the Nazgul avoided running water if possible, it could cross here if it wasn’t
well defended. Both Denethor and his heir watched in enraged horror as the creature urged
its minions into the river, thankful that it was too far away for its red gaze to cast
any spells on the defenders.

Then Faramir stepped forward towards the river bank, a flaming arrow notched to his
borrowed bow and let fly at the opposite shore. The projectile arched up into the nearly
dark sky, swiftly followed by others. To almost everyone’s surprise, the first bolt fell
next to the Witch King, its strong fuel setting the orc it hit on fire. The Nazgul was
somewhat vulnerable to fire, so it backed its horse further from the bank, screaming in
rage and urging its minions to greater frenzy.

Stepping into the water a few feet, Faramir shot another arrow, which sped to land
burning in the ground directly beneath the Nazgul. With another scream of rage, it backed
even further and they could hear its hisses as it hurled curses at the Steward’s youngest
son. Undaunted, Faramir started firing his flaming arrows in quick succession, nearly
surrounding the Witch King with flames.

There was no choice but for the Nazgul to retire from the field. Every time it backed
away, Faramir stepped a little further into the river and fired again. The water was only
waist deep nearly to midstream and he had two men moving with him, one with the naphtha
soaked arrows and the other with a fire pot. This, along with his spectacular bowmanship,
made the forefront of the battle too dangerous for the Witch King.


As the sun rose over Ephel Duarth on that Midsummer Day, the battle was winding down into
its final phases. After a few words with his heir, Denethor had left to double check on
the other forces along the river. Boromir had carefully guided his men through the night,
frequently replacing the troops on the front lines with the rested reserves. Faramir had
control of the archers and kept not only the Nazgul away from the shoreline, but directed
his men to kill the uruks and Haradrim leaders.

The Steward and his sons rode back to Minas Tirith, their banners held high. The people
of the city cheered them as they passed. The great hall was cleared of all but the most
trusted of their councilors as they gathered around the high table to go over the reports
and add up the number of the dead and injured. The mood was dark and grim as even here
there were noticeable absences. For the first time in four years, neither of Faramir’s
bondservants were at his side.

Of the four hundred Ithilien Rangers that had held the enemy back through the previous
day, less than fifty had made it to eastern Osgiliath. Hundreds more had defended the
city to the bridge and only four men had reached the western bank. These included
Boromir, Faramir, Belgar who was injured so badly he would never walk again even if he
survived, and a young soldier who had only recently been cleared to fight. The losses
through the night were not as clear. As each commander gave his report and the tally of
those lost, the Steward’s face became more and more grim.

The final count was nearly five thousand men dead and over twice that in serious
injuries. It was nearly a third of the army that had marched across Ithilien. There were
scattered weeping and cursing among those gathered as the full impact of their losses hit
them. The Steward turned deathly pale while the two brothers exchanged expressionless
gazes.

After allowing a few minutes for those present to adjust to the information, Boromir rose
to his feet and began to issue orders. His confident command of the situation did much to
help assuage the fear and disappointment. As the room cleared with everyone going to
complete their assigned task, Boromir pulled a chair over so that he could sit between
his father and brother. He waited patiently for the last of them to leave and took the
offered goblet of wine from Stefle before continuing.

“Someone sabotaged the bridge, father,” he said quietly, leaning back in his chair. “They
reinforced all the supports and set traps to stop anyone from removing them. We almost
didn’t get the bridge down in time. If we didn’t have the river as a buffer, there is no
way we could have driven back the Witch King of Angmar. I have no doubt that he is the
one that was commanding the enemy.”

Denethor paled even more at his words, remembering approving minor repairs to the bridge.
He hadn’t even considered the implications and the fact that he was interfering with the
defense of Gondor. The traps meant that whoever had done the work and, possibly those who
had requested it, were in league with the enemy.

“If you can help us find any work orders for the bridge and anyone associated with it, we
will be able to get to the bottom of this sooner,” Boromir continued, ignoring his
father’s reaction. “Since we haven’t slept in nearly two days Faramir and I will retire
until tomorrow, if it is all right with you?”

“Yes, of course,” Denethor agreed, glad that his son wasn’t going to break into a tirade
about his mistake. There was nothing he could do to change what he had done, but he would
do whatever it took to make it up to his son and his people. Watching Boromir lead
Faramir from the great hall, he knew that he was going to have to make some serious
changes in the near future.


The smile on Boromir’s face was absolutely wicked as he and Faramir were cleaned and then
had their wounds dressed. Stefle was finishing the final accounting of who had died and,
while the list was long, it was not nearly as long as had been expected. Their
projections had been for them to lose at least twice that number. If they had brought the
bridge down earlier in the previous day, the sheer numbers the Witch King had would have
clogged the ford and allowed him to pass over the river.

As it was, they were sure they had destroyed over half of his army throughout the day and
another quarter of it through the night. It would be months before Mordor would be able
to build up enough man and monster power to threaten the west bank of the Anduin again.
The scheming and interfering of Saruman had worked to their advantage for the battle,
placing everyone exactly where they would do the most good to overcome the enemy.

More importantly, Denethor now knew that the White Wizard might not be on his side. If
Boromir said the right words, he might be able to convince his father to put aside the
use of the palantir as well, at least for a while. Despite the loss of so many of their
own, they were now in a much better position than they’d been in before they began the
campaign. For the first time in over a year, it looked like they might be able to hold
Gondor together until the prophecy of the king was fulfilled.

His smile faded as he remembered Faramir’s dream the night before the attack. It looked
like it was now time for him to take his place in that prophecy. He gathered Faramir
close as they lay on their bed, each of them too tired, for the first time in memory, to
do more than cuddle close to each other. Kissing his brow he whispered into Faramir’s
ear, “sleep, little brother.” Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with his father and
any dreams that wanted to change their lives.


Part 22: PARTING

There was nowhere else he would rather be. Sometimes he imagined that this was all that
existed in the world and he could just stay here forever with the beautiful body in his
arms pressed up against him so closely. It was more than love he felt. He loved his
father, despite all that had happened between them, he loved Eomer and Eowyn. All of his
many children and his brother’s children, he loved as well. But nothing was like this.

Looking into wide blue eyes he could almost see his own hazel eyes staring back.
Sometimes, despite the intense pleasure he found in the body pressed so close to his own,
he felt cheated by the envelopes of flesh that separated them. With slow, languorous
movements they moved together, hard aroused flesh rubbing against their bellies. So
close, so hot, so right, where he always wanted to be.

Nothing could hold back time and as slow as their movements were, they approached the
pinnacle of their desire with relentless progression. Keeping their eyes wide open,
knowing that the second they closed everything would change and they would have no choice
but to move forward. Breaths catching in constricted throats, fingers digging with
bruising force into warm flesh, they fought to become frozen in this small piece of
eternity. Their eyes fell closed simultaneously and both bodies were pierced with the
jolts of pleasure so strong they were almost painful.

In the stillness of the predawn, they were once again entwined in their blissful
connection. Closer than flesh, closer than blood, wrapped eternally in each other.


Although visions could overtake him at any time, they usually waited until Faramir was
sleeping. Especially the really bad ones. Always the ones he shared with his brother.

The sound of fire crackling, much as it did at their campsites where their men gathered
to eat and share company was steadily growing in their ears, all other sight and sound
hidden from their senses. It wasn’t quite right. As it rose to a roar, they were granted
the other sounds and sights of the vision. They were in a tight pressed group of humans,
elves, dwarves, orcs, and many other species, some of which they were ignorant. To one
side were two giant cave trolls who were randomly plucking individuals from their group
and tossing them screaming into a large fire watched over by the flaming eye of the Dark
Lord.

They barely had time to recognize the looming tower of Barad-dur before they were grabbed
up by one of the oversized monsters and thrown into the leaping black flames of the Dark
Lord’s altar. Their screams joined those of the other victims as they fell into the
burning darkness. Flesh blackening and falling away in ashy flakes, they were consumed by
the evil inferno. Then they rose up as wisps of fetid smoke to join the dark clouds that
sped into the false night.

The voice came out of the west, rising to drown out the horrific cries behind them.

“Seek for the Sword that was broken: In Imladris it dwells; There shall be counsels taken
Stronger than Morgul-spells. There shall be shown a token That Doom is near at hand, For
Isildur’s Bane shall waken, And the Halfling forth shall stand.”

In a flash of blinding light, they were transformed. Faramir was reformed as if he were a
stalwart wall and the roiling fog of evil hit against his base and was turned back to the
Dark Lord’s domain. Boromir became a stallion racing to the north bearing the emblazoned
tack of the king. The pain of their separation was worse than their fiery death, even
though they knew that this was the only salvation for their people.

Then all fell to darkness and out of it flared the light of a silver star surmounting a
pair of blue gray eyes that seemed to peer into their very souls. A cleansing wind rose
washing away the stench of Mordor with the scents of leather, sweat and kingsfoil. Peace
settled in their hearts and they felt the healing of the land as the brightness of the
star spread, covering all the world with its pure light.

Both of them woke gasping and pulling each other closer. There were no tears now. Though
their hearts felt as if they’d been ripped from their bodies, they could not regret their
destiny. The Valar had seen fit to allow them three and a half decades of being brothers,
longer than they’d really expected. Now they would fulfill their roles in the prophecy,
knowing that no matter what fate held for them, they would be rejoined at the end.
Whether in life or death, nothing would ever sever them from each other.


Leaning back in his brother’s arms, Faramir felt even more tired than when he’d finally
finished fighting the previous day. Their entire personal guard of one hundred forty
seven had been killed and they needed to find replacements before Boromir left on his
journey. It had been decided that forty men would do to start since the older brother
would be leaving alone. However, Boromir insisted that Faramir increase the number of his
bondsmen to four and made him promise to replace them promptly should they fall to battle
or other mayhem.

Two of the new manciples, Mablor and Hieling, had both been Ithilien rangers before
they’d started training for the possibility of someday being Faramir’s bodyguards. The
other two were assassins again, Riel and Lathan, older men who had spent as much time in
the military as in the houses of royalty in service to the Steward’s sons. Despite the
vision, Boromir was worried about his brother’s safety. The house of their servants had
been devastated by the battle, many of the warriors from the house had died or been
permanently disabled.

There was also evidence of other conspirators working against them in more than just the
sabotaged bridge. Some of their people had died mysteriously and important information
had been lost or altered. But Stefle was still in control of most of the city’s
intelligence.

“The wizard Mithrandir was looking into the records from the end of the last age,” Stefle
said in his quiet voice. “Specifically, the memoirs of Isildur and his accounts of the
‘ring of power’. It ties in with the latest vision my lords.”

“Just what I need, more dark magic to cause trouble,” Boromir groaned at his words. “Let
us hope that father doesn’t find out, I don’t think I could bear any more intrigue about
magical tools. I just may beat the next person who even suggests using such items.”

Laughing at his brother’s words, Faramir began moving to the edge of the bed. “If you
think father has suffered enough, I would like to get our meeting with him over with,” he
said, allowing the waiting servants to begin dressing him. His new bondsmen were to act
strictly as bodyguards so he tried to ignore them as they kept their attention on the
doors and windows in the room.

“This won’t end it, little brother,” Boromir told him. “He will use every chance he can
get until I leave to pester both of us into changing my mind. Worse, I’ll have to do
every thing possible to ensure that he doesn’t interfere with your command of the
military while I’m gone. I know that all of the present captains are loyal to us, but he
can do a lot of damage if you are forced to publicly oppose him.”

“I know, brother,” Faramir whispered as Boromir pulled him into an embrace. “But I am
confident in both of our abilities. I’m sure we will succeed.”

“I pray that you are right, my beloved one,” Boromir said, kissing his brow before
releasing him.


The familiar surroundings of his study gave him small comfort as he prepared to meet with
his sons. There had been no condemnation of him the previous day before they had retired,
but he could not expect Boromir to remain silent on his part in the near disaster. He had
never felt so lost as he did now. It was clear that he couldn’t trust Saruman, probably
couldn’t trust what he’d seen in the palantir as well. Through his error, they had almost
lost the west bank of the Anduin and possibly Minas Tirith itself.

With a last sigh at his surroundings, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He was
prepared to step down as Steward if that was what Boromir required of him. It would be
better to end his term in disgrace than to lose the realm to the Dark Lord. Hopefully, he
would be able to remain on as an advisor to his heir.

There was no sign of reproach on Boromir’s face when he entered the room, but the look of
grim determination sent a chill to Denethor’s heart. Even Faramir looked strained instead
of the usual look of impassive calm. They took their chairs quickly and his emotions were
running so high that he didn’t even notice the two new bondsmen accompanying his youngest
son. With a level gaze, he met his heir’s eyes and waited to hear what was coming.

“We need to make some changes to our methods of communication, father,” Boromir began
sitting back in his chair. “It could be disastrous if our efforts in the future come to
such cross purposes as they did at the bridge in Osgiliath. The enemy has too many
advantages and we too few resources to allow any more mistakes of that magnitude.”

“Of course I agree, Boromir,” Denethor quickly said, glad that he’d made no mention of
deposing his father. “I’m sure you have some suggestions?”

“Yes I do, father,” Boromir answered and then paused with a considering look on his face.
“There are some things you need to know though before anything more can be decided. I’m
sure you’ve had some of the visions we have had of the spreading darkness?”

Denethor nodded, even though his own dreams had been vague and further apart since he’d
been using the palantir.

“The night before the attack Faramir heard a riddle that went with the dream,” Boromir
continued. “Last night we both heard it again.” With that said, he repeated what they’d
heard.

Leaning back in his chair, Denethor considered Boromir’s words. “Imladris I have heard of
before. It is the elven stronghold of Elrond Halfelven, established during the second
age. They also call it Rivendell and it lies west of the Misty Mountains, on the edge of
Eriador, which was once known as the Realm of Arnor. It is very far away with no known
roads between here and there. None of our maps are up to date for that area either.” He
paused in thought, considering the rest of the rhyme. “The sword that was broken could
mean many things, but for Gondor it has always been Narsil. I know you’ve heard of it,
the sword that was shattered at the last battle of men and elves. Isildur used it to cut
the one ring from the evil one’s hand. Isildur’s bane might be the ring, for he
disappeared shortly after leaving Gondor carrying it.”

Both brothers nodded their heads, remembering the tales from their lessons. Denethor had
made sure that they learned the history of Gondor. The next part would be the hardest
part.

“I have to go to Imladris, father,” Boromir said, his words falling like blows on the
Steward’s ears. “That was also part of our vision and something we can’t change.”

“No,” Denethor almost yelled, sitting forward, not wanting to believe his ears. “Gondor
would be lost without you.”

“As flattering as that is to hear, father,” Boromir laughed sadly. “It is by no means
true. You still rule Gondor and do it quite well when you don’t rely on information from
questionable sources. I only run the army. As for that, Faramir has been at my side for
over twenty years and knows everything that I do about our defenses and the enemy’s
capabilities. We have gone over every foreseeable scenario and planned for everything we
could think of.” He paused, meeting his father’s eyes and continuing with earnest tones.
“There is no choice in this, father. I am the one who has to go. If we are to survive, we
have to take the initiative. I know that my going to Imladris holds the key to our
salvation.”

He had not expected this. He wasn’t sure he could accept it either. Boromir had always
anchored his world and the mere thought of his absence was unbearable. “Surely there is
some other way?” he exclaimed, unwilling to give in.

“I have never desired to leave Gondor, father,” Boromir said raising a hand to stroke
Faramir’s arm. “Or to leave you or my brother’s side. Especially to wander alone down
long forgotten trails, but I cannot shirk what is my duty to do. I would lose all honor
if I did.”

There was nothing he could say to counter Boromir’s words. He had taught them himself
that honor was to be kept at all costs. A part of himself that he didn’t even know
existed wanted him to curse and yell and forsake all honor rather than see his son on
this journey. “Have you made any arrangements yet?” he asked, feeling his heartbreak.

“Only that I will leave within a fortnight,” Boromir answered. “The archives are being
searched now for maps and any recent references about the lands to the north. But there
are other, more pressing matters we must see to first. I’ve begun the preparations for
the non-combatants to be evacuated from Minas Tirith.”

Denethor couldn’t help but gasp in shock at his words. “You’re sure that is necessary?”
he asked already knowing the answer.

“It could be as soon as three months that our enemies are ready to strike at us again,”
Boromir said. “They have the Nazgul to use against us, maybe even more than one and their
production of orcs and uruks continues day and night. We can hold out for a long time,
but if our women and children are caught here in the city when it falls, the whole of
Gondor could lose hope. Almost everyone has relatives in western Gondor, and for those
that don’t, we’ve been working on special arrangements.”

“You’re so sure the White City will fall, my son?” Denethor asked sadly.

“No, father,” Boromir told him, though he still remained grim. “But I would rather be
prepared for the worst than know that orcs and goblins eat our children. My brother and I
have already lost far too many in the constant fighting.”

Denethor nodded slowly at his words, he rarely thought of his sons’ children, his
grandchildren. They were sometimes fostered to highborn families in Minas Tirith, those
born of proper rank, but he knew none of them personally. He didn’t want to know them and
always associated them with whatever house they’d been born to rather than to his own. As
for those of low birth, he didn’t want to think of them at all. Despite what he didn’t
really want to acknowledge, they were still a fact of his life. There was a very exacting
and well-established order of precedence, which would choose a new heir should he and his
sons die before they produced a child from marriage.

“I had noticed that even as you fought to hold west Osgiliath that the Pelennor was being
evacuated,” he said with a grimace of distaste. “It will be lonely for many here in the
city and on the Pelennor without their families. I’m sure they’ll be happier knowing
they’re safer in the west.” He felt defeated, lost without any chance of rescue.

“Worry not, father,” Boromir told him with one of his beautiful heart-melting smiles. “I
do not plan on losing to the Dark Lord. If we can hold together through this time of
darkness, we will be successful. Just have faith in our plans and visions. They have kept
us alive so far.”

The Steward nodded and acquiesced to his heir. Boromir had kept them safe this long and
pulled them out of what could easily have been the final battle for Minas Tirith, against
such formidable odds that it was impossible for him not to have faith in his eldest. It
would have been very easy for his sons to denounce his part in the sabotage of the bridge
and have him removed as Steward, even put to death for treason. But they had chosen to
overlook his glaring weakness that had so endangered his people and allowed him to
continue in his current office. He would do whatever was necessary to earn their trust.


There had been many funerals for the dead and more planned, but Denethor had readily
agreed to his son’s suggestion of a large public ceremony for those who had died in the
battle for the bridge. It was only four days later that most of the local populace
gathered beneath the Great Gate of the City. A large bonfire was at the center of the
gathering and to the west of it on a raised dais the Steward watched the proceedings from
a large throne-like chair. Boromir and Faramir wore long blue robes emblazoned front and
back with the White Tree of Gondor. They stood slightly behind Cara who was dressed
similarly and called on the Valar to watch over the departed spirits and those who were
still living.

Stefle stood to the north and Draymor to the south each intoning the names of the fallen
as Cara led the gathering. Interspersed throughout the crowd were members of the ‘house’
who helped those unfamiliar with the ritual. That the Steward and his sons were present
was a great comfort and inspiration to the people. Even Denethor could see how the
charismatic personalities of the two younger men affected the crowd. They moved through
the ritual with the ease of long practice. The leaping flames of the fire made them shine
out among the predominantly dark Gondorians, two golden princes.

Baskets of herbs and incense were thrown into the great pit of fire causing the flames to
flare and climb higher into the night. The sweet scent spread over the gathering and the
Steward was caught-up as he had never been in any of the ceremonies of his youth. There
was something frightening and beautiful in what was happening before him, much like his
two sons. For the first time since the battle, he felt almost comforted. Maybe even for
the first time since he’d lost his trusted aide, Galmar.

At the end of the ritual, most of the people filed past the dais where Denethor sat, his
sons standing before him and giving kind words and blessings to their people. The Steward
felt a little as if he had been tricked into validating their cult even though the
results were more positive than he would have believed. As torches were lit from the
great bonfire to illuminate the trestle tables groaning with food, the loaded wagons that
waited to carry the first caravan of evacuees also became visible. It would be months or
years before men could gather with their families before the city of Minas Tirith again,
if ever. It was a small enough thing that he did to allow his sons to give comfort to
their people.


As the flames leaped into the night sky and the incense filled his lungs, Faramir let his
mind wander as he moved through the familiar steps of the ritual. So many had died in the
last few years that it had been performed almost monthly and usually for more than one.
It did help to soothe him but wasn’t quite enough to calm all of his pain and fears. In
only a few more days, Boromir would be leaving and nothing could turn his thoughts away
from that completely.

Already the process of their separation had started. They met daily with the captains and
royalty of Gondor. Some meetings were private to secure the loyalt
but most were under the watchful eye of the Steward. How long their father could be
trusted before he fell back into his old ways was also in question.

With a heavy sigh, he released his worries and immersed himself into the ritual. Despite
his visions, there was no definite view of the future. He could only do his best and hope
that it was good enough.


Long ago Boromir had given himself up to belief. Not a night had passed that he didn’t
spend with his beloved brother, either physically or in his dreams. At every ritual he
heard the words of Tulkas, often only echoes of his first vision of him, but sometimes
there was a new message for the Steward’s heir.

“You would sacrifice all for king and country?” the laughing giant asked.

“There is no other choice,” Boromir answered. “The means to fight the Dark Lord are not
here in Gondor, so I must go and get them.”

“Do you know what you seek?”

“I have the hints from our visions and the knowledge of my heart,” Boromir told him with
firm conviction. “Even if there is no aid for me from the Valar, I will find my way. I
will find my king. I will save my people.”

“And your brother?” Tulkas queried.

“He will hold Gondor. He will fulfill his task and make me proud.”

“You have no doubts?” Tulkas pushed.

“There is no room for doubts,” Boromir told him. “If I allowed any, I would not be able
to leave.”

“Your road is long and dangerous,” Tulkas said with sympathy. “There will be many
challenges to be faced but I have faith in you, if you mind your shield and keep your
faith.”

The vision of the laughing giant faded from his view, but not his words. Boromir felt
that somehow there was more to them than he understood, but only time would tell.


“I would stay and help defend the city if I wouldn’t be more of a burden than a help,”
Belgar said from where he lay in the wagon surrounded by the three young people he had
brought into the family from the town below Amon Din.

“I couldn’t imagine you being a burden, no matter your injuries,” Faramir assured him as
he sat at his side. “We need you to keep our children safe, I would trust no other as
much as I trust you.”

“You are too generous as always, my Lord,” Belgar laughed, no longer obligated to call
him ‘master’. “But I will do what I can. The healers think I should be able to start
getting used to getting around without my leg in only a few months.”

“I’m sure you’ll surprise them,” Boromir told him from where he stood at the end of the
wagon. “Cara will have plenty of other work to keep you occupied until then. Since you
are leaving both Shirel and Birel with Faramir, you and Firith will have much to do.”

“It is their choice, my Lord,” Belgar said. “I would have them with me where it will be
somewhat safer. But I am glad to see that Lani will be coming to Lamedon with us. Her
presence has always been a comfort.”

“Yes it has,” Boromir said with a broad grin. “I leave it in your hands to see that she
is well occupied. As the senior male member of the ‘house’ it is no more than your duty.”

All three men laughed, even though the younger people present hadn’t yet learned the
usefulness of Lani, the only mistress of the Steward’s heir.


It had been nearly nine years since Denethor had climbed the long stairs to the suite of
rooms his sons occupied. He wondered at their invitation, knowing that some point would
be made during the meal. Boromir guarded his time with his brother now jealously, even
when it came to their father.

“I would go in your place, brother,” came a quavering voice that Denethor barely
recognized as Faramir’s. The younger brother had always been so resolute in his father’s
presence. “Father prefers you to run the army and I speak more languages than you do.”

“If preferences were involved, I would take you with me or not go at all, little
brother,” Boromir told him firmly. “We must do our duty and the visions have been very
clear on who must go and who must stay.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Faramir said in a husky voice.

“It is what I must do, my beloved one,” Boromir told him. “It is only for a time and then
we will be reunited. I shall bring aid to defeat the enemy and while I’m gone, they will
break upon your defenses like the waves on the breakwater at Dol Amroth. At the end, we
will be united in victory, there is no other choice.”

“As you will, my brother,” Faramir said, his voice becoming firm. “I am ever your
obedient vassal. I will endure the shadow that is life without your presence and fulfill
my duties to Gondor as your agent.”

“I know you can be counted on, little brother,” Boromir told him. Denethor came to the
open door then and saw his heir kissing Faramir’s brow, a not uncommon sight. But the
younger man was on his knees before his brother who was sitting on a low couch and when
he was released, he backed away to the side but remained kneeling on the floor. “Here is
father to join us for our meal,” Boromir said, standing but keeping his hand on Faramir’s
shoulder so that he wouldn’t rise. “Come join us, father,” Boromir invited, indicating a
matching couch on the opposite side of the low table.

“I am honored that you asked me to join you, my son,” Denethor said as he took his place.

“It is an honor to us that you accepted, father,” Boromir said with a warm smile, but a
look to his eye that was a bit frightening to the Steward. “This way, we can relax in
privacy and enjoy one of our last nights together before my journey.”

Denethor smiled and agreed even though he took note of the twenty or so servants who
moved silently about the room bringing food and wine, not to mention the armed guards
that lined the walls, including all four of Faramir’s bondsmen. Even this high up in the
tower, it was hot as all Gondorian midsummers were and both brothers had dressed lightly.
Boromir wore a pair of knee-length pants and an open vest while Faramir wore only a
matching pair of pants. Despite the servants, Faramir served his brother from the dishes
presented, cutting the meat and pouring the wine. He had no plate or goblet for himself
eating and drinking only from his brother’s hand.

It was a bit unnerving for the Steward to watch the intimacy between the two, especially
since Boromir fed his brother from his fingers and the slight movement forward after he
took a sip of wine before lowering the goblet to his brother’s lips let Denethor know
that their usual practice was even more intimate. More disturbing were the glimpses of
cuttings and tattoos that had transformed the scars of both his sons into works of art.
From the tree cut into Boromir’s chest to the representation of Minas Tirith on Faramir’s
back, they’d altered each other as if in defiance of fate.

Still, it was a pleasant meal. Boromir was at his best in drawing his father out and
Faramir only spoke when directly addressed. It filled a deep need Denethor had to spend
time in his sons’ presence. A part of him regretted that he’d never cultivated such meals
with them. Their closeness to each other seemed much less threatening by the end of the
meal.

“Go prepare my bath, little brother,” Boromir said, placing another kiss on Faramir’s
brow. Denethor knew that servants would most likely do all the work but Faramir rose
without protest to do his brother’s bidding, his bondsmen following behind him.

“He has always been so willing to follow your lead, my son,” Denethor said as Faramir
left the room. “Are you sure he is a strong enough leader to run the military while you
are gone?”

“If the sight of him pushing the Witch King of Angmar into retreat isn’t enough to
convince you of his ability, what would suffice, father?” Boromir asked, his eyes full of
reproach. “I do not make decisions lightly. He has ever been my best counsel and I have
absolute faith in him, as do our armies.”

The Steward paused, remembering the flaming arrows that had driven their foe back from
the banks of the Anduin. No one had given Faramir the orders that had saved the day; he
had taken it upon himself. “It is hard for me to accept any substitute for you, my son,”
Denethor said with a heavy heart. “No matter his skill, he is not you.”

“But he is me, father,” Boromir insisted. “He is the other half to my soul and knows all
that is within my mind and heart.” At the Steward’s expression of disbelief, his heir’s
face turned grim. “If you do not accept him in my place, father, I will have no choice
but to take him with me. It would be no burden, in fact it would be most pleasing to both
of us.”

The words ‘never to return’ echoed throughout the Steward’s mind even though they hadn’t
been spoken. It was easy to visualize his sons roaming the whole of Middle Earth once
responsibility had been removed from them. “I will do as you say, after all it is your
warcraft that has saved us so far.”

“So tomorrow at my parting feast you will announce that Faramir is to take my place as
Captain General while I’m gone?” Boromir asked in all seriousness.

The pause before his response was so long that they both almost thought that he would
refuse. “I will make the announcement at tomorrow’s feast, my son,” Denethor finally
conceded. “Now is not the time for there to be any discord among us.”

“You will go down in history as the best of all the Stewards of Gondor, father,” Boromir
said with a full smile that almost put his heart at ease. “Let us have a drink to settle
our meal.”

As Stefle moved forward and poured each of them a small glass of brandy, Denethor
realized that there were at the least thirty witnesses to his words here in this room.
Even though his word to his oldest son was enough to bind him, he was startled that he
had become unaware of so many others present. But he was comforted that Boromir always
did what was best for Gondor. He always did what was best for his family.


As he prayed for dawn to never come, Faramir straddled his brother’s hips, moving slowly
in the candlelight. He rested his hands on Boromir’s shoulders as his hips were gently
guided by the strong bruising grip. They had been doing this at every chance for the last
two weeks and still they hadn’t done it enough. They both knew there would never be
enough.

“I want you to remember this, little brother,” Boromir whispered into the shadowed room.
“For all the time that we are parted, I want you to know that in the end we will be
rejoined. You are the other half to my soul.”

“I will remember, brother,” Faramir groaned as he felt one of Boromir’s hands move to his
leaking cock. “I will not be whole again until your return.”

They reached their climax together only to start again, continuing until it was time for
Boromir to leave.


The two brothers rode side by side, followed by Faramir’s bondsmen and the escort that
would accompany Boromir as far as the border with Rohan. While it wasn’t exactly a secret
departure, the streets were clear of spectators. The sun was just barely peeking over the
Mountains of Shadow when they reached the Great Gate, passed through and turned north
along the western road. When they had traveled about a mile, reaching the secluded place
in the road where Faramir had first ridden out to welcome his brother home, they stopped.
The escort continued to the edge of the clearing while Faramir’s bondsmen moved a few
paces away to give them a little privacy.

“May the Valar keep you safe, little brother,” Boromir whispered as he leaned from his
saddle to embrace his brother.

“May they watch over you, brother,” Faramir said his voice husky with emotion.

“I have my shield and the favor of Tulkas, my beloved one,” Boromir assured him with a
smile. “It will seem like only moments have passed when you see me returning with the
promised one to help save our people.”

“It will be an eternity, only my dreams will keep me sane, hurry home to me,” Faramir
whispered as he pressed a kiss to his brother’s cheek.

“Fare thee well, little brother,” Boromir said before he kissed his lips one last time.
Turning his horse, he rode away, not looking back lest he abandon his quest.


Part 23: FAREWELL IN ROHAN

At the western edge of the Firien Wood Boromir drew rein and ordered his escort back to
Gondor. In the clearing before them waited Eomer with his Eored, ready to accompany him
through Rohan. It was still early, so they rode a distance to the west coming to a small
town that was little more than a way station before they stopped for the day.

Theodred was already encamped with a large contingent of Eorlingas waiting to discuss
strategy with the Steward’s heir. They had had a successful spring and early summer
campaign because of the advice of the two brothers and were eager to discuss more. Also,
there was the tale of the loss of the bridge at Osgiliath which they wanted details on.
The strengths and weaknesses of the enemy were vital to their survival.

A huge feast had been prepared and Boromir was gratified to see that Theodred was firmly
in charge. The young prince guided the conversation at the table to neutral subjects,
declaring the morning was soon enough for news of war since there was nothing pressing at
the moment. The evening passed in a jovial mood and Boromir found himself more relaxed
than he had been for months.

Eventually Eomer rose to his feet, bidding his cousin good night and urging Boromir to
follow. He was somewhat surprised that Eomer had his own tent a few yards away and
wondered if there had been some sort of discord between the two cousins even though there
had been no sign during the meal.

“You look so surprised, Boromir,” Eomer laughed as he embraced him. “We discovered that
as long as I shared Theodred’s tent, many thought that I was still in charge. With my own
notably smaller pavilion, it makes it clear that I serve him.”

“And I know you serve him well, my wild prince,” Boromir whispered in his ear as his
hands skillfully removed Eomer’s clothes. “There are few as talented as you.”

“I have missed you,” Eomer told him, stroking the man in his arms. As they moved toward
the bed, he realized that he was definitely taller than Boromir, but the older man was
broader with the heavy muscles built up from wearing full plate armor.

Boromir loved to look at Eomer spread below him. His body was full of sharp contrast that
thrilled his hands and eyes. Very short blond hair covered him everywhere except for his
beard, armpits, crotch and legs. There the hair was longer and so dark a brown as to be
almost black, like the hair that grew at the base of his skull before the sun bleached it
to match the rest. He’d never met anyone else with two such different hair colors. In the
last year he’d gotten a few more scars, but his skin was still fairly smooth over hard
muscle. Such a pleasure to touch.

“We have this night, my prince,” Boromir whispered into his ear as he rose up over the
younger man. “I want to feel you in me.” Slowly he sank down on the fully erect cock,
emitting a low moan as he felt the penetration.

It always felt good to ride Eomer's long, hard cock. The younger man wrapped Boromir's
large penis with both well-oiled hands. He knew how to hold it just right so that Boromir
threw his head back in ecstasy, exposing his long neck. Leaning further back, he braced
his body, holding onto Eomer’s thighs just above the knees. He looked down past the long
bow of his own body to watch the younger man as he arched beneath him.

Eomer bit his lip to keep from crying out. Boromir always surprised him with his
imaginative and athletic maneuvers. It was bliss to once again be joined with him and
reaching for that deeper, more fulfilling union.


The moment that Boromir and Eomer came within sight of each other, Faramir knew. His
heart, which had felt like it had been filled with broken glass, was soothed, even though
the emptiness was still there. It made it easier for him to concentrate on the myriad of
duties that he now handled for his brother.

Freed from political and military meetings, which had taken up most of the morning, he
checked on the evacuation of the city. Minas Tirith had originally been built as a
fortress and had only become the capital of Gondor after the city of Osgiliath had been
destroyed nearly fourteen hundred years earlier. Then it had been called Minas Anor,
Tower of the Setting Sun, now it was the Tower of Guard. There were storage facilities
that could hold enough supplies to keep it self-sufficient for years. The vast cisterns
within the living rock also held an endless supply of water.

But if the enemy used such monsters as the Nazgul, it wouldn’t last for more than a few
days. There was no stone strong enough to hold back the evil magic of the Ringwraiths.
Few, if any, could resist the terror that preceded their arrival. Faramir was also sure
that there were other creatures the Dark Lord had at his disposal. He would not count on
mere stone to protect his people.

At the end of the long day when he had done all that he could to ensure the safe
departure of the latest caravan, he retired to the rooms he shared with his brother. He
submitted to the care of their servants, allowing himself to be fed and bathed. His
bondsmen rested in their beds one on each side of the room, knowing the morrow would
bring another busy day. This place was safer than any other and they needed to be at
their best in the halls of the tower and the press of the city.

Already, he could feel the first heady round of lovemaking begin between Boromir and
Eomer. He was glad that his brother had kept his word and waited until late so that he
didn’t lose his focus in an important meeting. Still, he