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 31: RIVENDELL

Boromir had found a pleasant sunny spot in the extensive gardens to sit and relax, as
Aragorn had ordered him to. The older man had left to meet with the scouts and rangers as
his foster father had bid him. Legolas hadn’t been in the rooms they now shared when he’d
returned that morning, so he decided to spend the day in idle contemplation. At least
until lunch when he was sure he could find a worthy opponent to spar with. It wouldn’t be
disobeying, really, since he was at his most relaxed when he held a sword in his hand.
Boromir was also interested in getting to know the hobbits better, especially since he
would probably be traveling with them soon.

As he thought about the halflings, he became aware that two of them, Merry and Pippin,
were moving across the small glade in front of him. Almost as hard to see as a hiding
game bird, they seemed intent on an elf tending a flowering bush not far away. Then
Pippin turned his gaze to Boromir and winked. He watched them as they walked silently
through the grass until they were directly behind the unsuspecting gardener.

"What're ya' doing?" asked Pippin, his face a picture of innocence.

The startled elf leapt straight up into the air and landed in an undignified heap at
their feet. He glared up at the two rascals, before rising to his feet in a graceful
movement. "Didn't Lord Elrond tell you to stop sneaking up on people?" he snapped.

"Oh, we weren't sneaking," Merry replied. "Lord Boromir could tell you, he saw us plain
as day."

"And everyone knows that men aren't nearly as sensitive as elves," Pippin put in, his
face completely guileless. "At least as far detectin' things," he added, as if just now
seeing the double meaning of his words.

The unfortunate elf gave Boromir a dark glare before huffing loudly and stomping off.
He'd never suspected that an elf would huff or stomp, let alone be surprised by two
childlike halflings. Unable to help himself, Boromir burst into laughter.

"You shouldn't laugh at the gardener," Merry told him as they approached. "We've been
told that they aren't here for our enjoyment."

"Yes, twice by Elrond and once by Gandalf," Pippin added, sitting in the grass next to
Boromir.

"I'll bet you have,” he said still chuckling. "Maybe the gardener earned your
attentions."

"Oh, he's a fine smart fellow, he is,” agreed Pippin. "Why, our very first day here, he
gave us a very informative lecture."

"Yes, indeed," confirmed Merry. "He told us we were to be careful not to harm his plants,
us being so young and ignorant."

"Aye, if he hadn't wised us up, we might never have made the connection that this garden
has plants in it, just like our own at home."

"Sounds like he’s a bit puffed up," Boromir commented.

"We have found that there are some very important elves here. We might have missed them,
but they were kind enough to let us know,” said Merry.

"We keep trying to show them how much we appreciate their superiorness, but they just
don't seem to understand," was Pippin's comment.

"I hope I don’t have the same problem with them," Boromir said. “I’m not sure I could be
as patient as you two.”

“I don’t think that they will hold you in the same regard as they do us,” Merry
commented, looking at the large man who, even in the elaborately decorated tunic and
pants the elves had given him, looked very dangerous.

“After all, everyone knows that we are a young race and not given much to seriousness,”
Pippin added.

“I would have thought that those of the Eldar race would have learned better than to
judge by appearances and rumor,” Boromir said.

The two hobbits exchanged a pleased look before turning back to the man. "According to
the maps Bilbo has showed us, Gondor is quite close to Mordor." Merry changed the
subject, knowing that it was quite possible that other ears were listening to their
conversation and wanting to avoid any further lectures from the wizard or the Lord of the
Valley.

"Too close," Boromir answered. "I have been fighting the forces of Mordor and their
allies most of my life. My people have been at war with them since before I was born."

"We've never been to war," said Pippin.

"It wasn't until we set out with Frodo that we ever even held a sword,” added Merry. "Not
that they did us much good against those nasty Nazguls. If it wasn't for Strider, they
would have got us for sure at the inn."

"Or at Weathertop, where they stabbed Frodo," continued Pippin.

Boromir had heard only bits and pieces of the hobbits’ journey to Rivendell. Though he
knew Frodo had been injured, he hadn't known how. "Tell me of this trek of yours," he
said. "It sounds very brave."

The two hobbits told him in great detail, with many half-hearted complaints about missed
meals, of their adventures. What they told him coincided with what he'd already heard,
and he realized there was very little exaggeration in their tale. Of course, it needed
none.

Pippin told of the eerie journey he had made with Frodo and Sam from Bag End to the Ferry
at Bucklebury where they’d been met by Merry and taken their rest at the house at
Crickhollow. Both hobbits told of the frightening adventures in the Old Forest where they
were almost eaten by the trees and rescued by Tom Bombadil and treated to the great
hospitality of his Lady Goldberry. Then they shared the tale of how they’d been lost on
Barrow-Downs and almost taken by a Barrow-wight and again rescued by Tom. Eagerly, they
each showed him the Westernese blades Tom had given them from the barrow.

Boromir was quite impressed with their tale and listened avidly to the rest as they
shared the food they were carrying in their pockets with him. He knew that storytelling
was something they did regularly as they recounted vivid descriptions of the village of
Bree, the meeting with Strider and the narrow escape from the black riders. Though their
journey was easier once Strider became their guide, it was only shortly thereafter that
Frodo was wounded and the rest of the distance to Rivendell had become a true nightmare
as they feared so greatly for their cousin’s life. It was only because of Glorfindel and
his horse Asfaloth that Frodo was able to cross the Bruinen to safety ahead of the dark
riders. There the magic of Elrond had washed all of the Nazgul away in a great rising of
the water and they hadn’t been seen since.

"I am glad to know such brave fellows,” Boromir told them. His estimation of the hobbits
and Aragorn had risen greatly.

"We still need to learn how to use our swords," said Merry.

"What I can teach you, I will," Boromir offered.

"Splendid!" Pippin cried, leaping to his feet. Then he paused, his hand going to his
stomach. "Would you mind terribly if we wait 'til after lunch?"

A long morning of endless meetings turned into a long afternoon of interminable
conferences. None of them required his presence and he couldn’t understand why his father
had insisted on him being there. The unseasonable warmth of the day, aided by the
incessant rains, added to his boredom and the irregular sleep he’d been getting since
Boromir’s departure had him only half aware of the subject under discussion. Faramir’s
eyes glazed over with thoughts of his brother and what wonders he must be seeing in the
lands of the elves. The great archives beneath the city held numerous paintings, drawings
and descriptions of Imladris and the other elven realms. He imagined Boromir exploring
the graceful architecture and seducing the many elves that inhabited the exotic halls.

There was no doubt in his mind that his brother would be a favorite among the Eldar race.
He had yet to meet anyone not entirely tainted by the Dark Lord that could refuse the
charms of Boromir’s golden tongue and masculine beauty. There would be Dwarves as well as
men from other lands, and the halfling of their vision, maybe more than one. A smile
curled his lips as he thought of the concise and detailed report he would receive. Most
likely while being reintroduced to the tender affections of his most beloved brother. And
the King, the King would probably be with him.

“What are you grinning like a fool over, Faramir?” Denethor’s voice cut across his
musings. “Didn’t you hear how much was lost when the Pelennor was burned? A good fourth
of the northern fields hadn’t been harvested yet!” He exclaimed angrily.

“It was excess grain, father,” Faramir responded, trying not to be condescending and not
quite succeeding. “It would have been more than it was worth to finish the harvest and
then transport it all west. Our resources were better engaged moving people and weapons
into their strategic positions.”

“So every croft and holding has been filled?” the Steward asked in disbelief.

“The last wagons are headed to Nimrais, my Lord Steward,” Faramir told him, not informing
his father of the wide stretch of land west of the Anduin and south of the Entwash that
had been evacuated of all but military forces. Suppressing a sigh, he gazed down the long
table, looking to see who had brought this point up. It had been discussed so many times
already that he found it almost unbelievable that it was being raised again. From the
expression on Borril’s face, where he sat next to the Steward, Faramir knew it was part
of one of the many plots that had been surfacing to try to undermine his position.
“Everything is going exactly to plan as we laid it out last spring before Boromir left.
The only changes have been the abundant harvest and the early rains. If we had worked any
longer on the fields, we would have been mired in mud. All of Gondor is endeavoring to
secure the safety of the kingdom and we are in a better position than we had hoped for.”

He paused to let his words sink in a little. “Provision has been made for all those were
not able to harvest their crops. We are at war and, as we saw last summer, the enemy has
forces we have little defense against. Fortunately, most of them will be incapacitated
until the rains stop, which we know will happen sometime in February.” He sighed heavily
as he thought of the outposts he’d rather be inspecting.

“Maybe your time would be better filled if you were back in the field, my Lord,” Borril
said with just enough unctuousness in his voice to make it sound like he wanted nothing
more. “With the detailed plans that have been drawn up, I’m sure that we can handle
everything here in the city.”

“Yes, that might be best,” Denethor said, feeling that his son’s absence would give him
more control and more time to sway Borril to his wishes. “After all, you are the acting
Captain General until Boromir returns.”

With another heavy sigh, Faramir didn’t attempt to hide the relief he felt. “I can be
ready to leave at first light,” he said. “It has been too long since I’ve seen firsthand
how our troops are holding up.”

Mordel could barely hide his elation at the news of Faramir’s imminent departure. He’d
had to concentrate all his efforts on concealing his own actions from the far-too-
observant man. Now he could advance several projects almost unwatched, some of which
dealt with removing the Steward’s youngest son permanently.


A light sprinkle of snow melted immediately upon contact with the stone of the courtyard.
Eowyn felt the pull of the broad steppes of the Riddermark in the chill wind, which
accompanied the unseasonable cold. This was the farthest she’d been from Meduseld in
months, yet she was still well within the confines of the walled city. At least she’d
been allowed to greet the small group of Rohirrim who had brought her gifts from the
east. She was actually quite surprised that she’d even been permitted to receive the
gifts at all considering who and where they came from. As she watched the dark woman
carrying a large satchel dismount from riding behind a shieldmaiden, she couldn’t hide
her grin. There weren’t many people of this coloring in Gondor and even fewer who would
be coming directly from Faramir.

“Your Highness,” the woman addressed her, bowing deeply. “I am Saphron of the House of
Hurin. My Lord Faramir sent me to be of aid and comfort to you in these dark times.”

“Welcome Saphron,” Eowyn said with heartfelt geniality, recalling the tales Brinel had
told her of this woman. “I am grateful that he saw fit to gift me with one of the
treasures of his house.”

“You are overgenerous with your praise, your Highness,” Saphron replied, blushing at her
words. “It is I who am blessed to be allowed to attend the ‘Jewel of Rohan’. I grew as
impatient as my lord to meet you and now I see that the stories of your beauty pale to
the reality.”

Eowyn couldn’t help the peal of laughter that escaped her at these words. Despite the
numerous compliments she received on a daily basis, she had never thought of herself as a
beauty. “Be careful with your compliments, you will swell my head. Come,” she said,
throwing her arm over the other woman’s shoulders in comradeship. “Let me show you to my
room and where you will be staying so that we can get to know each other.”


The sound of his Princess’s laughter went straight to his heart as he watched from his
hidden vantage point.

“The woman she is talking to is the one I was telling you about, my Lord Grima,” the
informant whispered into his ear. “They say she is a witch of great power and that she
uses ink to enspell all those who oppose her lords.”

A smile crossed Grima’s lips as the women walked away toward the Keep. He knew far more
about the Princess’s new retainer than the man next to him. Not only had he received many
reports over the years from his own sources in Gondor, but also, he’d managed to
intercept the messenger carrying Galmar’s journals all those years ago. He’d never
forwarded them on to Saruman, knowing that the more knowledge he kept to himself, the
better his chance of survival.
And now things had changed.

“I’m sure you’re anxious for me to reward you for your efforts,” Grima told the man as
they took a winding path back to Meduseld.

“I have been looking forward to being here in the city permanently, my Lord,” the man
agreed.

“Well come along, I’ll introduce you to the captain of my guard,” Grima said with a
smile. “Do you have any proof of this woman’s position in Minas Tirith, anything I can
send along to our employer?”

“I wasn’t able to get much, my Lord,” the informant said with regret. “Everything is here
in my saddlebags.” He patted them where they hung from his shoulder.

“I will need to see it all.” As they entered the barracks room near the back of the Keep,
the slightest of hand signals alerted his men to what he wanted. It took only moments for
the guards seated at the door to have the man pinned on his knees a rough hand over his
mouth to keep him from crying out. Another quick signal had one guard bringing a sharp
knife across his throat. Retrieving the saddlebags from the new corpse, Grima turned to
address his captain. “Let this be a warning to all that it doesn’t pay to seek to rise
too quickly. I will not tolerate insubordination.” With a cruel grin, he left, knowing
that no further orders were necessary to see that the body would be properly disposed of.

Knowing that he had just made the game he played that much more dangerous, Grima smiled
as he returned to his rooms. He would burn everything after he read it, committing it all
to memory as he’d been trained. It was possible that the man had set up contingency plans
and that copies would be forwarded along to his master in the tower of Isengard, not that
he felt the informant was that smart. If such occurred, Saruman’s wrath could be fatal -
or worse. Still, a part of him that had chided and pricked at his mission in Rohan since
the confrontation in the baths, rejoiced that his Princess was just a little safer.
Maybe, if the fates were kind, she would find some solace in the care of her new
companion.


A warm breeze came in from the balcony off Legolas’s bedroom. He’d been told that magic
kept the valley of Imladris warmer than the surrounding mountains. Boromir thought that
the many hot springs might have a good deal to do with it as well. In the past week, he’d
recovered much of his strength but was admittedly still below his usual health. He’d
gotten to know the Hobbits quite well and though they’d acquitted themselves well in the
sword lessons, he still couldn’t think of them as anything other than children. Pippin
didn’t mind much, having a couple of years to go before he reached the accepted Hobbit
age of majority. Merry, however, would sometimes be a bit annoyed and other times amused
at Boromir’s difficulty in adjusting to them. He’d gotten to know some of the Dwarves as
well, despite their obvious dislike of Legolas, who was almost constantly at his side.

It was beautiful here and Boromir had many congenial companions. But he wanted to go
home. He stirred restlessly, thinking that maybe he should get up and wander the halls
rather than wake the others.

“Where are you going?” Legolas asked as he made to sit up.

“I can’t sleep,” Boromir told him.

“I know how it is to miss your home,” the elf whispered, pulling the man closer. Reaching
behind himself, he nudged Saelbeth awake. “Cousin, use your magic voice to sing Boromir
to sleep.”

The dozing elf stirred and looked to the blue eyes that had long led him into trouble. He
could never resist. Scooting up the bed and waking the two elf maidens that had fallen
asleep with him, he leaned against the headboard and started a lullaby. It was an old
Sylvan song he’d learned from his mother. The women joined him, their voices blending
with his and sending all who heard them into the land of dreams and reverie.


The bed he shared with his brother was before him, a figure lying in the shadows at its
center. Boromir stepped closer, peering through the darkness in an attempt to see who it
was. Singing he couldn’t quite make out carried him forward. The man in the bed turned,
and by his very movement, Boromir  recognized his heart’s desire. The blue eyes pierced
the darkness and called him forward, the bright welcoming smile drove out all thought of
anything else.

“You’ve come back to me,” Faramir’s voice caressed his ears as he reached for him.

“Always,” Boromir whispered before claiming his brother’s lips. He melted into his
beloved’s welcoming body, unable to stop the tears that fell from his eyes. He wanted to
say more, but couldn’t force himself to move far enough away from the embrace to speak.
Their hands roamed each other, relearning every detail.

The hard muscled body beneath him was all that he remembered and more. Finally he was
able to break the kiss, but only to run his lips across a stubbled cheek and taste the
sweet tears of his most beloved. Grabbing a tender earlobe between his teeth, he sucked
it into his mouth, reveling in the soft gasp that blessed his ears.  There was the scent
of the incense that burned to keep the wards going and Faramir’s own smell, so special,
burned into his memory. He knew he was home again, in the place he most wanted to be.

“Please,” Faramir gasped as he arched and grasped at Boromir’s shoulders. Impatient as
always. “I need you, my brother.”

“Yes,” Boromir groaned into the neck that was bared to his lips and teeth. For this time,
he would give all that his love demanded. His arms slid down the writhing form below him,
taking a firm grip on the strong buttocks and positioning them to receive his more than
ready cock. He thrust forward, embedding himself completely into the hot, waiting
channel. There could be nothing in all the worlds of men and elves to equal this
pleasure. So tight and welcoming, so very much his own, it called him to lose every bit
of control that held him back.

Sliding his hands to push his brother’s legs up so that his thighs lay tightly against
his chest, Boromir began to thrust hard into the body beneath him. There was no
tenderness now, only the unrelenting need to rejoin what had been parted for too long. It
was brutal and blessed to both of them, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing through
the room. Faramir’s hands reached to pull his brother’s hips in an even faster, harder
rhythm.

They became locked in time, in an endless embrace that would end all too soon. Their
harsh breath brushed each other’s faces as they panted out their desire and lust.
Pushing, pushing until there was no more holding back. At the peak of time they cried out
their completion, leaving both to collapse in total bliss.

Only moments later, Faramir rolled to his side pulling Boromir into a tight embrace.
“Come, my brother,” he whispered, urging Boromir closer. “Let us not waste what little
time we have.”

Boromir leaned against his brother’s chest, running his fingers through sweat dampened
hair. His other hand stroked the lean body, feeling the muscles work beneath the skin, as
Faramir returned his caresses. They began a rhythm old to them, begun before there was
anything more than innocence in their touch. Their foreheads pressed tightly together,
they touched each other affirming their wholeness, whispering sweet endearments. More
than lust stirred them bringing an ache to their limbs as they submerged themselves in
the love that had bound them all their lives. Tender, as the first time he held his
newborn brother in his arms, Boromir embraced him.

Stilling, they looked deeply into each other’s eyes before allowing them to fall closed
as they entered another kiss. With painfully slow movements, they continued pressing
their bodies close together. Aligning their hard cocks with a slight twist of hips,
rubbing rough scarred skin against rough scarred skin, they immersed themselves in the
feel of their close contact.

Despite the leisurely pace of their movements, they began to pant, short hard breaths of
arousal surging through them. Long sweeps of flesh against flesh and Boromir broke the
kiss to bury his face in his brother’s neck. Both arms went around the younger man’s body
so he could pull him closer to his own. He slowed them even more so that they were gently
rocking into each other.

Faramir’s hands fluttered down his brother’s back at the change of pace, wanting more,
faster, now. Then he surrendered to the strong grasp and wrapped his own arms around
Boromir, running his hands up the hard body until they were entangled in his hair. His
mouth opened wide as Faramir felt his brother’s lips and tongue at his throat and he
couldn’t hold back the moan that came from the very depths of his soul.

“My love, my treasure,” Boromir whispered into Faramir’s flesh. “I desire only to return
to you, to be with you where I belong.” He slid a leg across his brother’s thigh, pulling
them just a bit closer while slightly increasing the speed of their movements.

“I await you, my beloved brother,” Faramir cried out, lost in the ecstasy of their
contact.

Their pace steadily increased, their movements harder as they lost the ability to hold
back. This was what they had been missing in all those long lonely months of separation.
There was nothing that could replace it, no one who could substitute for the other. All
nights had seemed dark and cold since their parting, no matter the company. They could
feel the difference held so closely in one another’s arms.

Sliding his left hand down to grasp his brother’s buttock, Boromir thrust his profusely
leaking cock into Faramir’s. They drove against each other with greater urgency, Faramir
matching his brother’s movements with his own. As they neared the peak, Boromir ran his
right hand across Faramir’s back until it covered the warmer flesh that lay beneath the
King’s seal. As Faramir copied his motion, they both felt the blinding pleasure of their
release, Faramir sinking his teeth into his brother’s collarbone. They were engulfed in
white light, separating them from the physical, though it was still there at the edge of
their awareness. They had reached that place where they were whole, truly one, lost in
the bliss of true joining.

It lasted only moments, or was it centuries, before sliding back into their bodies so far
away. Sleep grasped them, pulling them under before the pain of parting could fill them.
Boromir’s last conscious thought came from his brother’s mental translation of a line in
the elvish song that barely registered in his ears.

“And our love shall bind us here forever.”

With the last ounce of his energy, Boromir pressed a kiss to Faramir’s brow. A smile
graced his lips as he sank into his most peaceful sleep since leaving home.


Legolas gazed up at his cousin with lust and shock-glazed eyes from where he lay beneath
the now peacefully sleeping Gondorian. He licked the blood from his lips and tentatively
wiped at the deep wound Boromir now bore. In all his long centuries of life, he’d never
experienced anything like this. He wondered if even Galadriel of Lorien had ever felt its
equal with all her powers of mind speaking. But even as he parted his lips to question
Saelbeth on what magic he had woven, exhaustion claimed him and pulled him into his own
deep slumber.

The younger elf looked to his two singing companions who returned equally mystified
looks. It was old Sylvan magic to call forth dreams and all three were well versed in its
use, but none had ever encountered or even heard of such a thing before. They had all
seen Legolas’s visage disappear beneath the vision of a man whom they assumed to be
Boromir’s brother. The following scene had been so thoroughly erotic and enthralling that
they would have stopped to watch, but some unseen forced had compelled them to finish
their song.

They shifted restlessly for a few moments, considering leaving to find a less
disconcerting place to sleep. Before they could come to any decision, they too succumbed
to an overwhelming lethargy.


Mablung looked across the threshold to his fellow manciple. They’d both witnessed their
lord’s dreams that he shared with his brother, but this was the first they knew of where
Boromir actually manifested over the one who lay in Faramir’s embrace. It disappointed
and relieved them when the dream faded away and their lord was left sleeping more
peacefully than they’d seen in months in the stunned embrace of the ranger who lay beside
him. The three men exchanged one more astounded look before the two at the door returned
to their job of guard duty. The man in the bed pressed a kiss to Faramir’s forehead,
ignoring the bloody wound on his own neck, then snuggling closer and joining him in his
rest.


Sitting up abruptly from where he lay sleeping in the night’s cold camp, Aragorn looked
around for the cry that had woken him. There was no echoing sound in the surrounding
mountains, even though it still rang through his head. Looking down, he noticed where his
pants were damp and becoming wetter from the release he hadn’t expected. It had been
decades since he’d lost such control in the wilds where it was dangerous to add to his
already too strong scent. It would do his errand no good if he were caught out by the
betraying musk of sex.

Rising and rinsing himself and his pants in a nearby stream, he ignored the cold in favor
of muting the sharp tang of cum. He chose to break camp, saddling his horse with
practiced ease even though it was much too dark to see clearly. If what he suspected were
true, then the cause for his untimely lack of control lay at his journey’s end, in
Rivendell. It was past time he returned with his reports and to discover what had brought
about such a startling event.

Soon they would be venturing south into lands dangerous and wild. Much of it held under
the sway of the enemy. All would fall to ruin if their presence was betrayed by a slip
such as had occurred this night.



Part 32: UNEXPECTED

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

TBC